"Keim, K E I M, 4/3/54, Good Morning Everyone!"

Dear Friends,

If you have been, you are, or you have accompanied a person being treated for cancer, then you know the drill: "Your name please, and your birthdate." I have added the 'good morning everyone' just to break up the monotony for Lynn, the check in staff member at the Knight Cancer Center of the Oregon Health Sciences University where I am being treated. I have tried my best to be in a good mood and add some humor and levity to the 7th floor of the Center for Health & Healing as it is the Oncology floor and is by its nature a very serious place.

Yesterday our day started with a 5 a.m. wake up call and a 5:30 a.m. departure for Portland, 90 minutes away. I say 'our' not because I am speaking in the 'Royal We' but because it is Donna and I making the journey. She accompanies me on every trip to the Doctor and does it without once giving me the impression it is a task or that she would rather be doing something else. Hell...I would rather be doing something but she never lets on. I hope to live a while longer because when it comes to 'for better or for worse...' I need some more time to give her more of the better.

I have been on the Clinical Trial supervised by my Doctor Matt Taylor for one month now. I am taking experimental drugs at my request because the approved ones had stopped having much effect against my opponent, melanoma. I take eight pills in the morning and three at night, two hours of fasting before and one hour after each time. I have felt the conflict going on in my belly, without pain thank God, and knew that my drugs and my cancer were doing battle with each other. The day started with an eye exam, then blood test, then EKG, then meeting with Dr. Taylor, then lunch with Hannah and her Internship Coordinator Dr. Lynn Lashbrook (see smww.com), then an heart sonogram, taking of my meds, and a final EKG. It was quite a day and this is the Clinical Trial protocol.

It always makes me nervous when Dr. Taylor pulls up the screen with my test results. He sits facing it with Donna and I to his right. Last time he stared at it, looked very sad, and pushed it aside and said, "We don't need to look at this. Let's get you approved for the Clinical Study." He was clearly disappointed in the results. We have become friends, we pray for each other, and my case is personal for him, and me! Yesterday at 10:40 a.m., he looked and sounded nearly giddy. He told me my hemoglobin was 10.8, up from 5.8 three weeks ago and 9.9 two weeks ago. He said my internal bleeding had stopped. The scores indicated who was winning the battle between the meds and the 'unruly cells' and this battle was clearly being won by the meds. Upon his physical examination of me, he could not find the 4 cm tumor that had been growing under the skin near my ribs where the resting elbow meets the body. He said, "I am not even finding evidence of scar tissue." Do you remember your children or grandchildren opening a gift from under the Christmas tree? That is how he looked! I was happy for me, no, relieved and grateful was I. But I was equally happy to see him with at least a temporary victory in the battle. Can you imagine being an Oncologist? To see people in varying stages of living and dying, pain and suffering, fear and apprehension, every day. He and I gave each other the same look my fraternity brothers and I gave each other when they told me I had been invited to join and become a brother.

I am not posting "It's Over!" messages today, or "We Kicked It's Ass!' celebrations because Stage 4 Melanoma has a nasty habit of finding a way to change its course and direction and reappear. The study I am on is experimenting with five new drugs in addition to the big dosage duo I am now on to try and put the nail in the coffin of this disease. I am telling you today though that this is the best I have felt in over a year, can do two hours of work in my garden without passing out, and have put the  events of two weeks ago behind me. Two weeks ago I am in the hospital taking six units of blood and having an irregular heart beat, fever, and other maladies. Today, I write you with good news. Isn't that how it is with cancer, and life? If we were smart, and the jury is still out on that, we would savor and dwell in each moment, in particular the good ones, the joyful ones, the ecstatic ones. We are however,  at times, resentful about the past, and fearful about the future, unable to be present to the magic that is this moment.

In my mind I have the best Doctor in the world. He would reject that title due to his humility and good heart, but it is how I feel. Novartis has created new drugs to fight my disease that are working.
Dr. Taylor said, "Any joint pain?" "No." "Blurred vision?" "No." "Rash or hives"? "No." "Swelling or numbing?" "No." I have had no side effects from these medications either! What a blessing. My liver, kidneys, and organs are functioning well and have good numbers too. I do believe that the tipping point however, my key outlier, the reason this is happening is all of your good wishes and prayers. Not a day goes by that someone doesn't contact me by email, text, phone, or in person to tell me they are praying for me. From Maine to Florida, Iowa, Texas, Michigan, California, Alaska, Hawaii, Idaho, Pennsylvania and all points in between...you have been there for me. My secret hope, as I have stated before in this journal, is that God gets so tired of hearing my name raised by you in thought and prayer that he tells St. Peter, "We need to just heal him. I don't have time for all the Hail Marys, Holy Jesus' and Great God Almighties...have you seen my Son. Get Him on this, Pete."

(And the Dark Voice murmured..."But what will he say if his cancer returns, his hemo goes down, and the test results aren't so good?") First, I will say, "Shit!" Then I will trust in God to get me through this with dignity. As Marcus Borg said when asked about the afterlife, "The same God who buoyed me up through life will buoy me up through death." I cannot tell you the number of people of who have said to me, "We really didn't think you would do much in your life." I don't blame them. Like you, I have had some bumps, bruises, and abuses. But I never lost my faith or my belief that God was with me, with us, especially through the toughest times. Even death.

This week I was contacted by my friend Johnny Hartley in Iowa and Coach Bill Viverto in California to tell me that our best pitcher on the 1970 Colt League World Championship Team had died of a heart attack at his home in Hawaii. Tommy Pokorski was a big guy with a bigger heart that knew no strangers. He was All CIF in Basketball and Baseball and signed with the Boston Red Sox. Coach V was very emotional when we talked as that team was very special to him, and us. We were 22-0, beat the American Legion World Champions, Venezuela, Asia, Canada, Mexico and the US teams to set 15 World Series records, some of which stand today. We were invited to come on the field at Dodger Stadium and be escorted by Dodger players and cheered after we returned home by 55,000 fans. I was the least talented guy on the team but pitching in front of these guys, I went 3-0 for the Summer. Tommy was our leader, our comedian, our 'idiot savant'. And even in his death, he is bringing us together. This week I have had teammates contact me who have battled cancer and given me their love, concern, and prayers. Even death cannot conquer love, friendship, distance, time, and hope.

One day there will be no cancer. In the meantime we are starting to hear cancer talked about as a chronic disease, not a death sentence. Great discoveries are being made and companies like Novartis are spending millions on research to alleviate suffering and save lives. The old hymn says, "Death, where is thy sting?" I am filled with gratitude to tell you of my results. I know you are there for me. But I also know that you will be there for me when the announcements and test results are not so good. And further, I know you will be there for my children, grandchildren, wife and family when I am gone. I like to think I will not be really gone, simply out of sight. The great Buddhist Monk Thich Nhat Hanh (see 'No Fear, No Death') says, "You have always been. Right now the conditions for you to exist in human form are present. One day they will not be, and your spirit will move on. You have always been, you are, and you will always be." As long as we remember Tommy, and as long as we remember all those that have gone before us, then we, and they, will live forever. Sounds like Heaven to me!

Bless you all and have a wonderful day! With love,

Will