It's Just a Zebra . . .

You know by now that to celebrate our retirement from the army, Cliff and I decided to climb Kilimanjaro.  Having set that target years before we retired, we built out our dream as the time grew near.  In the end, we decided to take an animal viewing safari at the completion of the climb . . . hence the zebras.  Safari is fun and exciting, and after many hours/days looking for wildlife, the thrill becomes seeing what is NEW to the terrain.  Zebras, as it turned out in late 2006 Tanzania, were numerous.  Each day we saw many zebras.  And fascinating though they were, we were keen to spot some lions and leopards, hippos and hyenas, or warthogs and wildebeests instead.  You get the idea -- after about five days yet another zebra sighting was greeted with the tired refrain, "It's just a zebra."

And if you've noticed I am posting my blog less frequently, I'm afraid it's because we've reached a bit of a "zebra" phase.  We are looking for some exciting news . . . yet in the absence of the next scan, we just keep seeing zebras.  So many zebras,  in fact, that it is difficult to tell one from the other.  It's a steady and wondrous journey, that simply has hit a certain rhythm as we bump along eager for change.

So, when I am asked, "Can you tell a difference with the mistletoe?"  I think: Maybe, but it's slow change, so no lions here.  And, "How is the IVC going?"  I suppose I feel an energy boost after each infusion, but it's no warthog crashing through the bush.  Or, "What about the targeted therapy?"  Well, I can tell you that the side effects are cumulative, but without cellophane skin, I'm sighting no hippos of difference.

It's times like these, when on safari and surrounded by zebras, that mind shifts reveal an oasis of
sorts.  Mind shifts seem prime to follow flamingo flight, lifting from the water's edge, and teasing changes of perspective by degrees of ascent.  Two weeks ago, a member of my amazing warrior pro-team delivered just such a mind shift . . .

I was lamenting that I am approaching the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis.  My lamentation was built on the challenges of the past year . . . tests, surgeries, drugs, poking, probing, and all that goes along with lacing up one's hiking boots (Every. Single. Day.) on this particular journey.  In my expression of the passing of time, though, he heard something completely different -- progress.  His response, "Congratulations!" The unspoken reminder: Celebrate the constant of the zebras.

And I'll take that congratulations.  I have beat some pretty scary odds so far.  I'm still here, still eating, exercising, connecting, gardening, cooking, sewing and thriving in the midst of this disease.  Another beautiful warrior team member told me, in fact, that she doesn't think of me as a survivor, rather as a thriver.  I love that.  I am reminded, as David Servan-Schreiber, MD, PhD writes in Anti-Cancer: A New Way of Life, that statistics are information not confirmation.  While the 5-year survival rate is just 12.5% for my diagnosis, my job, is to find myself in that 12.5% -- and then to move beyond even that!  And you know what, I still believe I can!

Yesterday, I had to go for an EKG.  The tech was asking questions around why I needed the test.  Did I have other labs scheduled?  Was I getting ready for surgery?  Finally, I shared my diagnosis (something I was loathe to share with anyone beyond close friends and family for a long time).  Then I added, that I was coming up on my one-year anniversary of that diagnosis.  She stopped and took a long look at me (still wearing my shorts and shoes from my morning hike) standing tall and smiling; and smiled back, "Just proves miracles do happen!"  You bet they do!  Every. Single. Day. When we choose to celebrate every single zebra.  When we embrace avian mind shifts, and on lifted wing choose to focus on the living we have yet to do, MIRACLES DO HAPPEN.

Quote of the day: 

It is the obvious which is so difficult to see most of the time. People say 'It's as plain as the nose on your face.' But how much of the nose on your face can you see, unless someone holds a mirror up to you?

                                                                                 ~Isaac Asimov
Progress Update:

• I'm in Week Two of targeted treatment number seven.
• One year ago tomorrow, we returned from our 200-mile walk along Offa's Dyke, in Wales (a week later, I was in the hospital and the Unexpected Journey began . . . )
• I've completed a month of IVC (2 x week) and two months of mistletoe therapy.  Cliff is getting so good at those mistletoe shots, that I hardly felt the last one.
• My next scan is coming up -- fingers crossed.  In lieu of cellophane skin and being able to peek inside oneself, this is our only true indicator of disease status.
• I feel good most days -- but there's no doubt some drug toxicity starts to build after a year of chemo and targeted therapies.  
• I'm still up every morning around 5:00 a.m., bopping to my musical alarms Cliff sets.  I am happy to see every new day and have ideas and plans for the hours ahead.  I am connected, busy and optimistic.  And I am grateful.  
• And maybe the most exciting news: I've reserved a Brussels Griffon puppy from a litter due in September!  We should be able to bring him home in December.  What is happier than a Christmas puppy?  Life is good.

