For you Madison blog-followers: I will be at A Room of One's Own, 307 W. Johnson Street, at 2 PM Sunday, November 23, reading from and talking about Facing Fear. I plan to reflect on lessons from the recent election and to offer tips on how to cope with anxiety in the face of the current financial crisis. I'll also talk about life as a cancer survivor.
And on that subject, here's the latest from the world of what's next. I saw Dr. Holen last Thursday and learned that 1) the CT scan last Wednesday showed the tumors still growing very slowly (1-3 mm in two months); 2) genetic study shows that I have not one, but two mutations on the genes that express the crucial enzyme that allows people to metabolize irinotecan, the only (I think) drug I haven't had that is FDA approved for stomach cancer. The mutations mean that I don't produce enough enzyme and a full dose of the drug would generate life-threatening diarrhea.
Which leaves us with another possible option. The University of Chicago has a Phase 1 clinic and a lot of trials, overseen by a doctor Holen knows. So the next step is to go to Chicago to be seen by this guy, who will have in his hot little hands a full listing of every treatment I've had for both Hodgkin's and the current cancer, and who can determine whether I'm eligible for any of their studies. CancerConnect, the office here that researches available studies for various cancers, will set up the appointment and call me. I haven't heard anything yet, but I imagine that I will this week. (Because if I don't hear anything in the next day or two, I'll call them.)
Meanwhile, my energy comes and goes. I think it depends on whether the sun is out (right now, it is, which is great), how much rest I've gotten, the phase of the moon, and how successful I am in putting into practice what I know about allaying anxiety. Not as easy as you might think.
Speaking of energy--Saturday night my friend Janet and I went to see the tap dancer Savion Glover. He is unbelievably great. Go see him, if you ever get a chance. In addition to being a fabulous dancer and stage presence, he is one of the most aerobically fit human beings I've ever seen. Some time during the first part of the show I realized I was holding my breath, watching him. But of course, he had to breathe--and it turned out that he could not only breathe while dancing, but also sing.
Friday night we'd seen Sarah Chang, the violinist, play Brahms with the Madison Symphony Orchestra. Another virtuoso performance (Chang, not the MSO). It's truly amazing what humans can do. Individually, and also--as we learned last Tuesday--in community.
Showing posts with label Facing Fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Facing Fear. Show all posts
Monday, November 10, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
Stamina
Facing Fear is (almost) here! (Yes, I know that rhymes.)
The books didn't arrive in time for yesterday's event at the Wisconsin Book Festival, but they will be shipped from the printer this Friday. You can pre-order now on Amazon--just search for "Strasser Facing Fear"--or, if you'd like a signed copy, send me a check for $20 and I'll mail one to you. My address is 511 Sheldon Street, Madison 53711. I imagine that local (Madison) bookstores will have copies in a couple of weeks. Those of you who live elsewhere can order copies through your favorite bookseller.
Whew. Seeing this book through to publication has taken stamina, for sure. I started work on it in the late fall of 2004, after Bush's reelection campaign, and wrote the first draft in the spring and summer of 2005, while I was recovering from surgery and undergoing the first rounds of chemotherapy for stomach cancer. Without the friendly urging and deadlines set by my writing buddy Anne-Marie Cusac (who was working on her own book on the history of punishment in America, due out in the spring from Yale University Press), Facing Fear might never have happened.
And then there was the revising, the search for a publisher, the anxiety about whether I would live long enough to see the book into print.... Not to mention the question of how someone without a speaking voice or the ability to travel very far for very long can schedule and perform the readings essential to marketing a book these days. (For my memoir, Black Eye: Escaping a Marriage, Writing a Life, I organized one- or two-week book tours to both the east and west coasts.) Any of you who have marketing ideas for Facing Fear, please send them along! And if you can somehow help by spreading the word via blogs, email, Facebook, or anything else, bless you!
I hadn't planned to write so much about what it took to get a book out into the world, but yesterday evening, thanks to introductions by Anne-Marie, I had the pleasure and honor of meeting Reginald Gibbons, a poet who teaches at Northwestern University. Gibbons' latest collection of poetry, Creatures of a Day, has just been named a finalist for the National Book Award. Like an earlier book, this one was published by Louisiana State University Press--but Gibbons has had to seek out a different publisher for each of his other five poetry collections. (He's also the author of a terrific novel, Sweetbitter, and many scholarly works.) And even after a distinguished career as a poet, Gibbons spent five or six years and fielded rejections from eight or nine publishers before finding a home for Creatures of a Day.
