“How will you know when to stop
writing?” she asked. That's not the exact question- memory lack and
all that- but the gist is the same. If I'm writing about my journey
through cancer, how will I know when to stop, since it appears that
the journey is going to be longer than I initially thought.
When I first started, right after I was
diagnosed with multiple myeloma, I began writing as a way to cope
with the uncopeable. There was no way for me to cope with having in
incurable form of cancer; one I'd never heard of at that.
So, I started writing about what was
going on. The things I was discovering about my illness, the steps we
could take to combat it, and what the cancer would do to damage my
health. It's hard to admit now, but I really didn't expect to be
writing for that long a time. In the beginning, it all seemed a bit
bleak. There was no prognosis, which was how we wanted it, since it
would have been little more than an educated guess anyway. And that
was fine, but it meant we didn't know if I would have months or years
to live.
I soon came to realize, though, that a
journey through cancer, living with cancer, is a lot more than
doctor's reports, medicines taken, procedures followed. It also means
living the other parts of your life, with cancer as a mostly constant
companion. I am a husband, who has cancer. I am a dad, who has
cancer. A friend, a former co-worker, someone you don't especially
care for... with cancer.
If I was truly going to live with
cancer, and journey through having cancer, I was going to have to
find ways to keep it right-sized. It couldn't become the sum total of
who I am or the person I hope to become. I wasn't going to be able to
toss it onto the rubbish heap at the back of my mind and leave it
there; every day was recycling day.
Writing about it, and sharing some of
all that with you became more important, really, than the day-to-day
medical bits. Yes, there was my stem cell transplant to write about,
and these stomach issues, which I continue to have. But there was the
challenge of getting by, day by day, with what could have been a
medical Sword of Damocles hanging over my head.
Well, then you began talking to me,
writing to me, letting me know what you thought about what I was
going through and how you saw me doing it. So many people told me my
writing and my observations gave you hope; helped you maintain
perspective on the things in your own life that seemed uncopeable.
Brothers and sisters, I didn't really see that coming.
I had thought that by sharing how I
felt about things, big and little, connected to my disease, I might
be able to express feelings that others had, but weren't able to talk
about or, perhaps, even get a good grasp on. I wanted to be able to
help others by expressing for them what they could not express for
themselves.
What I didn't expect, was the depth and
breadth of people's feelings about me, my wife Sheri, my family and
what we are going through. At times, the reaction seemed like too
much. Honestly? I'm just a guy who can string some words together and
doesn't mind sharing deep feelings with other people, most of whom I
do not, nor will I ever, know. To me, there's nothing special about
that.
In answer, then, to the initial
question, the guy I was could stop writing whenever it wasn't
enjoyable anymore. When the main topics were covered, and so many
words had been shared about so many different feelings and events...
he could just stop. Maybe to resume if the cancer flares up again,
but maybe not. Hard to know.
But, I feel like that guy is a goner.
Simply put, too many people have told me that they and many of their
friends look forward to reading what I have to offer, talking about
it, and being cheered by it. As I so often do, I hope that doesn't
sound like ego because it certainly doesn't feel like ego. It feels
like a real responsibility. A big one.
So, when will I know to stop writing?
Well, not today. Also, as long as one person, forced to deal with
their fears in the wee hours of the morning, finds any comfort or
solace in what I have to say... well, again, it won't be that day
either.
I feel as though we are in this
together. I gain comfort from what you have to tell me, and,
evidently, you gain comfort in return. So, I will try not to write
beyond the time I have comfort to offer or something I think can help
me or you get through another day. Promise.
There are a variety of versions of
the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in
all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a
young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of
manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to
the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man.
With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere
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