False Hopes

I AM, IN NARRATING MY EXPERIENCE WITH LATE STAGE PROSTATE CANCER, MAKING AN EFFORT AT ALL TIMES TO CORRECTLY IDENTIFY, USING CORRECT AND INTENSIVELY PROOFREAD SPELLING AND OTHER METHODS, TO FIRST (1) AVOID MAKING MEDICAL CLAIMS AND (2) AVOID BEING A REFERENCE PSEUDO-AUTHORITY ON TREATMENT FROM THE STANDPOINT OF THE PATIENT. BUT AT NO TIME AM I TO BE TREATED AS SUCH. USE WIKIPEDIA AND NOT ME TO INFORMALLY DOUBLE CHECK THE SPELLING OF DRUG NAMES, A LIFE OR DEATH MATTER AND USE INDUSTRY-SPECIFIC AUTHORITIES FOR ALL REAL MEDICAL PROOFREADING. OTHERWISE, YOU ARE ENDANGERING YOUR OWN LIFE, THAT OF LOVED ONES OR THAT OF PATIENTS!

The Leuprorelin Acetate injection was for me an injection of false hopes, for it appears that if I can narrate what happened as if had a telos, as if a macro narrative made sense, the cancer “observed” what was happening and counter attacked in force using its “reserves”. Cue Twilight Zone theme: cancers can act like intelligent beings at times. In response we have to act even smarter,

cf. Steven Wolfram A New Kind of Science. It may make sense to speak of cancers as systems with a telos and also to start speaking of instances of their cures as more systems with a telos. Cancer research should stop thinking in terms of the 19th century “cures” of bacteria based diseases. Here, we merely threw a “medicine” perceived as a foot soldier against an enemy which once defeated was thought unlikely to return.

But AIDS showed doctors how smart patients, acting more than gorks on gurneys could as a part of a telos take full responsibility for their care, saving their money for their medication and using their educations to better understand what was happening, and, in despair, “act up” and fight any way.

This three month period has been one in which the “good guys”, the non-cancerous cells of Me (which, to go out on an perhaps unprecedented limb may represent “God’s plan” for what Walt Whitman meant by “o helpless soul of me” here:

O powerful, western, fallen star!
O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!

For we must not speak falsely now the hour is much too late, and once you give a name to your “secular humanism” it becomes a foul thing: I was was filled with awe at Christopher Hitchens’ description, in almost real time similar to this memoir: but does that make me a Hitchenite? Damned if it does, for the Hitch merely repeated an old story we already know.

I could prophesy: will stretches of Hitch’s DNA be read out at Lessons and Carols realize that Hitchens is saying nothing more than “death is real in this way for me” and “behold in this way for me” as a “secular humanist” who is forced to use spiritual language at the crisis (devoid of myth-making) he’s saying exactly what the oh so religious person is saying. To do anything more than this is a mistake in style like wearing the wrong kind of hat.

end of unprecedented limb

I hope to workout for 20 minutes on the rowing machine today and will report either way.

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