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[dwjensen]

Darryl Jensen's wife, Laurie Anne is participating in the Sarina 2018 Relay For Life to help people living with cancer. Funds raised will support Cancer Council's research, prevention, information and support services. Please support Laurie Anne's efforts to fight cancer!

[dwjensen]

Lingering Loving Embrace of life…

Quietly harboring feelings of endless suffering and isolation within the confines of what’s left of his functioning brain, he weeps. I keep telling Darryl that he is not alone. He looks right through me with disbelief, politely nodding his head in agreement. In reality, he is. We come into this world alone and we leave alone. We are both in uncharted waters. 

[January 31, 2018]

Time has marched on longer than Darryl had anticipated even though the initial prognosis was 9 months from diagnosis with treatment as a best-case scenario, which is where we sit squarely today.  

At this point, Darryl is in the void of, ‘living longer than anyone around us had expected’. He said recently in a sort of morbid jest ‘people are probably wondering “Isn’t he dead yet?” No one wants to see someone they love to linger in suffering. It’s hard; it’s very hard to bear witness.

I’ve been feeling a call for weeks now to share an update from my perspective, being Darryl’s ‘other half’ on his journey with end-stage lung cancer. This urge now has a tone of urgency to it.

[March 1, 2018, 7:00AM while Darryl’s sister Kaylene was visiting, I spotted this auspicious rainbow that appeared to be resting on the mountain, across from the house.]

Darryl has been brutally honest in his own sharing from the very beginning but sadly he’s now lost most of his ability to share coherently except for brief luminous moments of lucidity. His last post was January 01, 2018.

So here’s my stammering attempt at continuing to share Darryl’s story on his behalf. With a glass of whiskey and Darryl tucked comfortably into his palliative bed with his nightly meds, I summon the courage to ground our present and most difficult reality into sobering words.

The tests and trials of this journey have consistently become more challenging from supporting my husband through the reality of his initial diagnosis, his palliative treatment and the aftermath to finding strength through humility by putting myself in his shoes. I ask myself how would I want to be treated if I were in his state? I feel a great sense of wanting to protect the dignity of this once vibrant, gracious, wise, witty, articulate, compassionate and highly intelligent man, now gravely ill, weak and vulnerable.

[February 25, 2018, starting to struggle to navigate his phone]

This is especially poignant at this time where he lingers in malaise, pain, confusion, frustration, sadness, and fear. He is also having moments of terror as he confronts leaving this corporeal world. Personally, I’d prefer to be hit by a truck while crossing the street than bear his burden. 

Although Darryl confidently shared previously that he felt unafraid of dying, it’s now at this time, as his own death bangs loudest on the door that he’s not especially comforted by what he believed he believed about this great journey of crossing over to the other side of the veil. It’s incredulously immense courage he seeks now, to believe what he believes and to walk the talk. 

“I can’t do this any longer.” “Why am I not dead yet?” 

This restless in betwixt time metaphorically reminds me of my very first Fire Walk. You might imagine the anxiety that builds up before taking your first step onto flaming coals. I recall being mesmerized and in a trance-like state as I sat by this great bonfire whilst it burned slowly over several hours. All the while myself and the other participants were receiving a ‘teaching’ from the Fire Walk instructor about confronting the element of fire but equally ego, anger and fear.  

The burning coals were eventually spread out into a large circle, emitting temperatures in excess of 1000 degrees. As I stood at the edge of the bed of embers with everyone else, the heat started to sizzle my exposed shins. For what felt like an eternity, I was paralyzed by of my fears. I watched as the experienced Fire Walker’s went first, gracefully floating across the bed of coals like it was a dream, sparks from each step rising to the dark sky. 

You would think the questions racing through my head would be instinctual, flight or fight core brain stuff or even practical. Was this going to hurt or would I burn my feet? It was nothing like that. It was a type of full-body paralysis, time stood still, like a deer standing motionless in your headlights, as if my willpower and brain function were turned off. 

Suddenly something self-governing kicked in, the action commenced and at that point, there was no turning back. It’s an autonomous commitment. I looked down and in disbelief saw my feet walking on the flaming coals. I felt a euphoria I’ve never experienced before and have never encountered since. The hot coals felt like crushed warm velvet beneath my feet. I was unaware of any heat sensations. The torment and fear I’d felt seconds before had vanished. I had transcended fear, for that moment. I wonder if crossing the threshold of life to death is something like that? 

[February 12, 2018]

In the past two weeks or so, Darryl’s brain metastases have grown exponentially, making his life more difficult, filling his days and nights with confusion and paranoia. He has somewhat lucid moments but they are quickly effaced by cancer’s ambivalence and indifference. It’s a kind of cruel trickery where I am seduced into believing he’s back, he’s Darryl again only to lose him again and again as he retreats into a scramble of words, disconnected thoughts, and emotional upheaval that leave me on the edge of calling for help.

About a week before Darryl’s brain metastases began to grow, I finally completed a long goodbye love letter I have been trying to write since he wrote one to me months ago. Sharing it with him was very emotional for both of us. Not realizing at the time until this very moment that if I’d waited any longer, my letter would have been too late. He’s since tucked it away but can’t recall where or its contents. 

[Feb 18, 2018, Reading my goodbye love note]

He has always had a simple request, with me by his side, to die peacefully at home. Don’t we all want that when we actually take the time to consider such things and perhaps we should before our backs are up against the wall?

Even though neither one of us are religious per say, we do have a strong faith in a higher power. In the past few months, we have started a comforting bedtime ritual of gentle affections and random but authentic declarations of love and affirmations of letting go and letting god, followed by reciting the old classic children’s bedtime prayer, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep…” 

Several nights ago Darryl was unable to recite this simple comforting prayer with me, even when slowly repeated, trying to coax him on. He just made some moaning sounds in agreement, squeezed my hand and no sooner his nightly sedation stole away the last of his day's wakeful consciousness. Our nightly ritual left incomplete, I realized it has been as much for my comfort as his so I continued, whispering the prayer in his ear. 

This great gift we are given at birth, the asset called time to live our lives can’t be valued without adding the important element of our life experiences, positive but also negative. Hopefully, in the span of our lifetime, we invest in personal work, resolutions, and forgiveness of those who trespassed against us but also and even more importantly healed our own intolerance, judgment and ventured into self-forgiveness. Otherwise, the negative stories can stockpile and sour our nature and all our relations. 

When all our experiences are harmonized and accepted as simply our unique life, we can come into a balanced perspective, peace even. It’s a type of wisdom I propose. A great quality of life is not just a life of positive experiences; it’s about honing the rough edges to reveal and intimately get to know the diamond hidden within our authentic nature. “And remember, no matter where you go, there you are.”  - Confucius. 

It’s funny how a new year can often inspire us to make resolutions, plan to go at it with a renewed commitment to do and be better than before. But when faced with terminal illness, from what I have witnessed with Darryl, a most elegant teacher, you take this to the next level, trying to compensate for all the time that was wasted not realizing we have but one life to live.

When Darryl opted for palliative treatment, we both sincerely wanted to believe that we’d be somewhat satisfied as we faced what had been fated, Darryl’s untimely death by cancer, cleverly delayed for a time by chemotherapy. Another Confucius quote comes to mind: “We all have two lives. The second one starts when we realize that we only have one.”

[February 20, 2018 Wally, on watch]

When your husband begs you to put a gun to his head nearly every night, the delay or the more time he bargained for has now outworn it’s welcome and has become an agent of suffering. It’s entirely matched by sincere medical attempts to switch off as much discomfort as possible.  Mitigating the connection to his physical body, his emotions and his mind involve forms of sedation, pain relief and a host of other alchemy for the garden of symptoms that arose from the treatment and those that continue to rear up from cancer that’s efficiently spreading everywhere. 

