The truth is that I had hoped – we all had hoped and prayed – for a longer remission. But pancreatic cancer of the sort that is fond of my cells, a deadly cancer that turns otherwise perfectly ordinary, hard-working, and righteous proteins into mutant ninja cells, has a history of finding a way, even after a remission, to cause more trouble. So it is with undeniable sadness that I report that I am no longer in remission, no longer “cancer free.” The damned little mutant ninjas running amok in my vascular system are back, which is an empirical fact. My CA-19/9 marker is at 670 this week, after registering 500 the week before.

That’s not good.

That said, Dr. Robin also gave us some very good news. The tumor/scar tissue on my pancreas and lesions/scar tissue on my liver are stable, which means that whatever the mutant cells are doing is still at a formative stage and – here’s more good news – may be reduced by a timely return to what she calls “lightweight maintenance chemo.”

So beginning next week I reenter the Room of Orange Chairs.

***

Nothing, like something, happens anywhere”

--Philip Larkin

On Wednesday I had a follow-up CT-scan, this time on my upper chest to check for any damage from six months of chemo and to give my new oncologist, Dr. Robin Obenchain, a more complete picture of what my dear ol’ Granny – Nellie Grimm Saylor – used to call “my innards.” I also had the usual telltale vials of blood removed from my body. On Friday San and I met with Dr. Obenchain to discuss the results. And the news was good, mostly and good … maybe.

That’s kind of how the news goes in the frontier territory called Remission. Yes, I am a “cancer survivor,” but at least with pancreatic cancer, the detour out of Cancerland means that I am never more than a few short sentences away from the longer, harder narrative, and that harder narrative is always lurking, forming, insisting, somewhere inside me no matter how I fight it – how we fight it – each and every day.

It also means that the ongoing storyline between these wild narrative territories is never exactly linear. As one of our oncology nurses and my personal “chemo wife” Monica puts it: “it’s more of a roller coaster ride.”

***

What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

--From “Days,” by Philip Larkin

This morning I arose early and made rich dark Sumatran coffee just as a splendid pink-and-blue-sky dawn broke over the Superstition Mountains east of here. It was pure sky poetry. I gave thanks to God for this gift of another day of cancer-free life and offered my daily prayers on behalf of others.

I then began my everyday habit of reading, writing, posting, and otherwise engaging via the Internet the world outside of my home. After awhile San joined me and later I made us a Greek omelet – spinach, feta cheese, mushrooms, a little garlic, a little oregano, lots of halved Kalamata olives – and a toasted potato bagel. After breakfast San to writing her dissertation and I completed the most ordinary of chores: folded laundry, cleaned the kitchen, wrote a letter of recommendation, and edited out of a forthcoming book chapter some inspired Beatles’ lyrics from the Sgt. Pepper’s song “A Day in the Life” that were too costly to include. By the time Nic got up – ah, I envy the ability of the young to “sleep in” – I was still contemplating this glorious ordinary day.

Another day when being “cancer free” means I am no longer “that guy” in the blue chair that everyone else worries about.

***

Life is eternal, and love is immortal,
and death is only a horizon;
and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.
~Rossiter Worthington Raymond

Sandra and I lost a friend to colon cancer this week: Rebekah Smith Whitehouse. We met her last summer when we arrived for the first time at the Room of Orange Chairs.

She was perched in one of the chairs waiting for her chemo treatment to begin. “Hi!” she said with her characteristic big smile and genuine joy in her voice. “I’m the poster girl for chemo!” She spread her arms wide and broke into a laugh. We laughed with her.