Tales from the Lung Void

The timing of my current healthcare experience is a masterclass in recursive absurdity. My latest blood work is in—visible to me online on Health Gateway—and the results are clear: acute inflammation, anemia of chronic disease, and liver and pancreatic markers that are under significant stress. Since I’m negative for COVID, Flu, and RSV, it’s safe to say this isn’t a viral infection—it’s just the cancer being itself. I called the provincial oncology nurse for guidance, and she suggested I contact my family doctor so he can "decide" on the next steps. When I noted that a GP can't possibly grasp the full cancer context, her solution was that he could then refer me back to the oncologist. It’s a perfect, circular referral loop. Judging by the AI’s interpretation of these numbers, I may well die before I even get to my CT scan in 2 weeks.

This latest episode of my misadventure kicked off Monday afternoon with a visit to the St. Paul’s ER, courtesy of some persistent shortness of breath (SOB—and yes, the acronym is entirely appropriate). Because I’m immunocompromised, I spent the first night in the "prestige" of ER isolation. It even has its own toilet! By Tuesday morning, I’d migrated to a standard ER bed, and by evening, I’d truly hit the jackpot: a "sleeping pod" in a four-person room in the Medical Unit. While the bed was a marginal improvement, the real feature was the "Sheryl Upgrade." Having her there makes the scenery—and the situation—infinitely better. The staff at St. Paul’s was exceptional. From triage and the admitting ER doctor to the tireless ward nurses and the respirologists who took the time to explain the "why," the care was consistently warm, human, and sincere. I was finally paroled on Wednesday afternoon. My final tally for a first-ever stay in a Canadian hosp...

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