Things that Make us Wince

I can hardly believe that I am writing this post on the last day of 2019.  It was a year that opened with such great promise.  I found what I hoped would be my dream work in a nonprofit devoted children's literacy.  Cliff and I biked in Sicily in the spring --arranged specifically to support an Italian rendezvous with Academy pals (and the cycling introduced us to the enchantment of Sicilia!).  We walked the amazing Offa's Dyke Path on the border between England and Wales (one of my favorite walks ever).  And then we found ourselves walking the path of the Unexpected Journey and life turned on its head . . . 

At times, on this path there is a sensation of walking blind.  The trail seems not to be illuminated by the lovely full-moon, rather shrouded in a darkness both unknown and unknowable.  Still, I am struck by how this journey comprises many of the characteristics fundamental to all treks.  Among those common trek attributes are things that make us flinch or wince in the moment.

And when, on treks, we've winced at rain-soaked gear, lack of water, a twisted ankle, rebelling gut, insect assault or horribly bruised gluteus maximus (like you've never seen -- from a slipped grip on the Haute Route between Chamonix and Zermatt that left me hurling, in complete surprise, onto an unforgiving boulder), we've found the remedy to managing our response is staying present.

Say what?  Yep, in the moment pain or discomfort may feel huge -- and settling into that moment is the place where we can cope, manage and carry on.  Because the real threat of any of these trail hazards is not what happening in the moment, it is whether we choose (or not) to project into the future our perceptions of how it could affect our ongoing journey.  And while, sure, there are those really big episodes that absolutely will pull a trekker off the trail, we never have experienced one (or chosen to give into a lesser event).

We trek aware that speculation of some (potential) future impact of any wincing moment, is to invite the harbinger of fear.  Rather than race to the future, I choose to stay in the moment (the wincing moment) and ask myself (in the words of professional marathoner Paul Tergat):  "Can I give more? The answer is usually yes."  These are words I used in training for my IronMan.  I believe we all can (1) dig deep in any moment (even painful moments), (2) choose not project (the what ifs) into the future and (3) then keep giving more -- power, hope, will, determination -- to keep us moving steadily toward our goals and objectives.  Sometimes it takes real effort to push back against the unknown and unknowable future.  For me presence is at the heart of resilience, grit and determination.

During my plebe summer ('78) at West point, the motto of my New Cadet Company was: "Soldier On!"  West Point was a challenge for me in many ways.  Some of my deep learning from my Academy experience (that which shines most brightly today) is my keen understanding of and appreciation for the rewards of perseverance.

And so, yesterday, I winced (hard) when my cancer fighting path revealed my cancer markers had increased -- not hugely, perhaps not even significantly as we know I still have cancer; however, up to that moment, every milestone since I started treatment in September had been favorable.  In the moment, it was tough information to receive.  And my monkey-brain immediately started to project what that information would mean going forward.  Could it affect my pending surgery?  Did it mean the cancer was spreading again?  Was it an entirely separate factor unrelated to the cancer?

I meditated.  I prayed.  I read NIH research.  I winced -- and I felt my anxiety increase as I whirled into the future -- and toward fear.

Finally (late in the evening), I took a breath -- actually one deep, slow breath after another and settled  into what is.  Then I chose to visit the past for experiences that could inform my present.  I remembered a sprained ankle that didn't slow a step along the 270+ miles of the Pennine Way.  I recalled a morning in Tibet when we hauled soaked gear, clothes and sleeping bags out of our sodden tent and onto a boggy high altitude pasture, where wind and sun dried them oh so beautifully.  I flashed back to traipsing the Haute Route with a purple butt and plenty of pain -- all forgotten in the beauty of the Alps.  In each case in my memory, in the moment, I allowed the discomfort.  I neither tried to ignore it, nor to determine how it would impact next steps.

It was only then, at the intersection of a fearful future and an efficacious past, that I returned to the moment.  No overthinking or worrying is of any value on this Unexpected Journey.  What has served me well here is my choice to Soldier On; is to hear my "I can give more," response -- and then get busy with what I can do in the moment.

This morning, my calm has returned.  I am choosing to feel the power of my progress.  I am basking in yesterday's exchange with Dr. Rixe, when he told us the path we are on is the absolute best for achieving our desired long-term result.

This last week, last day, of 2019, I winced.  I recalled that I have winced in the past.  I chose not to follow my wince into an unknown future.  I am soldiering on!  And in July of 2020, when I take those first steps along the Via Francigena, I'll smile and remind myself of that sweet spot in which we all live, the present.  I will take a deep breath, hold my head up, roll my shoulders back, smile, rejoice in the moment and move forward -- with complete certainty that what is ahead of me is unknown and unknowable.  Oh the blessing of life!

