September 12, Speaking in Tongues

Angela writes:

Not long ago our niece Grace, who was visiting with her family, asked me a question many an adult would be advised to ask, including of themselves. She said that Madame had instructed her pupils not to translate from English when they were practicing their French. Yet, after a few days in our house, Grace wondered how this rule of language was working in my case? Was Madame right? Did I ever translate? And if so, from what language?

You will agree that such a question is not easy to answer, to say the least. I was here before a very thoughtful child, and I better chose my words wisely. I could hardly say I was not translating, since that would be close to impossible, especially when – as she had rightfully observed – all these other fragments of language keep wandering through my brain uninvited, blind and rueful. If I am to answer truthfully, I will have to observe, like an outsider, my practice.

Our morning walks – mine and Rocky’s – on the trail, are the place to start. I have called this old railroad trail that used to cross Canada from shore to shore, now reduced to a path for hunters in search of game atop their ATVs, many things since we moved here. Right now I call it the trail of confession and promise. On the way out, eastward, I discuss those things that I consider reprehensible in my recent behavior. They usually concern the manner in which I give in to my fear. This illness has weakened my resolve and brought to their creaky knees all those years of philosophical reading, writing and teaching. Does philosophy teach us how to die? Theoretically yes, maybe. Practically, very little. Between Montaigne, who thinks it does, and Derrida, who only a few years ago found out, not unlike myself, that it does not, I am torn and astray. Theory bends its proud neck under the threat of crossing from this to the other world. One is left with a few grains of dust in one’s hand, the grains of foolish knowledge.

On the way back, westwards, I turn to the Saints. To them – that is, to the ones with whom I have a relationship – I make a promise. We have discussed these weaknesses many times, and my promises are renewed anew without much remorse. They may or may not be kept; the important thing is to keep working on that construction of resolve. Which in the end may prove to be helpful.

Here I come finally to my topic. A person in my condition, most often in the company of my dog, and, while on the trail, happening upon beaver, or falling under the diligent gaze of a good number of cows, needs to speak aloud to keep that priceless gift of speech alive. What language do you think I use, when I speak alone, that is, with my dog, the beaver, the cows, and my Saints? Mostly French. Sometimes Romanian, when the matter is grave beyond redemption, and the skies really gray. But there will be only a few, well-weighed words in that language.

French because I miss speaking and hearing French, it is a fact. Yet I figure, once in the world beyond, languages must loose their specificity and become interchangeable. They must sound like Fredo Viola’s Sad Song. Everybody should understand everybody else without effort, regardless of the language they speak, and what is left of that old specificity is the affective color of that language in tatters still used. Nowadays, because I paint, and because every single painting is a submission to my first teacher of the art, my own French Madame, I take the liberty to speak French to my Saints while promising to strengthen my resolve. They certainly get the color of my language, which is the color of affection, foolish knowledge, bonheur and still time at once.

Of course I did not tell Grace this story quite in so many words. To her, for now, I said the choice of language and the manner of speech had to do with whom one spoke to, what one had just read, or who had visited her in her dreams. Although quite often nowadays, the first thing I ask Colin when we wake up in the morning is:

“Cit e ceasul?”

September 11, Physiotherapy

Angela writes:

I have a new physiotherapist. My old one, the one who had cured my broken ankle and tried to help my broken back, has left for the more alluring skies of BC. I loved her because she had been a gymnast in her youth. All these years later, and she is about my age, her body the bearer of the grace branded by that superwoman-superchild sport.

After her departure I thought I would not go back to the town of Campbellford. I would not continue my therapy there. I did not want this separation to weigh upon the already exhausting balance of good byes I carry around. Yet as soon as the month of September sent everybody back to work, I felt I’d better take up again at least this one fragile routine and pretend I was going back to some sort of work myself.

The new physiotherapist looks nothing like the job would presuppose. On the other hand, her name is Kathy. There have been so many Kathy and Catherine in my life. Some are still with me, some are not, and some are tenuously in-between. I decided I should give this Kathy a chance if only in the name, the melancholy name of those older associations.

She turned out to be more interested in the workings of my fingers than of my arms. I am in therapy because my arms have been weakened by the tumor. My fingers have been even more affected, of course. That is why I have not written anything since last October, when I did a paper, my last paper, for my friend Calin. But until now, knowing the damage to the fingers to be irreversible, therapy has only been concerned with strengthening my arms. And some progress occurred.

Nevertheless, the new Kathy came up with a new idea, which I confess took me by surprise. That I should work on my fingers.

She is telling me to pull a facecloth between my two weakest fingers, the index and the thumb, held tight; or to endlessly clip laundry pins on a rod; or, better yet, to sit in front of the computer and practice typing, for a few minutes every day.
I look at her in disbelief. I find typing difficult. This is why, last year, once out of the hospital, I got an iPad. In order to write on an iPad you only need to use one finger or two.

