La lucha

My beloved grandmother, Leonor, passed away last week. 

Initially, I was a little surprised the news did not sadden me more. It took me a while to understand why: I knew she had died happily, most of her family around her in her last days.

We had both been diagnosed with cancer at around the same time, which had sparked more frequent conversations. She always sounded remarkably serene about life, all while peacefully and wisely looking into the eyes of death. As my father reflected in his eulogy, she 'played' the most sublime and uplifting melodies with the 'strings' of life, much like Paganini had done with those of his violin, right to the very end—even as, one by one, they snapped.

And even with the last one gone, she plays on. I see it all around me, in myself, in my family.

Bye bye, temo
My latest brain scan showed at least one of my own strings about to snap. 

I had seen the images and it was clear the oncologist wouldn't be sharing great news. But I didn't expect to surprise him when I reported feeling great (I refrained from telling him one thing was bumming me out: finishing the Paris Marathon behind my brother!). He explained: I had just undergone six rounds of chemo but The Terminator had raised its game. Firstly, some of my brain fluid had 'flooded' the right side of my cranium. Not a big deal, probably collateral damage from surgery last year. The concern? Continued tumour growth and resistance to my dear old friend, Temozolomide. 

Advance apologies
I also visited my neurosurgeon to discuss surgery. Easy: forget it—all options involve big risks and small benefits. His gut feeling: I have a year or two left with my current, 'normal' (normal? Clearly, he doesn't know me very well!) personality. After that, the good news (for me) is that as my brain deteriorates I'll start to stop caring about living. The bad news (for most of you): you won't! 

That leaves the desperate and the experimental. So far, the latter have proven very difficult to access. There  is good stuff on the horizon (ranging from vaccines to liquid aspirin) but the red tape in this field is frustrating.

Cue the desperate: the first is a repurposed anti-depressant called 'clomipramine'. It needs to be taken in high dosages to have any chance against The Terminator. The challenge? Initially it generates exhaustion akin to the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster: 'having one's brain smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick'. Tomorrow I turn to an old classic, lomustine (aka CCNU). It's similar to the temo. A form of old-school oral chemo which will cause nausea and batter my immune system when it can. 

La lucha
You know how people often talk about the 'fight against cancer'. I myself have probably used it a few times but I think for the first time I'm beginning to feel the full enormity of its meaning and of my grandmother's magnificence. Leonor made war look easy (to us!); but she must have gone through many, many moments of utter exhaustion, ridiculous dismay, infuriating uncertainty.

Curious then that Leonor's nickname, La Lucha, translates to 'the fight' in Spanish. I will keep turning to her for peace when desperation sets in.