Tales from the Lung Void

This evening, I hit a negative milestone—an inverted pyramid of progress. I shuffled a mere 3k at a 7:00 min/k pace. Well-meaning people tell me I should be grateful I can run at all, but to call this shuffling "running" is like mistaking a Canada Goose for a soaring eagle. I briefly considered comparing my current "sprint" to a game of curling, but I quickly realized that comparing a 7-minute pace to a beloved Canadian national pastime might actually be considered a hate crime. Instead, I’ve accepted that my athletic career is transitioning into the Homer Simpson style of bowling, which frequently involves also dipping donuts in beer.

I had a moment of clarity during a Zoom meeting today: Sheryl was right. She’s been nudging me to get a haircut for weeks, but the reality didn't hit me until I caught a glimpse of my reflection on-screen. Someone in the meeting suggested hair gel to tame the chaos, but unfortunately, there isn’t enough hair left for the gel to stick to—even in a crisis. You may wonder how I managed to ignore the evidence in my bathroom mirror for so long. The credit goes to my electric toothbrush. It vibrates my head with such precision that my hair strands settle into place like grain stalks being mowed down, briefly maintaining the illusion that I am a handsome devil."

This evening, Sheryl organized a beautiful surprise for me: a candlelight concert right in our living room. She invited Shalom Wiebe , a talented therapeutic harpist, to provide a session at home. As is the core of music therapy, the goal wasn’t mere entertainment, but rather to find a way to soothe a weary soul. Shalom played a Celtic harp , a beautiful instrument handcrafted by her father; you might recognize its iconic silhouette from the Guinness logo. Despite the instrument’s structural limitations, she managed a rendition of the theme from the movie Up , a personal favorite of mine. I appreciate the ethereal sound of the harp, but I still prefer the cello; it sounds like a human voice, specifically one that’s telling me everything is going to be okay—even if it’s lying.

I submitted Form 1632 (Request for Medical Assistance in Dying—MAiD) last week. A VCH Care Coordinator contacted me to ask if it was urgent. I explained that I don’t plan to die this month because I have an appointment with my oncologist at the end of it, and I’d hate to ghost her; she wouldn’t be happy. Now I’m afraid I might have failed the first assessment. It's a once-in-a-lifetime kind of event, so I don't want to mess up. MAiD: I have a prior commitment to not ghosting my oncologist PS As it happens, I’ve just had a visit from the doctor who will be providing MAID, and I passed the first assessment with flying colors! One more assessment and I’ll be good to go! I’d like to clarify my thinking about MAiD, especially as some of you have expressed concern that my health condition forced me to make this decision. This is not the case. Some people perceive that submitting an application is a sign that things have deteriorated to the point where death is just around the corner...

Sheryl hand-knitted a toque specifically to accommodate my modest cranium. It appears ordinary, but the wool is imbued with quantum particles from the unified field of love—a specialized weave intended to prevent brain mets. Notably, the trim is decorated to seal the field and facilitate maximum entanglement. The brain is a vital organ, certainly, but one must account for the rest of the biological enterprise. This is where the aquarium’s new exhibit comes in: the axolotls . Given their uncanny ability to regenerate lost limbs, I’ve swapped traditional psychotherapy for a series of clinical consultations with the smiling salamanders. A second opinion on regeneration

I’m seeing the respirologist on the 22nd to see if the lung fluid has finally lowered its volume or needs additional plumbing, followed by a chat with the oncologist on the 27th to see if the cancer is trying to find a clever workaround. The CT scan is on hold until March to allow the 'visual clutter' from the radiation to clear so the cameras can get a better look. I shared these updates with my AI thought partner, which offered this perspective: Based on your medical records and the provided oncology literature, Tagrisso (osimertinib) can still be effective systemically (throughout the rest of your body), even if a local mutation or resistance mechanism has developed in a specific area, such as the pleural fluid. This clinical scenario is often referred to as oligoprogression—where the cancer grows in one or a few isolated spots while remaining controlled everywhere else. At least the radiation therapy didn’t kill my sad sense of curiosity.

I just finished my final radiation fraction and will follow up with the radiation oncologist at the end of February. In other news, I dropped by the BCC cafeteria, where they’ve introduced a modified “cheese scone” with spinach.