yeah, chemo is that bad

There’s a reason it’s been almost two months since my last blog post: docetaxel (aka Taxotere®). Since the middle of August, I’ve had one infusion every three weeks, with a helping of granisetron (anti-nausea), dexamethasone (steroid), and diphenhydramine (Benadryl, an antihistamine that puts me to sleep in 10 minutes or less). Every six weeks, we add Zometa to keep my bones from wasting away. And then I take a mystery pill for two out of every three weeks that’s part of the clinical trial I’m on. It might be lenalidomide, or it might be nothing.

I’ve got it relatively good with this treatment. Blood counts are nearly normal, no nausea, no liver or kidney issues, and minimal hand/foot neuropathy—hopefully because I bring ice from the 7-Eleven down the street and chill my hands and feet while trying to sleep off the Benadryl during the 60-minute docetaxel infusion. I say “hopefully” because I’d feel awkward if all that ice wasn’t doing something useful.

I almost tried to ice my head as well, which theoretically would have spared my hair follicles from the ravages of docetaxel. But I just couldn’t figure out how to balance a zip-lock plastic bag, or several bags, on my head at the same time that I pushed my toes into double-bagged melting ice and held another bag of ice so that all my fingers were chilled (not as easy as it sounds—the other folks around me must get tired of that slushy, crinkly sound as I keep adjusting the ice bag so all fingers are equally numb). The end result is that I have bad doll hair: my formerly silver, gray, and brown hair, which went white during the XL-184 treatment, is now thinned, fine, frizzy white stuff that looks like worn out plastic hair on a cheap doll. I keep it trimmed very short and keep a bunch of hats handy for when it starts looking creepy.

A brand new infusion room (photo borrowed from http://www.lavinarchitects.com)

I’m not looking for sympathy when I talk about chemo. I’ve had Zometa infusions for the last couple of years, so I’ve spent time in oncology infusion rooms and have seen what chemo can be like. Some chemo treatments have to be dripped slowly for several hours (as long as 6 or even 8 hours); others require a lot more pre-medication or come with two or three different bags of liquid that have to be infused one after another. Most infusions are just clear liquids, but occasionally you see a yellow one, or a deep rusty red color. Last time I was there a woman was being infused with a creepy black liquid (it might have been an iron supplement). It’s so difficult to see frail people laying back in those big recliner chairs, trying to rest or read while they wait for hours as the solutions drip into their veins. For me, this scene is the harshest reality of cancer treatment, short of being with people in a hospital or hospice setting.

I went to a chemo class before beginning this treatment, and even after four and a half years of almost everything possible (surgery, radiation, hormone therapy, targeted drug therapy, and the crazy pheresis/infusion cycle of Provenge), it was intimidating to be told how chemo infusions work and what to expect as treatment progresses. These classes are typically taught by infusion room nurses, who are businesslike and somewhat reassuring. The night I went, there were about a dozen people in the room, including supportive family members. Several of the patients had a deer-in-the-headlights look, and many were in tears by the end of the hour. It’s just not easy to see your life change so fundamentally with this type of treatment.

Honestly, I have it relatively easy. But what I’m finding out is that “easy” is always relative. I used to wonder if other chemo patients were exaggerating or just overly sensitive. Now I’m realizing that no matter what your results, there’s an emotional reaction to whatever side effects you get. On day 15 of my first infusion cycle, I was sitting at my desk at work and idly ran my fingers through my hair. I held a dozen strands in my fingers. It was a confusing moment: I had no idea whether I’d lose all my hair or not, or how quickly it would happen, but I had a disturbing vision of leaving work that day with piles of hair on the floor. I carefully tried not to scratch my scalp or even touch my hair that day, and realized by the end of the day that it wasn’t going to all fall out at once. The next evening my daughter took some clippers to my head after shooting photos of me and Dorothy at a nearby park.

One of our last-day-with-hair photos. Thanks, Rachel!