I asked him what he told his students about publishing their work, given this experience of the brutal reality of the American poetry scene. He said that he quoted his own teacher, Stanley Kunitz, who died in 2006 at the age of 100, after a 76-year career as an active and widely-published poet. What it takes to be a published poet, Kunitz said, is "stamina."
Actually, I think that's what it takes to be anything. It takes stamina to be alive. As someone has said, the key to success in life is showing up. (I don't have the stamina to chase down the source of this bit of wisdom.)
So although this post may seem to be about writing, or poetry, or publishing, it really is a metaphor. As I head farther and farther out on the tail of the gastric cancer survivorship distribution, some days I feel as though I'm crawling on all fours, hanging on for dear life; other days (the really good days, like today) I feel as though I'm balancing gracefully on a high wire without a net. But always, it's about showing up. About stamina--mental and, as much as possible, physical.
Thanks, Reg, for the reminder.
The books didn't arrive in time for yesterday's event at the Wisconsin Book Festival, but they will be shipped from the printer this Friday. You can pre-order now on Amazon--just search for "Strasser Facing Fear"--or, if you'd like a signed copy, send me a check for $20 and I'll mail one to you. My address is 511 Sheldon Street, Madison 53711. I imagine that local (Madison) bookstores will have copies in a couple of weeks. Those of you who live elsewhere can order copies through your favorite bookseller.
Whew. Seeing this book through to publication has taken stamina, for sure. I started work on it in the late fall of 2004, after Bush's reelection campaign, and wrote the first draft in the spring and summer of 2005, while I was recovering from surgery and undergoing the first rounds of chemotherapy for stomach cancer. Without the friendly urging and deadlines set by my writing buddy Anne-Marie Cusac (who was working on her own book on the history of punishment in America, due out in the spring from Yale University Press), Facing Fear might never have happened.
And then there was the revising, the search for a publisher, the anxiety about whether I would live long enough to see the book into print.... Not to mention the question of how someone without a speaking voice or the ability to travel very far for very long can schedule and perform the readings essential to marketing a book these days. (For my memoir, Black Eye: Escaping a Marriage, Writing a Life, I organized one- or two-week book tours to both the east and west coasts.) Any of you who have marketing ideas for Facing Fear, please send them along! And if you can somehow help by spreading the word via blogs, email, Facebook, or anything else, bless you!
I hadn't planned to write so much about what it took to get a book out into the world, but yesterday evening, thanks to introductions by Anne-Marie, I had the pleasure and honor of meeting Reginald Gibbons, a poet who teaches at Northwestern University. Gibbons' latest collection of poetry, Creatures of a Day, has just been named a finalist for the National Book Award. Like an earlier book, this one was published by Louisiana State University Press--but Gibbons has had to seek out a different publisher for each of his other five poetry collections. (He's also the author of a terrific novel, Sweetbitter, and many scholarly works.) And even after a distinguished career as a poet, Gibbons spent five or six years and fielded rejections from eight or nine publishers before finding a home for Creatures of a Day.
I asked him what he told his students about publishing their work, given this experience of the brutal reality of the American poetry scene. He said that he quoted his own teacher, Stanley Kunitz, who died in 2006 at the age of 100, after a 76-year career as an active and widely-published poet. What it takes to be a published poet, Kunitz said, is "stamina."
Actually, I think that's what it takes to be anything. It takes stamina to be alive. As someone has said, the key to success in life is showing up. (I don't have the stamina to chase down the source of this bit of wisdom.)
So although this post may seem to be about writing, or poetry, or publishing, it really is a metaphor. As I head farther and farther out on the tail of the gastric cancer survivorship distribution, some days I feel as though I'm crawling on all fours, hanging on for dear life; other days (the really good days, like today) I feel as though I'm balancing gracefully on a high wire without a net. But always, it's about showing up. About stamina--mental and, as much as possible, physical.
Thanks, Reg, for the reminder.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Anxiety
To all you Madison blog-readers: Please join me at the Wisconsin Book Festival on Sunday afternoon October 19, 4 PM, main (downtown) public library. I will be reading from Facing Fear: Meditations on Cancer and Politics, Courage and Hope, and will be joined by my publisher, Richard Quinney, and Carol Bjerke, the artist whose image of a rowboat is on the cover of my book. Both Richard and Carol are cancer survivors, and both of them also have new books coming out this fall. We'll be talking about the relationship between our experiences with illness and our art. Despite the grim aspects of the topic, I think it will be an uplifting discussion!
