So, it's strategy time with Kevin Loughlin, the main doc. We've done the tests and taken the pictures and consulted the experts. Now it's time to figure out where we go from here.
Given all the relative good news of the last week, he was kind enough not to throw me out of his exam room or think me totally insane for wanting to wait a period of time before agreeing to anything drastic (which is pretty much any form of Western Medical Treatment -- given the odds on long-term effects of said Treatments). We agreed to watch things closely over the next few months, which we can do mainly through blood tests and physical exams so that I can see if the combo of diet, supplements, and Chi Kung that I'm doing gets me anywhere. He didn't even wince much when I said, "Chi Kung." He's strong on diet, and I professed my new-found love of vegetables. We talked supplements and anti-oxidents. We talked about me hitting the gym more. We talked about going through it one step at a time.
The high point of the conversation was toward the end when I asked him (in a hypothetical manner) if sex was contraindicated for my condition. He said that he didn't think that it mattered much to the progress of the disease, but he would be willing to give me a prescription if he thought it would help (he knows both that I'm a bachelor and that there's a significant chance that I'll come out of this whole thing healed but impotent ).
So there we were, two late middle age guys in his exam room loudly laughing about sex and cancer. In case you hadn't noticed, life can be extremely tragic and strange some times. I learned a long time ago that I'd better have a sense of humor if I was going to get through it. I'm glad that the guy who's taking care of me has one too.
Anyway, for the next few months I get to carry death around way down deep inside me while I try to lure it away. To be aware, but not to feed. To touch, but not oppose. To convince it that it shouldn't harvest me because I'm not done with this incarnation yet. To try to strike up a conversation with a cellular representative of whatever will inevitably come to claim me. And to try to be okay with whatever medicine, eastern or western, can or can not do with the situation that results.
This ought to keep me busy for a while. At least for the next few months. Or for the rest of this particular incarnation.
Next tests come in October. Next meditational exercises come right after I make this post. Back to work.
That post wasn't part of your meditation? Every breath isn't? Hey, Franny, remember that book about the Pilgrim who could pray without ceasing?
[Bud, in the hospice, has a sign in his room where it's spelled "P R E Y."]
Posted by: gmoke | July 27, 2007 at 01:18 AM