Progress:

• Day 2, Cycle 8.
• Another great meeting yesterday with our super-hero oncologist, Dr. Olivier Rixe.  All my labs remain normal (or as he says, "Great).  Dr. Rixe promises to join us half way along the Via Francigena to share the trail for awhile.
• With another drug removed from my treatment arsenal, I am feeling many fewer side-effects as we head toward the New Year.  No big celebration this New Year's Eve as Super Thor (my Flurouracil pump) is a bit of a party dud.
• With good energy, I am approaching some de-cluttering tasks and working on a hand-quilting project.
• I missed my 21s by one mile last cycle -- a shorter cycle (by one day) with tough side-effects.  I'll get 'em this cycle.
• Between Cliff and I, the holiday cards are ready to mail (this was mostly Cliff, I must say).

 Quote of the Day:

Life is always either no more or not yet. Like time, life comes from what is not yet, passes through what is without space, and disappears into what is no longer.  . . . It is only by calling past and future into the present of remembrance and expectation that times exists at all.  Hence the only valid tense is the present, the Now.  . . . (F)earlessness exists only in the complete calm that can no longer be shaken by events expected of the future.

                                                ~Hannah Arendt, combined extracts from Love and Saint Augustine

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

In the Wake of the Winter Solstice

Week One, Cycle Seven

When planning a trek, our slate of scheduling considerations always includes weather and light data.  We balance calendaring an adventure against factors of precipitation, temperatures and hours of daylight.  The light factor, in particular, we use to create our daily mileage projections.  How far can we move across a day's anticipated terrain -- counting on no other transport than our willing feet, trek-ready in double-knotted and well-worn boots -- between the rising and setting of the sun?

The longer the days, the happier we are.  So it's no surprise we revel in the Summer Solstice. 

Even on the longest summer afternoons, a trail can seduce us to linger over the dramatic theater of day's decline.  And though we know we'll more than likely pay for our dalliance with an in-the-dark stumble across unfamiliar terrain at the end of a bone-wrenching day, we'll happily stand together watching a sunset until we become shadows of the night.  It is this surrender to the moment that presented us with breathtaking views of Vernazza from the Cinque Terre trail along the Italian Riviera, in 2014.  In the moment we stood transfixed along a rocky trail high above the tiny village until the last sliver of the daylight slipped into the still, turquoise waters of the Ligurian Sea.  And in the succeeding darkness?  We held hands all the way down the rocky trail -- counting on one another as we always have for balance, surefooted progress and comfort.

Vernazza illuminated by the setting sun

We find giddy joy in twilight movement.  Even on the Unexpected Journey, where the length of trekking days are of no matter, and there were no scheduling options, we revel in the joy of light.  Today, post the arrival of the Winter Solstice, the Santa Fe dawn was served up like a perfect cup of coffee with a splash of clouds, which, when stirred along the horizon created a rich and creamy swirling sky of undulating folds -- falling away to reveal the promise of a new day. 

On our current path, threading our way through the days and nights of the Unexpected Journey, the Winter Solstice (in the wake of which daylight extends) had the effect of reinforcing my unshakable belief that I will, in the coming year, step off of this trail -- a little pale, a few pounds lighter, with much less hair, and much less care about the small stuff.  This journey neither will last forever, nor be defined by a fading light.  The solstice filled me with renewed energy and determination.

From the pages of Timothy Egan's book, A Pilgrimage to Eternity (about the author's journey along the Via Francigena from Canterbury, England to Rome), I was filled and inspired by the words of Pope Francis given in response to his secret of happiness.  The pontiff advises:  Slow down.  Take time off.  Live and let live.  Work for Peace.  Don't keep negative feelings bottled up.  And finally, "Don't see life from afar."

Every day of this journey brings me fully into the up-close of being present.  There is no "doing" cancer from afar.  This horrible disease is always up in my grill, Every. Single. Day.  From the physical conditions of the disease to the attention-demanding sideshow of treatment effects, there is no way to compress the journey or shorten the hours.  Then I ask myself: Really, is there a healing outcome greater than presence?  And I show up.  Whatever the terrain, grateful to be walking.

At our house, we never miss a sunrise or a sunset.  We delight in whatever shows up on our path, knowing that when the light slips below the horizon, we will join hands and carry on.  We acknowledge that we will pass this way but once (as on any life journey) -- and rejoice in a path filled with opportunities for learning and growth.  Our job is never to rush the passing of days but to walk aware -- eyes and minds open wide to new experiences and novel thought.  And in the celebration of each new day, we live gratefully -- for we have this moment.