When I met Carol at the Gallery Walk a week or two ago, we agreed that we couldn't comprehend how people who are not artists or writers cope with illness or other major traumas in their life. We know that it's perfectly possible for them to cope; it's just that making art (for Carol) and writing (for me) are such big and important parts of our own coping mechanisms that it's hard to understand how anyone could be without one or the other.
I had to remind myself of that, though, when it came to writing today's blog. My first impulse was to report that I didn't have much to say, except to encourage people to come to the Book Festival presentation. But when I thought about it honestly, I realized that I had plenty to say, but it wasn't going to be easy to write, or, perhaps, to read. It's not the "I'm keeping my spirits high and focusing on the wonder of the moment" kind of stuff I prefer to write--the way I prefer to think of myself. (And really, the way I usually am, I think.) It's about anxiety, which is my current emotion.
Last night I dreamt that my oncologist was leaving town. I have absolutely no reason to believe this is actually happening, but part of my anxiety, I know, results from the fact that he has been out of town for the past week, and therefore I am quite up in the air about my treatment options. Most of the time I don't think this one-week delay matters much, but I've been off chemo now for four months, and who knows what the cancer is doing. Every time the phone rings, I expect it to be Dr. Holen, who's supposed to call to tell me what's next. So far, it's been a friend who knows someone who wants to buy a copy of Black Eye; the Democratic National Committee which wanted money for Senate contests; and (as I was writing the last sentence), someone from The Nation, who presumably also wanted money, but I didn't wait to hear what she had to say before I hung up.
I'm also anxious about a "swallow study" scheduled for tomorrow, ordered by my primary care doctor because the radiologist who diagnosed my last pneumonia thought it might have been caused by aspiration. "Is that possible?" the primary guy asked, and I said it certainly was. As anyone knows who's eaten with me in the past year, unless I'm pretty mindful of chewing and swallowing, I have a tendency to choke on crumbs or even liquids. (My mother always told me not to talk with my mouth full, but I don't seem to have learned that lesson.) I'm anxious about the procedure itself, which I think involves swallowing barium, which doesn't sound too delicious, and also about what they might say about the cause(s) of the swallowing difficulty, and what they might want me to do about it. Eat only mushy stuff? I don't think so....
And of course there's the stuff everyone's anxious about these days. The election. Well, I tell people that to allay their anxiety, they should go out and work for Obama, and in the past week I've done as much volunteering as I could find time for. In Facing Fear, I write about the importance of working together, in community, as a means of finding courage and hope, and I can tell you that it really does help. I've been totally astounded by the number of people walking into the Obama headquarters every time I've been there, all volunteering their time to make the country a place they're proud of living. It really does make me hopeful. And if Obama loses, I'll know it wasn't because I sat at home, worrying.
The economy. As the stock market plummeted last week, I assiduously avoided looking at my financial statement or calling my financial advisor, under the theory (also propounded in Facing Fear) that sometimes having more information is simply not useful. I long ago decided to find someone I trusted to take care of my money, and to pay him to do it, and I'm not about to make any big changes right now. I can still pay my mortgage and I don't need a new car. So why do I need to know exactly how much money I've lost since October began?
I think it's time to go back to Facing Fear and re-read all the other prescriptions for allaying anxiety. Maybe that'll help with the medical stuff. (I'm reminded of the line from Disney's "Alice in Wonderland": "I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.") But I have to thank all of you for reading this far, and giving me the chance to say what's on my mind. I'm feeling better already. (That's what writing does for me.) I'm just a bit concerned that now I've spread the anxiety around, and maybe you feel worse.
When I met Carol at the Gallery Walk a week or two ago, we agreed that we couldn't comprehend how people who are not artists or writers cope with illness or other major traumas in their life. We know that it's perfectly possible for them to cope; it's just that making art (for Carol) and writing (for me) are such big and important parts of our own coping mechanisms that it's hard to understand how anyone could be without one or the other.
I had to remind myself of that, though, when it came to writing today's blog. My first impulse was to report that I didn't have much to say, except to encourage people to come to the Book Festival presentation. But when I thought about it honestly, I realized that I had plenty to say, but it wasn't going to be easy to write, or, perhaps, to read. It's not the "I'm keeping my spirits high and focusing on the wonder of the moment" kind of stuff I prefer to write--the way I prefer to think of myself. (And really, the way I usually am, I think.) It's about anxiety, which is my current emotion.
