Rabbit Hole

Honestly, a lot of the last few days has been a bit of a haze.

As of this week, I have done everything that could be done to combat this cancer and tomorrow it is likely that I will be going home to await the outcome of our efforts. When I asked what would happen if the tissue removed showed signs of more cancer, I got no answer. I think they don't know beyond a vague, "more treatments". It seems that combating cancer is very much a matter of navigating on instruments without a map. The cancer tells you which are the best guesses, and you go in whatever direction the tissue samples indicate. No way of knowing ahead of time which way we're going.

On Wednesday evening, I had a long talk with one of the doctors here who had gone to some considerable effort to translate and type out a large document into English setting out all the possible ramifications of the proposed surgery, short and long term. I read it very thoroughly and asked a lot of questions and the beautiful young doctor with the charming Italian/Australian accent sat with me going through everything inch by inch. But by this time, I only wanted information so as to be forewarned. The decision to go forward was already set by then, but until about lunchtime on Wednesday afternoon, it had been nothing like a foregone conclusion. And I balked.

We had arrived around noon, and had been shown to my room where an elderly lady lay in the other bed surrounded by her relatives. I hung up my coat and sat on the plastic chair looking blindly out the window, waiting for the doctor. The now-familiar routines were followed with paperwork, blood test, tagging... but I could see the wall coming up fast and I was finally certain that I could not get over it this time.

By two pm my nose was pressing up against it and I cracked. I told my friend that I did not want to do the trade. It just wasn't a good enough deal. They would not conduct this horror on me just for a roll of the dice that might or might not result in a few more years of the same life I'd already had enough of a dozen times over.

"If all it's going to be is more of this, and in that condition, then no." I got up, heading for the nurse's station: "I'll just go tell them I'm going home."

I had my coat on and was pulling on my shoes, throwing things into my bag, trying to stay calm enough to explain that no, I would not, could not do this horrifying thing.

How could I trade who and what I am at so deep a level for something as cheap and lousy as a few more years? Why should I go to such lengths to extend a life that has rarely failed to disappoint? What could I possibly imagine I could still hope to have out of it at this stage?

It has been, shall we say, a strange few days and much of it spent in a cloud of morphine-induced confusion and on Saturday evening an unexpected and frightening reaction to one of the other pain drugs. But now that it is over, I have come to a kind of island of quiet. Not peace, exactly, but at least quiet, enough to wait through, because now we have to wait again.

What did I learn about myself in this odd, dream-like week? I learned that I almost fear life more than death by cancer. Which I think is not uncommon for people of our time.

Somewhere in the middle of all the haze and confusion, I remember taking a phone call. On Saturday afternoon, I commented that I was looking forward to lunch because the Gemelli does pretty good fish for lunch on Fridays. I had lost a whole day, but during that dream-sequence Friday, another odd thing occurred.

I really have little clear memory of the day after Thursday's surgery. I know I lay still, having been tucked by my friend carefully around with soft pillows to keep me from moving in the night. I looked up to see the nurse approaching with a cordless telephone held out towards me. She said something in Italian that I was certainly in no condition to understand. All I heard was "Canada". Were my employers calling to see how I was doing? I took the phone and a crackly old-fashioned operator's voice said in Italian, "Wait please for an international connection," and the next voice I heard was my father's.

I don't remember much of what I said. He asked me how long it had been since we talked and I think I said, "About 30 years." He told me that he was sorry and that he hoped I would get better and would I let him know how things went. He said he has prostate cancer. I remember asking what stage and he said, "Intermediate". He's being prepared for chemotherapy in the spring and is "optimistic". He asked me how long I'd lived in Italy, and what was I doing and was I enjoying it?

It was not long before I could no longer make any sense and the nurse standing over me could see that I was distressed. I told my father that I could not talk now but that I would send him a note telling him the outcome of the surgery. I can't remember what he said after that, but the nurse took the phone gently away and said many things in Italian that I understood even without knowing the words. "It was my father. It has been thirty years." She looked shocked, but stroked my head and told me not to cry. "Tranquila, tranquila..."

Indeed, with a fresh eight-inch abdominal incision I could barely speak; even breathing was painful. I lay there trying to remember his face listening to the faint sound of a newborn wailing briefly in the obstetrics ward one floor above us. The week between Christmas and New Year's is a quiet one in hospitals, and in the place of the usual boisterous Italian familial bustle was an uncommon stillness in the halls and rooms.

This week my past and future and present all seem to have crowded into the little double room to tell me things.

