On Sunday night I started fasting. I’ve stopped counting how many times I’ve done this now. It’s not a big deal if you’re used to it. If you do it with any regularity, your body knows what’s coming and knows how to react. It probably adjusts its metabolism somehow. I never feel hunger. All I do is have cravings and imagine meals. I frequently check recipes online.
Yesterday towards the end of a long day of working from home, when I stepped out for a short walk to clear my head and exercise my legs, I grabbed a few pecan nuts and munched them on the way. Later, I opened a pack of peanuts and had a handful every now and then. It didn’t add up to much, but it certainly wasn’t fasting. What’s going on?
It’s not that I’ve given up or given in to my inner demons. At least that’s not how I see it. I’m simply sick of fasting and have lost a bit of my enthusiasm. Maybe I’m not strong enough to continue. It doesn't help that after all these weeks, I don’t see the point anymore. Fasting was supposed to help me slow down or even revert the course of the disease. It hasn’t done the latter, and I have no way of knowing about the former. I can’t say it hasn’t done me any good. Without a negative control, I simply don’t know. Before the last chemo, it’s unlikely that fasting versus not fasting is making a meaningful difference.
In addition, the few nuts that I ate probably fall under the definition of fasting-mimicking diet, with reduced calories for the day, lots of fat and protein, and very little sugar. Some research says that a fasting-mimicking diet is as good as all-out fasting in its effects on cancer. If this all sounds like lame excuses and far-fetched justifications, it’s because it is. I don’t deny that. I failed to carry my plan through. Today I found out that I shouldn’t beat myself up over it.
Before the chemo started, the nurse took some more blood to repeat the test of the liver markers. I didn’t hear anything back while I was in the hospital undergoing treatment. It was another uneventful session, but at night the doctor called to tell me that all the numbers had shot up again. He was at a loss for an explanation and told me I’d get an ultrasound and maybe even a CT tomorrow, to find out what’s going on. The times haven’t been set yet. There is an urgency to it all this that would cause less stoic people to freak out with worry. Flucha didn’t look happy over dinner.
After a few days of thinking about this, I don’t think the cancer has anything to do with the elevated numbers. If it did, they wouldn’t go up and down like this. I don’t think the chemo has anything to do with it either. Today’s values expose my liver before chemotherapy. As my favorite detective was fond of saying, after excluding the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. In my understanding, the only explanation that remains for the worrying liver markers is my fasting. I started this three days ago. Last week I didn’t fast. Two weeks ago I did. Surely the liver feels this. Taking this reasoning one step further, I drew the only conclusion that’s logical to me. I broke my fast with two juicy burgers generously garnished with fry sauce.
On the day that Diego Maradona was admitted to the celestial all-star team, joining the likes of Garrincha, Eusebio, Ferenc Puskàs, Fritz Walter and Alfredo di Stefano for some sublime football, I arguably have better news. I’m still alive. The tests tomorrow will hopefully paint a clearer picture of what’s going on. I expect to start the run with another blood test. Reduced liver markers would firmly point the finger at the fasting I’m quite convinced fasting is to blame, maybe in conjunction with the antibody. If that's what it takes, I would gladly end fasting. It’s nothing to improve my quality of life.
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