This kind of biological storm is not for the faint of heart. This man has Danish heritage and I am certain a life as a Viking warrior at one time. This strong ancestral blood surges through his veins and it’s evident now more than ever.  He has yet to reveal his soft underbelly and his complete vulnerability. Despite his desire to be liberated from life, his body continues to refuse to falter from this life. Yet, I hear his soul cries for Valhalla. 

We both quietly feel a type of betrayal we’ve not got the energy to deeply inquire about at this time except that we do know that we can’t point our finger at anyone except ourselves for simply saying yes to slow cancer’s pace and slow his dying process. “Be careful what you wish for, it just might come true” - Archer. This strategy is more like playing Russian roulette with God. “An activity that is potentially very dangerous”.  

Skip down the bumpy road from July to November 2017 where Darryl soldiered up to 6 cycles of chemotherapy (defiantly, because he said he would). Each treatment left Darryl feeling weaker, sicker and begging for a ‘normal day’, of which he’s yet to receive. Before his second cycle of chemotherapy, his lack of immunity left the door open to a scary visitor called Influenza A. That was almost the end but it was not yet his time.

[March 2, 2018, with Wally acting as an all-important arm rest]

The good doctor (the oncologist) always delivered the tests results with a strange positivity that left us both confused. The truth was the various test results were crystal clear if not irrelevant in the face of terminal disease. The only thing they can’t or won’t tell us is the quality of time remaining. They will offer a prognosis. It’s all about odds and averages. In reality, the results were simply more cancer and perhaps more time (the great quality quotient absent) for this dying business.

We were forewarned that this was terminal cancer from diagnoses and treatment options were simply to delay death without ever mentioning the cost involved, the cost of quality of life. Did we believe it was terminal? Yes and no. We both knew it deep in our bones before diagnosis but in our hearts, ever optimistic, we long for a different outcome.

Darryl and I had a bit of a funny conversation the other night when he was having one of his now rare lucid moments. We talked about comparing waiting to die to be like waiting for a baby to be born. Life and death happen but the ‘when’ is part of the great mystery of life unless we interfere, intervene, slow down or speed up the clock because we can.

Sometimes the results can be an intense labor and delivery resulting in a traumatic birth or conversely a lingering wasting journey to death. Either way, it’s like someone pushing or holding me back from that fiery bed of hot embers.  I’d prefer the euphoria that comes from letting go and letting god but then again I am not sure I would walk the talk if I were the one facing my dying time with a terminal illness. 

Darryl is a rare breed, an honorable gentleman. Ask anyone who truly knows him. He’s embraced his dying time with dignity for himself and unconditional love for his most cherished family and a host of close friends. 

At this point, we have well and truly entered the realm of palliative home care. Our local Broadsound Coastal Care nurses are now regular and much-welcomed visitors, bringing a wide gamut of services, good cheer, solid wisdom and just about anything we could possibly need, even flowers, a package of ginger lollies and a lovely bloke to mow the lawns. 

About 10 days ago a brand new hospital bed miraculously appeared within hours of our inquiry, when Darryl could no longer find supine comfort in a regular bed. Our lounge has been morphed into a reasonably comfortable bedroom framed by couches and poodles. To be honest, it’s a sobering view every morning. I realize it’s a deathbed, it’s potentially Darryl’s deathbed. 

[March 13, 2018, 3PM]

I’ve gone to great lengths to make it as cozy as possible. It’s as far from a sterile hospital room as I can make it, complete with our familiar bedding, our favorite radio stations while he’s awake and meditative and healing soothing music when resting because even the quiet can become a painful distraction. 

At our little home alter I offer prayers and set aflame incense and candles. The room is scented with aromatherapy oils and glows with a deep orange from Himalayan salt lamps. The tropical heat and humidity ignore the calendar so I keep a small cyclone going with the aid of ceiling fans.

[Carmila, March 6, 2018, a bit lost and distant, with a new slight angle to how he holds his head.]

I may be crossing a line with sharing these details and if I offend anyone please know my sharing comes from a place of sincerity to an audience I believe deeply cares or at the very least has a vested interest for the sake of their own journey.

At this point, Darryl’s once inactive tiny brain metastases are now clearly growing like a parasite weed that can choke a tree to death. Darryl is now mostly sleeping. He eats and drinks very little but still enjoys Bec’s Rum on ginger ale and the ode cream bun, of course. At times, he’s unable to communicate beyond his basic needs. 

In the last two weeks, he’s completely lost the ability to read, write or text. He can’t operate his computer, phone, iPad, or the remote for the TV. His words can suddenly be all switched up, sentences then don’t make sense and it’s most frustrating for all concerned. Belligerence soon shows up. To answer his pleas I’ve taken to clumsy attempts at intuitively reading his body language and what’s left of his functioning mind. At times, it’s exhausting, stressful and crazy-making. 

There is a disturbing far off expression in his eyes. He does have rare moments of being mostly his old self.  At this point, literally before my eyes every day he deteriorates a little more. I lose a slice of him every day. I collapse into grief unexpectedly as I go about mundane chores. 

[Mate Rob, March 7, 2018]

Every now and then I need a kick up the bum to self-correct. Yesterday afternoon, spirit delivered. If any of you have been to our little house here in Carmila you will know that the laundry room doubles as our library. We have two huge floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed with books and an embarrassingly large collection of oracles. 

I heard a noise that came from the laundry room. I felt an alarm go off at a body-mind level and dashed to see what the noise was. My favorite oracle (the Aleister Crowley Tarot) lay on the laundry room floor neatly as if placed there by hand. Beside it a small ornament, one of the three wise monkeys Mizaru, covering his eyes. I got the hint, sat down with the little monkey and my cards and did a reading. 

My message was clear. All the tears and quiet prayers from myself and his loved ones simply can’t lure Darryl back. I was indeed not at peace and sitting in a state of indolence, to be brief. Time for shifting and releasing some energy. 

[Carmila, March 12, 6:00PM a strange bent pale rainbow appeared in the sky after the sun had gone done behind the range. ]

I keep finding myself revisiting a memory from when this journey got real. It’s from our second trip to Brisbane after Darryl was diagnosed.  It was his first chemotherapy session. Despite being offered all the comforts of a big easy chair, Darryl took his palliative medicine standing up, straight and strong like the soldier he is and always will be at heart. 

Pleading with him to sit and relax was pointless. Even the nurses tried. So, I sat for him, my beloved husband. I cried for him and I even ate his crackers and cheese for him. My expanded waistline is proof. He would give me his warm and reassuring smile and declare that everything was going to be OK. My brain would race from one corner of the universe to the other. What does that mean, “Everything was going to be OK”?

I’ve always considered myself to be a spiritual woman and my mind is a pretty open vessel but Darryl’s soothing statement defied the basic truth standing in front of me. Darryl, my immortal beloved, my everything, was dying of cancer from even before diagnoses when I would fret listening to his horrible gut wrenching cough.

At some point, that persistent cough and that chest infection that would never go away morphed into a sinister game of chance. Which cigarette was the one that tipped the scale? Which story of loss and grief, long suppressed tripped the alarm? 

Only God knows the ‘why’. Us mortals can’t possibly weigh in on such things. Even as we attempt to solve the mystery we can’t help but judge or even cleverly discern, neither of which can make a difference.

Still, death by cancer is not what anyone would consciously choose. Death by cancer is also clearly not on Darryl’s conscious terms. Cancer has dashed out Darryl’s plans to complete his veteran years as a paramedic with QAS and so many desires and goals, especially sharing time with loved ones into old age and delving into his passion of fishing, shooting, and writing. Sadly cancer was also not part of our (rustic log cabin in the woods by a quiet lake) Canadian retirement plan.

I want to scream; “It’s not fair” not that it will help in any fashion.

[Francine & Wally are never far from his side.]

In the brutally honest truth of it, death by cancer is Darryl’s personal business and it’s between him and his maker. He even declared from the beginning that he can fight his own cells. Darryl’s journey has nothing to do with family, his friends, colleagues or me. Your business and mine are to be a neutral witness, maybe gain some wisdom, learn to give more love, the unconditional kind and accept every step and every decision Darryl has ever made and ever will make until he takes his last breath. Easily written, not so easily carried through.

