Just a few words before I start my second round of IL-2...and also to take a step back.
Having any illness is not a kind experience. If you are small child and suffer from a bad cold or the flu, that feeling like your head is going to explode seems like the worse experience in your life, and it may be, if you are lucky.
Older and somewhat wiser, or may-be just older, you realize that illness are debilitating and many times lethal. My own sense of the absurd when faced with the on-going story of my own health is only partly to mask the deep feelings I have for my life, sharing my families lives, and exploring the world with that odd sense of, "no shit, how'bout that."
My own story of how I find myself here, at the age of 61 in the middle of cancer treatment, which all indications are that I will receive a new bill of health, or at lease a new rental agreement, is uninteresting in its own telling. But, when thrown into the well of humanity, who also are trying to improve and enjoy their lives, we collectively have only one option for survival, that is to be the battle ground on which the medicines we have in our time confront and wage war against the illness we have, grave or not. And, during these ordeals we can only be the small black anvil against which the hammer of hope taps out a tiny and brassy sound behind the facades we erect to the world.
Despite the ordeal of what I have had to endure this year, I find myself at a time in medical history that certain cancer is being cured and I may have my own small mutant fuckers strangled like the little medieval bastards they are. And, Really? having my chest sawn open and then having a chemo like experience to cap the experience, well, it's slightly unusual, but compared with many I have spoken with, like Steve (my IL-2 mentor) my ordeal is really enough for me.
And others on the floor at BIDMC, like other oncology units around the country, lay and take on the assault of CHEMO, RADIATION, or biological (me) treatments that will extend or cure their illness. Many are too old for some treatments, or too sick to be the anvil on which modern medicine can anneal some new measure of strength into their immune system. It's a sad thing to say, but when I am able to walk through the unit, which is only on the first day I am admitted, the sights and sounds of life's end are calling out to many who share the floor with me.
MY only hope for them is that they did shit when they had the chance.
FIVE PLUS, baby, that's what I am talking about...live large, live small, but live and enjoy it...
Having any illness is not a kind experience. If you are small child and suffer from a bad cold or the flu, that feeling like your head is going to explode seems like the worse experience in your life, and it may be, if you are lucky.
Older and somewhat wiser, or may-be just older, you realize that illness are debilitating and many times lethal. My own sense of the absurd when faced with the on-going story of my own health is only partly to mask the deep feelings I have for my life, sharing my families lives, and exploring the world with that odd sense of, "no shit, how'bout that."
My own story of how I find myself here, at the age of 61 in the middle of cancer treatment, which all indications are that I will receive a new bill of health, or at lease a new rental agreement, is uninteresting in its own telling. But, when thrown into the well of humanity, who also are trying to improve and enjoy their lives, we collectively have only one option for survival, that is to be the battle ground on which the medicines we have in our time confront and wage war against the illness we have, grave or not. And, during these ordeals we can only be the small black anvil against which the hammer of hope taps out a tiny and brassy sound behind the facades we erect to the world.
Despite the ordeal of what I have had to endure this year, I find myself at a time in medical history that certain cancer is being cured and I may have my own small mutant fuckers strangled like the little medieval bastards they are. And, Really? having my chest sawn open and then having a chemo like experience to cap the experience, well, it's slightly unusual, but compared with many I have spoken with, like Steve (my IL-2 mentor) my ordeal is really enough for me.
And others on the floor at BIDMC, like other oncology units around the country, lay and take on the assault of CHEMO, RADIATION, or biological (me) treatments that will extend or cure their illness. Many are too old for some treatments, or too sick to be the anvil on which modern medicine can anneal some new measure of strength into their immune system. It's a sad thing to say, but when I am able to walk through the unit, which is only on the first day I am admitted, the sights and sounds of life's end are calling out to many who share the floor with me.
MY only hope for them is that they did shit when they had the chance.
FIVE PLUS, baby, that's what I am talking about...live large, live small, but live and enjoy it...
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| As, Ali-Babbah, Fez, Moroc, January, 1981, The Blue Gate |
Made my day, thank you Tim! And my my own rental is turned in your words and you, will continue to resonate. Here's my (for now) view on it all Tim- http://wp.me/p3yJg6-7r -hope to see you soon, we gotta have a visit...
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