Baha’is are not allowed to be cremated. We end life by returning to the earth, completing the circle. Our ceremonies are short, except for this one prayer for the dead. It consists of 19 verses that are recited 19 times. Though not considered a holly number, the numbers 9 and 19 appear frequently in the Baha’i faith.

We are exhorted to be detached from all material things. They have such little intrinsic value that we should put our efforts in improving our spirituality as opposed to massing huge amounts of wealths and possessions. Is that Van Gogh really worth millions?

Another virtue we are told to exercise is that of moderation. We are told to use moderation in all things. Including moderation in using moderation. There is a mind bender. There is an issue at this point. Maybe that Van Gogh is worth the millions as opposed to something else I have in my art collection. A moderate price indeed.

I was back in hospital last Wednesday evening with a temperature of 38.5. My temperature was down to normal by the time we got to the emergency room. I knew the answer to the question about whether I was there to see a doctor or not, this time around. I think I also looked a bit sicker than last time we went in. The emergency room was quite busy. I was eventually ushered in. Blood tests were done, cultures raised. I was held in the unit all night. They had to draw more blood at three in the morning for more cultures. All to prove that I was the picture of health, except for the amazing number of metastasized tumours in my lungs.

And therein lies the issue. The lungs are being infected at an alarming rate, with the tumours frolicking hither and tither having the time of their life. I was sent home from the hospital and told to control my temperature fluctuations with Tylenols. Not much the system can do for me at this point.

The trials had failed. I was referred back to Dr. Hedley who is on sick leave waiting for his knee to heal. EMails were sent and an appointment was made to see Dr Hedley on Friday afternoon. Decision time.

I was optimistic. I had assumed that the inflamed liver was due to it fighting the tumours and winning the battle. The hospital visit appeared to make a mockery of that thought, but I held on to my optimism. Dr. Hedley came in on Friday afternoon specially to see me. He gave Janet and I a gigantic hug and we went into a consulting room. Shahnaz, my wonderful nurse was there, as was a student nurse. We had a 90 minute consultation. The decision to be made was the following:

1. Do more Chemo. This is the FULLFOX treatment. Side effects include numbness of the fingers and toes, extreme sensitivity to cold, to the point where you cannot open the fridge door. Ideal for a climate such as Canada’s. There would be a 30% chance of success, which in my case would mean slowing down the growth rate. We would know within three months if it was working and would have to stop the treatments in six months. We would then be back to where we are now.

2. Do nothing and let nature take its course.

The obvious question that came up is what does the status quo mean. How much time do we have. I had to ask since that was the only way we could come to some decision. The answer was quick and shocking. I have two months.

Dr. Hedley was quicker to add that the number is not written in stone, specially given my record. Regardless of its accuracy, the amount of time left is counted in months. What were we expecting. A year, Janet and I said. He shook his head sadly.

There it stands, two to four months.

We are numb. What is there to say. My sense of humour fails me. I have nothing to say. Janet says she does not accept the verdict. She is defiant. But there is little left to say.

I have spent the last few days letting people know. Tears have flooded involuntarily. We are all sad, living in a surreal existence trying to make sense of this. Two months is such a short time. This is October, then November, then December and the end. Maybe. Still too close for any level of comfort.

We are about to start doing the practical stuff. Transfer all the accounts to Janet’s name. Complete a power of attorney.  Put together a living will? Make sure we have people to look after the house for Janet. The furnace repair man, the contractor, the computer technicians. We are making a list tomorrow. Janet is taking time off work so we can spend more time together. It is all so mundane, and yet I feel fortunate that we have the time to do these things.

I have stopped day dreaming. Seems little point to it after all. What will my kitchen look like? My garden?  The thoughts are barely in my head before the streaming stops. Almost as if my computer has frozen requiring a reboot. I have trouble sleeping at night. I lay awake often to two in the morning until exhaustion takes its toll. Is that becomes dreams are now harder to come by? What is there to dream about? I have no idea what the after life looks like.

Will I see my parents again? Will there be a welcoming committee? Bunch of girls in hula dresses dancing and draping flowers around my neck? OK, so I watch too many movies. Will I see old friends, like Judy Elder? I imagine the after life as a continuum into eternity. A progression of the soul as it moves through the ether. The evil ones start lower while the saintly ones have the advantage o starting on a higher plane. I figure I am somewhere in the middle. I will be happy as long as I can Gandhi and not Hitler.

