I've been working as an advertising representative for Connection Newspapers since February 1997. I responded to an ad in the newspaper, of course. The edition for which I am primarily responsible is the Potomac Almanac, although I can place ads in any of our other 14 newspapers. In addition, I have written a weekly, award-winning, column going on nearly 14 years, as of December 2011.
"Thoughtful humor and insightful commentary" and "Everything in general about nothing in particular" are two characterizations with which I am most comfortable.
Born in Brookline, Mass., I remain a loyal Boston sports fan, committed (or rather should be) and loyal member of Red Sox Nation. To set foot on the hallowed grounds of Fenway Park would be an experience I'd spend the rest of my life cherishing. I remember exactly where I was when Carlton Fisk hit his game-winning home run in game six of the 1975 World Series.
After re-reading last week’s column: “Not in the Mood,” I began wondering if that column had strayed beyond the boundaries, so to speak, and was too much about me and not enough about my circumstances. Certainly I understand, given my column’s recurring theme, that the subjects of me and my circumstances – and the personal stories I share with you regular readers – are basically the same. Still, I never want the content to be considered important because it’s MY life that’s being profiled. Quite the contrary. If the columns were any more about me, you wouldn’t be interested.
Sometimes, believe it or not, I’m not in the mood to be a terminal cancer patient (duh). Not that the effect is particularly tangible, but the weight of it, as well as the associated waits I’ve occasionally written about, can get awfully heavy. Moreover, in spite of my best psychological efforts, generally speaking, there seems little I can do to diminish its effect. More often than not, it’s merely time; simply time passing and/or time spent trying to talk myself out-of how I feel and in-to how I haven’t failed.
For the past year, every three weeks I have been infused with a chemotherapy drug called Alimta, “the last miracle drug,” to quote my oncologist, and a drug with which I hadn’t previously been infused.
One of my greatest fears (or regrets, if I am in fact the cause of my own decline) is that my own stubbornness, stupidity, “male blockheadedness” and/or refusal to believe/pay attention to signs, symptoms, indications and instructions/health advisories from my oncologist about my health will lead to my premature death.
As much as I don’t want to be cognizant of date, time and place, relative to February 27, 2009 when Team Lourie first received the stage IV, non-small cell lung cancer diagnosis on yours truly, I am (a terminal diagnosis will do that to you). Moreover, as often as I write about the need to live forward, rather than die backward (if you know what I mean), I still struggle with the application.
…for ice cream; from Brigham’s in Boston, the local New England establishment of my youth where I spent dollars – although it was likely cents back in those days – many afternoons, evenings and weekends.
Not only did last week’s CT Scan indicate shrinkage, where necessary – and stability, where hoped for – it also accomplished these hoped-for goals after only two months of chemotherapy (still infused every three weeks) rather than the normal three months of chemotherapy. So depending on how the calendar/treatment schedule actually fell, I probably received two fewer infusions than usual, yet all the radiological indications – and interpretations – continue to be encouraging; after five and a half years, no less. I think I’m entitled to use the word amazing – and lucky, too.
And so it goes, every three months or so; a CT Scan, a week or so of waiting, and then a face-to-face appointment with my oncologist to learn/discuss the results. Thankfully, the results continue to be amazing. My doctor has told me that I’m his third miracle; stage IV, non-small cell lung cancer patients generally don’t live beyond two years. I’m in year six.
The biggest writing problem that I have, other than the ones you regular readers generally know about, is writing a current column on the weekend immediately preceding the next Wednesday’s publication date, when I am still waiting on results from my most recent CT Scan. This isn’t like putting the cart before the horse, this is more like putting the horse in the cart and pulling it.
Not that I’ve felt that my attitude toward being diagnosed with stage IV (“terminal”) non-small cell lung cancer at age 54-and-one-half was ever to be considered as model behavior, but I do believe, after the initial shock wore off, eventually I assimilated its effects into my routine reasonably well. Not without a million bumps and bruises along the way, however, both physically and emotionally; nevertheless, though time has not healed all that has preceded this column, I’ve managed to find and maintain an extremely delicate balance between “joie de vivre” and “c’est la vie.”