Unremarkable

Recently, I met with my oncologist, Dr. M. His practice is located in Portland, OR. Each Thursday, however, he travels 60 miles up the Columbia River Gorge to Hood River. Here, he spends the day attending to cancer patients in our small community.

The mighty Columbia River

He commented that my disease continues to be in “complete remission.” His opinion is based on the ratio between my lambda and kappa free light chains. Usually, in addition to a CBC and Chemistry Panel, the SFLCA is the only test he orders to check on the status of my multiple myeloma. Once again, the ratio is normal.

So, I enjoy a drug-free remission fourteen months in duration since my autologous stem cell transplant in 2008. And, Dr. M extended the necessity for our regular appointment from two months to three. I will not see him again until January of 2010.

In many ways, I am an unremarkable patient with multiple myeloma. My age is consistent with the most prevalent group of individuals with this cancer. I have a monoclonal band in the lambda region of IGG, a common variety. I was diagnosed under typical circumstances: while undergoing a routine physical examination.

Sky at sunrise from home

To recap my disease history, I became aware I had MM in December of 2007. My only symptom was anemia, detected when being turned away from Red Cross blood drives on several occasions dating back to 2006.

At diagnosis my IGG level was above 6400 mg/dL and my M-spike was 4.6 g/dL. These numbers reflected stage one multiple myeloma. My risk factors looked good: I had no bone involvement, my kidneys functioned well, and there were no cytogenetic abnormalities. I immediately started a combination oral drug therapy of thalidomide and dexamethasone.

Simultaneously, I requested a referral to the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance for a consultation on a stem cell transplant. After four months of the thal/dex, I opted to do the transplant sooner, rather than later. Peripheral neuropathy in my feet, a side effect of the thalidomide, troubled me.

Autumn sky and Mt. Hood from Lost Lake Road

In early 2008, thal/dex followed by a peripheral blood stem cell transplant was the standard of care. The transplant experience, though arduous, occurred without a hitch. The SCCA has numerous specialists in MM and perform hundreds of these procedures each year for a variety of blood cancers. I marveled at their competence. The near flawless execution of the complicated outpatient process impressed my wife and I. Obviously, I’ve responded well.

A remission, though, is not a cure. Another blogger said it best, and I paraphrase, “Stable disease does not mean it is dormant.” In August of this year, I underwent a skeletal survey. No overt evidence of lesions appeared. The radiologist did note subtle lucencies on my left humerus, the large bone of the upper arm. Of course, as soon as I left the doctor’s office, that arm began to bother me. Like a chipped tooth, I couldn’t leave it alone; the tongue of my imagination rubbed itself raw with worry.

Moonrise from home

Over the course of the next two months, I received my childhood vaccinations, traveled across country and back, and went about my usually active lifestyle. All the while, the left arm persisted in aching. The pain was two on a scale of ten. If I did not have MM and the suspicion of bone lesions from X-rays, I would have ignored the feelings, assuming they resulted from overuse.

This October, after Dr. M happily shared the results from my blood work, I mentioned the arm. He referred me to radiology for an MRI. There, I received a thorough imaging that included an injection of dye to definitively detect any lesions or tumors present on the bone or in the marrow.

Today, Dr. M’s medical assistant called with the results. The radiologist had commented that the MRI was … unremarkable.

The view from my desk

In spite of my positive review of the SCCA and the strong response to the SCT, I must confess that we’ve arrived at this juncture operating by the seat of our pants. It worked out, but it was somewhat due to the luck of the innocent. I would not go so far as to suggest others should undertake a transplant ASAP, as I did. Now, in late 2009, there are other choices that have been added to the menu.

In just two short years, treatments for MM have progressed rapidly. Data from numerous clinical trials, of both manufactured drugs and natural supplements, bode well for the futures of those newly diagnosed. Options expand, as well, for patients with relapsed disease. The grim prognosis long associated with MM tips closer to manageable as opposed to incurable. Now that is remarkable.

Where The Wild Things Are

“All the soarings of my mind begin in my blood.”

Rainier Maria Rilke

Sometimes, Wild Things can be found in grocery bags.

The seasons fold into one another like origami. Several days of hard frost caused my tomatoes to droop with dismay. As if on cue, east winds set the maples ablaze with fall color. Then a front of marine air, spring-like, collided with the desert breezes and snow dusted the valley.