We have also started planning for the final days. We have an appointment with palliative for November 9. An appointment with the funeral home on Tuesday. The strangest part of all this is that I am basically healthy and sound in great spirits. I called the funeral home. Has the person died yet? No, I am working on it. Everyone is amazed that I am still laughing and joking. I figure these are my final days. I would like people to remember me with joy on my face rather than sadness.

My mother spent the last three weeks of her life in hospital. She was not in very good shape. I spent a couple of hours with her on what turned out to be her last night. We had always been very close, except during her cancer period. She turned to Fetneh to look after her. The last night was very precious to me. I showed up at hospital around midnight. Those were the days of lax security. We talked a lot. She had made sure that no one would be allowed to see her in the last three weeks. She said the way she looks is not the way she wanted to be remembered. She died the next morning. I remember looking art her body lying in peace, finally and thinking she is indeed dead. The soul has left.  That last memory has remained with me for the past 31 years. She was right. Remember us with the passion we had when were in good shape, not as we lie in pain in hospital.

We are going to Atlanta next weekend. Leaving on Friday, returning on Monday. It has to be short. We cannot take the chance of something going wrong while in the U.S..  We have been told that things could go from right to wrong in seconds. I believe it. I wake up sometimes, not feeling quite up to snuff. I return to bed to recover my strength. This morning was one of those mornings. I seem to be fine now. Nothing like a bunch of steroids and Tylenols to perk you up. The steroids open the lung channels, and the Tylenol deals with the pain. Miracle workers between them.

We are staying in a hotel in Atlanta. More privacy. Devin is coming down from New York, and Fetneh is joining us from Montreal. My family is planning on spending a lot of time with me over the next little while. Fo’ad has cleared his schedule and intends on coming up to Toronto to spend a week at my place. Our hotel is opening its doors again.

The whole situation is surreal. I will keep saying that. There is not other way of looking at it. You talk about your own imminent death. What kind of conversation is that to have? Defies sanity. Everyone keeps asking what they can do for me. The only thing left is to enjoy each other’s company. Talk, laugh, have a good time. Nothing else matters.

I am planning to have a plain casket, made from pine. I am told that these are available. I would like a stamp placed on top that says: Property of God. The style will be along the type that was used in raiders of the Lost Ark. I am not going to have a guest book. We will instead have markers of different colours available so people can sign the casket. I can have your names with me for the next part of my journey. That will also save Janet from having to send thank you notes to everyone. Consider yourselves thanked.

This has been a very difficult entry to make.  We received the news last Friday. I have had this open on my computer for a week now trying to find the right words and cadence.

I thank you for being there. For listening, crying and laughing. Hopefully more of the latter.

I had lunch with my father in law the other day. I always enjoy his company (he may be reading this). We talked about the operation. I remember waking up and wondering when they were going to start. We are finished they said. I lost eight hours with those words. I have no words for what it feels like to lose eight hours out of your life. Almost a full day.

No recollections, no memories, nothing. Eight hours just went by and you have no idea what happened. You are alive, so it could not have been that bad. The lack of recollection is hard to forget or get over. My pa-in-law remarked that it is probably as close as we can get to death and come back to this life. Strange thought that. If that is what death is like, then I will have no recollection of that either. Except it may last a bit longer than eight hours.

I am seeing my oncologist this coming week, and my surgeon the week after. I might suggest we have champagne to celebrate. If only I drank. A number of my friends wanted to know if I was about to change my ways and start drinking.

On a separate note, I got a phone call from a telemarketer from the U.S.. She wanted to know if I wanted to move by business bank account to the TD Bank. I told her I was out of business. She went on to explain the benefits of making the move. I told her the company was closed. She went on again with her script. Again, I said, the company is closed. Oh, you are out of business? I told her that was a bit harsh and I still prefer to say that y company is closed. They can still provide me with some services, for instances coming up with a new business plan.

There was little point in continuing. She was very nice on the phone. Had a good way about her. I did not want to be rude and just hang up. I told her that I was not interested because I have cancer. She did not miss beat. Calcium is good for fighting cancer, she has read. A telemarketer is giving me cancer advice. Wonderful world is it not?

