Urgency in Limbo

I am finding that my psychology evolves as my cancer progresses. Currently, constantly mindful that I am dying of cancer, I seem to be calmly accepting of my fate. Nevertheless, since being informed by Dr. Saltz that we are running out of cards to play, time has sped up for me again. Living in limbo, I have a newfound sense of urgency.

When I see a friend now, or watch on television an annual event like the Kentucky Derby, I am well aware that it may be for the last time. Although we renewed our subscription to our box at Saratoga-- there is a years'-long waiting list for those boxes-- for the race meeting from late July through Labor Day, we have not rented a place to stay in Saratoga.

Since my first CAT scan after my second surgery detected tumors in my liver, it has been clear that any additional treatments that I might receive would be palliative, rather than curative. Thus, the stakes were lowered. From then on, whether a particular chemotherapy were efficacious or not would not be a matter of life or death. (Awaiting test results, cancer patients who are in remission or still have hope of cure have a much harder time than I do.)

As I look at alternatives-- given that any treatments that I might undergo would be merely palliative and my willingness to trade quantity for quality of remaining life-- the final treatment that may make any sense for me to endure in order to try to extend my life is FOLFOX, the chemotherapy protocol that I am currently following. Consequently, I am quite concerned about my ability to tolerate FOLFOX and about its efficacy for my cancer.

Dr. Saltz will not know whether FOLFOX is shrinking my tumors until my next CAT scan, which has not yet been scheduled. By contrast, throughout each day and much of most nights, I am acutely aware of symptoms of my body's rebellions to being poisoned by the FOLFOX cocktail. Other complications from the poisoning have to be ascertained by medical testing.

Yesterday, in spite of my dosage of FOLFOX having been reduced by 20 percent, a blood test indicated that my platelet level has once again plummeted-- a rare response to FOLFOX, according to the literature. If my platelet level does not rebound significantly by this coming Tuesday, the 18th of May, I think that the best for which I can hope is that my next infusion of FOLFOX  will merely be delayed.

Meanwhile, I feel better today than I did yesterday. To avoid inconveniencing others, I am no longer scheduling social engagements. Nonetheless, I agreed on short notice to have lunch with a friend who is leaving town for the summer. Since that pleasant lunch-- at Raffaele, a neighborhood Italian restaurant-- I have felt even better. Moreover, I am having a fairly productive day. Though it is raining and unseasonably cold, I am joyful. 

 

Analgesic

Although I don't like to lose, I was content with Mustang Island's second-place finish in his race today as the 3-1 betting favorite in a field of 12. The race was at the same distance and over the same surface-- Belmont Park's inner turf course-- as Hot Money's race yesterday. Owing to a recent lack of rainfall, that course has been inordinately hard and fast; the last six sprint races over it, including Mustang Island's race today, have been won by the front runner.

Nevertheless, because Mustang Island is overly anxious to run, our trainer, Christophe Clement, instructed the jockey, Rajiv Maragh, not to go for the early lead, but rather to "cover up" Mustang Island behind and inside other horses. The idea was to teach still-inexperienced Mustang Island to relax in his races until the stretch run. Maragh rode to instructions, and Mustang Island ran well, even though he was not able to overcome the current course bias in favor of the front runner.

I had had a miserable night and day and did not make up my mind until mid-afternoon to go out to Belmont Park with Susan. During the hour or so that I spent with friends in the owners' boxes, visiting the paddock before the race, and watching the race, I felt no pain.

A Different Kind of Pain

For the last few days, I have not been very productive. I have been beset not only by fatigue and other  common reactions to chemotherapy, but also by relatively minor bone pain from Neulasta, a drug with which I am injected two days after undergoing chemotherapy, to counteract chemotherapy's suppression of my production of white blood cells. 

Nevertheless, my anticipation of Hot Money's return to the races has been steadily growing. For me, there could be few better antidotes to chemotherapy's poisons than to have a horse with Hot Money's talent win decisively, with the whole racing season in front of him. So I summoned my energy and went with Susan to Belmont Park to see him in the paddock and watch his race.

It was sunny and cool, with low humidity: perfect weather for racing, or just about anything else. The turf course was firm. Hot Money was calm in the paddock, fit without being lean, with a shiny summer coat-- just the way one would like to see one's horse at the beginning of a campaign! In a field of eight, he was the 8-5 betting favorite. 