VIA FRANCIGENA!

In Order to See Birds . . .

. . . it is necessary to become part of the silence.  ~Robert W. Lynd

On the trekking trail, there is a lovely place of quiet that keens visual acuity.  It exists in the silent walking when there is space between trekkers and all chatter falls aside.  It also exists in the most companionable of moments between experienced trekking partners who need no words to communicate.

This practice of silent observation has enabled Cliff and me to collect vivid avian memories from the trail:  From the boot-eating (or really, anything-eating) Kia in New Zealand, to the (huge) sacred bird of Tibet -- the Lammergeier (perhaps best known for its practical and mythical (angelic) role in Sky Burials), to the world's largest flying bird -- the Andean Condor (regarded as a sun deity) that we sited on the way to the Choquequirao Ruins in Peru -- it is truly in the quiet of the walk that we see, truly see, the birds . . .

And yesterday morning on our walk (yep, I've managed the 3.5 mile up and down, dirt road loop of our community twice in as many days), our quiet was rewarded by the whistles and jeers of jays darting from pinon to cedar along the route at about the two-mile mark.  A bit further along, the delicate cheeps of finches so small as to perch on slender blades of tall grass caught our attention.  And as we continued quietly, presently, companionably, we celebrated the sight (though heard not a call nor rasp) of a single magpie we believe to be half of a mating pair that has frequented our property since early spring.  (I've grown to regard these magpies as good luck.)

The Unexpected Journey, too, is full of these awareness-raising, gift-giving observations born of a slower, more quiet life: Lingering over my breakfast tea to relish the morning light; watering my plants slowly with complete presence and celebrating new leaves, buds and height; sewing with absolute focus on the recipient of a project and my gratitude for our connection.  These moments (or moments like these) never were really out of my reach before now.  They never had to be reserved for experiences in far away lands and dedicated time frames.  It was my willingness to become a part of the silence that often was missing.  I could have done it, could have been more fully present.  I chose rather to surrender to the struggle of place and time -- pushing much action into the realm of the perfunctory.

How many birds did I miss in the business of getting things done?  It is a simple fact that for most of my life I've most valued my ability to "get things" (lots of things) "done" -- often simultaneously (read, quite often mindlessly).  For me, now, I find it soul-quenching to partake fully of a single experience rather than to get to the end of any day full of self-congratulations for all I have accomplished.  Surely, my schedule is unique to my circumstance.  However, this awakening need not wait for a crisis boost.  If this seems inaccessible to the busiest among us, I think the key is in quantity.  Pick one action (any one) each day.  Become part of the silence, fall into the place between space and time -- then look and listen for the birds.

Quote of the Day:

Overcome space, and all we have left is Here. Overcome time, and all we have left is Now.

                                                                  ~Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Progress Report:

• This is an off-treatment week.  When we met last week with Dr, Rixe, we reviewed all the input and recommendations of Dr. Hooper (Integrative Medicine Physician) and Dr. Winters (Naturopathic Oncologist).  Dr. Rixe concurred with all recommendations except the timing for a treatment break.  My targeted therapy will continue into August before a break, which we hope will be launched with a clean scan.
• I now take a couple handfuls of supplements each day, which variously are directed toward boosting immunity, normalizing hormones, normalizing angiogenesis, detoxing the liver, fortifying the micro-biome and on and on . . ..   
• I've begun intravenous high-dose Vitamin C therapy two days a week, not only to boost immunity, but also to fight one of my particular cancer mutations.  This approach synergistically interlocks with one of my targeted drugs to fight that mutation, and to isolate and kill the other type of cancer cell targeted by my conventional therapy.  How cool is that?  If you want to learn more about this therapy, check out this National Cancer Institute link: https://www.cancer.gov/research/key-initiatives/ras/ras-central/blog/2020/yun-cantley-vitamin-c
• Mistletoe therapy continues with a focus on boosting my immune system for this sustained fight.  We still are tweaking the doses to get just the right reaction.  I think (just within the last three or four days) I'm feeling increased energy as a result of this effort.  Cliff (or as he insists upon being called, "Dr. Cliff") is getting pretty deft with those needles! 
• The Therapeutic Ketogenic Nutrition Plan continues.  For those foodies among us, this is a bit of a spoil-sport.  But hey, I'd be happy to do this for the rest of a long life. 
• Our household remains happy, balanced and grateful.  We appreciate all of our time together and little acts of kindness adorn each day.  We slay the New York Times Super Bee, jump in the pool each afternoon and laugh with an easiness born of the present.  And yes, we always see the birds!

Via Francigena!