That is precisely why, she comes back, you should use the computer keyboard, and just type away, numbers, random phrases as they come to your mind, whatever you hear, if you do not know what to.

A bit frazzled, I tell her that I know what to type; I pretend that is not my problem; it used to be my job. You know. I used to write, to put it simply.

She does not seem to see the relevance of that. A relatively unimportant detail under the present circumstances. And continues by encouraging me to do my emails on the computer keyboard. Yes, there’s a good idea.

I say thank you, not without a sort of dazed sincerity, and leave with the resolve, albeit bemused, to “practice keyboard” for a few minutes every day.

I’ll ask Colin to make some room for me in his blog. Maybe I can write a few words now and then, in order to strengthen my fingers, and with them all the muscles which, all over my back, contribute to the task of writing.

September 11, In the Woods

Today I walked off the trail and into the woods.  Perhaps I had hoped to get lost.  In fact I had hoped to calm down.   There, where things were most green, dark, and wet, and I stood most still, my heart still ached.

The lung specialist had little to say.  He thumped the bottom of his fists over Angela's collar bones and sternum.  He listened to her lungs.  He said he had seen the CT image in question.  He tapped the surface of his iphone entering pertinent variables into an app.  He said that based on Angela's age, and relatively favorable smoking history, the lesion in Angela's right lung has a 42% chance of being malignant.  He acknowledged that Angela's recent history of both cancer and radiation treatment do not figure into this calculation.  He said that his iphone app is proven to be more accurate than a panel of experts so it would be folly for him to speculate on more than the few variables required.   He told us that myeloma does 't usually show up in the lung, so if this is malignant it is likely something else.  He is sending Angela for a CT guided fine needle aspirate biopsy of the lesion.  He has also requested a PET scan for which we will have to go to Ottawa.  This scan will also help differentiate the lesion in her skull.  Both of these investigations will take at least a few of weeks.  Reluctantly, we are waiting.

beavers' pond

Angela sleeps restlessly.  Her appetite is poor.

I am enraged by the very system of which I am a part. These tests should be done already.  This man, preferably, would have gazed into a crystal ball, or read Angela's palm.  I'd prefer a panel of fools at this point to iphone medicine.  The fools, though, are hiding behind their machines.  I have left a number of messages on various phones at the Kingston Cancer Center yesterday.  It seems to me these phones are never answered directly.  I would like some solid dates, and of course I'd like them sooner than later.

The colors around us are changing quickly.  Acorns have been falling on our roof.  Angela, mostly patient, is capturing the changes in photos.  Our morning routines, complete with coffee and foamed milk, remain the same, as does our resolve.  We will keep you posted. 

September 3, Under a Blazing Sky

“I have such a good life.  That’s why I’m crying.  Who would want to give up such a good life?”

There was one day of cloud recently in what has otherwise been glorious weather.  Although we welcomed a little bit of rain, it was on this cloudy day that we received the results of Angela’s most recent scans: “a 2.5 cm lesion in the apex of the right lung suspicious for neoplasm.”  The radiologist recommends a biopsy of this.  She also recommends further investigation of “a lesion potential for myeloma at the vertex of the cranium.” 

Now we are waiting.  We are back to the Cancer Center in Kingston at the end of this week, this time to meet with a lung specialist. 

In the meantime we try not to think. 

Angela paints.  She is working on her largest canvass to date.  Along the very bottom she has painted a few boats tied to a pier.  Originally two of the boats were named “RESCUE,” and above them was a blue sky. 

Enraged, we looked at this image stupidly. 

“I do not need to be rescued,” our bear finally said. 

Now the sky is emblazoned, painted and repainted with variations of red, yellow, green, grey, blue.  The boats too are bolder.  Once named “rescue,” they are now called “COURAGE.”  

When I am not at work I have taken on dumb tasks.  We lost our internet connection recently so I have spent evenings booting and rebooting the modem.  I have jumped through hoops for technicians in India and New Brunswick who take me through various sequences of plugging in and out the modem, router, computer and so on.  The satellite people tell me it’s the router, the router people tell me it’s the modem.  They cannot know what anger I am displacing onto this.  Foolishly, while Angela slept the other day, I drove to Belleville to buy a new router knowing it wouldn’t work.  Finally, I am promised a visit by a technician.  Finally, like Angela, I am also finding courage.

We do not want to jump to conclusions.  We talk casually in the mornings about where we might go for Christmas.  We contemplate the potential for scar tissue and tell ourselves that these lesions may not be what they appear.   Angela reassures us that she feels strong.  Against the CT and x-ray images we have her blazing sky.

