Aging

Life Update: April 2025

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Stayin’ Alive
(Dancing Day to Day with the Big C)

Blogger’s Disclaimer: Not actually me.

Well, it’s been a year now since the Calamitous Colonoscopy of Destiny, which occurred on Easter Sunday, of all days, in 2024. (When the hospital called to confirm the appointment, I was like, are you sure that’s right?) It was on this usually joyous spring holiday that the doctor and his team found a plus-size tumour near the junction of my large and small intestines. A biopsy and follow-up CT scan showed that it was advanced colon cancer. It had spread to the peritoneum, or the lining of the abdomen, and was deemed inoperable, which limited the options for treatment. I was scheduled for chemotherapy, but was told it could only slow the cancer for as long as possible, not cure me. (Although I still hold out a flicker of hope for one of those miracles I’ve heard about. Come on, all you deities, get cracking on that, stat!)

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Life Update

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So I Have Cancer, Again
(And It’s a Doozy This Time)

Okay, here we go…

In early 2005 I was diagnosed with bladder cancer. The diagnosis was, in a way, a relief after several months of discomfort and such frequent urination that I couldn’t leave the house without planning stops at all the public restrooms along my route. The urologist removed a fist-size mass of tumours from my bladder and then went back about 12 more times over the next four years to excise smaller ones that kept popping up. I underwent a localised chemotherapy treatment that lasted six weeks and endured many, many cystoscopies. (That’s where they take a camera attached to a long, thin tube and insert it… well, let’s just say it doesn’t go in your ear.) The process was arduous, painful and stressful, and even though I’ve been clear of bladder tumours for a long time now, I still have to have an annual cystoscopy to make sure everything is copacetic. I really look forward to it, said no one ever. 

I thought that experience would make me square with the C-word, but it turns out it was just a warm-up act. Now for the headliner: I was recently diagnosed with advanced bowel cancer. This followed a routine, and obviously long overdue, colonoscopy, a biopsy and a subsequent CT scan. The cancer has spread to the lining of the abdomen (peritoneum), causing a build-up of fluid, and it’s been deemed inoperable unless I get an A+ on the chemo treatment I’m currently undergoing, which my oh-so-cheery oncologist says is unlikely. Failing that, they’ll try to manage it with chemo and keep me alive “for as long as possible,” to quote Dr. Sunshine. He said this with that faux-sincere, annoyingly condescending tone doctors use that sounds like, I am offering you well-rehearsed words of comfort, Patient 4673, while wearing my patented “I care” expression. Of course, what I’m really thinking about is my upcoming holiday in Greece.

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Oh Sh*t, I’m 60!
On Being Blindsided by a Major Milestone

David Byrne was right. I am asking myself, “Well, how did I get here?”

When I was a teenager back in the days of yore – aka the late 1970s/early ‘80s – I used to wonder what life on Earth would be like in the year 2000. Would it be the futuristic utopia we saw on the Jetsons? Or would it be a terrifying hellscape overrun by Alien-esque predators with banana-shaped heads and corrosive drool? More importantly, would I achieve my dream of being an international rock superstar, captivating whatever remained of the human race and our extra-terrestrial tormentors with my majestic vocals and deeply profound lyrics? It was fun to muse about such scenarios, but then the lacerating realization that I’d be turning 38 in the first year of the new millennium would abruptly pop my daydream bubble. God, I’d be so very, very old! My adolescent brain couldn’t fathom such an advanced state of decrepitude.

Well, here we are in 2023 and what I wouldn’t give to be 38 again. I turned 60 late last summer and these many months later I have yet to come to grips with it. (And sadly, I’m not even a famous rock star to cushion to blow.) How in the name of Methuselah did this happen? 60 is just not a good fit for me. I feel simultaneously unworthy of such an august age – I lack both the emotional maturity and sage wisdom usually associated with a sexagenarian – and offended that the march of time would treat me like everyone else along its parade route. How dare the laws of nature apply to me! I demand to speak to the manager.

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Absolute Beginner: The Adventures of a Middle-Aged U.K. Newbie

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[Blogger’s note: I was born and raised in America, moved to Canada for love early in the new millennium, and recently relocated again, in my 50s, with my British-born spouse to the southern coast of his homeland. This is an occasional series about learning new tricks in Merry Old England.]

A Bloke Afloat: Getting Chummy with the English Seaside

btyWith the hottest summer on record in the UK nearing its inevitable end, it’s time to take stock of the personal highlights and lowlights of these past few muggy months. One definite lowlight: no central air conditioning in our flat! In the sweltering American South, where I grew up, central air is as essential to life as grits and saying “thank you, ma’am.” Here in England, the climate is usually less steamy. Most of the time my partner and I feel sufficiently cooled at home by opening windows and, of course, downing a few icy gin and tonics. This summer, as the weeks dragged on without any hint of rain and temperatures hovered in the high 20s C/mid-80s F, I was an ever-moist mess. Continue reading →

Absolute Beginner: The Adventures of a Middle-Aged U.K. Newbie

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[Blogger’s note: I was born and raised in America, moved to Canada for love early in the new millennium, and recently relocated again, in my 50s, with my British-born spouse to the southern coast of his homeland. This is an occasional series about learning new tricks in Merry Old England.]

Lovely, Actually: Embracing Britain’s Cuddliest Expression

lovelypicIt was the afternoon of Prince Harry’s and Meghan Markle’s nuptials and royal wedding-obsessed folks all over Britain, indeed the world, were bunched around TV screens, hankies at the ready, to watch the blessed event. But not me and my partner. We had skipped the live airing to hunt for discounted summer attire in Portsmouth’s scruffy city centre shopping district. (Though of course we caught the two-hour BBC recap later that evening. We’re not monsters.) Well into our leisurely stroll from our flat to the shops, we overheard a cheerful male voice approaching from behind. “Hello, Nan, it’s your favourite grandson!” the voice crooned in that pleasantly sing-song way in which many Brits speak. Being a world-class sleuth, I quickly deduced that he was talking to his grandmother via mobile phone. “What’s that, Nan?” the voice continued. “No, I’m not watching it. Don’t really have any interest. You? Ah, lovely. I’m sure it is a beautiful dress. Well, I was just calling to wish Auntie Gail a happy birthday. Is she around? Lovely! Ta, Nan!” Continue reading →