![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.grycz.us\/cancerblog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2011\/09\/alfred_e_neuman-248x300.jpg\" "\\"alfred_e_neuman\\"")
<\/p>\nDear Friends,<\/p>\n
This week has been characterized, unusually, by my experiencing a series of mental flashbacks of members of my family who have needed medical intervention for their serious diseases. \u00a0Not entirely unrelated are the following factoids: \u2022 I once had the opportunity to digitize a fragment of papyrus (dating from 3,000 B.C.), that describes initial Egyptian investigations into brain surgery. \u00a0\u2022 There exist hair-raising stories describing Civil War surgeries in which doctors, recognizing, by then, that speed of operation could minimize shock in a patient, competed against one another in ultra-quick sawing. \u00a0Superior surgeons completed amputations in record time\u2014albeit sometimes (and more than occasionally, as a matter of written record)\u2014accidentally\u00a0lopping off adjoining appendages in addition to intended limbs.) \u00a0\u2022 Today, molecular and nanotechnologies promise another revolution in medical practice. \u00a0Emerging from crude, investigatory beginnings, physicians have progressively mastered knowledge of manifold systems, molecular interactions and interventional techniques.<\/p>\n
Yet for all that comforting reality, I wish I had a bit more of Alfred E. Neuman’s attitude of “What, me worry?”<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
One weekend of my life I will surely never forget took place in the early 1970s. \u00a0My eldest daughter, Anastasia, was but a toddler. \u00a0She suffered from petite mal<\/em> seizures of unknown etiology, for which she took liquid medications. On my way home that Friday I stopped by the pharmacy to pick up a fresh bottle. \u00a0Typically during a petit mal<\/em>, we’d observe Anastasia suddenly stop whatever she may have been doing. \u00a0A glassy-eyed unfocused stare would come over her face for 10 or 15 (?) seconds as her body and limbs took on an uncontrolled rigid jerkiness. \u00a0Seconds later, all the symptoms would disappear in a flash. \u00a0Anastasia would appear to be\u00a0slightly disoriented for a second. \u00a0Then, she would blithely return to whatever it was she was doing before the epilepsy struck her. \u00a0But on that weekend’s Saturday morning, her mother and I watched one of Anastasia’s fits with horrible fascination. \u00a0It had a longer duration than usual and was less controlled. \u00a0Her body and arms swayed according to what appeared to be a macabre dance choreography. \u00a0She was obviously more discomfited during and after the long episode. \u00a0She seemed tired when she came out of it; seemingly, an eternity later.<\/p>\n What followed, of course, were urgent calls to doctor’s offices, hospitals, emergency rooms and pharmacies. \u00a0(Communications have improved a lot over the past 40 years.) \u00a0I was a callow father in my early thirties. \u00a0I had no idea of the import of the innocent question that, in desperation, I blurted out after an otherwise frustratingly futile phone conversation I’d been having with a pharmacist: “Might there be any significance in the fact that Anastasia’s medicine is typically orange in color, but the bottle I picked up on Friday is raspberry in color?”<\/p>\n There was. \u00a0As it turned out we had been, all unknowing, coaxing Anastasia to swallow a medication five times stronger than the dose prescribed for her. \u00a0Accidents happen.<\/p>\n For those who have not met Anastasia, I should explain that the story of this accident ends well. \u00a0She recovered from the overdose quickly (as toddlers do). \u00a0Weeks later the genesis of her petit mals<\/em> was definitively diagnosed as resulting from a disease called tuburous sclerosis. Doctors predicted that Anastasia would live into her teens; but that we could not expect her to survive longer than that. \u00a0This coming November, our family fully expects to celebrate Anastasia’s 43rd birthday! Although disabled, Anastasia’s is a joyous and cheer-filled life. \u00a0She works as a weaver in a sheltered workshop (and would gladly sell you some placemats, table runners, or other woven goods she and her colleagues are so proud to create). \u00a0It surely looks as if she may outlive me! \u00a0Predictions, even medical predictions, don’t always come true.<\/p>\n In my Cancer Clinic, I wear a wrist bracelet with my identification. \u00a0Even so, as each new bag of medications is attached to the IV pole, the nurse asks me to state, aloud, my name and birthdate. \u00a0When particular drugs are being prepared for infusion a second nurse is summoned to witness my answers as to my identity, and to corroborate that the medication being injected into me is the one that has been prescribed for me and not another patient. \u00a0This procedure should<\/em> console me… save for the fact that I know that such a regimen would not have been put into place had there not been prior experience of mistakes being made.