I blame the timing of this, in part, on Angela’s lifelong submission to the academic calendar.  We hoped to avoid a return to work this September, but in this, my friends, we know that we are not alone.  We are grateful for the continued words of encouragement that we still receive.  Let us not waste our time on dumb tasks.  Let us not paint things only as they appear.  Let us all return to work however we must, and let us all…be in touch.

August 6, Patio

Saint George and the dragon still clash above our fireplace.  Even in battle the knight's face, and the postures of both combatants, are prayerful and calm.  Like Rocky, though, Angela and I are now spending much less time at the hearth, and more time in the sun.

We visited the radiation oncologist last week.  He tells us that there has been no change on the most recent MRI compared to the last.  This, of course, is very good.  He has ordered a repeat skeletal survey, xrays of the rest of her bones, to be sure the cancer has not taken up elsewhere.  Angela, smiling, tells him not to worry.  She says, for the moment at least, she is feeling better.

It is hard to know if our bear's symptoms have improved.  Her determination, though, has continued.  Still she is up repeatedly in the night to "reposition."  When she is lying down, unless her arms are stretched out straight, they quickly grow numb.  When she drives to town she is sure to nap beforehand lest she fall asleep at the wheel.  There is, still, so much care required for simple tasks.  Irrespective of her persistent symptoms, though, our bear, clearly, is getting stronger.  She is driving herself to town now a few times per week.  She is walking Rocky down the highway a little further each day.  Wherever she goes, however far, she seems now to come back with photos.  She takes her iphone everywhere and pays close attention to everything.  She has captured some remarkable cloud formations, and at least one oddly beautiful insect.

For Angela's birthday yesterday we made a trip to Ottawa to visit the Van Gogh exhibition.  He too was crazy about tree trunks, insects, and clouds.

charity and good homes for old books

We boxed up most of Angela's library recently.  Still she cannot write without tingling and numbness.  She cannot read without sedation.  She cannot do either without a certain amount of grief.  For the moment, at least, we need some space on our shelves.  Today, we are rearranging our furniture.  We have the happy feeling that there remains plenty of space for new things.

We have started, it seems, with canvases. Angela continues to paint.  After some self portraits she has painted a couple of me.  Somehow in the paintings I am restful and calm.  In one I am asleep.  A pillow is under my head.  My eyes are shut.  In another I am slouched in a chair.  Angela, with her painting, is wishing me restful dreams.  It is true that the dragon had tired me out.  In recent months, though, as if to restrict my life as much as Angela's, I have been taking on many more responsibilities in my work.  My workdays are long.  In this way Angela and I retain the same pace.  I am grateful when I am away for the photos she texts to me of the clouds, and of Rocky's shadow on the grass.

We celebrated Angela's birthday last night with some wine.  Happily a glass of wine has become palatable again.  The sun has been beating down heavily on everything this summer.  Happily it seems to have slowed everything down.  We moved from the fireplace to the deck.  Forgetting the dragon for the moment we are toasting Angela's health.  Remembering Saint George we are staying prayerful and calm.

We know it has been a long time since I have written on this blog.  I do not have the strength of Van Gogh, whose paintings I now love, nor of a polar bear, or of Saint George, but I am grateful for our friends, and, ultimately, I will try...to keep you posted.

April 16, Boston

African sculpture at the Boston Museum

angela's take on it

Angela and I returned yesterday from a trip to Boston.  The snow has long since melted from our trail.  The grass in the meadow has become green again.  The leaves on the Poplars are once again rustling in the wind.  Ready or not our bear has been trying to respond to the call of spring.

The warmer temperatures and the early return of so many birds have been helpful, but Angela has been inspired as well by the most recent visits to her doctors.  The radiation oncologist was very enthusiastic about the destruction caused by his beams.  He printed before and after MRI images of Angela's spine and tumour.  Happily, he circled pertinent areas in red ink to add emphasis as he spoke.  Clearly he was impressed by the changes.  True, there remains a mass, maybe a few, but we cannot know as yet what these masses are doing.  If they are still growing the change will not be visible on MRI for several weeks.  This doctor, a true general, will apparently be surprised if the enemy survives such a direct hit by his weapon.  He will nevertheless watch closely.  We will be back for another MRI in June.  In the meantime our medical oncologist is unexcited.  He is looking in a completely different direction anyway for what he expects, at some point, will be the next assault.  Without meeting us he sent his resident in at our last appointment to tell us that Angela's blood work is basically unchanged since our previous visit.  I suppose we will be back for repeat blood work in a few months.   In the meantime I am very proud of my great bear.  Contrary to the medical oncologist's expectations, she has surely levelled deadly blows to the mischiefous dragon!

