Relentless.

That’s the term for the times we’re living in, relentless. But this isn’t a story about you and your struggles, sorry. Maybe I’ll get to that next.

In the three hundred and seventy-seven days since I was first told my shit, as the late great Warren Zevon sang, was fucked up today was the first time I cried. It’s the first time I felt the proverbial sickening thud. It’s the first time I felt a piece of me pack it in and head to an island.

Nice to have options.

I was listening to my oncologist and, while he’s talking his words are mere fragments popping in my ears, I thought,

“At least I had a few good weeks.”

In reality, exactly eighty days since my last chemo and one, one fucking day, after my first operation.

But out of those eighty days half of them I felt as if I wasn’t actually there. I was, but a beat behind. The prototypical white guy dancing. But I could feel myself getting stronger. Not the old version. Not yet. But I went from being so tired after work I felt incapable of answering one more question or listening to another human voice. I’d hide in the basement and listen to nothing. But even the nothing tired me.

But I was feeling better. Slowly. 4-year-old baby telling an intricate story about chalk slow but I could feel the needle moving ahead on the record. Then a few weeks ago I could feel a mental cloud that was, to me, the first obstacle to climb clear. Not totally clear. More like the tease of that first warm day in early winter. You don’t get too cocky because you know it’s not over. But you allow yourself to enjoy the day.

I had an appointment a little over a week ago and everything was good. The doc was relaxed and we had a few laughs. People who’d seen me during the process mentioned the change. Still thin but they stopped x-raying me with an ipad.

In the three days I spent three and a half hours raking leaves. Two of those days I walked a brisk mile. I can feel a shift. Slight but a shift take place. I exhaled.

Then I get a call from the doctor.

“That’s never a good sign.”

He was concerned so asked if I’d get another CAT scan. Loving cats as much as I do I said sure. But I could hear the chirping in my ear.

“Not a good sign.”

“An out of ordinary request.”

“I’m fucked.”

The next morning I’m sitting there waiting for another CAT scan. I’ve had more than my share over the past year or so so if anything thinks they’re not getting yours, sorry. The doctor made me do it.

Then he calls again. I don’t like talking to friends two days in a row. He’s getting to be a real nudge this guy.

Oh oh. He’s going with Sympathetic Doctor 101 voice. A classic, I’ll admit, but not the one I wanted to hear.

So my journey begins again.

“At least I had a few good weeks.”