He’s almost past the point of obsessing over whether he’s been enough in this world, especially to those he loves and adores. I can’t help but wonder if anyone of us will ever get to that awareness of being enough. Most of his remaining months of life have been dedicated to his reaching down deep inside his being and giving all he has left from the heart to those he loves. He still questions if he’s done, said or written enough, profoundly aware of his last chances.

It’s a scary but great and honorable privilege to witness someone’s dying time even if it’s a frightening reminder of everyone’s worst nightmare from either side of the fence.  As Darryl would say “It’s poetry”.

We’ve entered a quiet phase where visitors are few, often brief and sometimes very emotional, deeply humble and appreciative. Without pretense, we are waiting for that moment when like stepping onto the burning embers, he steps out of this world and into the mystery. I whisper into his ear an old Newfoundlander saying that comes from my ancestry, “Darling, you are safe as if you are in God’s pocket”.

[Mate Rob, 6AM, March 7, 2018]

[Mate Ross, March 11, 2018]

The BCC nurses have the head Palliative nurse, the pharmacist, the GP and the oncologist all on speed dial.  Magically they can get these busy professionals on the phone to efficiently tweak and recalculate Darryl’s constantly changing needs and medication on the fly.  Although well intentioned, we can’t help but sometimes feel like his symptoms are being treated in an experimental fashion. It is the nature of palliative care so I am learning, resistance, on one hand, surrender on the other.

Well, there you have it. A bit of a long-winded update but mostly a sad reply to the many messages I receive asking ‘how is Darryl’ from those of you who are following along this path with us. Please know that your good prayers, your thoughtful gestures and your love is always deeply felt and appreciated. We are most sincerely grateful. 

All our love, 

Laurie Anne and Darryl

[Carmila sunrise, Feb 24, 2018]

[dwjensen]

Upon Death While Dying... The Last Resolution

January 01, 2018

Being born in the southern hemisphere, the term “Summer Solstice,” its date (21/12) and its history were not significant in my education if my memory serves me correctly. However having lived in Canada for several years, this all changed when this date became the first day of winter and reversed to be the Winter Solstice. The date was also revered by many of our Canadian friends as one to be celebrated for it marked the date of the longest night of the year; its origins steeped in some pagan ritual of seasonal change. While in Australia, its already summer and the longest day of the year (to my knowledge) isn’t something that you celebrate, rather than bitch about the bloody heat that could fry an egg on your forehead. Yet the term Summer Solstice itself means “The Sun Stays Still” and that’s what it felt like on the Solstice just passed.

 R.I.P. Beloved Neils Victor Jensen  April 17, 1928 - December 21, 2017

Laurie and I were driving to the Hospital that morning to receive my latest scan results and to lock in some serious palliative care strategies with the Oncologist. My brother rang me during this hour and a bit trip in to inform me that our Father had passed away early that morning. The highway that we travelled is notorious for black spots of mobile phone reception, so the message took time with recalls and outages until finally all of the details could be relayed with any kind of accuracy. I had no words, just outbursts of sobbing that felt uncontrolled. My stomach pitched with the roll of the road and my heart felt literally torn with a sadness that I hadn’t expected. As we ended the call with a promise to call again that afternoon, the sun did indeed stay still; the longest day was well underway. 

Dad was 89 and had been suffering from “vascular dementia” for several years. He had also been recovering from a fractured femur, suffered in April of this past year and had been gradually deteriorating ever since. During our last face-to-face conversation in April, he had told me with a vulnerability that I had never seen in his eyes before, “I don’t want to die here.” Ironically during one of our last phone conversations not too long ago, I finally told him that I had terminal cancer and bid him my confessional of gratitude for being a wonderful Father to me and that I loved him dearly. The irony lay in his concern for me, not for himself or his situation, but simply for me. He had lost his vulnerability toward his own demise and turned that into a vicarious strength to feed me in what he considered to be my time of need. He had chosen to die well and lead me, yet again by example, into another layer of his generosity and strength.

  Our Dad died in his sleep in the early hours of that Thursday morning. In my mind’s eye I can see my deceased mother taking him by the hand through that gossamer curtain that had separated them for 15 years. Dad had no fear and no pain; he had simply tired of this world and the shell that had served its purpose for perhaps too long. He had served his country, his community and his family and friends with due diligence, honor and loyalty as a member of the armed services (RAN) post WW2, as a Police Officer (ranked Inspector 30 years + service) and as a much loved Father, Grandfather and Great Grandfather.

  As I drifted in and out of the conversation with the Doctor that morning, trying to remember items of discussion or listening to the ambiguous scan findings, I found myself becoming resolute that today…this very long day…would be for Dad and that the words that I was attempting to filter had little to no relevance for me. I was dying anyway and no when or why could benefit me. I was offered radium and different chemotherapy almost as an afterthought, and declined with a surety that bordered on aggression toward this exercise in futility. It was if somehow the death of my own Father had completed this cycle of avoidance of my own death and allowed my true perspective of “going home” a greater insight.

From the beginning of my diagnosis this journey had always felt like I was being called home by the nature of the universe. Everything is mortal and if life feeds death then so to does death feed life. Those of us who are so fortunate to have time to contemplate our own mortality (all of us) should therefore revere both ends of the spectrum with an appreciation of fulfillment. Therefore, my contentment with my life must give true measure to my death and embrace it as my interpretation of the poetry of the universe; or as it sings to me during the chorus of my last breaths…I’m going home.

  And this is what Dad’s dying has gifted me; his last lessons to me were how to die well. I have felt enough fear in my life up to this point and I have no more use for it now. Given the nature of this disease, the amount of pain that I might suffer from now until I die, can and hopefully will be managed from a medical perspective. I would prefer to have some degree of consciousness during my last moments, though this ideal is reliant on many differentials. I am no longer content to say that I accept my death and its process, rather than now I am beginning to embrace it, to love it, as I did my life. This triad of no fear, no pain and to love the nature of the process of dying and death itself is what I believe that it takes to die well. This is my last resolution.

  So now, if this is my “Last Post,” I thank you for reading, for your generous comments and for allowing me to detail this journey. I will soon be joining those waiting for me, yet the next journey will not set me adrift from this one. I’m simply going home.

[dwjensen]

Cream Buns & Kin

December 20, 2017

            One of my earliest memories as a child was being at my Grandmother’s house seated around the kitchen table between breakfast and lunch times. I’d already had my fill of the stodgy porridge that was threatening to stick to my stomach lining until I was a teenager, yet the smell of fresh bread that suddenly wafted into the room had me quivering like a gundog on the veranda. Just as I was about to start chewing on my own arm, an old bamboo basket filled with freshly baked bread and pastries floated into the room. This was carried by the local baker who pre dated the basket but who also chose my Grandmother as the last of his customer rounds on the given premise of a cup of tea and a chat with one of the last remaining of his neighbourhood peers.

[Image: A Cream Donut, devoured by Darryl shortly after this picture was taken.} 

            I’m sure that I’d encountered this jovial man before, but this visit was highlighted by his sundry of pastries that he’d been unable to sell on his rounds that was then offered at a discount to his last customer. Maybe my puppy eyes worked on my Grandmother or perhaps God thought that I needed a glimpse of heaven, but whatever divine or canine intervention occurred that day changed my culinary world forever…I ate/inhaled/gorged myself on my first cream bun. Since then the cream bun and I have been friends over many a morning tea and of late, a midnight/early morning/afternoon/”oh what the heck I have cancer anyway” treat.  The problem with living in a rural setting however, is the availability of such simple pleasures. Should a hungry mob of backpackers or a convoy of truck drivers pass through the area of local supply like a swarm of locusts, then the pickings have to be sourced further afield. This is what occurred not so long back and though the shopping list did incur cream buns, I made it clear to Laurie that if there was none to be found, please don’t worry about holding up a bakery at gunpoint.

