dying

Here’s a new premortem: the new tumors growing in my lungs are still precancerous; the skin cancer is not life-threatening; whatever is destroying my hard palate is not malignant; the emphysema remains moderately severe; the six stents in my heart continue to prevent another heart attack; the congestive heart failure is flaring up; the chronic kidney disease remains moderate; the peripheral neuropathy is like walking on Novocaine-injected feet. Nevertheless, as Tom Waits put it, I’m still the “last leaf on the tree.”

They say I got staying power

Here on the tree

But I’ve been here since Eisenhower

And I’ve out lived even he

I’m the last leaf on the tree 

The autumn took the rest but they won’t take me

I’m the last leaf on the tree

(Tom Waits)

Another birthday has passed. It is now three years since I got the news. I was driving to my birthday party when the cell phone rang. The Dr. said I had terminal cancer with a median life expectancy of 14 months. So much for statistical probability! While my body may soon lie smoldering on a funeral pyre, my spirit remains an irrepressible youth. During this precarious existence, I have tried to seize each day with humor, passion, and a dedication to right the wrongs that I stumble upon. Like those candles in the windows during long Scandinavian winter nights, you have illuminated my path along this unlit and bewildering journey.Thank you my family, friends and, especially, my fellow karass members–we are the fingers who support a Cat’s Cradle of significance beyond our understanding.

A celebration of life for Stillwater blogger Karl Bremer , who died from pancreatic cancer on Jan. 15, will be Feb. 10 from 1-4 p.m. at Stoneridge Golf Course, 13600 N. Hudson Blvd., Stillwater.

Karl was an old friend and, sometimes, comrade in arms. He helped bring down Michelle Bachmann, Frank Vennes, Jr (co-conspirator with Tom Peters), and other scumbags too numerous to count. In tribute, he has been lauded as many things. However, in truth, Karl’s linage is an ancient one–His ancestors were the Chinese xias.

I recently discovered the xia, an ancient social type who predates Karl by over two millennia. Albert A. Dalia, a Sinologist and novelist, devotes several posts to explicating the historical and literary lineage of the xia. Dating from the Warring States (403-221 B.C.E.) and Han Dynasty (206 B.C.E.-220 C.E.) periods of Chinese history, the xia is a venerable ancestor of an anti-authoritarian populist like Karl.

“Relegated to the lower ranks of society, and with many of the options for advancement closed to him, the xia was not held in very high regard by the elite. To the masses of common people however, the xia was frequently a person to look up to. He was a mythic character who opposed the oppressive landlords and corrupt officials. . . . Their parallel code of ethics and behavior represent the flip side of the Chinese establishment, and rather than being antagonistic to tradition, xia behavior is complementary—yin to yang.
Obituary: Stillwater journalist and Michele Bachmann nemesis Karl Bremer dies 

After I posted “Immunity Deficiency Blues,” I was asked to furnish some more background. This essay, which I published in the St. Paul Pioneer Press on 11-17-2010, will provide some context for the reader.

T.S. Eliot thought that April was the cruelest month. I disagree. For me, spring is a time of rebirth and rejuvenation. I would argue that autumn is the most cold-hearted time of year.

Last fall I was afflicted with a mysterious neuropathy that baffled my neurologist. A couple of months later I had hip replacement surgery and a fortuitous x-ray revealed tumors on my lungs. They diagnosed me with stage 3 granular pulmonary lymphoma, a cancer so rare that there are only 500 to 600 cases in the medical literature. Turns out that neuropathy is a symptom of the disease. Who knew?

The prognosis is poor. The median survival from diagnosis is 14 months. More than 60 percent of patients die within five years. I completed chemotherapy in July and the cancer was in remission. However, within a month troubling symptoms appeared. I was increasingly short of breath, gasping after 15-20 paces.  Pulmonary embolisms formed. Most days I took two naps. I had no energy; the smallest tasks were beyond me. Walking became a precarious adventure.

Heart function is one potential victim of chemotherapy. Mine has declined to 20-30 percent. The neuropathy has also worsened. My legs are numb from the knees down and I have minimal feeling in my feet. The outlook is grim. For me, autumn is akin to what Dylan Thomas called “the dying of the light.”

Even as a small boy, I found fall the saddest season. I grew up on an isolated rural homestead and rode the bus to a country school. As the autumn light rapidly diminished, I trudged up our half-mile lane each evening in a darkening and bleak landscape. The few flickering lights in the house and barn were of little consolation. The prairie’s sinister spell of fall twilight lifted once I moved to the city.

Only after I bought a rustic cabin on a river 22 years ago did those distant mood swings return with full force. I remain exuberant until the Summer Solstice. Then the days begin to shorten, only so minutely through July and August. The dying of the light accelerates rapidly from September until the Winter Solstice, and my spirit correspondingly withers. I always close down my cabin on the weekend when Daylight Saving Time ends. As I finish the final tasks, this idyllic setting is awash in dead leaves and darkness. I go into emotional hibernation until the next spring.

This autumn has been particularly difficult. My retired brother flew in from Vancouver Island for two weeks to close down the cabin and winterize our home in the city. While I appreciated his visit and help, it only heightened my sense of helplessness. This must be what the late autumn of life feels like.

I held up remarkably well during chemotherapy. However, the damaging aftereffects of chemo and the doctors’ dim prognosis for recovery have finally broken my spirit. My primary doctor recently gave me a questionnaire for depression: “Little interest or pleasure in doing things;” “Feeling down, depressed or hopeless;” “Feeling tired or having little energy;” Feeling bad about yourself;” “Trouble concentrating on things.”

The results were, frankly, depressing. I have a new stamp on my passport—Prozac Nation. I am now taking an anti-depression drug. When it kicks in, I hope it raises my low spirits. Regardless, no mood-altering drug will change the results of my latest checkup. Autumn just got a bit more cold-hearted.

The cancer is back. It has re-appeared in my lungs and spread to my liver. I feel no urge to “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Nevertheless, I am not yet ready for a calm acceptance of the coming darkness. I will rejuvenate soon, in spirit if not body. I look forward to opening my cabin in the spring and watching the Yellow River flow, where one day my ashes will be scattered.

Link to the interview EXC Fall 11