Hair is not a high priority for me, and all along I told myself it would be no big deal to lose it. I was wrong. There’s something disturbing about pulling out your own hair and knowing it won’t grow back for now. It’s just one more thing you can’t control as you live with cancer treatment. Now that I’m more than three months into the chemo, my beard is only at about 20 percent of normal, so I finally shaved all but my thinned moustache. Another loss, and again, it’s not the loss so much as the loss of choice.

Chemo definitely has a bad name, one that feels harsh and unpleasant. That’s the traditional reaction, and it’s based on the harsh experiments and lack of supportive medication in the early days of chemotherapies. Now, many chemo treatments can be well tolerated: there are anti-nausea and steroid drugs that reduce the shock to your system, and in almost all cases it’s an outpatient process. Patients still experience immune system issues, they lose their hair, and may go weeks or months with no appetite, mouth sores, feet and hands that are tender, numb, or painful, and so on.

Docetaxel is derived from the bark of the Pacific Yew tree, which is a poison used at least since the time of the Roman empire. As with many chemo treatments, someone figured out that the effects of a certain poisonous substance, if tempered, could kill certain cells without killing the patient. One of the very first attempts at a chemo treatment involved derivatives of the mustard gas that was used to kill or maim so many soldiers in World War I. I suppose I should be grateful that I’m “only” being given a mild form of yew bark extract.

Anyway, even though I’m doing all right for now, chemo is not easy. It’s a tough challenge because results always vary. My friend from a ”living well with cancer” group, John, who had lung cancer, went through about six months of chemo and would insist through it all that he felt fine. He lost some hair (but didn’t have much to begin with), was a little more tired than usual (he did take some time off work), but he kept telling us that he really felt fine. Another dear friend that I’d met in the group a couple years earlier, Vera, suffered for months with mouth sores, fatigue, and slowed down cognitive reactions. During her treatment, and even for a few months after, she spoke slowly, searching for words, and continually swallowed and licked her lips because of her dry mouth and sores. She had about a year of remission, but when her cancer returned, she chose not to go a second round with chemo. We all saw how overwhelming it was for her, and had several discussions in our group about how you balance quality of life with extending life through treatment. What’s worse: dying sooner, or dying later with daily discomfort and confusion?

When the fatigue hits, it takes out your thinking as well as physical energy. Chemo assaults the immune system, which drains you even further. Another group friend, Barb, described her reaction to chemo as a “lost weekend”:  she could plan on just staying home Friday on weeks that she had an infusion, and said that she’d just stay in bed and “astral project” for three days. I used to wonder if she was exaggerating, but I don’t any more. I typically have my infusions on Tuesdays, and I know that at some point on Thursday afternoon, I’ll hit a soft wall. Something shifts, and I start feeling a serious lack of interest in doing anything. Friday morning I’ll wake up and wish that I could stay in bed, but I go to work and just make sure to take it easy. Saturday and Sunday, I do stay in bed most of the day, and I keep wishing I could learn to astral project because my mind and body are just gone. I can’t read, don’t want to listen to music, and can hardly carry on a conversation. I can’t even make mental plans for a couple of days: it is somehow too taxing to think ahead or even think back too far. If someone asks my opinion about something, I just smile and say, “Ask me in a few days.” By Monday I’m picking up a little energy, but I find that my mental energy is usually ahead of my physical energy, which leads to the conversation that Dorothy says we’ve had five times now: I say, “Wow, I thought I was going to [do something... usually something minor like help clean up the dishes or go for a walk], but I guess I’m just more tired than I thought,” and she says, “Remember, this happened last time?” But of course I don’t remember. So I just park on the couch after work and stop trying to do anything.

