Mets Day 119 - how I'm doing

When people ask how I'm doing, I need to decide whether they really want to know, or just want a socially acceptable short answer.  How I respond not only depends on how well I know the person asking, but how I'm feeling, and whether I want to talk for a while.  Frequently, I'll just say "I'm taking it day by day," which is true, but not complete.  For someone who has metastatic cancer, there is no thing as an an honest, short answer to that question.

So how am I doing?  I take it day by day.  How I feel, and what I do each day, is largely driven by how well I slept the night before.  Since my ureter was reopened and the Foley catheter removed on July 30, my average amount of sleep each night has doubled from about 2 hours per night to 4 hours per night.  I still wear Depends to bed each night, and I still leak each night, but it's not nearly as bad as it was before.  A typical night is has me going to bed at about 11:30 pm, then getting up at 12:30 or 1 to again try to empty my neobladder.  If I can make it to 5 am without waking back up due to feeling a leakage, then it's a good night.  I will again empty my bladder, then will usually lay back down and try to doze some more, but I rarely will return to deep REM sleep.  Sometimes I will sit in the hot tub while he dawn slowly breaks, then will either lay down or sit in a recliner and try to doze. 

A bad night is when I keep leaking and can't get a lot of deep sleep.  Last night, for example, I was up at midnight, 1:15, 2:30, 4:30, 5:45, and 7, so I am not feeling well-rested today.  On days following a bad night, I feel wooly and lethargic.  That's generally how I've felt for the first three months following the surgery, so those days that I do get 4+ hours of consecutive sleep, I feel much more alert and attentive.  Everything is relative, of course -- even after good nights, I tire faster than normal.  Yesterday, for example, I came into the office at about 11 am, and by 4:30 pm I was pretty tuckered.  I usually would have gone home, but I had a dinner plans downtown at 6, so I laid down on the sofa in my office and napped for an hour.  I listen to my body, and do what I need to do. 

Meanwhile, the knowledge is never far from my mind that I've got microscopic urothelial cancer floating around my body, looking for a place to latch on and start killing me with secondary metastases.  I know the statistics which tell me that there is a 90% chance I'll be dead within five years, and there is nothing that doctors can do about it.  I have accepted these facts, but I have not resigned myself to certain death, because it is not certain, and because hope, like faith, is a powerful moving force. 

I also am greatly comforted by my religious beliefs, which teach that my soul, and everything that I am, continues on after my body fails.  From the eternal perspective, death is not that big of a deal.  It's harder on those that are left behind.  This suggests that my focus should be on spending time with family and helping them be prepared for my eventual crossing over, regardless of when it is, or how it happens.