This is happening to me

Truth Is, I Am Dying

An open-letter to my Medium family

Photo by Vivienne Murray on Unsplash

I feel better already, getting the hardest part out on the page first.

The winged chariot is parked at my front curb. That dark-winged angel stands in the doorway, tapping her foot, scowling as I pack.

Oh, I am a slow packer!

I know she has been dispatched from a higher order, but I am in no hurry. I will make her wait as long as I can, though I realize the ultimate certainty that she will leave with her passenger.

Have no doubt about it, I shall continue to use any ruse I can manufacture to make the Angel of Death wait … but for my brothers and sisters on Medium, who have succored me through so many of my challenges here, and to the lesser number, whose projects I hope I have, in some way, supported — it is for your eyes that this open letter is written.

Enough of the poetic procrastination.

For the next several weeks you may find my voice strangely absent in your notifications. There is reason for that, which I shall explain in a moment.

But for my newest siblings, those who have just signed up with Medium, or those old-timer brothers and sisters who, for whatever reason, have not been introduced to me or my writing until now, I want to give you some backstory so that the headline and sub heading will be relevant.

For most of my adult life, you see, I have been a player in the Major League of Cancer. I was about 40 when my doctor announced that I had Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. He didn’t beat around the bush with that first diagnosis. “Jay,” he said, in his clipped Indian accent, “as long as you have lymph nodes, your Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma will have someplace to call home.”

“I will always have cancer? Is that what you are saying?”

“That’s what I’m saying. We put out one fire here, and another will spring up over there.”

“Well, that’s hardly fair,” I half joked. “In fact, it’s bull shit!”

I probably only said that last part to myself.

Chemo took care of that first tumor in my belly. In six months it went into remission.

Within a year, I had a lymph node in my left breast tissue that tested positive for Cancer, and began to grow. Radiation therapy zapped that in 5 sessions, over a couple of months. My throat suffered friendly fire damage in the process, and I still suffer from dry mouth syndrome, thirty years later.

Then the cancer migrated to my spleen. They decided to monitor its progress without treatment for 6 months. What was interesting here was that, unbeknownst to my doctor, I practiced a visualization technique for at least an hour a day. Every time I had an appointment, my doctor was amazed that the tumor kept shrinking. After 6 months, I had a normal, non-cancerous spleen. When I explained my visualization to the doctor, he just smiled.

Anyway, I had freedom from Cancer for over two years.

Then the Shohei Ohtani of Cancers entered the major leagues and knocked my two years of remission out of the park.

I had prostate cancer.

Two choices. I could have surgery. And then it would be gone. Or, I could elect radiation therapy. A half-dozen sessions, and it would wither like a raisin on the vine.

I chose surgery. The prostate was gone.

But the cancer remained. I would need the six sessions of radiation as well.

To which I said, sure, why the hell not!

At this point I was the oncologist’s bitch. Here’s my body. do with it what you will!

Keeping with the baseball metaphor (which I’ve already strained pretty much to the limit, using Shohei Ohtani), I’d say I was about in the 7th inning, with the take me out to the ball game “stretch” out of the way.

By now, I was in my 70s. My oncologist retired, moving back to India, and I was bitch to his replacement. Over the previous five or so years, my cancer, which they still called prostate cancer had chosen to metastasize within my skeletal system.

I may or may not get back to the baseball metaphor, but for the time being, I want to compare my skeletal system to my cancer’s prison. As long as the prison door was locked the cancer would be relegated to my aforesaid skeletal system, their cells wandering the corridors of my rib cage, up and down my femurs, and circling my clavicle, pounding, here and there, on those bony walls for a weak spot to find exit, but still — unable to leave.

But for as long as the cancer was held prisoner here, Doctor explained, it wasn’t munching on other parts of my anatomy, like my lungs, my kidneys, my liver.

The key that kept the prison door locked was the chemical, Lupron, which they injected in my butt cheek four times a year.

Lupron, and the jailor who held the key

The key-holding jailor was my oncologist. A week before each of my quarterly Lupron injections, Doctor would have me do a blood work-up to see what my “markers” were for testosterone and for PSA, which stands for Prostate-Specific Antigen. The net results for successfully plummeting testosterone and maintenance of single-digit PSA was — men, skip over what follows , or if you are on audio, cover your ears — irreversible, chemical castration.

“Well, Doc,” I reasoned, “I’ve helped raise four kids to adulthood. So, we were talking mainly about decoration, at best.”

I was able to muster up in my imagination, a Christmas tree with a couple less baubles hanging on the limb.

So far, the key was securely in the hands of my Oncologist.

But that was soon to change.

One of the side-effects of Lupron started out as an annoyance — an annoyance that most women suffer through at menopause. I mean hot flashes and night sweats. For the first handful of years, I bore them stoically.

But a decade passed, and the night sweats increased in number, intensity, and duration, and were seriously impacting my sleep. I was getting about 2 to 3 hours sleep a night. I found myself dozing off in the middle of reading a Medium story, or during a writing session — or a conversation, for that matter.

My life altering decision

All that ended with my bloodwork a week before my May 5th, 2026 (Happy Cinco de Mayo), Lupron injection.

You see, I had already decided, after an inner struggle I needn’t go into, that I would not take the May 5th injection. I let them draw my blood so the results would pop up on my oncologist’s computer screen, and he could go over the results with me when I came for my appointment, on the day of May 5th.

Instead, he called me at home. “Jay,” he said, “your PSA numbers have spiked to 17, all the way up from .1, last time. That means the Lupron is no longer working.”

I was about to tell him of what I’d already decided anyway, but he went on before I had a chance.