Chemo seems to typify that wall between cancer patients and the people who want to help them. For several years I’ve heard chemo stories and silently made judgments about whether or not those people were exaggerating or really sensitive or just weak. Now I look at the reactions of other people when I try to explain to them what this treatment is like, and I see the same skeptical reaction behind their sympathy. When I say, “sorry but this week I’m just not up to it” I can see that polite tight-lipped reaction that says, “Yeah, I’ll bet you’re just making an excuse.” I suppose that for all those times in the past when I did use a lame excuse to get out of something, this is my payback. But the unfortunate thing is that it’s real. I really do crawl into a cocoon for a few days and do nothing. For several days after that, I’m up and around but I don’t have the mental or physical energy for anything but the most simple tasks. And after five rounds of chemo, my mental alertness is dropping off for almost the full 21 days of the cycle. (This blog post has taken seven drafts, over a period of ten days, and I’m still not sure that it’s clear or well-phrased. Oh well.)

OK. Maybe just a little sympathy from you, dear reader. But just be assured that I’m not playing this cancer card lightly. Chemo really does mess with your energy, your thinking, and your ability to care about anything but making it until the next nap, or until bedtime.

viva las vegas

I have an awesome oncologist.

I’ve been travelling to Las Vegas for 18 months, not because I can afford it, but because it’s the best option that I can manage. There is excellent medical care here in Utah at a renowned cancer center, so it’s not like I wouldn’t be in good hands here.

But in 18 months I’ve enrolled in three clinical trials that are not available in Utah and received a newly approved treatment (Provenge) two months before anyone in Utah had access to it. A more important benefit is that as I have gone through those treatments, I’ve come to understand better what is going on with this disease and how I can manage my life around it.

In The Human Side of Cancer (recommended reading for anyone dealing with the big C), Dr. Jimmie C. Holland says that there are basically two kinds of cancer patients: those who want to know everything so they feel empowered to be part of the decision-making process, and those who want to know as little as possible, leaving decisions to the oncologist. There are benefits to both approaches. While I wish I could leave it all up to the doc, I prefer to have as much information as I can handle so I understand why treatment decisions are made.

I fired one oncologist over this issue. Well, it wasn’t that dramatic. I just stopped scheduling appointments with him. He was a brilliant researcher, highly skilled at assessing the data and recommending treatments based on accepted standard of care. And he was clearly most comfortable with patients who accept his recommendation and don’t ask questions. So we parted ways. On my third visit with this physician, I had a list of questions that were nagging at me, given that my peace of mind had been ruined by a rapidly rising PSA and the need to change to new treatment. After a rushed consultation with this doctor, he rose to leave. I said, “I have some questions.” With a sigh he consented to answer, and remained standing, but with each question he inched toward the door. He was literally halfway out the door on my fifth question, and clearly not pleased.

Sometimes I get carried away and tell people I now have the best oncologist in the world. He doesn’t just answer questions, he asks me questions—about me, my life, my family, our shared interests, my thoughts and feelings about my disease. He knows my wife, he knows how many children we have, he remembers details from month to month. He teases me about flying to Las Vegas and taking the city bus across town to the clinic, with my Provenge backpack and worn old shoes. We joke with each other. He took great pleasure laughing with me about a trip he took that passed through Parowan, Utah. And he tells me the truth, straight out, and somehow I can hear it without the anxiety that used to overwhelm me.

I’m not sure how he’s managed to instill a sense of calm in me, even when things are going badly. Back in March 2010, Dorothy and I drove the 6+ hours from Salt Lake to Henderson, Nevada for the first time, braving snow flurries and the tedium of a long drive until we finally saw the glowing cloud cover over Las Vegas at about 10:00 on a Sunday evening. Dorothy’s cousin has very generously given us a place to stay any time we drive down for an appointment, and so we felt cared for in many ways from the first day. And our experience with the clinic has been consistently excellent. Like my experience in other hospitals and clinics, the nursing staff is truly the heart of the operation, and all the staff is cheerful, kind, and real with us.

