Saturday I was out and about with my offspring. She wanted some Dad time, and since I’m leaving town tomorrow for a month of grueling last ditch experimental genetically-driven immunotherapy, I said yes.
I drove for about two hours in the course of our outing. Around town, not nothing overwhelming. We popped by my Mom’s house briefly, we got lunch at a Burgerville drive-through, we talked about life and graffiti and urban infrastructure.
When we got home, I hurt. I hurt for the rest of the day. I hurt overnight, sleeping ten hours as my body tried to catch up. I hurt the next day, canceling light duty social plans to concentrate on healing. I still hurt this morning, on Monday.
But then I hurt all the time these days. My old liver surgery scars are stretched by the incessant coughing. Every two or three days I cough myself into wrenching nausea. My new surgery scars ache and sting. That band of pain below my right pectoral nags. I don’t breathe very well any more. Everything wears me out.
The idiot lights are winking on one by one on the dashboard of my body. I am failing. I am a dead man walking, wearing a corpse that hasn’t yet caught up with the not-so-exaggerated reports of its demise.
I will not give up. I never do. I reserve the right to lay down my arms near the very end, when all the battles all over, but the war is long since lost. For now, though, I go to NIH, I seek a treatment that will be at best brutal. It may extend my life, it may diminish my days. But this is my path.
And I am so tired. So very tired. Not hopeless, exactly, though as I read over these words they echo of hopelessness. But hope is something I abandoned long ago when I passed through cancer’s gates of horn and ivory. These words are the breath of someone who has already lived too long, worn out both his welcome and his pity, and continues because there is no other course but forward into the shadows.
I love whom I love, and I am loved by more people than I will ever know. Love keeps me going through the pain and loss. This is not a desert, just a tired landscape overwritten by years of struggle and the footprints of a thousand people who helped carry me.