Hospice

Stand Up To Cancer ran a lively commercial between innings recently that featured the Springsteen song "No Surrender," a great tune and appropriate soundtrack for all the martial metaphors about cancer treatment. It's Jersey Churchillian: "No retreat, baby, no surrender."

In that context, a call to Hospice has the whiff of Vichy, while cancer evokes the Blitz. Cancer has an ability to adapt and overcome that I have to admire, particularly because I have produced it. I have created a cell that got a wrong steer from some bad genes and now the thing just can't stop expanding. Perhaps because I have to own it, the martial metaphors don't seem right to me. Rather the disease seems like a joyous teen who discovers an unhindered ability to grow and unbounded fields in which to wreak teenage havoc, realizing only when the liver is shutting down and the lungs are shot "Oh God, what have I done?"

So that's when it's time to call Hospice. Sally and I were in Boston on Monday for a CT scan to see whether the experimental drugs in my sixth clinical trial would curtail the spread of the disease. The answer is sadly not, the docs said -- the scan revealed the cancer growing rapidly. Now, after five years of trying everything at cancer centers around the country, I am out of options.

Hospice is not a surrender worthy of Marshal Petain. While the Hospice people do not treat the disease, they do treat the symptoms, and I have enough aches and pains at the moment to get them started. In time -- how much time is, without doubt, a question of some interest -- they can haul a variety of medical equipment into our living room in hopes of keeping me out of the hospital.

How much time?  The docs won't say, because they actually don't know, but I've become significantly worse during the last few months and that downhill trend will continue, barring a fortunate strike of lightning. So I'm holding on to my high hopes for the World Series -- Nats are comfortably headed to the playoffs, Royals God love them are fighting to stay in contention. But I am not making any plans for Spring Training, and I'm buying black crepe paper for Sally to hang on our seats next season. Alas, I had just renewed our season tickets.