During these 18 months my prognosis and symptoms have become much worse that when we first met, but I’m more at ease with the process and with the uncertainty. I remember very well the first time our doc dictated his notes (he does this in the exam room so we can hear his evaluation), reviewing my medical history and summarizing my status at the time by saying “he is in robust health.” I was (almost childishly) pleased: “robust”! I felt great. It hadn’t occurred to me that in general I was in very good health. A couple visits later, he told us, “You really have very little cancer.” Again, it was reassuring to get some perspective.

And yet I remember how he hit his fist on the counter in frustration, in the exam room, when he saw that my PSA had risen to 53 (up from about 30) during the first clinical trial. Just a short outburst, but it encouraged me that he was angry about that relapse. Things have gotten worse since then, but knowing that he’s on my side and cares enough to get mad makes a huge difference.

A sense of empathy from an oncologist, whose work involves both healing and helping people prepare to die, is literally life-saving. At a very difficult time during my second clinical trial, when side effects (“toxicities” is a more appropriate word) were beating me down, the doctor asked how I was feeling. That day was a tough one, and I was really down. “I just feel sad,” I told him. “I feel exhausted and sort of hopeless.” He thought for a moment and said, “Well, you should. You’ve been dealing with a really tough situation for a long time.” I wasn’t expecting that. His honesty and empathy went a long way in giving me a reference point for dealing with the worst of the treatment.

I don’t like to sound cagey about the identity of my oncologist, but I haven’t asked for permission to publish details about him or my treatment. So I’ll just share some photos I took on one of my trips and stay a bit vague.

[May 16, 2011: a typical trip to Vegas]
 

Terminal A at the Salt Lake airport is built around the original old airport terminal that I remember from the early 1960s. When I’d go there as a child, either to wait for my father to return home from a business trip or to greet my great-aunt Wanda on her annual visit, I loved to walk around the linoleum world map with gold dots for the major cities around the world, and gold lines that showed the air travel routes. It’s sad that now this floor art is overrun with lanes for the security lineup.

I usually take work with me for the morning flight, so I rarely even look out the window any more. I do like the change in scale and watching for landmarks along the way as the plane heads south over the west side of Salt Lake Valley.

Scenes over Nevada: Moapa Valley, Lake Mead, Lake Las Vegas, Eastern Avenue at
Sunset just before touching down.

The funny thing is, without fail, anyone who finds out I go to Las Vegas to see a doctor starts by asking me if I’ve seen any shows. What, is that all there is in Vegas? Most people are a little disappointed to find out that I’ve never even been to the strip in 18 months, unless you count a short drive down Las Vegas Boulevard one evening. The new Celine Dion show was opening that night, and seething masses of humanity hunkered down in the neon-lit streets, pushing mindlessly forward to their next shopping or gambling or boozing destination… or to a show. What’s so interesting about that? We slowly made it to the north end of the Strip, the old Las Vegas, and were relieved to get away from the craziness. And we’ve never been back.

The closest we’ve been is to the new outlet mall at the north end of town, next to the World Market Center and within view of the funkiest little building ever, which houses the Cleveland Clinic’s Lou Ruvo Center for Brain Health.

Who’d have thought that Dorothy, who has never cared much for shopping, would make this outlet mall one of our regular stopping points? If we get an extra hour, we head over there—”just looking for Christmas presents” is her favorite excuse. And now that we’re well stocked with stuff from Trader Joe’s (our other regular stop), the outlet mall is getting to be a habit.

There are, in fact, some intriguing places in the city. You just have to know where to look. Who knew that there’s a Pinball Hall of Fame? In a plain little building on Tropicana, a mile from the strip, a group of pinball fanatics (all volunteering their time) have set up a museum of sorts where you can play pinball on machines dating from the late 1940s to the present. It’s a cool real-life antidote to online and video games, and profits go to the Salvation Army.