            It was when Laurie returned from shopping that day, however, that my love affair with cream buns…and my outlook on many aspects of my life took on a new perspective. To be honest, I have no idea how it started, yet the marital spat that incurred was the worst in the history of our relationship. While unpacking the groceries, Laurie made an off hand remark that she couldn’t find any cream buns, but she had asked one of the employees at the shop who had magically produced a packet of what I saw to be cream donuts (for the uninitiated, this is a long pastry made of donut dough and filled with cream and jam). I retorted casually that these were not cream buns but cream donuts. Laurie parried and thrust again her point that the young girl had said that these were indeed cream buns, just the local shop’s version of the same.

            Now, only to defend and not to excuse my consequent behaviour, it had been a week of emotional and physical extremes for me. In no small part, I felt some cerebral symptoms appear in the shape of memory loss and vision abnormalities. With the frustration of this and Laurie actually appearing to argue with me, I countered her claim more assertively, stating that I knew such items from childhood and that she was wrong. It was this that triggered the most ridiculous argument in history and one that saw my temper reach new heights. Laurie responded with further counter claims that she had gone out of her way to purchase them for me and that they were indeed cream buns. My paranoia of a perceived mental incapacity sent my irrationality into overdrive as I yelled (kind of – my voice wouldn’t let me yell causing even further frustration) that I knew what I was talking about and for her to stop arguing with me. Laurie continued with the same argument, with a matching pitch of intolerance that began to make me see red and ended with me yelling as high as I could for her to “Shut up and stop arguing with me!” These hurtful words ended the argument, but not the angst as I retreated to the patio to catch my breath and Laurie escaping to her office, clearly upset and hurt deeply by my behaviour.

            It took me less than a few minutes of internal debate to realise that no matter how credible my argument had been, the harshness of my words and the ferocity of their delivery outstripped any sense of credibility from me. I was totally in the wrong and had to unconditionally apologise. I did this without further delay and received the expected cool response. I repeated this several times that evening, still expecting and receiving the minimalist acceptance and decided to wait until the morning for the tempest to abate.

            It seemed that Laurie’s ire was still smouldering for the best part of the following morning. Her mood matched the chronic ache of my perpetual flu like symptoms that clung after a week following chemotherapy; coupled with fatigue and hormonal mood swings. By lunchtime, I’d decided to confront the obvious and asked how many times I had to apologise before I’d be forgiven or at least put my mistake to bed. Laurie responded by stating that she was simply tired and didn’t sleep well the night before.

            Unfortunately, it appeared that my apology hadn’t been as authentic as I had thought because my next words seemed to echo my sentiment of the previous day. “If you want to know what tired is, try standing in my feet for an hour,” I blurted out without restraint. Laurie’s tirade was inevitable: “Yes that’s right Darryl, you have cancer, it’s all about you. You don’t have to cook or clean or look after anyone else because you have cancer. You have it at night-time and in the morning and you can say anything to me and crush my heart because you have cancer...and I don’t!” 

            We spent the next 20 minutes in each other’s arms. Our communal tears seemed to wash away the weeks, if not months of built up stress and deep sadness.  My words had broken the heart of my beloved and Laurie’s had paid me back in kind; yet the wounds brought us together again, stronger and with a greater sense of each other’s needs at this time. It seemed that the humble cream bun had played its part as the catalyst to always stand by each other, but there was greater to come.

            In my last blog I stated that my siblings and I have been reunited after many years. The reasons for our estrangement are multi-layered and embedded within our own levels of blame, pride and perceived judgements. The result has been years of non-communication and missed opportunities of sharing each other’s moments. This trend was broken last week when I was visited by each and every one of my beloved sisters and brother. Though their visits were brief, the love and joy that they generated eliminated the years of being apart and I felt/feel like a kid at Christmas again. To embrace all three, even if it were for the last time, was more than a dream come true, but a divine gift designed to be granted like the treasure of a lost toy to a small child. 

            During his visit, my brother asked my opinion of why we were never (it seemed) a close family. At the time I couldn’t answer as it seemed an impossible question, but as I realise now, it is as simple as the humble cream bun. Had we been raised in a culture of unconditional tribal support where we all stand for each other, maybe the closeness would have been there. Maybe if we had displayed more family pride instead of family competition, we would have been more empathetic to each other and not so distant. And maybe if we had offered more mutual support instead of judgement, we would have been bound by our instinctual bond and not by some contractual DNA.

            Family, friends and even strangers naturally come together during times of mutual understanding. We all also seem to come together in times of mutual loss. It is when we don’t try to understand, nor even care to due to our own circumstance, that we drift apart and become separate entities. If my siblings (including myself) had stuck together in the hard times, we would have enjoyed that closeness. In the same context, if I had understood Laurie’s efforts in caring for me, I would have praised her and not hurt her. 

            So next time you see a cream bun, say thank you; and please mail it to me, I’ve such a craving.

F.Y.I. The local Sarina I.G.A.’s donut shaped sweet bread cream buns taste exactly like the traditional square cream buns. Dam it, she was right, again. 

[dwjensen]

Of imperfect Miracles:

November 23, 2017

I can never really state with any amount of truth that perfection has been one of my goals in life. I remember reading or hearing somewhere that certain religious artisans go to great lengths to ensure that their divine depictions contain deliberate imperfections so as to not offend their Deity whom they believe is the one true perfection. Whilst the religious benchmark may appear extreme, the other side of the coin is just as stark and more commonplace in most individuals. The bar heights of our lives that we set for ourselves and the self condemnation we feel when we err and summarize that we are “not good enough” or “not worthy enough” in our efforts to achieve our own version of perfection.

[Drinking in Cape Hillsborough 11-16-2017]

 Until a few years ago, I had always blamed other people’s standards for this self-rebuke until I stumbled upon my own revelation that it wasn’t anyone else’s approval that I craved, but my own. Like the Curlews that are now calling for company in the morning’s early light, I pleaded for my own sense of self to allow for my errors to reunite with my present and to let go of a story that would only mould the shape of my future into a sequel of my past. This was a work in progress until recent times when circumstance limited my future and made the past seem somewhat obsolete. I have since found the only other perspective that I thought I had; of “concentrating on the moment” can be not only just as damaging to my own fulfillment of life, but to my growth and understanding of this “life before death.”

 [11:11:17 Double Rainbow - Day of Victor Jensen’s visit]

Miracles can also share the same dubious examination, as if the dissection of events and reactions are purposefully put under a glass slide and diluted by circumstance and durability. Or perhaps miracles are simply personal and subjective, better left for the individual to enjoy and the Devine to manifest. Upon either side of an over-flipped coin simply lies our own truth. Perfect or imperfect, miracle or coincidence; the enjoyment of all aspects of my life now floats like a well-balanced boat in the calmest of my emotional currents. And this is why….

 The last several weeks have granted me so many of these perfect miracles that my heart, soul and gratitude almost need another host to redefine their ever-growing boundaries. The tears of joy that I have shed easily outweigh any new born nursery and my sense of self has required several over hauls just to cope with the beauty and wonder that this life has gifted me.

[Photo Credit: Veronica Wild]

I have finally reunited with all of my siblings. This was a dream, a prayer and a longing that now fulfilled, has placed a new definition of joy throughout my whole being. The renewal of wedding vows between Laurie and I saw again the perfect miracle of a love flowing from one heart to another while being witnessed by friends and family from both the local area and the other side of the planet. During the evening on the same night I was awarded a “Certificate of Appreciation” from the Queensland Ambulance Service for 28 years of service that was framed and installed with my badge and personal number. The sincerity of the words that were read to me that night was my professional miracle as I learned to receive such an honor.