Last night I dreamt that my oncologist was leaving town. I have absolutely no reason to believe this is actually happening, but part of my anxiety, I know, results from the fact that he has been out of town for the past week, and therefore I am quite up in the air about my treatment options. Most of the time I don't think this one-week delay matters much, but I've been off chemo now for four months, and who knows what the cancer is doing. Every time the phone rings, I expect it to be Dr. Holen, who's supposed to call to tell me what's next. So far, it's been a friend who knows someone who wants to buy a copy of Black Eye; the Democratic National Committee which wanted money for Senate contests; and (as I was writing the last sentence), someone from The Nation, who presumably also wanted money, but I didn't wait to hear what she had to say before I hung up.
I'm also anxious about a "swallow study" scheduled for tomorrow, ordered by my primary care doctor because the radiologist who diagnosed my last pneumonia thought it might have been caused by aspiration. "Is that possible?" the primary guy asked, and I said it certainly was. As anyone knows who's eaten with me in the past year, unless I'm pretty mindful of chewing and swallowing, I have a tendency to choke on crumbs or even liquids. (My mother always told me not to talk with my mouth full, but I don't seem to have learned that lesson.) I'm anxious about the procedure itself, which I think involves swallowing barium, which doesn't sound too delicious, and also about what they might say about the cause(s) of the swallowing difficulty, and what they might want me to do about it. Eat only mushy stuff? I don't think so....
And of course there's the stuff everyone's anxious about these days. The election. Well, I tell people that to allay their anxiety, they should go out and work for Obama, and in the past week I've done as much volunteering as I could find time for. In Facing Fear, I write about the importance of working together, in community, as a means of finding courage and hope, and I can tell you that it really does help. I've been totally astounded by the number of people walking into the Obama headquarters every time I've been there, all volunteering their time to make the country a place they're proud of living. It really does make me hopeful. And if Obama loses, I'll know it wasn't because I sat at home, worrying.
The economy. As the stock market plummeted last week, I assiduously avoided looking at my financial statement or calling my financial advisor, under the theory (also propounded in Facing Fear) that sometimes having more information is simply not useful. I long ago decided to find someone I trusted to take care of my money, and to pay him to do it, and I'm not about to make any big changes right now. I can still pay my mortgage and I don't need a new car. So why do I need to know exactly how much money I've lost since October began?
I think it's time to go back to Facing Fear and re-read all the other prescriptions for allaying anxiety. Maybe that'll help with the medical stuff. (I'm reminded of the line from Disney's "Alice in Wonderland": "I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.") But I have to thank all of you for reading this far, and giving me the chance to say what's on my mind. I'm feeling better already. (That's what writing does for me.) I'm just a bit concerned that now I've spread the anxiety around, and maybe you feel worse.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Down and Up
It's come to my attention that some of you think I'm amazingly upbeat all the time--you can't imagine how I manage. The truth is, I don't. And last week was a fine example. Thanks (or no thanks) to the pneumonia, I was not only tired and short of breath, but I also felt extremely sorry for myself. After the weekend, which had been about as gloomy, weather-wise, as Madison gets (no sun at all for two days), Monday and the rest of the week were gorgeous. But I could barely walk as far as the coffee shop on the corner--and my summer-long goal of riding my bike the twenty miles of the Capital City trail one of these September weekends was totally out of the question.
The two antibiotics I am taking were working, I could tell, but much more slowly than the levaquin I had last time, to which I am now allergic. Several wonderful friends called or e-mailed at the beginning-middle of the week to see if I could come out and play, and I couldn't. Poor, poor me. Not even the knowledge that Facing Fear had finally gone to the printer was enough to cheer me up.
Then a nurse called to talk to me about taking part in a clinical trial of sunitinib, a drug (a pill, actually) that acts to inhibit angiogenesis--the proliferation of new blood vessels that are essential for tumor cells' growth. I had heard and read about sunitinib, which is already approved by the FDA for kidney cancer (for which there is no other treatment) and one other solid tumor, a stomach tumor of a kind I don't have. The trial I expect to be joining looks at whether sunitinib is effective against other kinds of solid tumors. It actually compares two dose protocols--one group takes the pill for two weeks, has one week off, and then repeats that cycle; the other group takes it for four weeks and has two weeks off. But both groups do take the sunitinib--there's no placebo control involved.
