Why I write
Even if I could make sense of it, writing won’t get me the answers I want: How do we stop the cancer growing in Zach’s bones? How do we fix the damage it’s done? Words alone won't lead to a cure.
And I want to be clear: I’m not writing to garner sympathy. Although I admit, it’s sometimes cathartic to itemize all the ailments, treatments, transgressions, and side effects and parade them around like trophies from a competition. A really dark competition that no one wants to win.
No, sympathy only feeds a sense of entitlement and vindication. It might make you feel better for a second or 2, but it keeps you down for the count. And I’m not ready to stay down.
So let me tell you why I write.
I write to sort out feelings
At times, I feel hopeful, joyful, and grateful for every moment I get to spend with Zach. Then there are days when I feel overwhelmed by grief, thinking of all the things he can’t do any more, things we can’t do together, and things I can’t do because I need—and want—to be here with him. We were supposed to be biking, hiking, traveling, and hanging out with friends and family right about now. Instead, he's suffering, and I’m documenting a cancer journey. Again. And it makes me wonder: Is this kind of life even worth living—for either of us?
Which reminds me: I write to expose thoughts like that last one. To publicly hang them out to dry, rather than let them mildew in the dank crawlspace of my brain. And for the record, every time I feel his hand in mine, or he gives me a look that says, “I’m still here, and I still love you,” there’s no doubt in my mind: Life is indeed worth living.
I write to remember
I write to stay deep in the moment, and to create a record I can return to later, if I want. I see this blog as a history of Zach’s and my life together, and how each of us dealt with his diagnosis. I want to remember everything, from test results and flashes of dread to acts of kindness and ice cream in bed. Yes, that’s a thing now. It used to be tequila, but we’ve evolved.
I write to slow down time
Writing is my way of dragging my feet, holding on to door jams, and gritting my teeth, while playing a supporting role in scenes that are at times scary, sweet, sad, frivolous, meaningful, and inevitably funny. The nuggets of humor are always there, even if you have to bust open a hard shell of hell and sift through the broken pieces to find them.
I write to discover
For me, writing is discovery. I rarely have a roadmap when I start writing a post. And if I do have a plan, it usually morphs in unexpected ways as words, phrases, and ideas collide and gel.
Writing also helps me explore how Zach might be feeling. He’s the one with a terminal cancer diagnosis. I want to listen carefully to things he says, and more important, I want to hear the things he can’t say out loud. The dialogs I’ve shared here have their roots in truth. Sometimes, they’re even verbatim. But often they’re my best guess at what Zach was thinking and things I wish I would have said at the time.
I write to get perspective
I know from experience, any cancer diagnosis changes your perspective. Things like 401(k) plans and tooth whitening don’t seem as important as they once were. It feels like time is slipping away, and little inconveniences become major irritations. Tensions boil over, and conversations turn sarcastic. Cynical. Grumpy. Mean. Hurtful.
And Zach is different from me in the way he deals with the diagnosis. For him, not telling his family for 6 years was the absolute right call. Even though it was stressful for me, not being able to share what we were going through, it did let us lead a nearly normal life, and I’m grateful for that.
Another difference: Our outcomes. I have no evidence of disease, whereas Zach’s doctors say there’s no hope for a cure. It’s just a matter of time before cancer wins (though I'm still rooting for radical remission).
I write to honor Zach’s resilience
When Zach was first diagnosed, stage 4 cancer sounded like a death sentence, especially when you looked at statistics. The 5-year survival rate at the time was 20% according to Dr. Internet. I've always known Zach was extraordinary, but those weren’t good odds. Fast forward 8 years and he’s 90 pounds lighter but he’s still hanging on. He frequently refers to his body as Disneyland: It’s a haunted mansion of ever-changing attractions. From sharp pain that stops him in his tracks and migrates from bone to bone to peripheral neuropathy, it's definitely an E-ticket experience.
His hands and feet are either numb, dead, cold, buzzing, stinging, or on fire and he treats them with red light therapy, electrostimulation, percussion, alpha lipoic acid, and vitamin B12. Sometimes it seems like it’s working. More nerve pain might mean the dead zones are waking up. But neuropathy definitely affects his balance and his ability to stand for any length of time, or pick things up off the floor, button shirts, and tie knots. The tactile stuff that used to be no-brainer simple is now nearly impossible.
But Zach is one tough SOB, and every day, he proves it. This spring, something clicked inside him. It was like he made a decision to be courageous: to do everything in his power to get back to doing things he loved despite the pain, despite the fear of falling, despite not feeling anywhere close to ok.
So he planted snap peas from seeds, basil starts, potato wedges, and tomatoes.
And after he got them planted, he ordered fertilizer and weed killer for the lawn. I’d mowed a few times while Zach was out of commission last year, but the weeds had gotten ahead of me. And the yard was a mess of divots thanks to our neighborhood raccoons and opossums digging for grubs.
For the past few weeks, Zach has been getting out there, watering, pruning, fertilizing, and even mowing with the "Easy Bake" lawn mower he bought a couple years ago after our gas one broke down. Zach is unbroken. Resilient.
I write to mark progress
Zach’s appetite is back. Maybe it’s a combination of getting more active, and new medication (Megastrol), but he's making menus, eating meals, enjoying food again, and gaining a little weight—or at least not losing it any more. I think it scared him when he got down to 140 lbs. He was literally wasting away. He tells me he’s hungry now and then—even after dinner, when he goes for the ice cream: Ben & Jerry’s “Everything but the…” at 1250 calories a pint with a scoop of French Vanilla on the side. He’s back up to a solid 154 lbs., which is still skinny as hell for a 6-footer, but it feels like progress, and we’ll take it.
He’s had several successful surgeries recently. He’s even thinking of getting his bad knee fixed. He walks more slowly these days to make sure he doesn’t fall, but he still walks.
I write for you
That's right, dear reader, I write for you. I write to connect with you in ways I never could if I ran into you on the street, or sat next to you in a waiting room, or saw you in the stadium at a concert. I write this blog for you because I'm no good at phone calls, and it's too much to text.
I write to share our story in a passive, “read at your own risk” no obligation kind of way. If you’re a friend or family member, I hope these posts explain what’s been going on with us. And if you’re going through something similar, I feel you. I hope these posts give you comfort and remind you that you’re not alone.
I write to find courage amid pain, fear & anger
Pain is a condition, and conditions make it hard to function. But fear and anger are emotions, and they can be controlled. Courage is a decision. Zach has made a decision to be courageous. And to me, that’s worth writing about, and worth living for.
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