Dec. 14, 2002, 5:00 a.m.
The probability that I will not live to see my 70th birthday is attempting to get through to me. I turned 67 on July 8, 2002. I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in January. Gleason’s 9 on a scale of 10 with metastases to the bones, albeit not extensive. I started on hormone suppression therapy which seemed to be working until several weeks ago when my PSA began to rise again. Wednesday (Dec. 11) I met my new doctor for the second time, my “oncologist.” According to him, I have a year to 27 months of breathing left. He’s a bit casual about things, told me I could stop taking the androgen suppression pill I’ve been taking since it wasn’t life-prolonging and I’d feel better without it. He also suggested that I not take my next injection of Lupron, the testosterone suppressant that apparently is life-prolonging, again so I could feel better. Those two drugs have been making me feel weaker, since they suppress the masculinity in me, leading to loss of muscle mass, feelings of weakness, etc. At least they haven’t led to a growth of breasts, which is one of the things that could occur. I’ve also gained 23 lbs since starting on the therapy, which is another side effect of the drugs. The weight gain has created a problem with my breathing in that by belly is pressing up on my lungs which are already inefficient due to the slight emphysema I have from smoking, even though I gave up that habit in 1979. Things do catch up with you, don’t they?
At any rate, I’m still trying to come to grips with this new reality. The doctor who diagnosed me told me in January that I had anywhere from two to 10 years, depending on my response to therapy. Naturally, I decided for the 10 years scenario and my initial response to the hormone suppression regime seemed to bear that optimistic picture out. Of course, I’m going to fight as well as I can to keep going longer than the 27 months I’m now looking at. I’m contemplating coffee enemas, since I know they helped Mary Lou with her colon cancer — although she decided to take them too late to save her. I’m planning to read several books on nutrition to find an optimal diet. There are some supplements I’ll probably try. Hopefully, going off the medications — that is, doing intermittent therapy, three months on, three months off, will give me enough energy to do some exercising to help get the weight off and make breathing easier for me. I’ll still bowl four days a week, as I’ve been doing, since that’s the major part of my social life, but that’s not enough exercise to get me in some kind of physical shape to fight this thing. I may be lazy and prone not to follow through on things, but I’m also not going to give in to this thing. I think it’s prudent, though, to get things in order. I’ll have to make some calls, get addresses of the people I’m going to leave my meager inheritance to and put together a will of sorts. Hopefully, I’ll go this afternoon and get the enema kit so I can start on those things. That’s it for now.
The Old Man in the Museum
Entering free, gray hair proclaiming his eligibility,
the old man slowly climbs the stairs, stopping
at the Pieta, remembering his mother’s comforting arms
while echoes of joy of being a husband and father
play through his mind, moves to the room of
summertime scenes, sits on the marble bench,
eyes drawn hypnotically to the gaily clad family
at the picnic in the park, pondering days full of smiles,
his son and he playing fetch with their dog
before it went blind and was put to sleep, rises,
pauses at the young man running, cheering his boy
winning the cross country race, propels himself
quickly past the Civil War scene, recalling when
Viet Nam took his son, looks longingly at the
couple embracing by the fountain, wanly
at the disfigured Venus, left breast missing,
reflecting on happy days before his wife
fell victim, shudders, grips his cane tightly,
rides the elevator down, walks wearily to the exit,
eyes tearing in the bright sun, walks slowly home.
[Found in a hanging folder, undated, among a large collection of laser printed poetry, all his. I wonder if this wasn't a package he carried around to open mic poetry sessions.]
Version 2:
Entering free, thinning gray hair proclaiming his eligibility,
the old man slowly climbs the stairs, stopping at the Pieta,
sensing his mother’s comforting arms, her fingers in his hair,
his wife holding their newly-born, white-blanket-clad son
with that surprising mop of black hair, listening to the
suckling sounds, recalling the short-lived joy of being a
husband and father just before the doctor advised against
having another child; he grasps the brass rail, breathes
deeply, wheezing slightly shrugs, enters the room of
summertime scenes, sits on the marble bench,
eyes drawn hypnotically to the gaily clad family at picnic
in the park, pondering days full of smiles, his son
and he playing fetch with their dog before it went blind
and was put to sleep, rises, pauses at the young man
running, cheering as his boy wins his first cross country
race, smiles proudly at the scene of the cadets throwing
hats into the air at graduation, visions of his son in the robe
and mortar board at high school graduation, propels himself
quickly past the Civil War scene, recalling when Viet Nam
took his son, cringing at the thought of the missing parts
of his boy fertilizing rice in the soggy fields of that far off land
looks longingly at the couple embracing by the fountain,
experiencing anew those happy days with his wife, stares
wanly at the disfigured Venus, left breast missing, reflecting
on his wife falling victim, so swiftly after putting his son
to rest; he shudders, grips his cane tightly,
rides the elevator down, walks wearily to the exit,
eyes tearing in the bright sun, walks slowly home.