I and the other wildlife go about our autumn rituals. Squirrels scamper along the fringe of the forest. Their cheeks bulge with food for winter. I pull cartloads of dead plants from my gardens while grosbeaks mob the elderberry. Other small birds twitter as they feast on the gone to seed flowers. I drain and roll my irrigation hoses; then I board up the crawl space beneath the house.

Wild Thing, I think I love you.

Toiling in one of my garden plots, I unearth remnants of my boys’ imaginative childhood. Toy soldiers and metal cars routinely appear when I work this piece of ground. Years ago, I’d dug a hole and filled the area with pavers’ sand, atop which I built a small shelter. A ladder led to an eight-foot high platform. It was topped with a sheet metal roof that clattered in the Oregon rain. A thick-knotted rope hung from the roof beam and descended through a hole in the floor to the sandbox below. Here, my sons played until adventures on their bikes led them far from their home and innocence.

Wild Things in a truck

Against this backdrop of domestic familiarity and memories, I ponder on the finiteness of life. Everyone with cancer peers into the unknown of mortality, much like a child looks frighteningly into the world of adults. The territory of my contemplation is as magical as any child’s daydream. It’s scary… and thrilling. There are monsters with horns and big teeth. They howl and bark. A terminal illness steals from us the comfortable blanket of adulthood. We can no longer stroke its silky border of oblivion for security. Suddenly, we are awkward and self conscious as adolescents; our hair falls out, our GI tract turns somersaults, or worse, freezes solid. Our body is not to be trusted. We sulk and just want to be alone.

A Wild Thing lives next door.

Perhaps now is the time to consider the mischief we’ve made along the way. Probably, it’s not as bad as we thought or others made us feel. Magic awaits; the world remains ours to behold. Cancer cannot foreclose on my astonishment at the mystery of life. For me, the wonder of being also glows in the terrible murky haunts of our perishability. At times, I am afraid; yet I am nourished, encouraged even, by my fear. And, in the face of it, I’ll continue to plan for the future.

My brain percolates with ideas for next spring’s gardens. I envision more of one color here or there, maybe even a pond for the birds. It’s nothing dramatic, just a few improvements to satisfy my imagination’s appetite. The sandbox now belongs to me. I want to play there and, as for the monsters, well, they can join me. Together, we’ll raise a rumpus.

Harvest

Anjous or Bartletts?

Last Sunday morning, I walked six miles. Then, I spent the afternoon working in my garden. I dug up a row of potatoes. I rooted after the spuds like a wild pig. I got down on all fours and, with a potato fork acting as my snout, unearthed the crop. I washed and sorted the modest yield before clearing the clutter of my overgrown tomato and pepper plants. I trimmed and weeded them under the inscrutable gaze of my cat, Buckwheat.

An east wind carried the sounds of Hood River’s pear harvest to my home. In the distance, tractors strained to lift bins full of ripe fruit. High in the trees, pickers chattered and whistled to one another. Our valley is one of the predominant pear producers in Oregon. Anjous, Bartletts, Bosc, and Comice constitute the principle varieties. The harvest lasts from mid-August until mid-October in orchards ranging in elevation from 600 to 2000 feet.

Golden brown Bosc pears

2008’s harvest slipped by me unnoticed. One year ago, this week, my wife and I returned from Seattle following 3 1/2 months of cancer therapy. There, I’d undergone an autologous stem cell transplant as treatment for multiple myeloma. It included 10 days of comprehensive testing to determine my fitness for the procedure. Then, a pre-transplant chemo protocol was administered. This was followed by a brief hospitalization caused by pneumonia and six weeks of recovery. Finally, I received the transplant: high-dose chemo and stem cell rescue. A month later, I was released to return home bald, bloated, and weakened from the ordeal.

By the time I became sufficiently cognizant of my surroundings, the pear harvest was completed. From then on, my recovery exceeded any benchmarks one might have established for a myeloma patient. My recuperation did not result from positive thinking or prayer. Those are useful tools for coping with the emotional turmoil but have little effect on the biology. Instead, I benefited from excellent medical care and lots of good luck.

Another kind of harvest

I entertain no illusions about my disease. It will return. Yet, it comforts me to acknowledge that reality. Only by confronting it can I let it go. For now, I am as healthy as anyone daring to peer into my little world of cancer survivorship. I enjoy a drug holiday that stretches into its second year. My stamina continues to improve, demonstrated by last weekend’s activities.