She mentioned that calcium creates an alkaline environment which is not favorable to cancer cells. She also suggested that I deprive the cancers cells of oxygen. I explained that while it was true that an alkaline environment is not favorable, I am not sure how much calcium you have to take for it be effective. It is highly probable that the amounts you have to take would damage your system. That is possible of course, but she had just read an article on calcium healing cancer. She was a nice lady.

I think every day of my friend who is about to go into palliative care. Her cancer has run its course, I accompanied her for her appointment with the department the other day. Strange to be there. I am glad I went.

We read and talk about people not knowing what to say, or how to behave, but I think there is more to it than that. Not sure what it is, have not read any studies on the subject. Maybe I should. Or not. There appears to be some opportunism or reverse opportunism in all of this.

A bit of – I have no use for this person any more. They have stopped being fun. Turned into a downer. All they talk about it their chronic condition. Not interested in watching sports any more. Not interested in shopping and all the other things that made you fun to be with. Why is the chronic person so quick tempered and angry all the time? Time for new friends, or more to the point, renewed friendships.

People rising to the occasion, visiting, talking, making their presence felt one way or another. Everyone catering to their strengths. Some just dropping by for a visit, companionship. Others making conversation, others lending you their cottages, or places to while away your time. Whether one takes advantage of the occasion, the offers, is hardly germane. One appreciates the sentiment, the offer, the gesture, the sentiment.

People are constantly telling me they might die any time as well. Avoiding the crisis. Death is hardly ever a pleasant conversation, nor is the specter of imminent death, whether speculated as something that is about to happen tomorrow or in ten years, a very pleasant thought to live with. Yet, here we are. Are people attempting to defuse the subject? Is there a benefit to telling the chronic person that there is competition to dying?

We would surely leads our lives differently if we believed truly that we could die at any minute, negating the doomsday scenario that prevails the chronic person. We live our lives the way we should, planning ahead, looking forward to watching in horror as our children grow up. Waiting patiently for the grand children, the travels, the parties, the friends.

Only a crisis provokes serious concerns about imminent death. The concerns soon evaporate as reality set in. We do not know when we will be lining up at the pearly gates. Even my friend who is dying and is seeing the palliative doctors has really no idea when the day will come. We just know that we have to be prepared for it in a way others don’t.

The crisis that is my condition has subsided somewhat. People have returned to their daily lives. This just a footnote to keep track of. So it should be. It is enough that it has disrupted the lives of one family, let alone a need for it to disrupt those of so many more.

The repercussions of this are not known. We live day by day not expecting much. This is not a negative feeling. You just have to learn to appreciate all things at all times.

I was lying in bed last night when the visual of walking along a precipice presented itself. I imagine a whole bunch of us walking along this precipice not daring to look down. Some stones crumble off the edge as we take our walks and fall silently into the unseen depths below us. A bit of our life chipping away? Fewer days ahead?

The edge of the precipice is crowded. Some are closer to the edge, others further up the small hill that abuts the precipice. We are all milling about, recognising some faces, talking, making new friends, contemplating, sitting in silence. We lose someone occasionally as the ground beneath them crumbles taking them in the void below. Some people congregate taking solace in the crowd, others stray farther afield treasuring their solitude. Yet others remain close to the entrance hoping against hope for a way out. The nature of the crowd changes continuously.

People move towards the precipice, as life is coming to a close, then back off as they are given a reprieve of sorts, more time. Time for whatever you think deserves it.

In the distance you see a wall behind which there are suitcases and backpacks and purses and containers. Everyone comes here with their baggage, real or imagined. They topple to their fate leaving it all behind. It accumulates gathering dust, rotting into the ether, a reminder of sorts. I will let your imagination sort that one out. There are tags on everything identifying the owner, some still with us, others long gone. The dust of time hangs heavy in the air. No one ventures further in.

Should you dare look down into the precipice, you will see nothing. Deep, cavernous, never ending, the sides shrouded in mist. People toppling over in silence. No screams or shouts of surprise at the fall. If you listen carefully, you might hear a heavy grateful sigh. A soul leaving the body perhaps, a sigh of gratification maybe.

