December 9 marks an anniversary worth commemorating for however many years I have left on this planet: One year ago today, my right leg fell off.
Perhaps I exaggerate but from the standpoint of walkability it was, like, effectively gone. There was I on my way to a session to record Jeffrey Ryan’s Arbutus when I felt a sudden crunch from somewhere deep within the hip socket, and in that instant the short distance from escalator to approaching Skytrain seemed inestimably far. But like a pro, I made my way to the studio on my one good leg.
Say what you like about suffering makes…art…better, I do remember composer Jeffrey Ryan saying—as he piled me into the waiting taxi bound for home—that it had gone…very…well.
Daniel of course nearly fainted with horror at the sight of me, but I smiled a “Other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?” grin of denial about the whole leg affair and demanded we pull out the champagne to celebrate the victory.
Little did my besotted brain realize at the time how this little mishap with the right leg would catapult from fender-bender into the car wreck that is cancer. But then, who imagined last December, as they drained magnums of bubbly and extolled over their resolutions, what a 365-car pile up 2020 would turn out to be? We were so innocent back then.
Fast forward half a year later. Half a year of radiation, chemotherapy, crutches, walkers, canes, intravenous zolodronic acid treatments, Hickman line insertions, blood clots, blood thinners, shingles, tooth extractions, a stem cell transplant, the loss of family (my mother) and friends (my dear friend Caryn) to cancer, all etched in high relief against the backdrop of Covid-19; all of these things that made that day in late September when my beard and moustache floated away like milkweed in an autumn wind seem like a minor inconvenience. As indeed it was.
It was recently pointed out to me by someone with a more balanced view of Facebook than I possess that I am remiss in not providing an update of my cancer journey. In response, I’m happy to report that most of the tribulations I describe above are history and that I am on the road to recovery. Apart from some pain killers (for residual shingles-related neuropathic pain), and a blood thinner (for that blood clot that’s taking its sweet time to dissipate) I’m not currently on any treatment, although the nature of Multiple Myeloma (it’s treatable, but not curable) means that I will be going on to a programme of mild chemotherapy for the next couple of years.
I have heard that some people experience a health crisis in their early senior years (I’m 61 now so I think I qualify) but then once that’s dealt with, enjoy several more decades of excellent health. God willing, and some investment in a naturopath to keep me in tip-top shape, I’m working to stave off the return of the beast for many, many years to come. That’s my plan and I’m sticking to it.