When I travel on my own (which is about two-thirds of the time) I see the invisible side of Las Vegas. I take a bus from the airport that passes by the UNLV campus, following a couple of main roads through sad neighborhoods where the working class live. It’s not pretty. This little trip I take each time has it all: the airport never lets you forget where you have landed. It’s a strange collection of old and new terminals, from the space-age 60s styling of terminals A and B to the mauve desolation of the main terminal (and terminal C) to the clean lines and oversized view windows of terminal D. At every gate, you are dropped into the land of neon, glitter, and slot machines: you step off the jetway and immediately hear the electronic chimes and “WHEEL – OF – FORTUNE!” chorus of the always-available slots.

The city bus stop is on level Zero, down where the limos and shuttle buses are lined up. For a five-dollar day pass you can ride almost anywhere on a system that is reasonably on time and reliable.

With the economic bust of the last few years, the city is looking even more worn and hopeless, with empty buildings, parking lots filling up with dust and graffiti, and nothing very attractive about any of it. There’s heat, and wind, and dust coming in off the desert. In the winter it’s cool, and there’s still wind and dust.

Dorothy says it’s the ugliest city in the world. I don’t argue the point. Las Vegas is an odd city in a harsh environment. Palatial hotels with rooms that rent for more in one night than I pay in several months on my mortgage… half a mile from sad, bleak poverty in a desert.

One day when I had a couple hours to spare, I walked through an old neighborhood that was apparently fashionable in the 60s and 70s. The homes are an amazing jumble of 60′s mod, goofy retro details like Greek columns, 70′s California architecture… and it’s all worn out now, with only a few homes kept in decent shape and a dried up golf course behind them.

The “nice” areas of Las Vegas are now far out in the suburbs, like the upscale areas well West of the strip or the clean-cut spots like Henderson, which are islands of normal in an otherwise crazy city. Most anything within a couple miles of the strip is generally not a great place to live.

But that’s where I go, every three weeks on average, to see my oncologist. The staff at the clinic are getting to be friends. The nurses I work with are wonderful. It’s a little bit like home, at least as much as a cancer center can be like home. And I’ve found some nice comfort-food restaurants along the way, my places of refuge on those tiring days (mediterranean, anyone? or sushi?). For all that you might think about the city, it’s been a remarkably good experience. In 18 months I’ve only had one close call (nearly got run down crossing a street), and in general drivers are incredibly courteous (especially compared to the passive-aggressive crazies you deal with in Utah). Never been accosted or harassed by street people—they just hold up cardboard signs at busy intersections and look forlorn.

The best of it all, of course, is that I’ve had 18 months of mostly robust health that was not otherwise available to me. And, the world’s best oncologist.

well… here we go

Last Wednesday, Dorothy and I found ourselves saying something that seems to be a theme of the last few years. We had just spent three hours at the clinic in Las Vegas, meeting with our oncologist and waiting around for my Zometa infusion. As we walked out of the building, we looked at each other and said, almost in unison, “Well… here we go.”

We are going somewhere again, not quite sure where, nor for how long, and least of all where it’s going to take us.

It’s another bend in a road that we never planned to be on, don’t particularly like, and don’t know how long it takes to get wherever we are headed.

I had a remarkable response to the Exelixis clinical trial during the last seven months. Within a month of starting the drug my bone pain and numbness were gone, and the scans (every 6 weeks) showed tumor regression or stability. But for whatever reason, it’s losing its effectiveness and two new bone spots showed up in the scans this month. My PSA has gradually risen from 143 to over 600 in those seven months, and while that was a little concerning, as they say, no one could say why it was rising so much when the tumors appeared stable.

In any event, it’s on to the next phase: docetaxel with prednisone, and I’ll be part of a blind placebo trial that adds Revlimid to the mix. Early trials have shown very positive results for those who get Revlimid, but we won’t know for sure if I have that benefit. Docetaxel alone should still be quite effective in bringing down the PSA, which would be good at this point.

So, here we go: another bend in the road, another unknown destination. One step at a time, and it’s a great comfort to know that Dorothy and our three children and two sons in law are walking it with me.

this one’s for real

My first blog post featured a wonderful fake ad. This one, it seems is real.