Progress:

• The Winter Solstice served to energize my commitment to staying strong (and getting stronger).  I'm keeping the treadmill moving with longer workouts and the introduction of interval workouts.  And yes, I am so tempted to run on the tread -- but I hear Chip and Cliff reminding "all things in moderation."
• Dr. Rixe dropped Avastin (my targeted therapy) from this treatment cycle to allow my body's blood clotting abilities to repair and restore pre-surgery.
• After a typically "crappy" Day Four following Treatment Seven, I steeled my mind and resolve to buck up against the tentacles of nausea and malaise in the following days.  Ah, the power of the mind -- and the joys of fresh shrimp!
• We welcomed the medicine of laughter with Eddie Murphy's hosting of SNL and the creative animation of one of my darling nephews in a political spoof for the ages.
• And danced with gratitude - silly and and joyful -- to holiday tunes.
• We expanded our plant appreciation ritual with three floral arrangements, two poinsettias and a Norfolk Pine in the dining room (what did you expect, a pear tree? 😂).

Quote of the Day:

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.

                                                                                          ~Mark Twain


                                                                                            

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

Moon With a View

Week Two, Cycle 6 (132 days since my diagnosis)

What a full week on the trail!

• Cliff celebrated another year of life.
• We decorated for the holidays.
• We received our new treadmill (and I got busy logging the miles!)
• We had our referral appointment with the hepatic surgeon in Albuquerque.
• We enjoyed many soul-nourishing visits with friends.
• And particularly notable: Wednesday was the night of the full moon, prompting another moon walk.  
• This time, Cliff and Illy walked the neighborhood loop by the light of the moon (too chilly at this point for my hyper-cold-sensitive self), while I put in my 3.5 miles on the treadmill by the light of the Christmas Tree.  Meanwhile Munro (coincidentally pronounced Moon-Row) dozed adorably inches from the tread.  From our respective moon walk locations, Cliff and I each reflected upon and reveled in our first, exciting view of a major (unexpected) journey objective, first glimpsed earlier that day.

Let me just say, I find that first view of a major trekking objective super significant.  For me, the first views of a mountain to be summited, an historical/cultural site to be explored, or the final day's destination on an ultra-long trek, all propel me forward with renewed enthusiasm and confidence.  The view confirms my full engagement to live my life with determination, joy, conviction and faith (no matter the path -- with all its obstacles).  And note: This is no trekker's reserve -- these views are available to all of us throughout our lives and journeys when we are present to perceive them. 

In our trekking lives ⇛ On our Kilimanjaro trek, our view of the objective was our first look at The Mountain herself (The Roof of Africa).  Above the Apurimac River in Peru (climbing our way out of a 3,000 meter gorge), our first views of the ruins came in bursts and snatches through the foliage and fog of the high-altitude rain forest.  On our cross-country UK excursions that view would be of the destination village at the end 100+ miles of walking (pub and bed ahead!).  In each case, that first view of the objective was exciting, route affirming, and personally motivating.  

And while we always know the views are there, it is the work (of the past) and the vision (of the future), which deliver them with delightful surprise (and often relief) in the present.

And so it happened that our meeting with the surgeon at The University of New Mexico Comprehensive Cancer Center on Wednesday delivered all the so appreciated view characteristics: Affirming our holistic treatment/care plan (and amazing medical team) as well as our progress and direction to date, and motivating us to stay the course (as Dr. Rixe says, "Do not change a thing!").  And a surprise?  Yep!

Thinking we were meeting with Dr. Nir (hepatic surgeon) to "develop a relationship" for continuing assessments, we were blown away when he opined that I am ready for surgery now (to remove the large metastatic tumor from my liver).  The only thing stopping that today are the drugs (chemo and targeted) in my system (my targeted therapy in particular carries with it bleeding risks).  A quick, real time discussion between Doctors Nir and Rixe resulted in a surgery date of 30 January.  Say what?  Getting to a point where surgery would be an option for me always has been a major objective of this journey -- still there was that delightful surprise when it came into view. 

If you've been with this blog from the start, you already know that surgery is my greatest chance for a cure.  I am over-the-moon happy to secure that view. 

