At times, over these past decades, I have heard myself say, almost flippantly, about the chronic form of prostate cancer that I, and most men with the disease are dealing with, “Don’t worry—we’re going to die with it, not from it.” But in the meantime?
I
almost had a bad fall last night. Barely recovered in time. I notice I am
increasingly wobbly. Unsteady. I lose my balance and barely recover to avoid
what might have been a serious fall. Suddenly the world is full of sharp edges
and uneven paths. What to do?
I know
the rules about exercise. But my body, heading for 82, is noticeably less
trustworthy than it was even a year ago. And because my knees and arms are not
capable of their former range of exercise (stationary bike, yes, walking and
treadmill, no) I can feel the constant ache and low-grade pain as my muscles
proceed to atrophy. And while I know there is “armchair yoga,” it isn’t that
easy to find a class, and I am less than enthusiastic to try it, so for now I
am yoga-less. What to do?
My
moaning is muffled. It could be so much worse! has become one of
my mantras, almost a prayer of thanks. I have one old friend, Jack, whose
pacemaker, following a stroke, has helped his heart outlive his brain. His
loving wife and friend of 43 years, Muriel, is still his aide and comforter,
helping him to the toilet, changing his diaper, getting him back comfortably
onto the couch, but, but . . .
Anton Chekhov, who died of tuberculosis in 1904, wrote:
“Whenever there is someone in a family who has long been ill, and hopelessly
ill, there come painful moments when all timidly, secretly, at the bottom of
their hearts, long for his death.” The truth is, secretly, and at the bottom of
her heart, Muriel would hope for that pacemaker in Jack’s chest to fail.
Which brings me to the troubling issue of American
Medical Overdoing. All the advances are functioning to keep Jack functioning.
Why? Because they can. Because someone is making money off stents, pacemakers,
airport defibrillators, 911 emergency
assistance, insurance that pays for hugely expensive specialists. I can only
tell you that Muriel, who has seen too many close friends losing control of
their lives and slowly dying, keeps a copy of the Hemlock Society’s Final
Exit, underlined in red, on her desk.
The problem is—and it’s the result of medical
advances—the number of us who survive health crises that previously would have
killed us, is growing rapidly. The eldest of us are the nation’s most rapidly
growing age group. And, God help us, nearly one third of all Americans over 85 have some degree of dementia. At least half of them need someone’s help with
daily, life-sustaining activities.
What makes my life worth living? Being able to peck out
my thoughts on my Mac. Being able to share my thoughts with others who, I hope,
will appreciate them. Being able to reach out to friends. To be of some small
service to others who find themselves “in the same boat.” And maybe most
important, not be too alarmed by death or its not so clandestine approach. As
someone put it, “Nobody is really in charge except the marketplace.” And we
wait for the bio-ethicists to have some impact on the opposite of over-kill.
Maybe “over save-gate?” When does a life cease to be a life, and become a
prolonged and agonizing dying? Sick enough to never get better? When indeed?Prostate cancer and I have been working allies for almost a quarter of a century. Working my way through the thickets of fear and health concerns, having a black belt prostate oncologist, Dr. Mark Scholz as my guide, has left me far more conscious of health maintenance and wise options. I have to confess I am in some ways a healthier and happier man from living all these years with my cancerous prostate.
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