[Photo Credit: Bec Bannan]

[Photo Credit: Caroline Pollitt] 

[Renewal CupCakes made with love by Karen Smith]

[11-22-2017 Graham Peady. The kind of friend who shows up with his mower and whipper snipper and tells you to ‘suck it up princess’. ]

And finally, yet never last, the visitations and gifts of time and assistance that so many friends and family have bestowed upon me these last few weeks have been innumerable. These are too many to narrate in a blog and would contain nothing of the sacrifice of their time and efforts to simply help me along this journey.

 The receiving has been very difficult for me to accept. Perhaps that old part of me; of us all who still regards ourselves as “not good enough” should simply receive the gifts as “imperfect Miracles” or maybe even tentatively, creep slowly forward into the truth and bathe in the wonder of yesterday, today and tomorrow. They contain the perfection and they perform the miracle.

 What have I learned and how will I play my part?

 It is my wish now to let everyone whom I hold dear to express my love and appreciation for them before my time is due. What greater gift can I bestow than the Perfect Miracle that I have been given.

[Carmila West sunrise, viewed from the back porch]

[dwjensen]

My Dearest Laurie,

Friday, November 3, 2017

An open letter that took 14 years to write.

There is a love story that I’ve never written, for it was far beyond the realms of we mere mortals to narrate. The tale was so pure that it was only whispered to us as children and discarded as a fairy tale when we grew and found fault with the world. It is not simply a story of an attraction, a bond or a joining of two lives; it is the tale of a series of awakenings deep within us. Like the untapped resources of our minds, this stirring happens in those slumbering segments of our human hearts that await for the one small spark of life to rouse them into being only once in a lifetime. Like the rarest of flowers that bloom only once every thousand years, these waking hearts sing to their kindred in a tone lost through the millennia. They call only for the briefest of moments with the hope of all life to be answered before the song is complete and the slumber returns. The song can be for prince or pauper, for princess or maid; for there is no earthly wealth that the kindred awaits for, only the treasure that abounds when the song is echoed and the magic begins.

  It is said that these songs can be heard over many miles as if the greatest songbird or the mightiest whale that ever lived had found the true pitch of David’s lyre. And in the true secret of all who have heard and all who have sung, there lies the mystery confined only by the limit of the dream’s journey. The child dreams of the betrothal, the youth grows out of their myth and the adult searches for earthly dreams. Yet there are still those who believe and sleep with their ears open…hoping and praying that the songs will come to them…as it did to me.

  My beloved, your song saved my life and granted me a soul. Those many miles that we have both travelled were mere footsteps into each other’s arms. Our story is divine for my miracle is your reflection, my heaven is by your side and my prayers are fulfilled by our world. Our choices were never easy and not without sacrifice yet we both left our lives for love and both found a love for life. When our hands were first bound in that matrimonial display, our mantra was “Never a step behind.” This ceremony was blessed by an angel and then again by an ancient one and since we have not simply grown but evolved beyond the fairy tale and into life’s dreaming.

  I hate the pain that now lies behind those once sparkling eyes and the tears that we both now shed. The burden that I place on you daily breaks my heart yet you smile and share every moment of pain as if it were merely the pause of a passing thought. I feel you listen to my breath as we sleep and pray for one more day of our combined moments. And though you laugh at my joy of some newly found wonder, the sadness that sometimes overwhelms us never depletes you. I find myself wanting to be like you and then I’m recalled to our wedding ring’s inscribed words, “You are another me,” and your strength resounds in me.

  This morning as you slept, I watched two Lorikeets sing and break their fast in a nearby tree. They chirped their endearments to each other as they groomed each other and flitted from one spot to the next as if to sanctify their bond. Our union has outlasted many of their lives yet they seemed to remind me of our calling. The bond is forever and not for moments of despair that nature has now placed between us. Those words “until death” are synthetic and do not fracture what has been and what will still come to pass.

  On the sixth of November we will renew our wedding vows on the beach and in bare feet as we had always planned. Our witnesses will bathe in our own moments of truth as we live and relive our love for as long as our time permits.

 These moments I will carry with me wherever I’m yet to know, but I’m sure that a higher power will allow me to listen whenever your heart calls. I heard you once from the other side of this world; I see no barrier to hearing you from the next one.

Photography: Deep gratitude to Andrew Jarvie & Emily Clarke https://www.lifeportraits.photography

Images captured in Carmila, Qld, on July 24, 2017, just after initial diagnosis, before staging. 

[dwjensen]

Fear and Loathing

Friday, October 27, 2017

To be honest, I thought that my last post really was my “Last Post.” On several occasions since, I felt the breath leave my body, my heart threaten to cease its function and expected to find my version of the world become one of lights and long lost loved ones. The first two episodes were filled with fear. I panicked as I felt my chest constrict my lungs and major vessels while my brain screamed out for more cognitive control. All I could think of was to find an open area where the undertakers could at least have easy access from which to move me and hope that they brought an extra large body bag. My internal mantra kept echoing “One more week please, I just need one more week.” At this stage I had not completed my taxes for the year nor had I taken my name from the car registration so that Laurie would have no dramas in any future sale. These were the last of an extensive list of ‘my things to do’ etc.

  Yet the most significant part of these episodes for me was the fear and sheer panic that gripped hold of me. When I was first given my prognosis, one of my first thought was “Will I be brave enough in those last moments to die well?” It was if I shape shifted into an old First Nations Chief overlooking a battlefield filled with young warriors versus Custer’s cavalry and proudly claiming, “It was a good day to die.” I desperately wanted/still want to have that courage to face my last moments well and to not endure any fear. I felt such a raw disappointment in myself, after those long minutes had passed, for being so afraid that it seemed to block any rational thoughts of the fact that I had come close to the actuality of dying in those moments. I have no explanation as to the why and wherefore, yet I was compelled to address, confront and amend this reaction. Needless to say that Laurie and I had extensive conversations concerning the above and with the help of an extremely well learned friend in Canada who suggested very credible strategies, I felt as if I was better prepared should this fear raise its head again.

Number three has always been the charm for me and the third episode was no exception. At three am, shortly after making my coffee as quietly as possible, the fear began and the panic just as rapidly ensued. I felt my breath diminishing with every attempt and my heart perform an impossible tap dance against my ribs. I remember that the amount of sweat that poured from my upper body nearly entirely soaked my t-shirt making me shiver with the cool early morning air. I made a feeble attempt to call out for Laurie as I didn’t know how long I could hang on to the counter top and stay off the floor…I didn’t want her to find me this way. And then it happened…something in my head asked, “What are you afraid of?” As I tried to answer myself, I found myself stepping toward the source of the fear and sub consciously felt a slight relief from the panic. As if urged on by something that I can’t explain, I stepped closer and closer, each time forcing myself to breathe in small amounts and concentrate as hard as I could on answering the question.

 Some of my composure returned and as I straightened upright against the counter top, I felt as if I stepped over an illusion of my own body lying beneath me. “It’s only the shell,” either I or something else stated in my mind.” And then, slowly but surely the panic fell away almost in tune with my shallow and slowed breathing, my heart responded in kind with an easier beat and the fear dissolved with the parting phrase of “You don’t need me anymore.” Again, I have no idea where these words originated from; all that I am sure of is that it wasn’t my voice and it felt like a gentle whisper.

 For the next twenty minutes, several waves of less severe symptoms appeared and were dealt with in the same way. I found that if I sat or lay down, I felt a vulnerability for the symptoms to intensify but if I stood upright I could manage my own calming with greater ease. Since that early morning breakthrough, there have been two other occurrences, each weaker than the last and each managed without fear or panic. Obviously there are many physical factors involved as this condition worsens but it was the fear factor that brought me to share this today. I don’t believe myself to be a brave, courageous or a strong individual but I feel that through these events I have achieved a sense of mental strength that had been previously untapped.

My new mantra: “Fear, I don’t need you anymore”.

And besides,

“I just made the Lion King redundant...”

(FYI: I am licensed and only shoot paper targets). 