There is a sense if resignation amongst the crowd. No one has given up. There is no sadness. The inevitable fall is staring us in the face. Yet, we mingle, compare notes, talk, laugh and make the best of it. No longer a question of why but rather one of when?

The first did not have an answer, and the second is no better.

I remember the trepidation of the first to or three sessions. What to expect? What will happen? You hear such stories from the good to the very bad. He went back to work after four sessions, to lost their hair and retired to the basement. I have indicated many times that my reaction to Chemo has been muted to say the least. I now take public transit to get there. I have taken public transit to come home as well. That will probably happen next week when I go for session 16. Janet and Devin are both working.

Public transit is a pretty good way to go. Takes me from almost the hospital front door to almost my front door. Cannot ask for anything more. Truly a non-event. My immediate reaction to Chemo is watering eyes. Not sure what that is all about. The eyes start watering and don’t stop for 24 hours. Next comes fatigue and the bowel system is thrown off balance. The rest is up in the air as it where. Some things show up and others don’t. Can never tell. We just wait things out. My last bout of Neulasta was not bad. No real pain, no more fatigue than usual. Am I building some sort of immunity to that as well?

I have always had a very strong immune system, which is why the cancer came as a bit of a surprise. That system is now holding me up. I am doing well, I am pretty sure, because my immune system is holding things up. They say the immune system gets compromised by cancer. I am sure mine has been compromised as well. Though my compromised system appears to be behaving very well. I am still forbidden from consuming raw meats. I miss that a lot. Sushi and steak tartar are two of my very favorite meals. Neither has passed these precious lips in over nine months. Sigh.

There I am sitting in the chair at the Chemo Daycare. I have been asked many times why I call it that. The answer is simple. Get off the elevator on the second floor and there are directions that basically say, Chemo Daycare, this way. Once at the end of the corridor, there is another sign that says something like Chemo Daycare reception. Not much left to the imagination.

Back to the story. There are two types chairs at the Chemo Daycare. Both allow you to lie down. The newer chair turns almost into a bed. You keep leaning back expecting to keel over at any minute. The chairs are great for sleeping in. The daycare is moving to the fourth floor in August. A whole new experience awaits us with new airplane like seats. I don’t think anyone will want to leave the place. New seats, new environment, new layout, same old drugs.

I keep digressing. I am lying in my chair, drugs coursing through my veins. Cannot sleep. Lying there watching my nurse go about her duties. I had a new nurse, Celeste. She was very official, as they all are when they do not know you. Check the Blue hospital card against your arm band, check your date of birth, check the drug regimen received against what is in the computer. The list goes on and on. My nurse relaxed when other nurses came by who know me and told her I am a trouble maker and she should give me a hard time.

Really, there is a story of sorts here. I am lying in the chair, failing in all my attempts to sleep. Warm blanket is covering me, pillow under my head. Drugs are coursing through my veins. You knew that already. I decide to look at the chart that the nurses follow in administering the drugs. There are six pages of instructions. Well, only a couple of pages of instructions, most of which is gibberish to me. There is a page that identifies the drugs I am supposed to be getting. Absurd amount of detail in there. Good for them to know, gibberish to me, though I think I might make a copy of it and browse the web for misinformation about what it is that is having a party in my body. I finally arrive at the first page.

There it is in all its glory. You are at the Princess Margaret Hospital. Your number is whatever. I am not giving that out, You might be jealous of the treatment I am receiving and decide to try it out for yourself. No such luck for you today. You will have to suffer through it in some semblance of virtual reality. The first page is also where it says that this is Session 15. On the same line as the session number is another entry which says, Intent: Palliative.

Yeah. There is that word. The end game. That is where it is all headed at some point. Palliative. I knew that. I have been told enough times about how complicated this is, and how advanced I am. That is all talk. Intellectual stuff. This is a bit stark. Sterile. Lifeless. You are headed to palliative, not today, or tomorrow. Sometime in the future. Five years? Ten years? More? Less? Hardly seems to matter. You are headed there at some point. Time to clean up the bedroom.

