Flying Lessons.

Throughout my life I have flown in my dreams. No, not with the aid of heavier-than-air machines, or even hot-air balloons. Just by means of good, old-fashioned arm flapping. It’s not exactly that simple, of course, as there is some specialized technique required of such exploits.

Outstretched laterally from the shoulders, both arms are rapidly swept in a fore-and-aft direction. The angle of attack of the hands is continuously adjusted to generate upward lift with each arm stroke. This process eventually results in a controlled liftoff. Once an altitude of a hundred feet or so is achieved, I rotate my body into a prone position and begin to glide, using my arms and hands for directional guidance and minor altitude adjustments.

I know virtually nothing about dream interpretation, but have read that such dreams indicate abundant determination and optimism for relief from setbacks. And so I will germinate the seeds of whatever it is that conjure up such dreams to help address my latest setback.

You may recall that I resumed chemotherapy last week (Tuesday and Wednesday, January 12 and 13) after a nine-week break. I think this was my thirteenth round. The usual tiredness and muscle weakness began on schedule a day or two later. But by the weekend I had lost all function in my legs again. So more ambulance rides. Three more hospitals. More spinal scans. And by Monday of this week, I was undergoing spinal surgery again in LA. At a different hospital, and with a different surgeon than the first go-around in December. Apparently, the spinal tumor either was not adequately removed during the first procedure, or it grew like gangbusters during the five-week interval, or some combination thereof. Pathology and another MRI may shed some light on that over the next couple of days. And then the decision will be made regarding the possibility of more surgery, radiation treatment, and/or a modified chemo regimen.

In the meantime, I once again find myself flat on my back in a hospital bed. But this time I no longer have any motor control in my legs. None. Zilch. I still have muted skin sensation and the doctors consider that somewhat of a positive sign, but I am a realist: I will be living with paraplegia for at least some period. Ordinarily, this would be a devastating realization but I am hardened and strengthened by the challenges that have been already been laid at my feet, so this represents just another speed bump for which I will need to slow my roll.

Centuries ago paraplegia would have relegated me to appetizer status for the first hungry lion to wander across my path. But in today’s world, round-the-clock early-onset assistance from an army of caregivers (made possible by a quality health insurance policy) offers me the option of continuing to contribute to society, albeit at some reduced level. Time will tell as to which era in mankind had the best approach, but personally I’m happy for the choices today’s world affords me. So onward I march, in a manner of speaking anyway.

Cecily, of course, is here every step of the way, doing the big things and the little things, keeping my spirits high and my attention on the future. She is an amazing tower of strength from which I am able to maintain the perspective of focus on distant horizons. And I occasionally glance upward, looking for a break in the clouds so that I can get those arms flapping again.