Tales from the Lung Void

I’ve always felt that BC Cancer sets the gold standard for kindness in healthcare; it takes a special kind of person to work in oncology. But today, during my appointment at the Pain and Symptom Management Clinic, that bar was raised even higher. The palliative doctor and her resident gave me over two hours of their time—a rare and generous luxury. Their focus isn't just on the disease, but on me . We spoke candidly about the road ahead, navigating the complex choices between longevity and quality of life. Knowing they are in our corner provides a massive sense of relief for both Sheryl and myself. As a starting point, I’m moving from Tylenol 3 to morphine to better manage the side pain and coughing. They are, quite simply, the loveliest people I’ve encountered in the system. I told them I might just move into the clinic permanently, just like Tom Hanks in The Terminal , when he decided the airport was his new home.

One perk of not running: the daily shower is now optional. Instead, I’m using forest bathing ( Shinrin-yoku ) to purify myself. The photo was taken yesterday, on a sunny day. Today it’s raining, so ironically, I’ll have to shower to recover from the bath.

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. Addendum My cardiologist friend reviewed my labs. He thinks it’s just minor inflammation, fluid or a random virus and told me not to lose a...

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.