Death is such a bizarre concept. There is no coming back. No one has been able to put the experience into words. Here we are at the death bed of John Truro. Cameras rolling, microphone on, How does it feel Mr. Truro to be gasping your last breath? It feels like, well, let me put to you this way……. Just like in the movies where dying people talk to the very last minute. I watched a friend die once. It was nothing like that. The final half hour was very quiet. His deep breathing filling the room in the palliative ward. The priest came and went after uttering his blessings. The nurse came and stroked his head until the final breath was uttered. There was little left to say. Mixed emotions and feelings.

The person lives on for a few months. People talk about him. Then nothing. An afterthought. The name comes up in certain situations, but really, nothing vital is left. There is nothing wrong with this. Just the way life comes and goes. My father died in Swaziland. I was first on the scene. My sister joined me shortly after. We were left in charge of taking care of his few possessions. A few articles of clothing, and books. So many books. All in Persian or Arabic. We had no idea what they were about. We shipped them all out to some library somewhere. They would know what to do with them. That was in 1999. We closed his bank account. Buried him. Went back two years later to unveil the stone. Done. Finished. All gone. We obviously talk about him once in a while. He was a man with presence who commanded respect. He had in depth knowledge of the Bible, the Koran, and the Baha’i writings. One of the few who managed to reconcile all the messages in each with the others. But his light is extinguished. His name a mere anecdote in the history of life.

I came to the conclusion a few years ago, that we live through a few generations, then disappear. This explains the number of photographs of people that appear at flea markets all over the world. Piles and piles of pictures. Of no one in particular. Someone at some point. Someone to somebody, but now, no one. A smiling face in a pile of other smiling faces.

My friend Kali, who joins me for lunch every couple of weeks, asked me the other day what I though my legacy would be. What a question. Do we think in those terms? My pictures was the reply. I cannot imagine what my family will do will all the stuff I have that deals with photography. The books, cameras, and other equipment. I keep a lot of it for sentimental reasons. Others I should discard. I just had one of my film cameras repaired. The camera is 40 years old. I will use it again. What will they do with it?

Palliative? Not yet. I still have a lot left to do.

I noticed this couple at one of my chemo sessions. He, the patient, was not a happy camper. Nothing unusual, few of us smile on these occasions. I noticed them again at my last Chemo Daycare part. He was still not a happy camper. Barely said anything. I nodded at him, and he nodded back. His wife/partner/sister who was accompanying him struck up a conversation.

This is not the first time I have heard this interpretation of our condition. SHe maintains that he got cancer because he strayed from the path. This is his punishment. He will get better when he returns to the path.

We continued talking, wandering into a discussion of good and evil. The notion of Satan or the Devil doing his work, while God stands by. Janet left the waiting room. These discussions rarely go anywhere. I enjoy the mental exercise. That is what it is. Getting around the inconsistencies is quite an exercise.

The idea that God would stand by while the Devil goes about his evil ways begs the question of what sort of relationship these two have. I am assuming, of course, that there is such a thing as the Devil or Satan. More on that later.  Does God have a contract with Satan? God says, look at him and his evil ways, take him out. I say he is a category 2 evil. Category 2 you say, well that stands for Cancer. Got it.

The sinner repents, and God says, that is good. You are back in my flock. Devil, here is your commission, job well done. I still have cancer, the price to be paid for my sinning ways.

The woman who brought up the argument that Cancer is a punishment belongs to the Pentecostal Church. He has cancer because he strayed from the straight and narrow.  She will not get cancer because she is on the path through the salvation of Jesus Christ. If God will heal, what is he doing here, in chemo daycare? The answer to some comment I made returns this response: Did God tell him he has cancer? Who are going to believe, God or the Doctor? This is the second time I have come across this particular twist.

If there is a God the almighty, why is there a devil? Why cannot God take him out? God the good, Satan the evil. Are the lines really that clear?

The contradictions in the arguments are astounding. Reconciling the concept of good and evil is, in itself, a Herculean task. What is good and where is the separation between good and evil? Who defines what is good, and by contrast what is evil? Darkness is the absence of light. Is evil the absence of good? Which brings us back to who defines what is good?

The lines separating good and evil get murkier as one gets older. The advantage of not knowing with absolute certainty what all the answers are. Fire is both good and evil. The definition of what is good is getting harder.