One of the things I’ve gleaned from this cancer experience is confidence in the wisdom of being here now. Don’t worry; I won’t attempt to articulate a theory of “acceptance of what is.” Such efforts often end up complicating what should be left simply observed.

Buckwheat

My sensei, Buckwheat, communicates all we need to know about how to cope in an unpredictable world. She is 20 years old. Her arthritic hips add a little hobble to her step. My lap is the maximum height of her ability to leap. Day to day, she must feel physically worse than many of us do. Yet, she finds nirvana in simple routines: a nap on a sunny ledge, restful proximity to her companion as he digs in the dirt, or a water cup in its familiar place next to the pellet stove. She accepts these routines as gifts and purrs with gratitude. She doesn’t worry about whether they will be available tomorrow. She is too busy enjoying them today.

Next Sunday, September 27th, I will be 63 years old. I think I’ll go for a walk.

Summer Daze

Where We Stayed in Chicago

Soon after posting here in August, my wife and I flew to Chicago. There we attended a three-day symposium advocating for the spinal cord injured community. My wife is Executive Director for the organization that hosted the event. I acted as staff photographer. I powered through the busy weekend and the flights all the while adding further testimony to my improving health. Here is a link to a short photo essay created from the experience.

Wildflower in my garden

Back home, I worked hard on my golf game as I have since April. I prepped myself to participate in a competitive event, the first in nearly four years. I didn’t achieve all my goals. However, I walked both rounds in 80-90 degree temperatures, which is the equivalent of twelve miles. Last summer, while undergoing my stem cell transplant in Seattle, my goal each day was to climb the 99 steps to our apartment.  I’ve learned that success is relative and, as to the golf, it’s always good to have excuses. So, I’ll blame my mental errors on lingering chemo brain.

Harvesting my tomatoes

It’s been a busy summer for the Smith family. Both of our wonderful sons continue to thrive in their chosen activities. Today, Isaac is attending the movie premier of Contrast, a film on which he is one of the principal videographers. His brother, Noah, continues to plug away with Law School at the University of California, Berkeley. Meanwhile, I enjoy the simple delights of my gardens, happy to be alive, and full of energy.

The Reality of Hope

I love the musky smell of my tomato plants. Each evening after work, I forage for the ripened fruit, taking in their dense, earthy fragrance. Green peppers share the raised beds. Mother Nature’s fickle architecture of this bell-shaped vegetable pleases the eye as well as the tongue.

An evening's bounty

My wildflowers are going to seed. They attract migrating birds in the process. Some arrive in flocks that roost on our roof. The scritch of their claws on the shingles make sounds like miniature burglars. They even case the joint by peering at us through the skylights.

Indeed, when diagnosed with multiple myeloma in 2007, I felt as if something were stolen from me: my health. Yet, I soon accepted the condition with an equanimity attained from watching my oldest son cope with a spinal cord injury. The crucible of that experience put muscle in my resilience.

The complexity of the spinal cord environment easily overwhelms a novice. My family’s ignorance of paralysis compounded the enormity of the heartbreak. We didn’t speak the lingo; we didn’t know the questions to ask.  This motivated us to develop an understanding of human anatomy, neuroscience, and cellular biology.

When it became necessary to research my own illness, a skill set to guide us through the process was in place. We’ve found that evidence based science, tempered in the forge of clinical trials, minimizes the guesswork.

What is the reality of hope for a cure for multiple myeloma? Accessing and assessing information about health conditions requires diligence. For example, with respect to my son’s injury, my wife and I had to sort out the charlatans from the serious researchers. Miraculous “cures” tended to be anomalies whose reasonable explanations were omitted for the sake of a good story. False hopes, discouragement, and despair—we had uncomfortable reality checks with all of them…but we learned.

Wildflowers, which one do you like?

Myeloma is no less daunting a scientific knot to untie. Left untreated, this cancer will kill you. The menu of options for treatment sometimes seems as varied as the wildflowers in my garden. Knowledge alone is not a cure, but there’s reassurance in the range of research activity and patient interaction from blogs and forums.

The latest bi-monthly visit with my oncologist confirmed how good I feel. My doctor monitors the myeloma with free light chain assays. This test detects low levels of the cancerous protein in my blood. The most recent lab showed a normal ratio between lambda and kappa light chains.