After breaking alertly from the outside post position, Hot Money settled on the outside of the field, several lengths from the lead, as his rider, Majiv Maragh, assessed their unfolding position in the race. Nothing was opening up towards their inside. In order to avoid losing too much ground on the sweeping turn into the stretch, Maragh either had to pull Hot Money towards the back of the field or gun him towards the front. Maragh decided on the latter course of action, and Hot Money accelerated around the field, reaching the leader with a quarter of a mile to run in the six-furlong (i.e., three-quarters-of-a-mile) race. 

At that moment, I thought that Hot Money was going to draw away from the field and win in fine style; he had finished strongly in his morning works and his winning races. But his momentum faded, and he finished fourth. Although he seemed to be fine afterwards, it often takes a few days after a race for problems to manifest themselves. 

Despite my skepticism about rationalizing and excuses, there are plausible explanations for his tiring that have nothing to do with his health. Perhaps he wasn't as fit as we thought after his long layoff and simply got tired from a premature move in a fast-run race. Jockeys are convenient scapegoats for owners , trainers, and bettors, and one could be critical of Maragh's decision to unleash Hot Money so early in the race. In any case, as an antidote for my worries about my health, I will have worries about Hot Money's health until he wins again.

My hopes turn to Mustang Island's race tomorrow.

From Chemotherapy to Horse Racing

Yesterday, after reviewing my platelet levels and examining me, my medical oncologist, Dr. Leonard Saltz, recommended that I undergo another infusion of the chemotherapy cocktail called "FOLFOX." He said that he thought from his examination that the first two cycles of treatment with FOLFOX might be shrinking my tumors. I accepted his recommendation and commenced the third cycle of treatment.

If I feel well enough, I will go out to Belmont Park on Long Island: on Friday, to watch Hot Money run in the sixth race; and on Saturday, to watch Mustang Island in the 10th race. Based on Hot Money's performances on the turf to date (two wins in his first three tries and favored at $0.95 to $1.00 in his third start, in which he cracked a splint bone) and the apparent quality of his opposition, he will probably be favored to win. Although he has been away from the races for a long time, his trainer, Christophe Clement, is renowned amongst bettors for having his horses ready to run after long layoffs.

Mustang Island's prospects on Saturday are more difficult to assess. He is a little behind Hot Money in coming to hand this spring. Unlike Hot Money, he is still shedding his winter coat, and he has had one or two fewer works than Hot Money. The talent of the competition in Mustang Island's race is more difficult to assess, and Mustang Island has never before been asked to sprint on the turf. He won last year at the distance of 1 1/16 th miles in his only race on the turf. In that race, he was rank and fought with his jockey; we are hoping that in a six-furlong race, which will have a faster pace, Mustang Island will settle under light restraint behind the early leaders. Like Hot Money, he will be ridden by Majiv Maragh, a talented young jockey. 

I think that the probable favorite in Mustang island's race will be Onzain, which belongs to a friend of mine, Bill Punk. As owners and trainers say about their friends' horses, if I can't win it, I hope Bill does!

Mortality and Immortality

I think a lot about the dying process, and I fear it greatly. I do not dwell on thoughts of being dead, except for its effect on my family. Since I was a small child, I have equated being dead with nothingness.

With respect to physical and spiritual mortality and immortality, we humans differ from, for example, most if not all other mammals in our acute knowledge of our mortality. This great awareness of the life cycle does nothing to free us from it. We are conceived; we are born; we live for a time, during which we may reproduce and nurture offspring; and we die. I do not believe that, other than through genetic contribution to progeny, there is literal life after death for us or for other forms of life. (A species of jellyfish has, however, evolved to biological immortality.)

We human beings have unique power, through our big brains and technology, to affect planet earth and all forms of life that it supports, long after our individual lives cease. Unfortunately, it is easier for a human being to wreak long-lasting damage than to create long-lasting good. 

Eventually, both the human species and our planet will cease to exist. Thus, immortality seems to me to be a meaningful concept only if defined oxymoronically as having temporal limits coterminous with the survival of planet earth or with the human species. 

Our ideas may achieve immortality-- if not ascribable, then through their own DNA. Ideas interact with other ideas that give birth to other ideas, and so on. Hunting, toolmaking, know-how, language, oral tradition, music, farming, literature, religion, superstition, war, politics, science, teaching, law, technology, medicine, art, architecture, trade, business, finance, design, games, and all other human endeavors are based on, develop, and amplify ideas. Thus, in any human invention or innovation, there is potential immortality.

