Over Christmas, I wrote this dedication to all those who are addicted to mass quanitity, particularly my sister-in-law Anne, who is a costcoholic.
These are the children of my twin sisters, Susan and Julie. The lyrics are in this entry.
For my grammy, i'd like to thank Paulo Hoff, Miguel Rodriguez-Bigas, Steve Perkins, Nicolas Vauthey, Nora Janjan, Cathy Eng, and Gabriel Shapiro for providing these miserable, yet inspiring, oncological gifts
My YouTube videos are collected here.
"Just lie there still
Like a sack of potatoes."
Fragments of sound from a smile.
Surely these recited utterances had meaning
Her first time.
A sack of potatoes, I lay.
Obedient. Naked. Marked. Numbered.
For the best. They do care. They must.
Indigo stripes shamelessly violate
The buttocks. Hip. Back.
Crosshairs tatooed for the gun
To be aimed at naive potatoes.
Do the white-jacketed figures feel?
Gathered at the screen. Pointing. Scheming.
Dutifully murmuring about millimeters and degrees.
A hand, human, touches my shoulder
Grants permission to rise, dress.
"We'll see you Tuesday."
A voice. More recited utterances.
"Don't forget free valet with validation"
I emerge. Delivered.
Breathe.
Think.
Pray.
Gaze skyward.
No longer a sack of potatoes.
The morning mirror insists still
That I am.
In 1957, Dr. Charles Heiderberger discovered 5-flourouracil, otherwise known as "5-FU", at the University of Wisconsin. This drug remains today as the most effective chemotherapy for use against colorectal cancer. Xeloda, which I am taking now, is the oral form of 5-fu. The poem below reflects some of my own thoughts about 5-fu, which I use here to represent all chemo I have had to take. (Because I am now only taking Xeloda, I am expecting the full force of the symptoms below will not appear. But this still reflects how I feel about chemo)
5-FU
Having met Sir C-name,
I'll never be the same.
For he forced me into a battle
I call the chemo game.
A conspiring of radiology with cohort oncology
And - who knows - microbiology
Employing a well-intentioned dimented psychology
Turned loose a rabid shrew
I never before knew
My body was attacked by 5-fu.
"For my own good" everyone else understood.
The mean lifetime increases a year or two
If I'd be a good boy
And take my 5-fu.
Hamburger tastes like a rotting yak
Intestinal revolt
Gastronomic attack.
Developing a gut-wrenching gurgling lump
The posture curling into a slump
Schlop and glop from the rump
(I'm sorry to use the terms I do
But I'm left with no choice by 5-fu)
Gagging, cringing. What's a good boy to do?
Paste on a smile and take more 5-fu.
I do not want it in a box.
I do not want it with a fox.
I do not, do not in a tree.
Not in a car, you let me be!
Not with a pig or kangaroo
I do not want my 5-fu.
Tumor retractibility? 5-fu.
Metastatic possibility? 5-fu.
Microscopic activity? 5-fu.
Perhaps curability? 5-fu.
Even longevity? 5-fu.
He who works under, behind and through
Ordinary means like 5-fu
Is free
O so free.
Dimly I yet see
The author of life and of 5-fu
Guarantor of peace making all things new
And ridding the world of 5-fu.
On the twelve days of chemo, my doctor gave to me...
Twelve pills for popping
Eleven nurses griping
Ten I.V.’s beeping
Nine-year financing
Eight nights a-barfing
Seven aides a-calling
Six hour delaying
FIVE NEEDLE STINGS
Four empty words
Three weak grins
Two port-o-caths
And a bed pan in which to pee.
Christine snuggled up to me on the hospital bed as we awaited the chemo bag to be emptied and we prayed. Her love sustains me. Late last night, I wrote this...
Two hearts broken
Curled together on the chemo bed
Nothing to hold but each other.
The poison to drip
Man versus demon
Oh, but that the serum
Would as ruthless be
As the silent alien inside.
We pray.
Jesus weeps.
We wait,
Daring to hope.
Christine and I.
A lament. Of Greg.
(a blues/country tune)
Stuck in the wheels of a big machine.
Cogs as slow as I ever have seen.
The plan don't fit any other way
Than to hook me up on Independence Day
So ya'll have fun
Don't wait for me.
I'm at Houston's M.D.A.C.C.
I'm hangin' on, but I might just cry
For I'm takin' chemo on the Fourth of July
You can watch them works firin' in the sky
I'll be takin' drugs, but I won't get high
Irinotecan's killin' them cancer cells
And Xeloda's sendin' tumors straight to %*!@
So ya'll have fun
Don't wait for me.
I'm at Houston's M.D.A.C.C.
I'm hangin' on, but I might just cry
For I'm takin' chemo on the Fourth of July
I call him Tom, my pessimist skeptic
Prone to despair
Judging guilty ‘til perfect
Contingency and chance his only friends
Smug in the hands of impersonal fate.
Nate is his foe, with head in the sand
Ears for platitudes, trust in the chime
“Don’t worry, be happy, all will be well”
Wishing on stars in optimistic denial.
Happily never after.
Neither can rest
In my soul right now.
Neither can swallow
The report.
I rejoice in revelation, for in it I hear
Unyielding echoes of reality,
The state of the world under the Fall
Far darker than Tom could admit.
The vanity of life and the waves up to here.
Injustice in cities and blood in the land
Hearts withered like grass, drinks mingled with tears.
And I rejoice in revelation, for in it I find
A hope.
More brilliant, more satisfying, more profound
Than Nate could possibly know.
A firstfruit, a taste
A guarantee.
A deposit made that will surely be paid
A cosmic event rippling even today.
I must find a way
To grasp this answer
Shaming both Tom and Nate.
I have received encouragement and requests for continued posting of poetry. This I wrote this morning while the rest of my house slept.
...
Cancer transformation
Eight months? Eight years? Eighteen? Twenty-eight?
The certainty of death;
Our certainty in life.
Still busy around me, they craft meaning with meaningless tricks.
Pressing, consuming, judging, racing, scheming, ignoring, laughing.
What meaning can be found
In this cancerous world
But what is true for all?
3:00a.m., June 10, 2003
A sleepless night after post-iron-treatment meds
(“may cause difficulty sleeping” - now there's an understatement)
The morning after my original diagnosis, I awoke early and sat down at my computer. This is what I wrote.
...
evils converge
for some reason I had in the back
of my mind
a thought.
the thought whispered that the first fight,
the first hurdle,
the first dragon,
the first evil.
the first time I got cancer – would suffice.
the beauty and balance that attracted me to math,
turned my ear towards jazz,
delighted me with love,
caused me to see the beauty of the Creator,
somehow also led me to believe that
the first evil would suffice.
I nurtured that thought, feeding it well.
while all the while knowing that it had
nothing from the beautiful Creator on which to hang.
the plan I assumed was written on my heart
the perfect number sequence optimized.
then I came to find out it did not suffice.
a second evil.
showing its face unashamedly.
24-bit color on a digital colon camera.
unrelated.
no correlation.
unfortunate coincidence.
without bias on my body of 35 years.
Dr. Wilkofsky shakes his head.
two evils converging upon my soul.
beauty will not allow them to prevail.
it cannot.
He must not.
May 30, early morning, day after diagnosis