<\/p>\n When I appeared at my Cancer Clinic last Friday it was to be “unhooked” from my fanny pack with its 48-hour continual infusion. \u00a0I was greeted cheerfully by the attending nurse who said “You’ve been here before [and presumably know your way around]. \u00a0Go on in, and get comfortable. \u00a0Someone will be with you in just a moment.” \u00a0Confidently, I strode down the hallway but quickly found myself in a warren of physician’s offices and small specialized laboratory rooms. \u00a0I’d clearly gotten lost and didn’t belong there. Abashed, I retraced my steps and eventually found my way to the infusion rooms.<\/p>\n I’ve got a pretty good sense of direction. \u00a0I didn’t even get very lost in the wonderfully crooked streets of Rome or Milan, or the anti-parallel ones of Krakow. \u00a0[In the case of many Medieval Cities, the central nest of alleys and narrow lanes are not merely artifacts of geography or topography, but were intentionally designed to confound and confuse intruding marauders who might have penetrated the outer perimeter walls of the city.] \u00a0So I was curious about having gotten lost in an office building… until I realized that, quite possibly (read “likely”), I didn’t really WANT to get to the infusion rooms.<\/p>\n Although culturally endorsed, its actually contrary to some deeply\u00a0imbedded genetic code to admit Fear. \u00a0Yet, for the past two days, on the run-up to only my second full days of chemotherapy, Monica noted that I’ve become increasingly apprehensive. \u00a0I’ve felt it, too. \u00a0I’m in the best of care and am possessed of the most competent academic and clinical advice about my condition. \u00a0My chemotherapy is administered in sterile and professionally controlled circumstances by experienced and exceptionally well-trained nurses. \u00a0But despite these rational understandings, I’m afraid! \u00a0…of mistakes; \u00a0…of possible pain; \u00a0…of the integrity of my body being violated by incisions and needles; \u00a0…of poison; \u00a0…of my cancer; \u00a0…of ignorance and the helplessness that comes from it; \u00a0…of, perhaps, losing control; \u00a0…of potential humiliation; \u00a0of… of… of. \u00a0[Its worth noting that these fears all relate to the ego.]<\/p>\n The mischievous face of Alfred E. Neuman mocks me with his iconic motto: “What, me worry?” \u00a0Sure, me worry. \u00a0And for good reason.<\/p>\n Its counter-productive to deny Fear. \u00a0The machismo attitude comes from a desire to appear invincible to whatever it is one fears. \u00a0But to the extent denial or machismo dulls Fear, it can be harmful. \u00a0Nor, evidently, is rational analysis effective at dampening this primal instinct. \u00a0Fear is a complex response upon which depends survival of individuals (and, indeed, species). \u00a0Possessing Fear we can instantaneously respond to dangers, seen or felt. \u00a0Fear prepares our body physically, mentally, and chemically to respond to a challenge. \u00a0Fear heightens our senses and alerts our defensive attitude. \u00a0Therefore: “Fear is our friend.”<\/p>\n Nevertheless, I feel embarrassed to admit to Fear particularly when I know, full well, the proper actions to take, and know that I WILL take them. \u00a0[Isn’t Fear unnecessary under such conditions?<\/em>] \u00a0In addition, I am intensely conscious of what an extraordinary gift it is to have access to and to receive the care I’m undergoing. \u00a0[Doesn’t Fear denigrate such an undeserved gift?<\/em>] \u00a0I am intellectually confident and, indeed, certain<\/em>\u00a0(as can be) that the treatment I’m receiving will rid me of my cancer. \u00a0[So why be Fearful at all?<\/em>] \u00a0 Yet, Fear exists.<\/p>\n My relation to Fear seems to be another conundrum and paradox. \u00a0I’m becoming increasingly aware of living with such conundra. \u00a0But despite the awkwardness I feel about feeling Fear, I am very grateful that this core instinct is not diminished in me.<\/p>\n I am frightened. \u00a0I’ll go. \u00a0But I’m right to be wary.<\/p>\n Chet<\/p>\n<\/div>\n Dear Friends, Summary This week has been characterized, unusually, by my experiencing a series of mental flashbacks of members of …<\/p>\n\n\n\nRelated<\/h2>\n
\u2022 About CEDARS (where Anastasia lives) and ArtistWithin (where Anastasia and her friends, the weavers, illustrators and ceramicists sell their goods to the public) \u2014\u00a0http:\/\/www.thecedarsofmarin.org\/articles1.aspx<\/a><\/div>\n\u2022 About MAD Magazine and Alfred E. Neuman \u2014\u00a0http:\/\/en.wikipedia.org\/wiki\/Mad_(magazine)<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"