[dwjensen]

Of Time & Tides:

Friday, October 6, 2017

The best analogy that I can come up with for the last 2 weeks would be as if I was stranded on a beach in the mid afternoon during the height of summer. The shade was minimal, the sand fused with an eternal perspiration that cracked against the skin and the water’s relief felt like a hot bath during a heat wave.  Then, in a moment not expected, the tide turned and drew the waters closer with an exquisite sea breeze that seemed to lift the burden of even the most hardy of coastal vegetation. That tide turned for me yesterday afternoon when I hoisted my own white flag.

 This road that I’m sharing/experiencing has only one destination, no matter how many distractions or delays that one can conjure, the journey is always as perpetual as the tide returning into a glorious sunset.

 For many weeks, days, hours and moments I have lived and breathed in my own world of illness and mortality. From the moment that I wake (way too early) through to my more frequent naps, my mind and body has been besieged by “the battle.” Of late, the pain and discomfort has forced me into a regime of medication that dulled my landscape into a blurry abstract and warped my mind into a numbness more akin to a moody and aggrieved survival mode. This conflict, born of some primitive and archaic rule of medicine was more lethal to me than the tumors that keep forming into what Laurie calls my “Cancer Suit” (and what I call my inner and now outer fat bastard). The harder I fought, the more I fed the conflict and the more ill I became.

 The dam was breeched yesterday when I saw the truth in someone else’s eyes. It was time to end my own dogma and dismiss the conflict that was more cytotoxic than the treatment that has already proven to be ineffectual. And far from my preconceived notions of “giving up,” the admission itself of “I’m done,” gifted to me a surrender of peaceful acceptance that personifies a euphoric liberty. It seems that the white flag, when waved at the right time and under the right circumstances, does not incur weakness or an unwillingness to fight, but a freedom from a conflict that should never have been born.

 So today after a memorable night of heart felt conversations with Laurie, the same ones were iterated with my Oncologist. His demeanor seemed to match ours as if the veil of medical fantasy was lifted toward the inevitable that we all knew existed yet had only scratched the surface of actual recognition. The long awaited scan will be scheduled for next week as a formality simply to confirm that no further active treatment will occur and the focus re-centered on palliative care only. The cliché of quality over quantity has never been more pertinent to me.

 From the start of this journey, I have felt an acceptance and experienced a strength that I thought was instinctual, however yesterday I realized that it was a veneer. I viewed the smoke and mirrors for what it was…something vicarious that I had borrowed from those who had travelled this road before me. I also understood that I had to birth my own understanding of death to truly stand in the rising waters of my moments and greet the future with more to say than “it was a hoot” (even though it has been) and that I have found a new level of peaceful acceptance that exceeds my wildest expectations.

 Without declaring today to be “National Metaphor Day,” I simply want to expand on the ending of my previous post where my mention of the “whispering of God” has nagged at me through the voice of Laurie. That first gentle whisper has evolved into the flowing art of positive conversation and unleashed words that are yet to be invented but are born of pure gratitude.

 I have used the terms of family and friends upon many occasions, yet now in these times, I can honestly say to each of my family that there have been many a moment that you were also my friend when I needed you the most. To my friends, in just as many circumstances when you have stood with me it seemed that we of the same blood and your loyalty was that of family. I see all of you now with my heartfelt appreciation. And even now as I trace those events of my life, though the tiles of history may have been broken by time and tides, the jigsaw is nearly complete and has since been fashioned into a mosaic of absolute joy.

 3 months ago the music of my existence altered forever from the routine of staid choruses with an occasional inspiring verse thrown in. From then it has become a cacophony of “It’s OK, I got this…oops no I don’t.” This continued back and fro until even I became dizzy from the struggle that was never going to be overcome. Since yesterday, my chorus is almost an anthem with the joy of the moment as it blends with new verses of discovery and wonder. Finally I’ve opted for reality’s clear lens and discarded the magenta that hid from me my own poetry.

 This life’s music ebbs and flows, guided by the lunar light that bids the waters to travel and discover; and then to return. At its zenith tonight, it told me not to wait in the shadows but to bathe in the light of my new song, my new muse and my new moments.

 This last journey holds no conflict for me, nor is it framed in a man made mirage of hopes and dreams. These are the simple steps that we all must tread…yet if people really are like flowers, it has truly been an absolute privilege to wander amid this garden.

[dwjensen]

Does my bum look big in this CT machine?

September 24, 2017

So one of the first statements that my Insurance Case Officer made to me was that “Our main objective is to assist you back into the work force.” Before I could restrain myself, I replied “Fantastic, you blokes must have all of the good drugs then…” Maybe not the best thing to say when you’re lodging a claim for salary continuance, but it did let a stagnant breath out that had been plaguing me for a few days. I covered his embarrassed silence by joking with him that if they had something to fix me with then I’d be back at work in the morning. Thankfully he recovered and we sorted through some details without the inevitable apology. The lighter moments have been eluding me this past week, so I guess that when one presents itself the temptation is too great to pass it by.

 (Picture: Loyal poodles, always happy to oblige. Keeping Dags company during a little siesta.)

There is an incredibly bloated stranger in my mirror of late. He’s 14+ kilograms heavier, he walks like a pregnant duck and none of his clothes seem to fit him anymore. He would almost be slightly comical if it wasn’t for the discomfort that this sudden surge in swelling has also entailed. Leg cramps waken him between 2 and 3am, his sleep pattern is all eschew and it seems that he has aligned his bowels habits with the cat (it’s true, he leaves the bathroom at the same time every morning that the cat leaves the sand box). While having extra weight is not a bad thing during this chemotherapy process, it does nothing for the body image when even the Doctor tells him to disregard the weight and “buy a bigger shirt.”

Unfortunately, my stomach, legs, chest, back and neck fail to see the funny side and have led me into the first foray of pain relief. This is the downside of steroids and the inevitable side effects. Not that the drugs alone are responsible for the weight. There is a bakery interested in naming their apple turnovers with fresh cream after me and I did take out that personal loan before I went to KFC last week. However, an appetite stimulant is but a rose by any other name, so I’ll blame the drugs and envy that napkin that I might wipe yon fried chicken grease from that cheek (and save it for later).

Laurie did buy me more clothes this week. It was my request due to my preference of larger is better yet it feels ironically similar for me to go out and buy green bananas at the moment. Still I guess that the fat man is a little more comfortable if not more fashionable when he ventures outside to scare small children.

The agenda for this week is for a full body CT scan that will evaluate the progress of the chemotherapy. The swelling, presumably from my lymph glands, doesn’t especially indicate improvement. This fact was half uttered by my Doctor when he said, during the last examination, “It looks like something underne…” The dreaded half thought, half statement that has no filter… It could be worse I guess; he could have said in front of the fat man,  “We’re going to need a bigger machine…”

This morning I discovered why I’m awake so early. From 2 to 3am, you can actually hear God’s voice. There is a silence that shifts into some sacred whisper. “Above the darkness, it’s a beautiful morning.”

(Picture: Carmila Sunset from the back patio.)

[dwjensen]

Regarding Death and Dying – Acknowledging the Elephant

September 15, 2017

I viewed my first dead person when I was seventeen, and though I’ve skirted around the subject in my writing, I have a picture perfect memory that turned forty this year. I recall gazing at the waxen complexion of this probably once fine gentleman, but rather than concentrate on his body, I stared at the ceiling above his gurney and wished him on his way.  The words that came from me in that first instance might have originated from a movie, an old saying of someone else’s or perhaps even a prayer. It was a reflex moment, yet it commenced a ritual with some forgotten source within me to look above the deceased and say “Safe journey…have a peaceful journey.”

 How many times have I repeated this phrase over the last forty years? To be honest I’ve lost count but I remember most with my own brand of reverence, respect and personal faith. I have seen too many to believe that death is the end, however following each event and no matter how long it had taken me to come to terms with the circumstances or images, I have always bid farewell to them with a smile on my face. Some even flash through my mind now as I write this for they still see, hear and experience when they are remembered.