Progress:

• I am loving my treadmill and easily will exceed my 21s for this cycle.
• We are dancing still (Every. Single. Day., this month, to Christmas Carols.).  Finding dance-worthy variations is a blast:
• Jingle Bells (James Taylor)
• Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer (Lynard Skynard)
• Feliz Navidad (Mannheim Steam Roller -- although Jose Feliciano's original is more than dance worthy and remains my all-time favorite)
• Let it Snow (Pentatonix) 
• All I Want For Christmas (Mariah Carey) -- of course!
• We continually are grounding in "No Mud No Lotus" -- acknowledging and respecting the essential coexistence of joy and sorrow, harmony and conflict, relief and pain, movement and (grace-filled) pauses, the known and the unknown . . ..   We are oh-so-human!
• We'll find out in the coming week (next treatment is Tuesday) how my treatment regimen/schedule will be modified as we head toward surgery. 

Quote of the Day:

If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.

                                                                                          ~Henry David Thoreau

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

"How long has it been since we saw a sign?"

"A what?  Oh gosh, I haven't even been looking."  Cliff's question brought my mind back to the trail.  How long had I been walking in mindlessness?  How much trail time had I lost while burrowing deeper and deeper into my own mind, and drifting further and further from the present?

Sign at the bottom of the Grand Canyon

It happens to all of us, right?  How many times have you arrived at work with no awareness of the drive?  Lost in our own thoughts and preoccupations, we somehow come untethered from awareness in the present moment; cruising instead toward the future or lingering in the past.  All the while, missing the experience in the only moment in which we actually exist.

Ah, signs!  They bring us back to the trail -- to the present moment. A mountain flash on a tree confirms our way.  A distance marker assures our progress to destination.  Signs give important safety information, mark our elevation and advise on essential services.  Best of all, they nudge us back to full awareness when needed -- even their absence can be a wake up.  How long has it been since you've seen a sign?"

~Thich Nhat Hanh

Our job is the travel with our eyes open wide looking, and with our ears tuned in and listening (really listening), for the signs.  They are there -- when we are.

Even the Unexpected Journey has signs --  both subtle and posted.

• For direction: Low white blood cell count directs a chemo vacation.  
• For safety: The addition of Neulasta and dropping the Fluorouracil bolus to safely resume chemo.
• For grounding:  The words of Thich Nhat Hanh for daily mediation and my daily practice of presence.

And as Cycle Six began (yesterday) we got a progress sign.  Really our first feedback on this journey that informed us of the effectiveness of my treatment path toward kicking stage four (advanced) colon cancer to the curb.  And the news is good -- really, really GOOD!  The treatment has stopped cold the progression of my fast-growing cancer.  There are NO new lesions or masses on my liver.  All previously identified lesions and masses are reduced in size or GONE.  The affected lymph nodes are cancer-free and there is NO compromise of my liver function.  The largest, and first, tumor in my liver has shrunk in volume by more than 50% (leading us (a direction sign) toward a local measure for a cure -- surgery, ablation, cryotherapy, etc.). 

We are so grateful!  Grateful for this news.  Grateful for our community of support. Grateful for the love of family and friends. Grateful for the luck, blessings, opportunities and choices afforded us.  Grateful for signs.  We trust the process.  We are trekkers.  We are warriors.  We keep moving.  We believe.  We love our lives - Every. Single. Day. 

Progress:

• For now, we stay the path with chemo/targeted therapy.  Re-scan early in 2020.  
• Our consult with the hepatic surgeon is in coordination.
• I hit and surpassed my 21s for Cycle Five (logged 30 miles -- although weather drove me to the Peloton Cycle for 12 of those miles).  I made it to base camp -- Marty is home and we got to catch up (so thrilled for the achievement of this trekking hero).
• I'm still regaining to my pre-treatment weight at the end of each treatment cycle.  
• As outdoor walking is no longer an option (hyper-sensitivity to cold), and mall walking is getting questionable amid holiday crowds and flu season -- a treadmill is inbound (to be delivered next week -- I am beyond excited!)).
• And this month, we are dancing to Christmas songs -- Every. Single. Day.  So joyful!

Quote of the Day:

If there is no struggle, there is no progress.

                                              ~Frederick Douglass
 Bonus Quote:

We don't have to see the whole road ahead of us to assure that we're going in the right direction. We take it in stride by staying positive, having faith, and maintaining that vision of happiness.

Sometimes I obsess over trying to control the circumstances and wanting to always know the outcome, but the truth is, it is created all along the way. We aid it by our choices.

The guidance is there. As soon as we take that single first step in the direction of our Destiny, signs are posted all along the way. All we have to do is keep our eyes peeled! If you want your life filled with abundance, be grateful for what you have. When you realize how abundant your life is already, you attract further abundance.

                                                ~Jason Micheal Ratliff 

Exercising the brain in the chemo suite yesterday -- Treatment Cycle Six

 

 

VIA FRANCIGENA, 2020!