Somehow a trip seemed necessary.  Should we not be celebrating?  Somehow it seemed right to escape.    We drove to Boston.  Angela could not contemplate being on a plane as yet so we picked a place we could drive to.  We had a few days in a nice hotel.  We had a couple of long walks.  We met with our good friends Catherine, Terry, and Lou who were also there, conveniently, "on business."  We had, once again, and like old times, great laughs.  We did, certainly, a lot more than we might have done only a few weeks ago.  We are prepared to call this progress.  Great progress!

It is understood, of course, that this trip was not altogether easy.  It is understood that there is still pain suffered.  Angela, today, has done very little.  Her arms, unfortunately, are as painful and numb today as ever.  The medications, in a different way, are also numbing.  Victory, to be sure, is relative.

We did not know before we arrived to the city that the Boston Marathon was scheduled for today. On the morning that we left Boston our waiter at breakfast asked Angela if she was in town to run the race.  Although he seemed to immediately understand that this was not likely, he could not take back the question.  Angela was delighted.  "Yes," she said.  "Yes, I am here for the marathon."  She smiled brilliantly and we all had a good laugh.

Spring happily and cruelly has surely arrived.  Our bear, compelled, wills to go further still.  Evidently there will not be progress without pain.   The fight is now a marathon.  We are pacing ourselves.  In time, my friends, we will be in touch.

March 18: Forest Trail

Angela and I are just back from a walk in the woods.  Inspired by such a warm and beautiful day so early in the year we went further than I expected.  Soon after leaving we hung our sweaters and jackets on tree branches and continued in only t-shirts.  However slowly, we walked very triumphantly on the soaked trail.  Still how curious to find, now after many days of warm weather and much rain, patches of ice and snow persisting under our feet.

Angela's most recent MRI results are difficult to interpret.  Apprehensively we visited the neurosurgeon on Thursday to discuss the results.  It is hard to know whether it is a quirk of his personality, or the circumstance itself, that compels this gentleman to shrug his shoulders so often.  He brought the images up on the computer screen and compared the previous MRI to the most recent.  He showed us the space where the body of the first thoracic vertebra should be, and how there is now neither a bone nor a tumour there.  He showed us how the remaining bones and fragments "caved in," more or less, in a stable pattern.  By reference to some obvious kinks in the line of the remaining vertebrae, he reassured himself of the legitimacy of Angela's ongoing complaints of back pain.  "Yes," he said, "one can imagine at least a few nerve roots being squeezed along there."  Proudly, though, he demonstrated how the spinal cord itself is no longer pinched by a tumour.   Hesitatingly, but finally, he showed us a remaining mass, "perhaps 6 or 8 cubic centimetres in volume lateral to the cord, on the left."  "Yes," he said, "that's quite consistent with the numbness you describe in your left hand."

It was about this mass, of course, I felt we should speak.  Is it growing?  Might it still be shrinking?  Does it require further treatment?  To these questions, though, our proud and humble neurosurgeon, speechless, repeatedly shrugged his shoulders.   What he did know with certainty was that surgery, still, was ill advised.  It is simply not likely that with surgery he could get all of the tumour out.  Any surgery, furthermore, is likely to result in more pain and dysfunction rather than less.  "Best not to touch it," he said, and with this in mind he also counselled against physiotherapy for the time being.  "We still don't know if things will get better or worse on their own," he said, "better to watch and wait."

Our neurosurgeon wants to see Angela again in 3 months.  He is managing the spinal column.  He said it was for the oncologists to manage the tumour at this point.  In the meantime, remembering that Angela was "a professor of some type," and as though not to be completely useless, he wondered if hiring a transcriptionist would be helpful.

And so we turn to the oncologists.  Apprehensively, again, we make our next visit to Kingston tomorrow to see the radiation oncologist.

With signs of Spring our bear is coming out of hibernation.  It is no small thing that we managed a walk in the woods today.  It does not matter how slowly and cautiously we walked.  On Friday we managed a trip to the dentist in Toronto.  It does not matter how tiring it was.  Angela is convinced that she can drive safely at this point, if only a short distance.  Although it remains to be seen if she can make it to anywhere meaningful before her hands give out, we will soon give it a try.  She grows tired of isolation too.  Although she wonders how entertaining she can be for guests, with Spring, she hopes she will have more visits.  Winter, it seems, was for stones and orchids, spring, we hope, will be for visits with more friends.

We choose to find solace in the ice and snow on our forest trail.  Though persisting, it is surely melting.  We take hope, for the time being, in the idea that the tumour too might still be melting.  We will, my friends, find out soon enough.   Melting snow, so slow, can, it proves, be painful to chronicle.  We will, nevertheless, do our best.  We will, in continued gratitude, be in touch.