[Photo from The Consumerist]

I have to admit, I don’t remember a time when I didn’t like lemon-lime soda…

in awe of art

The BYU art museum has an incredible exhibit of artwork by Danish painter Carl Bloch. The central focus is on a series of large altarpiece paintings that were done for chapels in Denmark in the 19th century.

It’s difficult to describe how impressive these paintings are if you don’t see them in person. They are very large, 10 or 12 feet high, and invite a long, long look. Even though there are lovely reproductions (and some of these are well known as illustrative Christian art), it’s an entirely different experience to stand (or sit) and take in the beauty of these works.

We bought a giclée print of this Gethsemane painting. A little JPG image can’t begin to do it justice. I found myself drawn to this painting, and wished I had more time to sit and absorb it. The exhibit is well-run and usually busy, with people walking through several rooms attached to headphones and iPads with video information about the artist and paintings. I was with a group of friends and we had to wait in some rooms for a chair to be free so we could sit and look. I found, as with several of the altarpiece paintings, that I wanted to look and look, walk from one side to the other, sit in a meditative way and try to take in the painting.

When you see it in person, the brush work and details are amazing. Stars in the dark sky, the sweep of brush strokes that reinforce the visual structure of the painting, the gentle details of hands and the protective posture of the angel… There’s so much to see. And as you see, you identify with the painting. You feel Christ’s anguish, you feel the tender gesture the angel offers. You sense the contrast of dark and light. It’s so much more than an illustration of a scene. It’s a great piece of art that challenges and invites you to … not think, or just feel, but experience the work as a whole.

I think I understand better how Catholic writer Henri Nouwen was able to write an entire book (The Return of the Prodigal Son) about his experience with a single Rembrandt painting. He traveled to the Hermitage in St. Petersburg and spent two days simply sitting and looking at Rembrandt’s large painting. He wrote a lovely book that used the details of that painting as a starting point to explicate the parable of the prodigal son in the New Testament. Having had a short time to experience these large works by Bloch, I can see how it would be possible to spend hours looking, experiencing, and looking more as the work’s meaning is revealed.

In a time when art is being taken over by technology, it’s a rare experience to return to the roots of hand-crafted artwork that has such power. I didn’t care much for the iPad videos and quotes from various art and history professors. I found they were distracting compared to the awe I felt simply standing and looking at these masterpieces.

musical me: alone in a snowy landscape

Arthur Hall: Village Under Snow; Spencer Museum of Art, University of Kansas

Every holiday season for the last 8 years, I’ve put together a mix of favorite music for the quiet winter months. Once the snow starts to fly in October, and on through March, winter is my quiet time and music is a fine companion.

Starting with A Winter’s Solstice, released on LP in 1985, Windham Hill Records set the standard for non-Christmas/non-Santa music for the cold seasons. They produced two superb volumes under that name, followed by four more of variable quality, and four excellent Celtic Christmas collections. But at some point Will Ackerman sold the label and the holiday collections lost their way. Jim Brickman and Yanni, among others, crashed the party, then there were Christmas carol collections, jazz holiday collections, and anything else the new marketing department could come up with. The series hit a low point in the travesty Winter Solstice on Ice, a 1999 double CD with a companion DVD that had artists miming their work in Arctic locations and, yes, ice skating.

Still, a few keepers slipped through along the way: The White Album (1997), A Winter Solstice Reunion (1998), and A Winter’s Solstice Silver Anniversary Edition (2001, thankfully curated by Dawn Atkinson, one of the original forces behind the label) are all excellent (well, there may be one or two tracks that can be skipped on each). As I’ve made my playlists each year I’ve borrowed liberally from these collections, and added similar tracks from other folk, acoustic, and classical artists, like David Darling, Pierre Bensusan, Roger Eno, and Tim Story.

