A Thank You

I didn't announce it when it happened a few weeks ago, but I was named a Finalists for the Social Health Awards. I was nominated for several of them, but after the first round of judging, I made the finals for the Revolutionary Researcher Award. They describe that one as being for online health advocates who "refuse to let medical jargon and data slow them down! The winner of this category stays up-to-date on the latest research, treatments, and clinical trials. This winner has a knack for transforming complex information into layman's terms for the greater community."

If I was going to win one, that would be the one I'd want to win for. Alas, I did not win this year.

And I didn't expect to. Even before they started judging, I looked at the other nominees for the award, and I guessed who was likely to win. And I was right. She's kind of awesome. It was a very good group of winners this year in all categories.

But this gives me the chance to thank you all - those of you who nominated me for the awards and who were able to vote for me. Recognition like this isn't necessary, but it's really nice when it happens.  

And a thank you to all of you who read the bog, and leave comments, and email me. All of that is even more important than awards. I always say I would write the blog even if no one was actually reading it, because it's good for me to keep up with what's happening in the world of Follicular Lymphoma. But it's even nicer knowing you're all out there.

************************

My posts were shorter than usual over the last week, and that's because I was away on vacation (though still checking up on FL World because I can't help myself).

I was in Maine, in Bar Harbor and Arcadia National Park, with about 30 or so family members for a reunion.

I don't know if any of you are from Maine, but my goodness, what a gorgeous state it is. We did lots of hiking, ate some lobsters, drank some good local beer, and just enjoyed being with each other. 

Arcadia is stunningly beautiful, and I was struck by how very different the landscapes were, just a few miles from one another. Rocky mountain trails, then evergreen-covered coast, then traditional New England fishing village. Always something interesting to look at.

(If you're familiar with Arcadia and curious, we did the Mount Gorham Loop, Wonderland Trail, Bar Island, and  Jordan Pond. Each more beautiful than the last.)

 

 

I don't have many "cancer moments" these days -- those times when you stop and gaze and you're aware that you're alive and you feel lucky. Being 16 years out from my initial diagnosis has made those moments less frequent.

But I had a few of them this past week. Walking the Wonderland Trail, at about 50 yards from the coast, I suddenly felt the air get just a little cooler, and the smell of salt hit my nose. I love that smell. You can't help but stop and focus on the moment and forget about everything else and just enjoy what's all around you. That to me is a "cancer moment." And smelling that salt air and then walking a few more steps and seeing this just brings it all into even more focus:

And then, at night, sitting with loved ones and playing a silly game and laughing together, you have another of those nice moments. You just stop and appreciate that life is good.

It was a very good week. I hope you all get the chance to have those moments every now and then.

I'll get back to "refusing to let medical jargon and data slow me down" in a day or two. I'm going to enjoy that last bit of salt air first.

 

Covid, Cancer, and Trusting the Trail

My wife and I went for a long walk this weekend at a state park near where we live. It was a beautiful fall day, a little cool, but sunny. 

We walk every morning, usually a couple of miles. We bring the dog with us. She's a puppy still, and has more energy than my wife and I put together. Our neighborhood has some hills, but the state park is basically one giant hill. Plus, the paths are full of ankle-twisting rocks. In other words, this is more of a hike than a walk. Lots more challenging.

Still it's fall in New England and it was a beautiful day, so off we went. The exercise is good for our bodies, and being in nature is good for our minds and spirits -- Shinrin-yoku, as the Japanese call it. Taking a forest bath. It might even help the immune system. Especially good during a pandemic. Better still for a cancer patient.

The state park has a lot of different paths to take, all of them headed uphill. We texted our son for advice for which one to take. He knows this park well (and works now in the stunning White Mountains of New Hampshire as an ecological field tech, collecting data to changes in plants, animals, soil, and water -- an ideal job for a forest bather like him).

He recommended the Orange trail -- not too steep. When we got to the park, we looked at the trail map and looked at the Orange trail and decided to take a different one -- the Violet trail. It's one that we walked a few times with our kids when they were small. It begins near a small river before heading uphill.

 When I suggested this trail, I had forgotten how rocky it was. Not just the ankle-twisters on the ground, but large basalt rocks, twenty or thirty feet tall, that needed to be climbed. The path that has been cut through the rocks made it easier, but it was still a challenge for our middle-aged legs.