It's a good thing this was a slow week for sickies, because I think the drama was too much for my roommate who asked to be moved to a spare bed in another room. Perhaps she was offended that I had asked for a screen. It is not the Italian custom to erect privacy curtains between beds and when an Italian friend visited, she explained and the nurses had kindly found a portable screen. I'm sure they didn't fully understand my strange Anglo/Canadian need to not watch or be watched by strangers in vulnerable medical and emotional moments.

So, here I am, maybe even cancer-free, who knows? Maybe with 30 or 40 years ahead. Or maybe more chemo and a short time to sort out my affairs. My English relatives have gently scolded me for not calling more frequently, and have been calling every evening.

I was surprised to find I was able to get out of bed by Saturday morning, to be able to walk that day with a friend on either side ten or twenty yards down the hall and back, and twice today unassisted, though very slowly, to the cafeteria and back to the ward. I am reminded how grand it is to be able to get to the bathroom by myself, and to stand up straight and to walk to the little balcony for a breath of fresh December air. Even pain is not entirely unwelcome; it comes from the real world.

Today a shock-haired Friar in bare feet and sandals and a brown habit brought me Holy Communion and said he would do it again tomorrow. Hospitals are dull places but we entertained ourselves. While I darned socks and the elbows of my cardigan, Vicky and I learned how to gamble a starship with Corbomite and sailed through the Gothic into the early Renaissance with Lord Clark for an episode and a half of Civilization. We figured out how to make un-melt-able cups for hot Darjeeling by cutting off the bottoms of Schweppes grapefruit soda bottles with Vicky's Swiss Army knife.

And now, we just have to wait to see what will happen next. Tomorrow, having found that most of my plumbing is in basic working order, they will be letting me go home and I will spend the next several months recovering and figuring out what all this means. They have removed all the organs that they think could have been infested with cancer cells and now those are to be examined cell-by-cell in the lab and

The surgery I've just had is thought to be the best possible option for my stage and type of cancer and the numbers for it are very good for total cure, about 85-95%. We will know in "twenty days".

This afternoon, I switched on my computer and found a YouTube video of some monks singing the Te Deum and, because it is the Feast of Mary Mother of God, prayed for the Plenary Indulgence because this week I decided to try to keep living.



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Today

Surgery done.

It was very hard.

I didn't run away from the hospital at the last moment, but it was a close thing. Very close. When it came down to the wire, I felt like an animal backed into a corner of a cage. Only the knowledge that not going through with it would badly hurt others forced me through the barrier.

I think I'm going to be taking a break from blogging for a while. This has changed a lot of things for me, and I'm no longer completely sure who and what I am. Difficult to have anything to say to other people from that position.

Thank you again to everyone who prayed.

We will not know if cancer is over for another few weeks. When we have the verdict from the histology, I will post the results.

If the news is bad, I think I will be done with both blogging and treatment.



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Tomorrow

In hospital from 10 am tomorrow until I don't know when. I won't be available for visiting or much of anything for some time to come.

It is possible that news will be posted on Facebook.



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Her Maj.

Wonderful.

So glad she's ditched the tedious political correctness.



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I've discovered the greatest Christmas Day movie of all time

Three words, baby,


Wrath.


Of.

Khan.



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Let's all play Diocesan Two-step

We've all done it, all been the recipient of it at one time or another...

- Catholic layman gets fed up with the disaster in the Church. Writes letter

- Letter ignored.

- Enterprising Layman sets up his own apostolate (like is says in Vatican II to do) and starts doing what he can to set things right.

- Local bishop gets wind of this from his pet heretical nun/vicar general/local priests or other deranged minions

- Bishop sends letter to Enterprising Layman telling him to knock all this Catholic stuff off or else...

- Layman asks for meeting with bishop to discuss it.

- Bishop ignores request.

- Layman carries on.

- Bishop sends more letters. Gets annoyed when letters ignored, issues press release telling Layman to stop and making sure all the world sees.

- Kerfuffle ensues in the media, layman asks for meeting with bishop, tells press.

- Bishop continues to ignore request for meeting and lets it be known that he is furious over the hundreds of calls and emails with which his office is suddenly flooded.

- Nuncio contacted... letters to Rome...

Etc...

In recent years, however, the bishops have become vaguely aware of this thing called the "interwebs" or some such, and have been annoyed by swarms of people contacting their offices and upsetting the natural order of things by demanding meetings and action on various things. It is making their lives very difficult, I'm sure.

Bishops' favourite word for work like Michael's is "divisive". For some reason, they all think that the whole world is as terrified of the word as they are, and that it will induce laypeople to shut up and go with the flow.

Below is a classic, nay, textbook case illustrating this drearily familiar comedy routine.

...
In a press release issued December 15 and signed by Communications officer Joe Kohn, the Archdiocese of Detroit states: “The Archdiocese has informed Mr. Voris and Real Catholic TV, RealCatholicTV.com, that it does not regard them as being authorized to use the word ‘Catholic’ to identify or promote their public activities."