Over the course of the next few months, I will receive the following immunizations:

1. Hepatitis B
2. Pneumococcal
3. Poliomyelitis
4. Tetanus & diptheria
5. Haemophilus

The doc also recommends getting a flu shot this fall.

Some doubt the value of vaccinations post-transplant. There is also controversy, based on anecdotal evidence, that vaccinations may cause a relapse. I plan to go forward with the shots. Since I enjoy a good response to my treatment, I will stick with the program.

Because this appointment marked one-year post transplant, Dr. M. ordered a bone survey. The radiologist reported “very subtle lucencies” on the large bone of my left arm, the humerus, which was “suspicious of myeloma lesions.” The doc said they were small enough that I had a choice: more X-rays, perhaps an MRI, or wait a few months. I chose the latter.  I am not taking my current remission for granted; MM earned its reputation as an incurable disease.

Still, the reality of hope for a cure to multiple myeloma is substantial. The numerous human clinical trials underway provide a rigor of investigational medicine equal to that of any other disease. Furthermore, the vitality of two advocacy organizations, the IMF and the MMRF, ensure a continuance of the research. The longer I can stick around, the greater likelihood that I’ll be around for a long time.

Here's hoping I hit it straight!

The success of myeloma research and advocacy is a template for other patient populations to follow. Spinal cord injury, meanwhile, is just this year planning to conduct the first human clinical trial using differentiated embryonic stem cells. Obviously, the trajectory of the arc for MM is farther along than that of SCI.

Nonetheless, I remain a hope junkie for my son and myself. Give me the thinnest of threads and with it I will tow an ocean liner of possibility against the tide of doubt. Cures for multiple myeloma and spinal cord injury await its arrival. We just have to give the science a chance.

Passages

Last night, strong winds buffeted the Hood River Valley. This signaled the end to a brutal hot spell. Fortunately, my wife and I had escaped to the higher elevations of central Oregon during the worst of the heat. We’d gone there to spend time with her family and to decompress following the wedding of our youngest son.

Table at the wedding entrance

Two weeks ago, he married his long time sweetheart. Dozens of relatives on both sides traveled from afar to attend the wedding in our hometown. We hosted two dinners and a brunch. For seven straight days we entertained guests or were entertained by others. It was all great fun but we needed a vacation to recuperate.

Weddings are a rite of passage unlike any other because two people make the journey. Furthermore, it is usually conducted in public. In this particular instance, Ike and Nikki are the first children from their respective families to tie the knot. Consequently, their parents and siblings celebrated the passage with them.

The first dance

We’ve lived in this community for 31 years. Attendance at the wedding included many of the young men and women who’ve experienced with us some of life’s other passages: elemental things like birth, coming of age, and death. One of the blessings of small towns lies in the continuity of connection. Over the years, we’ve watched these kids learn to walk, play, and take on adult responsibilities. Tears of joy, spawned by memories of these childhoods, welled in the eyes of numerous guests when Nikki and Ike took the floor for the first dance.

The minister, a family friend, made a point to recognize the parents and grandparents, tracing the lineage of the wedding couple. I much appreciated this tribute. Who experiences passages of children more acutely than parents?

Nikki and attendants

The ritual of the marriage ceremony culminated with a kiss. However, it symbolized more than love for one another. With it, they left behind one status, single life, for another, married life. Their vows declared that regardless of what lies ahead they would face it together, as partners.

What looked like chaos during the rehearsal, flowed naturally from beginning to end on the day of the event. The outdoor wedding venue, with Mt. Adams to the north and Mt. Hood to the south, reflected the adventurous spirits of the bride and groom. After formal toasts from the Best Man and Maid of Honor, the youthful portion of the crowd partied hard until well after dark. A small contingent of designated drivers made certain everyone arrived home safely.

Toby, the ring bearer

Meanwhile, our trip to central Oregon gave us pause to bask in the wedding’s afterglow. The blistering heat of Hood River had aggravated my neuropathy but I found the tonic I needed in breathing the mountain air. Now, back home, things are normal again: a breeze cools the valley, crickets chirp in the evening, and tomatoes ripen in my garden. So too, it is with Isaac and Nikki. Things are normal, yet nothing is the same.