We got past the big rocks and made it back on to the trail that heads to the top of the hill. This was the one we hiked with our kids years ago, and it led to a tall rock face, 200 feet high. Our son told us that a pair of peregrine falcons nests there, and doesn't like people hanging around when their babies are small. We didn't see them, and we didn't stay long. This was also the point where our Violet trail broke off into three other trails.

And that's the point where our memories failed us. We couldn't remember which trail we usually took with the kids.

I tried to get the trail map with my phone, to figure out where the three trails went to. We'd only walked a mile, half of what we usually walk in the morning. But we'd added a bunch of rock climbing. So we were already tired from our hike. 

The map didn't load very well. Poor phone reception in the woods. I couldn't really see the map in much detail.We could turn around and go back the way we came (going over the big rocks again), or we could take one of the other three trails, and hope that we picked the right one to take us back to our car.

As we slowly walked up a rocky trail on tired legs (even more tired because our puppy was pulling the whole way -- she loves a forest bath us much as our son does), my wife stopped to rest on a rock. "How much longer?" she asked.

I confessed that I didn't know. The trail map on my phone was too fuzzy to show distances, and I confessed, I didn't even know if we were on the right trail. But we were on a trail, so we wouldn't be hopelessly lost. We just might be walking for a lot longer than we'd expected (or hoped). My wife thought for a minute, and then got philosophical.

"I feel like we've been going on this walk for the last 18 months. Climbing over obstacles. Not knowing where we're going. Trusting that the trail we've been on is the right one, and whoever marked the trail new what they were doing." 

We walked on.  My guess was right -- the Red trail took us to the Blue trail, which took us to the main trail, and downhill to the parking lot.

And my wife (as is often the case) was right. She sees things clearly. Our walk really was a metaphor for what we've been through in 18 months.

And for the years before that, too, since I was diagnosed with Follicular Lymphoma. We never quite know where we're going, and we have no choice but to trust whoever marked the trail -- the doctors, the researchers, the patients who came before us. 

It helps to have some companions.

Diagnosiversary Beach Day

Last Friday, I celebrated my 13 year diagnosiversary, as you may know.

It was a good day. Like most celebrations these days, it was not what I had planned, and not what I would traditionally have done. And that's OK.

(And, yes, it was a celebration. As I've said before, my wife always cringes a little when I say I'm "celebrating," and I always remind her -- we're not celebrating the day I was diagnosed, we're celebrating the 4789 days since that day.)

In the past, I have used January 15 as a day to "break the rules." I'm allowed, since it's my special day. That has usually meant staying home from work (that's one rule broken), going back to bed,  and the seeing an early afternoon movie with my wife. We'd buy sandwiches and sneak them in to the movie, breaking the "no outside food" rule. 

This year hasn't really been a "break the rules" kind of year. Most of the rules I can think of there are in place to keep me safe. No movie. Too risky. I won't go out without a mask, or get closer than 6 feet/2 meters from anyone. I needed to rethink my day.

We've all been very good about following Covid rules for months and months. Maybe this year we won't break rules, but we can at least break our routine?

We decided we'd take a little drive -- me, my wife, and the two kids who are still living at home (for a few more weeks, before they go back to school). I haven't driven longer than about 20 minutes in I don't know how long. So we took a drive to Hammonasset Beach, about 40 minutes from home.

It's the middle of winter here, and the temperature at the beach was about 40 degrees F (about 4 degrees C). That's the kind of rule I'm into breaking this year -- why go to a beach when it's sunny and warm?

But I really needed a beach for some reason. I needed to see some water. I've read that human beings are drawn to water, and being near it naturally brings peace. I believe it. I've lived near the ocean for most of my life (except for a few years in Louisville, Kentucky, which I loved despite its lack of salt water nearby). 

We stayed for maybe an hour, just walking on the sand, picking up shells, watching the birds, and talking. 

The beaches in New England (the part of the U.S. where I live) are not exactly world-class (too rocky for that), but they do the job just fine.

 

(That's me in the Cookie Monster hat.)

On the way home, we stopped for our usual sandwiches. It's not the same as sneaking them into a movie theater, but they were good anyway.

And my daughter was  good enough to make cupcakes that look like B lymphocytes (those are the white blood cells that turn cancerous in Follicular Lymphoma. Very satisfying to eat.)

 

All in all, it was a good day. Not the day I would have planned most years. But a good day.

And if cancer patients know anything, it's how to make the most of what you've been given.

Stay well, everyone.