Optimism

I am in New York a few days before my surgery at Memorial Sloan Kettering. This is it! A shot at being done with this saga once and for all. It will be a massive surgery, requiring the very best liver, gyn/onc, and urological surgeons, which is why I am here in New York. As always, I am planning on the best possible outcome, and stand ready to roll with whatever punches may fall.

I write from an apartment with an oblique view of the East River, listening to the sounds of the city wafting through the open windows on a soft breeze. In between various doctors appointments, I have been thoroughly enjoying New York City with family and old friends. After a truly incredible meal last night at Marea, an amazing seafood restaurant on Central Park South, today I am on a clear liquid diet. This entry is being written under time pressure, because my “bowel prep” is about to kick in. It’s going to be an eventful evening in the bathroom!

A couple of weeks ago I completed by 6th and last round of chemotherapy in LA, and drove up to my parents’ place in Palo Alto to finish recovering amidst a flurry of friends and monumental meals. My mom and I then drove up to Lake Tahoe for a week of quiet, fresh air, kayaking, hiking, and sailing. As I have been celebrating the end of chemotherapy, I also have been preparing myself for the next phase, which will be very different. For me, chemo is less intimidating than surgery, because submitting to a few days of discomfort every other week is less threatening than imagining all of the possible scary outcomes of a major surgery. In some ways, though, chemotherapy has helped me prepare for what is to come.

The damage done to my hearing by wave after wave of platinum-containing drugs has already permanently altered my body and my life, and having had to come to terms with that reality has given me practice at accepting what I cannot change. I know that recovery from tomorrow’s surgery will be slow and difficult, and there is a chance that my life will have to be lived very differently after the surgery.

The days following chemotherapy were uncomfortable, despite fancy drugs, attendant and generous family and friends, and abundant resources. But as with anything, it was not a purely negative experience. I have learned that every single moment, we are each presented with a choice of what in our environment or in our minds to focus on. My hands may have been made of ice-cold needles, but the need to have them warmed led to my rediscovery of how much I love café mochas (note: Green & Black’s cocoa is the way to go). I have been unable to study, but I had time to help my tomatoes fight the good fight against their inchworm assailants. An entire day of nauseous hiccups was spent watching the sheer curtains dance in the breeze. The foul taste in my mouth was clearly linked to my hilariously yellow tongue. Immobile hours were spent under amazingly soft sheets. I became dependent on my parents as no 29 year old non-Italian male expects to be, and in the process have had an otherwise inconceivable opportunity to enjoy their company in the prime of their lives. I have said goodbye to many former classmates as they move on with their careers, but I have had the time to reconnect with many old friends.

Earlier in my life, I felt plagued by opportunity. It was painful to accept that making any choice necessitates giving up on all of the other choices. I recently realized that the equation is balanced: each setback also creates new opportunities.