Wildflowers

A tree in our yard surrounded by wildflowers

Nature has a way of making disorder look like a plan. My gardening secret is wildflowers: whatever you do with them works. In my yard, they piece together colorful mosaics that ignore the borders of the frame into which I sowed them last March. Lupine encroaches on the lawn; red poppies take root happily on our gravel driveway, and purslane spreads among my more ordered perennials.

My cancer also has an independent streak. The purpose of this blog is primarily to recount my experience with multiple myeloma. Yet I’m feeling so healthy there’s hardly any news to report. That’s good; I’m not complaining the myeloma refuses to cooperate. I suspect there will be plenty to write about in the days (years I hope) ahead.

Happy flowers

Still, it’s important to not let this blog wither on the vine. When first diagnosed, I found support in the personal accounts of others living with MM. Therefore, it was disconcerting when a few of those blogs ended abruptly. Had they died? Or, had they run out of things to say due to good health? Whatever the reason, I wanted to know. Hence, you have my promise for a full accounting be it boring or redundant.

I’m currently living drug-free. I don’t take any supplements other than a multi-vitamin and 1000 mg of calcium. Since the stem cell transplant I’ve had two colds. Each passed through my body normally, just a few days of symptomatic annoyances. Thus far, my exposure to the public at work has not caused me any problems. I will receive my childhood vaccinations in August. At that time, my immune system should again be intact.

Vivid color

Lingering effects of the cancer treatment do persist. Peripheral neuropathy causes numbness from my toes to my ankles. It is more aggravating than disabling, much like my feet going mildly to sleep. The problem is that they don’t wake up. Incidents of nerve pain flare on occasion, though the neuropathy stabilized once I stopped taking thalidomide. It has not gotten better…or worse.

Off and on I experience a rapid onset of fatigue. I believe it relates to my red blood cell count. If you recall, anemia led me to my doctor and the diagnosis of multiple myeloma. My counts improved over the last year but have yet to return to normal levels. Therefore, I am prone to unpredictable slumps in energy.

Furthermore, there are mornings when I awake unusually sluggish. It’s not sleepiness. I sleep more soundly than I have in years. It’s more like my blood has congealed or pooled as I lay in a prone position. It resolves rapidly and I’m soon perking along with my morning person enthusiasm. But there’s no precedent for the logy beginnings to my day other than the treatment I received or the cancer that I have.

Come out to view the truth of flowers blooming in poverty Basho

As much as possible, I detach myself from what the cancer does or doesn’t do. I observe it, accept it, and write about it. For now, the disease behaves itself. I enjoy a quality of life unique to anything I’ve known in years past.  I live in close proximity to not only my own mortality, but also that of a cadre of cancer patients writing about their journey. Together, we seek a pattern in the chaos beyond the ordinary boundaries of life.  It may not always be discernible. But it’s there, in that wildflower portion of our soul, germinating in the most unexpected of places, vividly coloring the landscape of our lives.

Riding the Melphalan Wave

During the interval between this post and the last, my garden unleashed a bounty of colorful blooms. Iris and rhododendron, in particular, show off extravagant blossoms in lavender, pink, and white. Beneath these preening plants, more humble flowers open their smiling faces to the sun and spring rains. Nasturtium, cosmos, petunia, dianthus, marigold, geums, and daisies: as a wordsmith, I am drunk on the names.

I am also intoxicated with good news from the latest visit with my oncologist.

June Iris at my home in Hood River

The birthday of my new immune system dates back to August 28, 2008. On that day, I had returned to me my own hematopoietic (blood) stem cells. Those cells rebuilt the marrow environment, destroyed by the chemotherapy drug, melphalan.

Melphalan has a biological half-life of 90 days. That means it takes three months for a body to metabolize half the quantity of the chemo. Therefore, that’s the time to make the first notable measurement of a patient’s cancerous plasma cells. These cells produce excessive proteins, referred to as M-protein or the M-spike. M stands for monoclonal. In other words, the abnormal cells are cloning themselves from a single rogue cell. Eventually, this leads to imbalances in the blood system that, if allowed to continue, proves fatal.