Is my cancer good or evil. On the face of it, I can say with absolute certainty that is evil. On the other hand, this blog has helped people who either have cancer, or know someone who does. Getting cancer has given me the opportunity to delve into afreas I would not normally venture into.

My relationship with Fetneh has become stronger than ever, as has my relationship with my brother. My wife and I are closer than we have ever been, a renewed relationship, if that were possible. I cannot work, but I can still help people. Religion plays a bigger role in my life. Contemplation of life and events that surround me have gained a new importance and a validity of sorts. Is cancer bad? I can truly say that it is a pain, and for sure not a good thing. The effects of it, though, have been surprising and an opportunity for spiritual growth.

Baha’is are encouraged to fast once a year, between March 2 and March 21. We are enjoined to not eat or drink between sunrise and sunset. We wake up before sunrise and eat enough to see us to sunset. We also say prayers, one of which is the prayer for the fast. the fast ends with the New Years celebration called Naw Ruz, literally translated as New Day. One of the prayers celebrating Naw Ruz has a passage that is particularly interesting to me:

“Shouldst Thou regard him who hath broken the fast as one who hath observed it, such a man would be reckoned among them who from eternity had been keeping the fast. And shouldst Thou decree that he who hath observed the fast hath broken it, that person would be numbered with such as have caused the Robe of Thy Revelation to be stained with dust, and been far removed from the crystal waters of this living Fountain.”

This opens an amazing door for compassion and forgiveness. Qualifying an action by the amount of spirituality or sincerity in observing rules and regulations.Can this be translated to the observance of other rules?

Some things should be considered as evil, though not at the behest of Satan. Murder in all its forms, as in genocide, is reprehensible. The effects of such actions may not be reprehensible. If death is the ultimate goal of life, then surely such actions fulfill the life long destiny of the victims ushering them into the next life.

Is this too far fetched

Not having fear would ruin a good horror movie, mind. The static pages section on the right has a list of over 600 fears and their scientific terms. 600! The title of this post is fear of death and I hope the conversation leads me there. People often ask me what process I go through when writing. Simple really. I just write what comes to my head. Very little editing. I correct my typos, as much as I can. The screen is failing my aging eyes. I might re-arrange a couple of things, but in general do not spend any time re-writing any sections. Hence the hope that the conversation will eventually lead me to the title.

I grew up in Ethiopia. We were there from 1953 to 1963. There are maps of the world showing how much artificial light we generate in different parts of the world. Africa is dark.

Map Showing the Amount of Artificial Lights we Generate

It is dark today, and it was dark in 1953 and 1963. I was very afraid of the dark. Some nights were so dark you would be blind outside. I have always been a restless sleeper. My parents used to put dining room chairs beside my bed as I kept falling out of bed. I would not go to the bathroom at night. They would leave the bathroom window open. I was terrified of the darkness outside. Every once in a while, there would be a feral cat sitting on the window sill. All I could see was the two eyes shining ominously at me. Did I mention how terrified of cats I was as well? Not sure where I peed the first night I saw that combination in the bathroom window.

We raised chicken in Ethiopia. The feral cats would attack them regularly. My brother made a sport of shooting the cats. The locals would also participate. It was fun, I think. I had no objections. The fewer of them the less likely they would be sitting in the bathroom window waiting for me. My job was to encourage the chickens to go into the coop at nights to prevent the cats from eating them. Chicken are the dumbest animals on earth. They had to be chased into the coop every night. You would think they figure things out after a couple of weeks. But no, not these animals. No wonder we eat them. No danger of any brain disease afflicting us, since chicken do not have brains.

Janet and I went to Martha’s Vineyard for our honeymoon. It was loads of fun, highly recommended as a travel destination. We took a drive down to the beach one night. How romantic. It was a cloudy night, not a star in the sky and totally dark. I mean cannot see the nose in front of your face dark. We found our way to the beach and stood there holding hands listening to the steady rhythm of the waves lapping the shores. We stood for about five minutes when the conversation turned to the dangers of being there by yourself, and how someone could easily kill you and you would never be found. Never mind it was too dark to see anything. We talked ourselves into an inane fear and rushed back to the car racing home.You can laugh now. In fact we all laugh now when we talk about it. What an insane thought process to put yourself through.