 Hospital training schooled me in the stages, reactions and moods of patients when confronted with death and dying as set out in the educational framework as it was at the time…anger, fear, bargaining denial, acceptance, etc., (its been many years OK). In contrast, Pre Hospital (Ambulance) training is more focussed on the mental health of the Paramedic as they deal with the tragedy of sudden death that they are called upon to attend and to accept in our everyday world. Both schools of knowledge are beneficial and sound. The linchpin is that knowledge itself has to be applied with the acceptance that information is only a tool and that our best teachers are our patients and our own reactions to the individual event. Both Nurses and Paramedics, when called into the fray, require a faith in something that is larger than life itself.

(Picture: Waiting for Round 3 of chemotherapy to commence.) 

My faith? Something unbound by the dogma of religion yet still underpinned by a faith in humanity that states that nature can be as cruel as it is beautiful; given my perspective in that moment. With due reverence and a genuine gratitude in service, time unravels the tricky ones into poetry and confirms my faith. I guess that it was a forty-year process to put that into words.

  My Oncologist stated that without treatment I would have died last month and now the only surety in my future is to not have to worry about what to wear next winter. I don’t want to linger as much as I don’t want to hasten my own demise, hence I really need to acknowledge the elephant. Death doesn’t scare me but it doesn’t suit me today (there’s left over pork roast for dinner). Fear doesn’t haunt me, I feel blessed. I’m content with my life with only a few regrets. I’m not concerned about what happens next. I had no say into my entry of this life and death seems to hold the same conditions beyond this present womb (with a view, sorry, cant say womb without it). It’s all in the faith and the lessons in my own nature of truth that now give me peace.

(Picture: Happy at home having a ‘coldie’ with the poodles in North Queensland, Australia.)

“On your bike Jumbo!”

[dwjensen]

Going Home

September 9, 2017

The problem with sudden inactivity is not so much the ability to relax but the physical and mental capability to do so. My physical wanderings around the house and property have been plagued by a lack of energy, motivation and a general malaise of the body and spirit that I’ve never encountered before. The turmoil of positive versus negative is reflective of my mind’s wanderings that rarely rest upon the moment, but flitter like a butterfly from one topic to the next. I find myself now in a state of flux and seemingly rapid change with both aspects of my mental and physical state struggling to find a suitable compromise.

 Like an insatiable insomniac, I find myself both bored and restless in the same instance, yet there is a voice that is non verbal that keeps whispering on the errant breeze. It floods into me with the peace and contentment of a sleeping baby that “I am going home.”

While the phrase itself does not hold either a pessimistic nor optimistic outcome for me, it does add to the comfort that still surrounds this destiny that feels somewhat closer with every passing day. My ideal of “home” is simplistic yet difficult to attain at times as I attempt to decipher the phrase. Like most, I have lived in many homes, even in another country, yet perhaps the benchmark for me is the childhood home where safety and comfort dwelt in equal measure. I’ve come close to the same reassurance that bricks, wood and mortar can offer but either by myself or sharing any home since has always felt temporary at best.

“Home is where the heart is” suggests a simple desire to remain true to a personal goal of contentment and perhaps this sentiment finds me so close to the phrase. I am content. I have no bucket list or unrequited dreams. The “wants” that stream through my brain at times could fill a sea container yet not one of them I would trade for the “needs” that I have been blessed with. Cancer makes E Bay seem so redundant.

So herein lies the struggle…the conflict is not within my physical strength but in the mental capacity to stay above the everyday. To seek the aspect that contains the most positive spin on every moment, be it a triumph or a mishap. To have the insight to see that a physical change as a progression of life and not as a precursor to death. To see a simple yawn as an extra gulp of air rather than an indicator of being bored for a moment. And perhaps to endure in the hope of inspiring or in the least to reduce the sadness that may haunt the survivor whose challenge is yet to be faced.   

My sleep has been reduced yet that only enables me more time to stay awake and conscious of my world; a gift that does not go unnoticed or unappreciated. And in this wakefulness, there is a peace that comes with the piccaninny dawn. The darkness is only temporary; the light is proof that all nightmares end.

[dwjensen]

My human is broken

September 1, 2017

So of course it’s a beautiful day with low winds and near perfect weather. I’m sitting here at this desk while the boat that I was supposed to be on cruises out to the fishing grounds for the day with two good mates and my missed opportunity. “Why?” (at least one person asks); I feel as weak as a kitten pulled from a flooded creek. I simply don’t have the strength to sustain a day of fishing, coupled with the fact that I’m hesitant to do anything that would send me back to hospital for four days with some everyday virus/bacteria that I may encounter. From over confidence to trepidation in two weeks…here is where the psychological expectation confronts the physical reality; or as my poodle laments “My human is broken.”

 The second cycle of chemotherapy was streamlined for me allowing me to only have to attend the day clinic of administration on the first day of treatment. The next two days were performed at home via oral medication thus negating two further three hour round trips (a blessing to save fuel and wear and tear on the car). I found the effects of this time around somewhat sublime and thankfully without too many side effects yet it was not the physical boost that the first round anointed me with. I felt weak and fatigued to the point where even vacuuming the house put me squarely back on the couch for an unwarranted nana nap.

 After several days of such inactivity, I guess that the natural flow on effect is the lack of mental stimulation that turns quickly to boredom, self-depreciation and even a touch of depression. In other words “Dam, it didn’t work this time...I’m not getting better.” What I should have factored in is the preceding week that literally put me into a hospital bed for four days that still existed in my system and demanded a repayment of rest and restoration. However it is days like today that clamber aboard the old self-pity barge and encourage you to flounder until you discover your own unique life raft.

 “My life line?” asks at least one person yet again…my beautiful wife. She who has also suffered vicariously these two weeks with her own malady of my flu and asthma and yet who still remains my immortal beloved in thought and deed. This is where any words would fail to paint a picture of love and devotion such as hers. I don’t believe that death could ever separate us my darling and I know with a surety that my love for you will live on, so relax baby, I’m good.

 And there it is…I’m back now feeling as good as I did three weeks ago. I’m positive, now energized and more learned about what I can do and what I have to accept as this change takes me to where it will. I am truly blessed and so grateful to have found this way out of the fog; and it was due to the incessant barking of an insufferable poodle who thinks now that it was probably better when his human was broken…he didn’t yell at me that much.

 Who am I kidding…I cant yell.

Check out the video too

[dwjensen]

My Lesson in Learning

August 20, 2017

I guess that it depends on when you like to welcome the new week, be it on a Sunday evening or on a pale Monday morning such as myself however the week for me was only one day old when God laughed at my plans. On the Monday (for perspective) I was on the chain saw, trimming some trees and gathering wood for an end of week fire with visiting friends. I had some scant moments of fatigue but I felt better for the sweat and a bit of physical work for a change.  The next day I had earmarked for some mowing and whipper snipping; not a great deal but paced out to fit in with chemotherapy on the Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Monday night was a precursor with a cough ending with an inferno by Tuesday morning; an Ambulance ride to Hospital and 4 days in isolation. This was all standard procedure for people on Chemotherapy who spike temperatures through opportunistic viral or bacterial infections while their immune systems are compromised.

The Doctor said to me yesterday, “You were lucky that you recovered quickly and the chemotherapy hadn’t began on the next cycle.” I must admit, she was wearing a mask at the time and though I didn’t feel “lucky”, I am grateful to be now home and feeling much better. So this morning when 3.30 said to me “You may as well get up, no more sleep for you!” I thought I’d just reflect and feel the new day. Lesson 1: The Paramedics who attended me did so with respect and professional bearing. I don’t remember ever being as young as 2 of them and I could not fault their work. My visitors later that day were my beautiful wife, a million words would never come close but I’m working on it; the Chief Superintendent of the Ambulance, the Manager of Operations, The Operational Supervisor and the Duty Officer of the local area. How can I ever thank them enough? Lesson 2: The Nurses/Doctors at Mackay Base Hospital…simply brilliant! The health system can certainly treat the populace like cattle, but the people treat you like family. I remember cutting my teeth in Hospitals and these people are so much more clever, so much more mature and so much more empathetic toward their clients; I can’t find enough superlatives for them. If this process is my final one, these 2 lessons have given me even more confidence in the world I leave behind. It screams to me to “Let it go; the shift is over and the new crew will keep the faith.”