“It’s good that we caught it early enough. There is a pill you can take every day, along with your quarterly Lupron injection. Combined, they will bring your PSA back down.”

“What are the side effects of the pill?” I asked.

“It will make you very tired.”

“What?!” I said, too loudly.

“ — very tired — exhausted, I’m afraid. And yes, also, you’ll develop a rash.”

It sounded like the lead-in to the punchline of a joke.

If one was coming, I didn’t wait for it. “Doctor, I was going to tell you anyway, I decided to discontinue the Lupron injections.

“You’ve thought this through?”

“Over many a sleepless night. I’ve given it a lot of thought, Doctor.

“You’re going to die — you know that?”

“Yes.”

I knew the next natural question he was probably waiting for me to ask him, but I didn’t want to hear his answer, so I didn’t ask.

“I’m 86, Doctor. I’ve had a good life. I think I’ve used my talents well. I can’t think of anyone who really hates me. And I have friends and family who I love, and who I think love me.”

“So, you’re sure.”

“Yes.”

I let a few days pass after the family celebrated Mother’s day before I told my wife of my decision.

How could I keep her in the dark for so long, you ask? The logistics were easy enough since she lives 50 miles from me, in a lovely little mountain community called, Tehachapi. We are married, but separated. She does have medical appointments in Bakersfield, however, and on that day, she leaves her little Chihuahua pup for me to puppy-sit.

It was on the occasion of her picking him up that I broke the news to her. I told her about the Lupron no longer working, and about the pill that would bring on exhaustion and a rash.

“I’m going to let my cancer run its course without the medication to stall its progress.”

She stared at me. “I do love you. You know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re not going to fight it any more?”

“No.”

“How long did the doctor —? ”

“I didn’t ask. He didn’t say. I don’t want to know.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m a writer. I’ve got a curious mind, and an imagination I just can’t shut off. I’ll already be analyzing every ache, every new creak of my bones, every pound lost. How much more would I do that if I knew I had a year — six months?”

“But what about the pain you’re surely going to feel over that time. Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Hell yes, it worries me. I’m no hero. I have a low tolerance to pain. You’ve taken enough splinters out of my hand to know that.”

“Well?”

“Because cancer is going to have its way with me one way or another. I can take the new pill and watch life go by like a zombie while I’m slathered up head to toe with Noxzema for the rash. That’s a long, slow dance for the cancer. Or I can make it a short jig … for me.”

She gave me a brief hug. “I support you, then.”

“Thank you.” There was too much silence. “As to my final days,” I added without preamble, “I’m not afraid to die, you know,” It had a kind of whistling in the dark, sound to it, though, so I added a little Woody Allen schtick:

“I’m not afraid to die. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

She chuckled at that, but then brought it back around to reality. “Are you going to tell the kids?”

“I already planned on that. Individually. Face to face.”

We chatted about a few other things, she gave me a parting hug, and then headed up the mountain pass to Tehachapi.

Telling the kids I was effectively taking myself off life support, was not as difficult as I anticipated. They are all middle-aged. Surprisingly, though — at least I thought — two of them didn’t know that I still had cancer. I suppose, since I’d been going through one bout or another of cancer since they were children, they must have just thought of me as their cancer dad, until they left the nest. Then they had their own skirmishes with life to deal with.

So all my loved ones were on board with my decision.

The only thing that was still bouncing around in my noggin was whether I should tell my Medium brethren and sistren. Many of you I’m quite fond of. Some of our relationships have taken root and blossomed from all the way back when I started here in 2018. But there are a few new Mediumites I’ve grown close to over the past year or two.

As a writer … I couldn’t feel a stronger kinship, brotherhood, or sisterhood, to each and every. One. Of. You.

At first, my biggest fear in “broadcasting” my decision was that it might be perceived by some as a shock post! But the more I thought about it, the more I realized …

The post’s premise couldn’t be more shocking!

Then, why dilute the headline by switching it off for something like “I Made a Decision That Will Change My Life Forever.”? Why tippy-toe up to the truth I want to communicate right away? Yes …

Truth Is, I Am Dying!

Up near the top of this post, I told you, “For the next several weeks you may find my voice strangely absent in your notifications.” And I told you then, I would get to it in a minute. LOL, and I’m almost there. Give me 30 seconds more….

On the day I was preparing to talk with my first two kids, the phone rang. My wife had an idea she wanted to run past me. Do I have time?

I told her I did.

“Have you finished with the kids?”

“They’ll all be told by tonight.”

“Have you thought about Donna?”

Donna is my sister. She’s 90 years old and lives in Kansas.

I told Roseana that Donna was uppermost in my mind, after the kids. I didn’t know what impact the news would have on her, but I didn’t want to email or text her. And I’d have to be super careful by phone.

“Let’s tell her in person.”

I could almost see her smiling on the other end of the line.

“We can’t afford it, Sweetheart.”

“Yes we can.” She went on to tell me of the savings account she’d been making deposits in for years as an emergency fund. “This couldn’t be more of an emergency.”

“Well …”

“There’s no reason we can’t have fun on what might be our last road trip together.”

“God, it would be fun, wouldn’t it?” I could feel the excitement in my gut.

We firmed things up, and — long story short — we will be leaving next Wednesday morning.

Keep us in your thoughts — or if you’re of the praying type …

Oh, and finally, this: not that you’re gonna be losing any sleep over it, but any who have read part I and II of *Not Your ‘Run o’ the Mill’ Fiftieth Class Reunion *I’ll post part III upon my return …

God willin’ an’ the crik don’t rise!

Love you guys!

Jay