Friday, April 9, 2021

Last words

It’s amazing how fast things are happening now.  The entire year 2020 was a walk in the park, full of happiness, activities, travels, playing, working, all that.  Late last year, things took a turn for the worse.  The doctors have scrambled to keep up since then.  Now they have given up.  They’re giving me a few weeks to live.  In a way, this is reassuring.  It means that the doctors and I fought until the end.  We didn’t stop a moment too early.  I’ve done everything I could to beat the cancer.  I took all the opportunities I had.  The cancer was stronger.

My therapeutic options are exhausted now.  What this means in detail was the topic of a conversation I had yesterday with my oncologist and the head doctor of the palliative care unit.  Flucha was there as well.  I reiterated my wish to be at home as much and as long as possible.  For the moment, this is not a problem.  I can still take care of myself.  The doctors predicted it wouldn’t stay that way.  Decreasing liver function, caused by rapidly growing metastases, will give me increasing troubles, from tiredness over weakness all the way to confusion.

Flucha is willing to handle all this, but will she be able to?  Will she have the time or the strength?  Even with my mom joining us in a week, this might be difficult.  Good thing there is a care service we’ll be signed up with.  They’ll come as needed at first and then more regularly later.  It looks as if this aspect were under control.  I’m not worried about this.

I’m more worried about the progression of the disease.  What symptoms will I suffer?  How brutal will it be?  The doctor told me pain shouldn’t be an issue.  They will provide me with a range of painkillers in various strengths to keep me largely pain-free.  I’m surprised how little pain I’ve experienced up to this point.  Maybe it was the years of suffering up steep climbs on my bicycle that have stunted my perception of pain.  It looks as if this aspect were also under control.

How am I going to die?  The doctors had no answers on this.  “The cancer is in the driver’s seat”, they said, as if this explained anything.  It’s clear that the liver will play a major part as it is the organ most affected.  It could be that diminished toxin clearance will slowly poison me.  But what would this be like?  It could also be that I get another infection, some gut bacteria in the blood.  What then?  The doctors said they might decide not to treat with antibiotics at all.  “The cancer is in the driver’s seat.”  But if they won’t treat me, I wouldn’t need to go to the hospital in the first place.  I could just stay in bed when fever and the shivers hit me again, and wait what happens.  I could put myself into the driver’s seat and say, goodbye, I’m dying of sepsis now.

Whatever happens, it’s clear that there’s only one road to walk down now.  There are no forks and no intersections.  The destination is clear.  This morning, I’m feeling quite good, with enough energy for this post.  I don’t know how many more such days I’ll be enjoying, and how much more I’ll be writing.  Maybe these really are my last words.  The word count of this blog stands at just about 99,000.  I was never one to chase arbitrary goals.  If I won’t reach 100,000, it wouldn’t change a thing.

It’s been a most unexpected, crazy, terrifying and ultimately terminally frustrating journey.  It still boggles the mind how I ended up here.  Thank you for being with me throughout.

4 comments:

  1. We'll always be with you Andreas and your strength and perseverance will always be an inspiration to us. I will pray for a miracle.

    Dave and Vicki

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  2. You have been dealt a rotten hand in this last game, Andreas. I am sure you are very gratified that you have lived such a vibrant and fulfilling life while you have been able. I am proud to know you and am inspired by your intelligent effort to defeat this nasty proliferation of errant cells. I will always remember some of the finer moments we shared together: mountain biking in the Wasatch Mtns -- including my spectacular header on the backside of Big Mountain, that great early morning paddle in the mist on Big Moose Lake, the lively talks with friends while you were in Salt Lake. Thanks for the memories. Make sure you get the care you need from here on out. We will be thinking about you as I have been doing now for many months.

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    1. Dear Al, the morning out on Big Moose Lake counts among my sweetest memories from the huge box of memories I collected in the US. It was so unexpected, and so unexpectedly wonderful.

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  3. So long Andreas. You have been a good friend to many people and we will all miss you. Ninety-nine thousand words is a good legacy to leave behind in the cyberspace. Your writing was always very interesting and kept me coming back for more all these years. I am profoundly saddened that it has now come to an end.

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