My M-protein at diagnosis in December of 2007 spiked at 4.8 g/dL. That’s high; normal is zero. Ninety days out from the transplant at Thanksgiving of 2008, it was 0.1. A month later, the M-protein again measured 0.1. Those are very good, if not perfect, numbers. The latest lab result, at 283 days, more than nine months post transplant, contained this comment: “The serum protein shows a monoclonal band below the level for accurate quantification.” Evidently, the melphalan continued to eradicate the bad plasma cells. It’s either that or all the red licorice I’ve been eating.

A cream colored rhododendron at dusk

Autologous stem cell transplants are not a cure. But, my drug free remission is a significant benefit of the ordeal we endured last summer. And, it appears to be actively holding its own against the tendency of the abnormal cells to proliferate.

The multiple myeloma support group with whom I meet monthly in Portland keeps me grounded in reality. Through the winter months, we’ve had opportunities to share our stories. Though unique, they have a common theme: multiple myeloma responds to treatment but then returns.

I have not experienced any harmful complications. Thus far, my bones and kidneys are not involved. That, as much as anything, probably explains the favorable response to the transplant.

Eight forms of cancer, of which multiple myeloma is one, cause 49% of the 562,340 cancer deaths projected in 2009. For each of these forms of cancer, at least half of the patients diagnosed will die from their disease within five years. Those cancers are:

Type of cancer	Deaths projected in 2009	New diagnoses projected in 2009	5-year survival rate
Brain cancer	12,920	22,070	35%
Pancreatic cancer	35,240	42,470	5%
Esophageal cancer	14,350	16,470	16%
Liver cancer	18,160	22,620	10%
Lung cancer	159,390	219,440	15%
Multiple myeloma	10,580	20,580	34%
Ovarian cancer	14,600	21,550	45%
Stomach cancer	10,620	21,130	24%

 

Source: Cancer Facts & Figures 2009, American Cancer Society

Those of us with MM are among the elite cancer killers. These numbers without context could easily mislead many to believe we are doomed. For example, the menu of available treatments for multiple myeloma is expanding rapidly. Yet, this table makes no mention of that fact. Read this Stephen Jay Gould link. It sums up my feelings about statistics.

Butter colored nasturtium nestled under a Japanese Maple in my flower bed

I feel good. I work fulltime and enjoy many outdoor activities. I try not to anthropomorphize the cancer. I don’t believe it is furtively plotting to attack. What happened to me is an anomaly. Somewhere, somehow, I exposed myself to something that caused my plasma cells to go wacky. They are malformed and don’t die like they should. Drugs and transplants smack them down for a while, but they pop back up like dandelions. It is what it is.

Springtime in the Cascades

Spring, fashionably late as usual, reveals that it has been here all along, working its magic under the veil of bad weather. A trio of deer, two does heavy with fawn and a young buck, amble across our property. Twice, I’ve spotted them browsing on the leaves of low hanging branches. On other mornings, their tracks left a trail in my garden. Thus far, they have not stooped to nibble the vegetables.

 

Just about to burst!

More evidence may be found in my flowerbeds. A multitude of irises massing along one border are suddenly pregnant with blooms. I’d begun to think they’d given up. The plant takes its name from the Greek word for rainbow due to their numerous color combinations. Though mine are all of a kind, a smokey lavender, upon closer inspection subtle cream and yellow markings adorn the delicate petals, not to mention the deep green of the stalks and leaves.

The season’s late arrival can be a nuisance. Recently, the roar of orchard fans awakened me at 3:30 am, an alert for temperatures below freezing. I urged myself out of bed. The tomatoes needed protection. I’d already risked the lives of several plants, which succumbed to a late frost. I was not going to fail their replacements.

Upon first arising, I go slowly. The peripheral neuropathy in my feet feels like someone wadded tissue in my socks. The numbness subsides with movement giving me encouragement the condition may someday resolve. Toxic neuropathy, however, seems averse to most remedies. I’ve yet to find anyone with multiple myeloma whose treatment induced neuropathy corrected itself, but hope junkies don’t let reality get in the way of their daydreams.

Outside, I found my bearings in the dark. I’ve lived here 30+ years. The familiar silhouettes of porch railings and trees act as my guide dogs. Since my children are long gone from the house I needn’t worry about a stray toy barking in protest; the path to the sprinkler is free of obstacles. Back inside, I napped on the couch for a couple of hours. The fan’s steady drone continued but my intervention had saved the tomatoes from the cold.

 

Bruce (The dog) was a draft horse in a previous lifetime; that's a steep hill!