Fear.

It paralyses you.

It defeats you.

Makes you cringe at the slightest provocation.

Fear of a project at work stops you from performing the task in the allowed time frame.

And the list goes on.

Wikipedia has a listing  for fear. Big surprise there. They also talk about fear of death. There it is, the title subject.

Are we afraid of death because we do not know what happens after? Why would that scare us? We often do not know what is going to happen after some other events in our lives. Why does death scare us so? Life after death, which I believe in, is also fraught with issues. What happens when you get to the pearly gates? Where do you fit in the new world? We are told there is progress and evolution in the next world but no time factor. How does that work? We are told that there is a connection between our current world and the next. That you reconnect with you spouse in the next world. That punishments not meted out in this world for a crime committed will be looked after in the next world.

All sorts of questions arise from this. What form, what shape, what is considered a punishable offense? What constitutes a punishment? We do not believe in heaven and hell, only life after death. Is Hitler standing behind a window watching the fun everybody else is having? Accompanied by Genghis Khan and Hannibal? Or is Genghis Khan not such a bad guy, living in a different age where values were so different from what they are now? Do we really know the difference between good and bad in order to make an intelligent decision regarding any of this?

What if you do not believe in life after death? The world as you know it ends. You are buried or cremated and that is the end of it. The only certainty in life is death. You are born, and you know that you will die. Just a question of when, where and how. Most of these you cannot control. Not believing in life after death is a release of sorts. No payment for your indiscretions, they are buried with you. What are you afraid of exactly?

We moved to Toronto in 1980. I got a job at Radio Shack as a salesman. An insurance agent came into the store and saw me as a target. There is a twist, a salesperson comes into a store to sell to another salesperson. She started the sale picth:

Do you have life insuranace?

No

What happens if you die?

I will be dead

What about your family?

They won’t be dead

Who is going to bury you?

I don’t know who will bury me. I will be dead.

Is it fair to leave that expense to your family?

I don’t know, others will assist. Look around you, any dead bodies lying around? Somehow everyone gets looked after. And anyways, I will be dead.

She walks out.

I do not fear death because I do not know what lies ahead of me. I can only fear things I know about. For instance running over a pedestrian. It could happen, specially the way I drive. That is a relative known factor. But death is so unknown. Not like you can come back and talk about it, or send a postcard. You die, you are gone. Why the fear?

The above mentioned Wikipedia article talks about people of Faith have less fear of death. The further you remove yourself from Faith, the more scared of death you are.

Some of my friends tell me I am lucky or fortunate to have this Faith that gives me comfort. Maybe. I wish I understood this better.

Life has changed to the point that the future has little meaning. People are always telling me that we do not know when we are going to die. This should make it easier to survive my plight. It is true that our death is pretty much out of our hands, unless we are going for the Darwin Awards. Short of that we really have no idea when the idea is coming.

What a privilege to know that your life will be shortened by whatever the number of years. Imagine my disappointment if it is not. Going through this journey and reconciling oneself to the inevitability of a shortened life only to find it will last longer than expected. How to deal with all that extra time? Won’t I live with the expectation of impending doom past a certain point?

I am not sure what the future has in hand. How long my life will be, and I do not dwell on the subject very often. The thoughts do linger though. I have learned one thing through this very short journey, everyone is different and no two conditions are the same. I hear stories all the time about people surviving beyond the expected time frame. Everyone is careful not to talk about the people who did not, of course. Not one person has said, “you have what? Oh my God, I just heard of a guy just like that, he was gone in two years!”

No one would ever say that. Not even as a joke. People are very sensitive to one’s plight and say whatever they say in order t encourage and make the condition appear to be less dire that it appears. Much appreciated. Have I told you lately about the bag that is taped to my stomach?

People mean well and comments are taken at face value. The conversations are always appreciated. Each and everyone contain glimmers of wisdom and thought provoking statements that I would not miss for the world.

One of the comments most mentioned is the one that one is now forced to live on a day to day basis. There is certainly a measure of truth in that. One of the reasons is that you have little energy to think about anything past a reasonable amount of time, say Monday when you are going for a very telling CT-Scan. But you do not tend to dwell on things too far into the future. Your condition in some ways forces you to remain very much in the present, even during the good week in between treatments.