[The correct response to this is to shrug. I am a Catholic layman, I am not opposing the Faith or obstructing the work of the bishop and I am acting according to the directives of the last Council and various papal encyclicals on the proper role of the laity. So, the only thing to say is, "Thank you very kindly, Bishop Vigneron, for your helpful advice. Be assured that I and my staff continue to include you and your intentions in our daily prayers, and we wish you and yours a very happy Christmas." Since the bishop has gone public, this letter should be produced on Enterprising Layman's website, along with a running tally of the number of formal requests for a meeting between Enterprising Layman and his spiritual father.]

Of note there are prominent ‘Catholic’ entities and even Catholic priests in the Archdiocese of Detroit directly flouting Church teaching without a comparable reprimand from the Archdiocese. One such entity is a group of priests of the Archdiocese who are publicly in favor of women’s ordination to the priesthood and against the Church’s teaching prohibiting contraception. The group is called “Elephants in the living room.”

There is however an interesting twist to this story. Michael Voris, while he may be the star of RealCatholicTV’s programming, is not the owner of the website. The owner is Marc Brammer who lives in South Bend Indiana in the diocese of Bishop Kevin Rhoades.

Brammer told LifeSiteNews, “I own RealCatholicTV.com. I contracted with Michael Voris to produce video content for that website and I pay him for it. It is a business relationship between me and Michael. If all of a sudden now there’s this tussle over the use of the word ‘Catholic’ I’ll deal with it through competent ecclesial authority.”

Brammer noted that he had received a letter from the Archdiocese of Detroit acknowledging him as the owner of the website. He responded to that letter with a request for a meeting with the Archdiocese. He received no response. Brammer has not been asked by his bishop, Fort Wayne-South Bend Bishop Kevin Rhoades to cease using the word Catholic.

A LifeSiteNews request for an interview with the Archdiocese of Detroit was not returned, and the voice message noted that the office was on holiday till after Christmas.

The press release from the Archdiocese of Detroit notes, “The Church encourages the Christian faithful to promote or sustain a variety of apostolic undertakings but, nevertheless, prohibits any such undertaking from claiming the name Catholic without the consent of the competent ecclesiastical authority.”

[There is no law anywhere copyrighting the word "Catholic," nor is there any provision in canon law allowing a bishop to reprimand a layman in good standing with the Church for using the word publicly.]

The release adds, “For some time, the Archdiocese of Detroit has been in communication with Mr. Michael Voris and his media partner at Real Catholic TV regarding their prominent use of the word ‘Catholic’ in identifying and promoting their public activities disseminated from the enterprise’s production facility in Ferndale, Michigan.”

Voris says that communication was only one way – directives from the Archdiocese and refusal to meet with Voris or Brammer to discuss the matter. Voris told LifeSiteNews that he has requested a meeting with Archdiocesan officials seven times to discuss the matter, but each time he has been ignored or rebuffed.

According to its minutes, Elephants in the living room (the group of priests which publicly holds positions counter to Catholic teachings on women priests and contraception), met with Detroit Archbishop Allen Vigneron on February 1, 2011.

If you find yourself at loose ends during the holidays, perhaps you would enjoy playing the game too.

Archbishop Allen H. Vigneron
Chancery Building
Archdiocese of Detroit
1234 Washington Blvd.
Detroit, MI 48226

Email: infodesk@aod.org
Phone: (313) 237-5800
Fax: (313) 237-4644

Homeless Waif Christmas dinner

Why is it SO difficult these days to get people to understand the need to RSVP to a party? Particularly a dinner party for which a lot of food needs to be bought well in advance.

Would the people who are planning to come on Sunday please let me know as soon as possible either on FB or here or by email.

Plenty of people have sent "regrets," but so far, the ones who have told me verbally they will come have not yet responded on FB. I'm already buying food, but so far I have no idea how much to get.

Please click the "attending" thing so I know in time.

Thanks.



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More contemporary art I don't hate

So, last night, I was having trouble sleeping and was cruising around the classical realist world on the net, and I came across this site.

I was looking all over her blog and drawings page and thinking, "Gosh! how could I ever learn to do this? Who could possibly teach it to me?"

Turns out the answer is, exactly who I'm studying with.

She was a student of Andrea's in New York.

Small art world.


She's still studying, but look what she can do!

Master copies...




Figure studies...




This is what she calls a "sketch"...




Ah, yah. My sketches don't look like this, I can tell you.

If there was one particular thing that I could be said to be interested in living for...



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Intuition

Another pic that comes from the wonderful Underpaintings site.