[dwjensen]

Not A Week for the Weak:

August 12,2017

I knew that I would fall, it was only a matter of time. Looking back now, it was more of a slip/fall than a breakdown yet it still stung my pride and found me seeking something that was eventually hidden in plain sight. 

It was another beautiful sunrise this morning with a fog bank rolling in from the ocean. The mist withheld the glory of the dawn, yet the half-light seemed to paint a sublime landscape that danced with the memory of comfort and cold. I was the child waking from my tent and exploring the fields while bundled in an old overcoat of my Father’s. My boots cracked against the frost in the silent fields that held still simply for my exploration and wonder. The memory reminded me of the dance of my life then and the steps that I am yet to take before my own finale. 

Do memories die with you or do they live on in a perpetual soul? This question commenced my week and commenced the cascade of trivial distractions that plagued my motivation. How long do I have? The worst question of the week, yet the most prominent and the most important of my now that I try to avoid.

My Oncologist suggested yesterday that I would normally only have 4 cycles of chemotherapy, 2 weeks of radium and then an assessment of viable management. He basically suggested that instead of 6 cycles, 4 would probably help temporarily with the cancer normally not responding after that amount of time. I felt the knife slip through my ribs with his opinion that perhaps my existence wasn’t worth another 6 weeks of time that 6 cycles instead of 4 might grant me, 

That’s when I fell. 

All week I have been feeling as if I could return to work in some capacity. I feel perhaps 15% reduced in stamina/strength but otherwise better than I have felt in months. I have no medical impediments visible except for slight shortness of breath on exertion and a reduced vocal ability (I can barely talk due to laryngeal nerve damage caused by pleural lymphatic gland compression). 

In other words; I CAN WORK!!! I can still be productive, still be of use and still be part of the whole. Yet instead this week I’ve felt separate, condemned and isolated. I receive all of these messages of sympathy and support, but I feel so healthy and I know that it might only be temporary, so why not take advantage of it.

And there it is; cabin fever maybe, most certainly frustrating and conflicting…much like the medical sentence that has been handed down to me from my own karma. 

How did I resolve my week….I went to the pub last night, enjoyed myself with good friends and now it’s a new week.

[dwjensen]

August 5, 2017

Facing the Dawn: 

5 am beckoned me to simply get out of bed and watch the sunrise from my patio. A night of strange dreams, a week of near overwhelming change that ended with radium therapy planning will do that to you. Mind you, my sense of humor has been having a ball with all of this new material. A Pharmacy assistant warned me against the “long term” use of a medication; I replied that it was all good and that my cancer didn’t grant me a “long term.” A friend didn’t want to intrude by phoning me, I replied to phone/visit when they wanted to…I didn’t have much time….just saying. 

Geeze I crack myself up…I’m not using black comedy as escapism but rather my mirth comes from my new sense of wonder.

Einstein once said, “My sense of God is my sense of wonder about the universe.” I hadn’t thought of this phrase until writing this but something seems to collide with my life now as it stands. Everyday is a sense of wonder, delight, joy and simple self -amusement. My balance is practical reality, “what can I do today?…how can I be productive? etc.,” (this extended time off work was unplanned). Yet I cant shake this inner confidence in something that I’m yet to define and yet to fulfill; but I do know with a surety that finds me fearless, my destiny awaits as a dusk or a dawn. Both hold the magic that is withheld for us all.

Some have said of late of the “unfairness” of a paramedic stricken with cancer. While the sentiment behind the words are so full of best wishes and kind thoughts that it makes my eyes leak, I have to say that from my perspective, my experience makes this easier. I’ve never met anyone ever deserving of this illness and the people whom I have had the pleasure of serving who have been suffering from cancer, have displayed such dignity and grace that I can only hope to emulate them. 

You see, it’s all about service…how we serve each other…how we best look after each other. As a Paramedic I had difficulty in later years trying to contain the sadness that I had witnessed. It finally came to me that it was the service that was the privilege…the blessing bestowed upon you so that you could go and face these horrible scenes and stories and be there as a servant to heal or to simply witness. And now as I look back, even if I never have the opportunity to serve again I would not change any aspect of my life well lived.

And we all serve others, as family members, as a community and as a country. People who sell food are in service, office workers are in service, shelf fillers are in service, whatever the occupation and whatever your social situation, you will be in service to others many times daily. There’s the privilege, there’s the blessing. 

Those whom I have served are with me now, assisting, advising and reminding me of their own journeys. I feel them looking over my shoulder right now…so many angels…how could I ever be sad on this beautiful dawn.

[dwjensen]

In his happy place, sitting on his post. Aug 01. 2017

Seeking the Joy

August 01, 2017

It’s taken me a while to absorb the well wishes of friends and strangers. My internal counter balance of non-worthiness has taken quite a battering with the final result of acceptance coming easier now.

I walked the land of my home yesterday as I often do seeking solace, peace or some wisdom that only the land can grant. I’m usually very mindful in this practice, though yesterday the experience sent my consciousness to a whole new level.

I felt the gravity beneath me to not simply ground me in limitless balance but I felt embraced, even nurtured. I floated from one section to the next on this “God’s little acre” of ours, simply observing this familiar life. Yet as I wondered with all of my perceptive senses heightened, I realized that my world is now not what it was two weeks ago…all is now forever changed…and this is where I found the joy.

I gazed into the mango trees that I had trimmed last season and felt (literally) the new life of their flowers bursting through. It was if they were thanking me for this renewal and promised a bountiful harvest. Everywhere I looked, everywhere I stood, moved and breathed, the land held me in a belonging that brought me to tears…tears of joy!

It’s as if gifts are bestowed upon you no matter what stage of life you find yourself in, all you have to do is look. I believe that joy resides as own birthright, yet to seek it amid the sadness requires effort. You need to look and not just glance, you need to hear and not just listen and you need to exchange energy with the world, not just try to feel without intent.

I think that my answer to the joy is to not only cultivate it, but to spread it around. I hope you can feel it through my words…please feel free to seek my joy.

[dwjensen]

The Best Thing about having Cancer...

July 30th, 2017

The best thing about having cancer is having your spouse wait upon you hand and foot….I call this my pre heaven. Am I that sick to deserve a virtual servant?  Well apparently so according to my learned Oncologist who reduced my life expectancy by some twenty to thirty years. The problem being is that I don’t feel sick, I don’t feel like I’d imagined to feel when confronted with my own mortality and I certainly don’t feel as if I have months rather than years to live.

So the worst part about having cancer? The outpour of grief from your spouse, your family and friends that threatens to loosen the ground from beneath and drag you into the torrents of tears and sadness. The guilt of causing grief simply by your own soon to be non-existence…this is the worst.

Yet I’m so happy. Not happy with this disease, but happy with my lot in life; what I have become and what I have achieved and with maybe even this ending that feels something akin to the poetry of the universe. I have the most amazing wife whom I simply adore. I feel as though my service to my fellow man via my employment has been fulfilled. My life experience is far from perfect yet it can only be described as my own unique brand of existence.

To be honest, it’s been a hoot. I fully believe that I’ve done more and seen more than most and there are lives being currently lived either directly or indirectly because of me (as a paramedic, it was my job).

As I sat on my patio today, I felt the units of the cosmos actually calling me home…to the stars, to the planets and to the energy and matter that is our creation.

I realize that this is the beginning and this blog should have some structure, but all I have (apparently) are moments and I hope to simply explore these moments with as much integrity that I can.

Why the last post? One day it will be…simple as that.