An unclear future , either in length or any other measure you care to discuss can get very depressing. There is a distinct danger of wallowing in self pity. Yet at some point, you have to start thinking about what you are going to do with yourself. I do have some time in front of me. The chemo treatments will end at some point, and I will recover. Leaving thoughts of what to do with oneself to the last minute is too much procrastination, even for me.

Your thought and comments are appreciated.

There will be another post on this topic. It is inevitable. See, already thinking past today.

I also have a neat row of staples going down my stomach. 38 of them to be exact. Dr. Kennedy did a great job with those. Once all the tubes, staples, pipes and stuff are removed, you are left with the bag.

Janet bought a Queen CD with We Are The Champions so I could listen to it. Diana lent me a bunch of CDs to while away the hours. Nancy lent me a relaxation CD, courtesy of Jacquie. Marina got me one of those pathetic Word Search books. I have magazines and books. Lots to keep me busy. The only things I could do with ease was the relaxation CD, and the Word Search book.

I could think as the grogginess started to ease up. I could talk, mostly with Janet. And I could cry, which I did a lot. I cried when I first listened to the Queen CD. Uncontrollable. Trying to figure out why I am crying so much. Yeah, yeah, I would not be normal if I did not cry. But that is not the point. Life has changed dramatically, possibly for the worse, but why the abundance of tears? I do not feel sorry for myself. No wallowing in self pity here. Waste of time. Serves no purpose.

I do not fear death. Baha’is believe in life after death. There is continuity. No idea what form it takes, or where or whatever. None of that is important. Just that death is not the end of life. The soul carries on to the next phase. A bit like the birth of a child moving from the world of the womb to this one. And so we move from this womb to the next life.

This lack of fear removes a huge psychological problem from the equation. And change does not scare me. We have moved and changed our lives way too often for me to be scared of change. Of course, this is change on a grander scale than any I have experienced. But I am not alone in going through this. Janet and Devin are there, and as it turns out, so are a WHOLE bunch of friends and relatives in totally unexpected ways. And yet, I do feel alone a lot.

I tell people about the bag, and no one quite understands. How could they? What a concept. A bag attached to your stomach through which you go to the bathroom. You can hear the doubt in people’s voices when you talk about it. So I tend to show the bag just so everyone has a fair idea of what we are talking about. In the great scheme of things, the bag is becoming a minor issue specially in context of the bigger picture of everything else that is going on.

And yet, the tears keep coming. When people are kind. When I look at the home videos my nieces sent me. When a phone call is received from a friend out of the blue. I go through days of extreme sensitivity where the tears are closer to the surface, and other days, when they seem to be more controllable.

Janet and I had long discussions while in hospital about all this. Where is life taking us? What happens now? How much time will be spent on treatments? What does the new life look like? So many more questions. Questions, and more questions. Very few answers.

The lack of clear answers adds to the difficulty of coping with everything. We have a clear direction about where the chemo is going. Starts probably next Thursday and will last for whatever length of time is required. No end point. And that is OK. What is not OK is not knowing how the body will react. Nausea and diarrhea are a given. Or not. As is the loss of hair. My sister tells me all body hair is lost. The first reaction is contemplating the loss of hair on the head. Not such a traumatic event where men are concerned. But then you have to consider the rest of the body hair, the ones on the back, legs and arms. That becomes a little more troubling, but not too much. My sister tells me to be prepared for finding hair on the bed when you wake up.

The hair is not a big deal. I might even have a head shaving party, and invite my bald friends. My hair will grow back at the end of it all. So no worries there. What is more troubling is the body’s reaction to everything else. The weakening of the immune system, the same immune system that has saved me so many times during this whole process. The one that makes people believe I am so strong. It will get weakened and exposes you to all sorts of things. Cannot shave with a razor in case I cut myself. Or be exposed to people with a cold. What about H1N1 which has not troubled me at all. It suddenly becomes an issue. Do I walk around with a mask? Or have a mask in the house?

The oncologist said we would take a breather from chemo at some point next year. I think that might be a good time for us to go somewhere like Cuba and just absorb the sun, recharge the batteries.

This has been a bit of a rant. There will be more. Bear with me.