Which brings me to today’s musical recommendation. A lovely new CD of Tim Story’s work, Collected, was released last fall. It’s got several tracks from the Windham Hill holiday collections as well as his contributions to In Search of Angels and Prayer, two other Windham Hill collections worth a listen. Overall, the CD is a wealth of soothing music with just enough of an edge to keep it from being overly sweet. Here’s a representative, short piece:

Tim’s work has generally been based on piano and synthesizers, and many of his albums over the years have been notable for their dark, almost ominous edge in a field of beautiful calm. Reviewers typically use words like “sparse” and “delicate drama,” “elegant” and “understated” in trying to describe his peculiar slant on music that could be ambient, classical, or avant-garde, and usually all at the same time. Tim refers to his own “considerable predilections for ambiguity and shadow” in the liner notes to this CD, and notes that these pieces are more accessible than usual. Given that he also collaborates with the likes of Hans-Joachim Roedelius (founder of the German experimental groups Cluster and Harmonia), I suppose this CD is more accessible, but it’s delicious music nonetheless.

I’ve been a fan for more than 25 years, and have enjoyed Tim’s accessibility as well as that mysterious, dark, curious side to his music. And he’s a nice guy, too: In the late 1980′s I had bought an import copy of Norwegian composer Ketil Bjornstad’s Three Ballets box set just to get his brilliant solo piano album Pianology, which had a nasty warp in the vinyl. The Norwegian label that distributed the album, Uniton, had an American contact address that turned out to be Tim’s own address. After I wrote asking if anyone knew how I could get a replacement, I got back a note from Tim with a new copy of Pianology.

Anyway, Collected is on the top of my recommendations for 2010. (Click the picture to order a copy directly from Tim.)

And if you’re curious about my winter playlists, here’s what’s in the 2010 version:

When the Snow Melts – Phil Cunningham & Mánus Lunny (Celtic Christmas)
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen – Steve Erquiaga (A Winter’s Solstice V)
Oran Mhor Mhic Leoid – Aine Minoghe (Celtic Lamentations)
Anuhea’s Song – Sonny Lim (Hawaiian Slack Key Guitar Vol. 2)
Bethel – Paul Cardall (20 Years of Narada Piano)
Sometimes Love Is – Jane Kelly Williams (The Patchwork of Lost and Found)
Emmanuel – Will Ackerman (The Carols of Christmas)
Driekruisenstraat 111 – Jan Swerts (Weg)
Winter Music – Roger Eno (Between Tides)
She Is Love – Parachute (Losing Sleep)
Song of Gratitude – Anja Lechner & Vassilis Tsabropoulos (Melos)
Kiholo Moon – Charles Michael Brotman (Hawaiian Slack Key Guitar Vol. 2)
Embers - Max Richter (Memoryhouse)
Alkenstraat 9 - Jan Swerts (Weg)
Snow on High Ground – Nightnoise (Celtic Christmas)
In Memory – Anja Lechner & Vassilis Tsabropoulos (Melos)
Walking in the Air (The Snowman) – Fred Simon (The Night Before Christmas)
Carolan’s Farewell to Music - Aine Minoghe (Celtic Lamentations)
Almost Dark – Roger Eno (Between Tides)

That’s what I like in the winter: quiet music that goes well with a walk through a snowy landscape, or spending a dark evening curled up by the fireplace.

four years

February 23, 2007: My urologist phones me at work at 2:00 in the afternoon to tell me that my biopsy is positive. I have prostate cancer.

Life as I know it disappears.

Four years that seem like at least ten. Physical changes, emotional upheaval, losses and losses and losses again and again.

There is one constant loss through these years: the loss of certainty. There’s no planning for the future, only short-term decisions and doing what I can do, here and now.

I’ve met many good people in these four years, people who have taught me about life and living. Some have gone into remission and moved on. And I’ve lost some friends to cancer, good people who watched the inevitable happen and met their deaths with grace and peace.

Life is fragile. Love endures.