I want to start this post with a disclaimer. I'm not sure what we make of ideas like "intuition" as Catholics, but right up front, I want to make it clear that I don't believe in ESP or any of that quasi-occult/parapsychological stuff. I think somehow intuition is a real thing, though. I think sometimes God will give you a little hint about some things sometimes, for His own reasons that even those who are given these little hints don't know.

I know my stepfather Graham knew without a doubt that he would die young, and he did indeed die at 48. For many years, at least since my early 20s, I have had an equal conviction that I would die of cancer. I don't claim to have any sort of divinely inspired knowledge, but it's there very firmly and has never gone away. When I was diagnosed, I was horrified and almost blind with fear, but not surprised.

Yesterday, we a very comprehensive and fruitful meeting with one of the Gemelli's oncologists and things are settled for surgery to be booked in the week between Christmas and New Year's. Which is next week, now that I think of it. I got to ask all my questions and have, I hope, cleared up the communication problem by getting the cell phone number of the doctor who speaks English.

She was very surprised to hear that I had been left alone with no followup after chemo and said that this is certainly not normal practice. There was some speculation that this was the fault of the oncology secretary who does not speak more than two words of English and who therefore may have been avoiding dealing with me, a common Italian habit.

Nevertheless, things are cleared up for the moment. I got the doctor to fax my medical records to my GP here in Santa Marinella, got her assurance that I can call or text her with questions or problems any time. I also now have a back-up oncologist now who works in Civitavecchia who answers his phone, speaks English and has agreed to help if there are problems. So we hope that the difficulties with communication and support will be cleared up.

But the gist of what she told me was not very encouraging and it has set me thinking about things. As we know, the last surgery showed that there were still cancerous cells in the area around the tissue they removed. the chemotherapy was only partially successful, with the tumour reduced in size but not as much as they had hoped and the cells still active. This means we have to go ahead with the large surgery. I will have all my reproductive organs out next week and they will be sent to the lab for more detailed examination. They are hoping that there will be no more evidence of cancer in the margins but there will be no way of knowing anything until they've taken it all out and had a look cell by cell.

If the cancer has spread into the organs past the uterus or in the lymph nodes in the parametrium, I will be facing more "procedures," whatever they may be. But this isn't so hopeful, because they weren't expecting to find cancer in the margins from the last surgery, and yet, there they were.

There is no way to tell without surgical removal of the suspect tissue whether the cancer has spread into other organs and systems. Micrometastases are too small to be detected by scans and can easily be missed by biopsies. In fact, they can only be found by removal of entire organs. I asked if there was a chance that there were micrometastases hiding anywhere else, and she admitted that the possiblity certainly exists. The only way that scans can tell is after the tiny single cells have started dividing and growing tumours and there is no predicting when or where that will happen.

The surgery back in May showed there were no cancer cells in the lymph nodes around the affected area and the PET scan I had showed that the metabolic activity surrounding the tumour is reduced since chemotherapy. Chemo's effects last for some time, (as I am reminded daily) so it is likely that the cancer is not developing or developing very fast. The doctor said it was "probably" safe to wait until after Christmas but said it would be unwise to leave the surgery any longer.

If there is cancer found in the margins after this surgery, the only thing left to do for the time being is more chemotherapy or radiotherapy. The cancer, however, has already shown itself to be chemo-resistant so if this surgery doesn't remove it entirely, there isn't a great deal they can do but dose me and wait for it to emerge somewhere else. Or not, as the case may be. If the cancer spreads to organs that I can't live without, there is only chemo, and as we have seen, there is only so much that can be expected of that.

Truth to tell, I am becoming less and less confident as we go along. Each time they have told me that the initial signs are positive, the actual examination has shown things to be worse than they had hoped.

A friend of mine has said "it's just fear" but I disagree. It is certainly an idea that I'm afraid of, but the idea itself was there first. I can't help thinking that I'm on a path to the end of my life.

For the first year after I was here, I was under the impression that I had been brought here by God to start a new happy life, possibly with marriage in the offing. But even then, I remember thinking that maybe it was not that I was here to start a nice new life, but to get myself safely to the end of the old one.

From the start, I never really thought of any plans to leave Italy. There has never been any exit strategy or end-date to my stay here, and no pressing reason to ever go anywhere else. And despite its infamous aggravations, this country is growing on me. It has taken me a while to get to the realisation, but I have no intention of ever leaving as long as it remains possible for me to live here legally.

I don't know when I started thinking I would probably die here, but it was fairly soon after I came. Really, it is hard to imagine a better place to do that and to live the last part of life. Beautiful Italy, by the seaside, surrounded with friends and upheld by the Church in a Catholic country.



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I've said it and said it

The first assault was not contraception but easy divorce. It has made a world where commitment means nothing.



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