I do not believe that "things happen for a reason," or that a personal God has a plan for each of us, or indeed for the human species. I do not find any meaning in my cancer, other than as an ordeal that I hope spurred me to grow during my remaining life. Although I allow for the possibility of free will, I think that our individual fates are largely determined by randomness: It is good to be lucky, as I have been in so many ways in my life.

I am 67 years old. In another 67 years, there will be at most a few people who knew and remember me. In 500 years, like all but a handful of my 6.8 billion living brethren, I will be traceable, if at all, only in genetic material and/or genealogical records. Nevertheless, like any of my fellow humans, my fleeting mortality may leave in its wake contrails of immortality, however untraceable and dilute.

Derby Doings

Last Saturday's Kentucky Derby was won by Super Saver, ridden by Calvin Borel.  Jockey Borel's winning ride was his third Kentucky Derby victory in the last four years-- an unprecedented feat, accomplished on an extreme long shot as well as favorites or near favorites. Each of these rides has been a variation on a theme: Drop the horse to the inside rail at the beginning of the race, relax him, save ground throughout the race, then surge along the rail to the finish line, as the tiring horses in front drift out towards the center of the track. 

Everyone knows what Borel is going to do. Nonetheless, in the Kentucky Derby, the other jockeys, who usually make a point of not being shown up by letting a horse through on the rail, let Borel through unimpeded. My only explanation is that the Kentucky Derby must be so important to the other jockeys that they are more concerned about getting the best out of their mounts than they are about reaffirming their territorial "rights."

We once had a pretty good horse, Statesmanship (winner of  eight races in his career, including five graded stakes), which was repeatedly ridden up the rail to victory by his jockey, Jose Santos. Eventually, in the Bernard Baruch, a graded stakes race at Saratoga, the other jockeys deliberately bottled Statesmanship up on the rail.

Fortunately, I had a bet on Super Saver, who went off at 8-1 odds. That payoff almost got me back to even on my day's wagering.

Family Golfing Lore

My mother's father, whom we called "Daddy Bill, " died nearly a half century ago. One of our family stories about Daddy Bill concerned the instance in the mid-1930s when he loaned Bob Jones (popularly known, to his displeasure, as "Bobby Jones") his golf clubs when Jones found himself at Augusta without his own clubs. 

My father inherited that set of clubs from Daddy Bill and added its one iron to his own set of clubs. The rest of the clubs in that set, rendered sacred relics in our minds by Bob Jones, were eventually lost or stolen. When my father stopped playing golf, he passed the one iron along to me. I found it nearly impossible to hit and donated it to the museum at Redtail golf club in Canada, to which I then belonged. (Of course, there is no disgrace in not being able to hit a one iron. As Lee Trevino, who had been struck by lightening on a golf course, once said while exiting a course after a lightening alert and waving a one iron over his head, "Even God can't hit a one iron!")

Recently, my sister sent me some old newspaper clippings. One of them chronicles Daddy Bill's interaction with Bob Jones. It seems that the setting was not Augusta National, which had just been completed, but Forest Hills, in North Carolina. Jones was using borrowed clubs and was struggling with the driver in the set. At the ninth tee, Daddy Bill joined the small gallery following Jones's foursome and loaned Jones his driver. Jones hit Daddy Bill's driver so well that he even used it once for his second shot on a par five.

How did that tale become so embellished? Was it just the process of retelling over a period of years? My father was the keeper of golf stories in our family, and he loved to tell a good story. I don't know if my father was familiar with Mark Twain's dictum, "Never let the truth get in the way of a good story, unless you can't think of something better." Once my father told a version of a story that he liked, he stayed with that version until it became his memory of the event. If my father had been shown the newspaper article, I'm sure that he would have added to his repertoire my magnificent gift of the one iron, never touched by Jones, to the golf museum.

I played Augusta National only once, as a guest of Ted Danforth. When we reached number 12, the famous three par on "Amen Corner," I didn't realize that the pin was in its treacherous "Sunday-at-the-Masters" position-- the quintessential sucker pin placement. Ben Hogan once said that if he ever birdied number 12 on Sunday at the Masters, you would know that he had missed his tee shot. Not knowing any better, I took dead aim at the pin, and my ball came to rest about two feet from the hole. Not only the other members of my foursome, but also the caddies couldn't contain their laughter at my dumb luck. 

Striding across the Hogan Bridge spanning Rae's Creek on my way to the hole, all I could think about was the glory of making a birdie at number 12 at Augusta with the pin in that storied location. I missed the putt.