by Larry Brody
I haven’t been a very active blogger or user of social media in general for a while now and am flattered by how many people have gotten in touch to ask why. It’s a question all of you deserve to have answered, and my brain seems clearer this morning than usual (probably because Princess Loquacious Laylapalooza – the black Lab formerly known as Layla – let Gwen the Beautiful and me sleep later than usual) so here goes.
About a year ago, I was officially diagnosed with Stage Four Prostate Cancer. This was after five years and two surgeries that were both declared “successful.” Unfortunately, stage four cancer of any kind means that whatever treatment has gone before was as far from successful as you can get. Stage four means terminal, kids.
In my case that means that my illness has spread from my prostate gland to throughout the interior of my body, with a special concentration in my spine and lymph glands.
Which means that for all practical purposes I’m now a dead man walking writing.
I’ve died before, 48 years ago, when I had a heart attack while bench pressing in my home gym. While being transported from there to the closest E.R., I went through the whole out-of-body-heading-toward-the-light thing and found the experience so rhapsodic that I was angry as hell when I was brought back to consciousness and life on a gurney and being stared at by a resident who kept saying, “Look at those pecs! What pecs!” until my family doctor got him the hell out of there.
I recovered so completely and remembered the warmth of near-death so, well, gratefully in its way, that I’ve never again feared dying and in fact found myself looking forward to it from time to time, as my way of living changed the way so many people’s lives changed, complete with a second heart attack thirty-five years later. So last year’s diagnosis would have been good news.
It wasn’t, of course. G the B and I have been joyfully married for over thirty years, and we weren’t about to let go of our marriage and my life without a fight. My way of looking at my current situation has become, “All right, my death is inevitable, but so is everybody’s. What can be done to keep me alive and comfortable until I go on to pastures that I no longer see as greener because – Gwen.
Bottom line: For the past year I’ve been taking a combination of two meds whose purpose is to keep my cancer from spreading any further. They are Zoladex, which I take by injection every three months, and Xtandi, which I take by mouth every day. Zoladex is no big deal, lifestyle wise, but Xtandi is a bitch. It’s a type of oral chemo that sells for somewhere between $17,000 and $18,000 per month, which isn’t exactly in the Brody Fam price range so we’ve had to cut a deal with its manufacturer.
(A very major deal, which luckily didn’t involve giving up any firstborn children, quite a relief because in far too many ways I’d already done that when I dedicated my life to my writing instead of my family and already am carrying that mistake across my shoulders.)
When I first began this treatment, my doctors said it could extend my life anywhere from six months to five years. It’s been one year since that conversation, and the two drugs have been doing their jobs. I’m still breathing, and I feel no cancer pain. The only ongoing problem I’ve had has been two side effects, loss of energy (which means I’m exhausted by three o’clock in the afternoon and have to lie down and rest – read “sleep” – until dinner) and hot flashes, which, manly man, that I am, I like to refer to as “night sweats.”
Oddly (according to my oncologist), I’ve pretty much got the night sweats under control. The secret has been to sleep with a rolled-up and absorbent towel around my shoulders and neck…and to scream and yell “Stop it, goddam it!” as soon as Gwen and/or I feel my skin starting to get clammy.
Believe it or not, the yelling thing works. Bang! Just like that.
Fun side effect: “Stop it, goddam it!” also works on Laylapaluza. Unfortunately, the result is that she immediately leaps off the bed where she’s been sleeping with us, giving me a whole ‘nuther thing to feel bad about.
MORE TO COME: Gwen’s recent accident and how it’s changing our lives. I’ve been able to face the reality of it and am hoping that means I’ll be able to face putting in on the page as well.
Love you mean it,
LB
Thanks, Larry. I hope it’s a load off your mind.
I’m sorry to lose you so soon, but, you’re right. We all die.
Wishing you a pain free transition.
Larry, as a kid I was terrified of death. Then in my twenties, I almost drowned in heavy surf. My reaction was something like yours; it worked to banish the fear for decades. Inevitably, I’ll face the big D again. I hope I can be as wise and brave as you are. You and Gwen are heroes in this struggle, and I wish you two all the time in the world, and as much love and happiness as you can grab.
Brave words form a warrior worthy of his
koi fame. We visited today with a younger friend who will go to her heaven much too soon. I wish you life as long as you want it.
Really to hear of your health issues, Larry. Glad the meds are helping you.
I’m so sorry to hear this, Larry. I hope the meds work and bring you many more years of (unfatigued) life. I actually know a few people who are stage 4 and still here. Wishing you the very best.
Getting old really sucks! One thing never changes; the love you have for you friends and loved ones and my love for you guys.
Well, fuck, dude.
I mean, I guess I’ve kinda had a feeling, but I dreaded the day you would tell us.
I love you. I mean it.