Over Memorial weekend, both of my sons visited. Noah had arrived from Berkeley in need of R & R after law school finals and prior to beginning a summer internship in Portland. Our younger son, Isaac, lives nearby. He took an afternoon off from his work as a ski videographer. They’d been filming atop the Palmer Glacier on Mt. Hood. Together with Ike’s dogs, Bruce and Toby, we circled the orchards near our house, retracing the route I walked when recovering from my stem cell transplant.

The air brimmed with the promise of endless sunshine and birdsong. Though bad weather still brags about its ferocity, trying to intimidate me with frost, the warming earth no longer listens. Before long, fawns will forage alongside their mothers and the gaudy flags of my irises will commemorate spring’s return, swaying atop their sturdy stalks in defiance of the last blustering gasps of winter.

In The Kingdom

Today I began planting my Victory Garden. Am I celebrating survival or sacrificing for the battles ahead? I don’t know, but the elasticity of language makes me laugh. Cancer blogs, replete with war metaphors, have enlisted me in the fray of words. My favorite among the Fighting Myelomas is armamentarium. Twice, I’ve heard doctors use it in connection with drugs to treat our cancer. With each mention I envisioned a squad of nurses lobbing salvos of chemo at the advancing plasma cells. But I digress…back to the garden.

 

A wildflower plot on the lawn

I started with a row of potatoes, building a raised bed in soil crawling with earthworms. Next to that, tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and zucchini complete the edible portion of my gardens. I’m also planting perennials in front of the rhododendrons, under which I fed the birds all winter. Elsewhere, I sowed wildflowers among an eighth of an acre of plots. Finally, there’s an almond shaped island in the center of our circular driveway. In the past, it’s gone untended. This year I’ve prepped the soil, sown more wildflowers and will decorate its pointed end with multi-colored annuals. This space is for a friend and fellow blogger who cannot have a garden where she lives.

My love for nature took root in the beautiful preserve of a private country club. Later, I would consummate that love with six years of living in Yosemite National Park and a two-year immigration to New Zealand. But it was really that golf course where I was forever smitten. There, amid a forest of soaring cypress trees and graceful pines, I lived an enchanted life during my impressionable teenage years.

 

The almond plot in the driveway

I am the fourth child of a working class family. The only club I belonged to was the Boy’s Club. Yet, I was able to infiltrate the exclusive confines of the Cal Club as a caddy. At the same time that I flirted with competitive golf, an even stronger attraction to nature stole my heart. The course’s designer was from the classical school. He let the terrain dictate the layout, defining the corridors of play with what naturally presented itself. Very little was contrived and even that harmonized with what was left untouched.

In that same environment, I also learned valuable lessons in social consciousness. That tale is best left for another day. For the better part of a decade, though, I enjoyed an insider’s view of life’s ironies when art, sport, and privilege clash. I’m not certain what any of this has to do with myeloma, other than to mention in passing that I’ve started to play golf again.

 

Maple leaf dripping with spring rain

Since I returned to work a month ago, I’ve taken to spending my lunch hours at a nearby golf course. There, I hit balls on the driving range, tempering an imperfect swing with the heat of repetition. Like another myeloma warrior whose passion for running marathons contends with his cancer treatments, I am determined to celebrate my recovery with activity. 

In addition to being a good walk in beautiful surroundings, the game of golf has a mystical allure. Dramatic competitions and legends as inspiring as the origin of marathon running dot its history.

Golf is also good therapy for an upper body weakened by last year’s cancer treatments. Some days I even head out to the course after work to play a few holes in the lengthening twilight of northern Oregon. For now, this display of energy is probably a better barometer of my health than all the assays and blood counts filling my hard drive with confusing numbers.

 

Flowerbed awaiting perennials

Swinging a golf club puts demands on my still creaky flexibility. Currently, I’m a rusty gate and movement is oil. The intricate motion of a golf swing resembles a flowing yoga posture. Both unkink our body’s tendency to tighten from non-use. They also stimulate the fundamental urge toward a perfection that exists before you ever begin and about which you must be detached in order to experience it.

Gardening, meanwhile, is free of such riddles. It reminds me that we are all of the earth and to it we shall all return. Through these activities I revisit the ecstasy of childhood. There, I ruled in the kingdom of my imagination, the one realm where all our battles end in victory.