Of course, I can't start this until the pneumonia is resolved. Suddenly I realized I'd be quite happy to go to the hospital to get a stronger IV antibiotic, if that was necessary to get into the sunitinib trial. But I doubt it will be necessary; I'm feeling remarkably much better, and I still have another few days on the oral antibiotics.
Even this news (which came on Wednesday, I think) wasn't quite enough to pump my spirits back up to their usual level, though. That required feeling better physically, which happened gradually, and finally really took hold over the weekend sometime. My breathing seems almost back to normal (what passes for normal for me), and I have much more energy, though I can't say I'm actually doing very much with it other than hanging out with friends, drinking green tea or coffee. Which is, of course, great fun.
On Saturday I did get myself deputized to register voters, but the local Obama campaign is really focused on canvassing and phone banks, not registration drives, and since those activities are pretty difficult for me with my lack of much voice, I'm not sure what I'll be doing. Something, I hope. Though I confess to having gone to the gym this morning instead of to the rally with Michele Obama.
Come to think of it, there are a lot of things I'm not sure about! For instance, I still don't know whether Facing Fear will be available in time for my appearance at the Wisconsin Book Festival on October 19, but if you're interested in knowing what that's all about, check out the Book Festival web site :
Monday, June 16, 2008
27 years and counting....
Lots of fun this past week: a wonderful bike ride with new TEAMSurvivor friends; paddling practice on the Yahara River; a great party, co-hosted with good friends, to celebrate various people's retirements, pending retirements, and/or resistance to retirement. The last guests left after midnight--and I was sorry to see them go! Who says "seniors" (I guess that's who we are, now) can't party hearty?
And best of all, a meeting with the marketing department at UW Press, where we were encouraged to bring out Facing Fear this fall, instead of next spring. The official publication date will be December 15, but we hope to have books in hand by the time of the Wisconsin Book Festival in mid-October. Of course, this depends on the production process moving smoothly and swiftly, but we have reason to believe that it will. I'll keep you posted!
But what's really been on my mind the past week is my younger son's impending Big Birthday. He'll turn 30 next Sunday. This means I will no longer be able to trust either of my sons. (Those of us who came of age in the '60s understand that we can't trust anyone over 30--ourselves excluded.) But seriously--and much more important--it means that despite having had two cancers, I've seen both my sons into their thirties. They were only 3 and 6 years old when I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's disease in 1981. I didn't spend a lot of time worrying that I wouldn't live to see them grow up--but I'd be lying if I said the thought didn't cross my mind. So here I am, 27 years later, and here they are, all grown up (and then some). Amazing. I feel very lucky. And as I've said before, it's a lot easier for me to cope with the stomach cancer, which was likely caused by the radiation treatments for the Hodgkin's, knowing that the radiation also made it possible for me to raise my sons.
So Nate may be worried about getting old (though he told me the last party he and Meghan hosted didn't break up until 6 AM, so he couldn't be feeling too old!) But I'm thrilled that he's turning 30, and that I'm around to see it happen.
And best of all, a meeting with the marketing department at UW Press, where we were encouraged to bring out Facing Fear this fall, instead of next spring. The official publication date will be December 15, but we hope to have books in hand by the time of the Wisconsin Book Festival in mid-October. Of course, this depends on the production process moving smoothly and swiftly, but we have reason to believe that it will. I'll keep you posted!
But what's really been on my mind the past week is my younger son's impending Big Birthday. He'll turn 30 next Sunday. This means I will no longer be able to trust either of my sons. (Those of us who came of age in the '60s understand that we can't trust anyone over 30--ourselves excluded.) But seriously--and much more important--it means that despite having had two cancers, I've seen both my sons into their thirties. They were only 3 and 6 years old when I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's disease in 1981. I didn't spend a lot of time worrying that I wouldn't live to see them grow up--but I'd be lying if I said the thought didn't cross my mind. So here I am, 27 years later, and here they are, all grown up (and then some). Amazing. I feel very lucky. And as I've said before, it's a lot easier for me to cope with the stomach cancer, which was likely caused by the radiation treatments for the Hodgkin's, knowing that the radiation also made it possible for me to raise my sons.
So Nate may be worried about getting old (though he told me the last party he and Meghan hosted didn't break up until 6 AM, so he couldn't be feeling too old!) But I'm thrilled that he's turning 30, and that I'm around to see it happen.
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