Today should be THE DAY with some answers. We went to bed last night after the Buccaneers beat the Eagles and the Dodgers prevailed over the Giants to win that series. While we are sports fans, we aren’t nuts, but now we apparently are. Nothing says major sports events like those two games–what the heck. Maybe we can find a couple of junior high teams to watch. Heck, we have now officially seen all Datelines and 20/20 episodes produced in the 21st Century. We had a challenging night’s sleep. I woke Diane up at 2 a.m. as she was having some sort of nightmare—not surprising. At 5 a.m. I quietly whispered, “Are you awake?” and the reply came, “Of course.” So being creatures of habit, we got up, made the bed, and were down stairs fully clothed at 5:15 as if we had someplace to go. Coffee for Diane and “product” for me. At 6:15 I was out the door to walk on a dark (of course) cold, foreboding morning and Diane was preparing to finish up with her last “paint by numbers” (they are really nice but that is what they are) painting.
At 7:15 I was walking towards the Macomb Square when I observed a man coming towards me wearing a suit and tie. This guy was going somewhere but what the heck was he thinking. You just don’t expect to see that so early in the morning, so I assumed it was a homeless guy wearing what was left of his wardrobe. It turned out to be Dean of the College of Business and Technology, Dr. Craig Conrad. I asked him if he was lost and he said no, he just saw me walking, parked his car and wanted to ask how I was doing—a wonderful gesture. You can’t make this stuff up and this is our lives these days—people caring and reaching out in ways large and small. Guess you just can’t teach “class.” This is another example of what can happen when you live in a small town. People genuinely care about one another. It shows.
I was then walking by the Dairy Queen (unfortunately closed for the season) and literally almost walked into Dr. Jack McPherson, Director of Hospitalists at McDonough District Hospital. He has been one of our “go to” professionals during this adventure in our lives. I got home at 8 a.m. Now what? I read the paper and came upstairs to lie down but that was futile so here I am. Diane answered a few emails and texts and has been pacing the house, cell phone in hand, waiting, waiting, waiting. It is now 10 a.m. If this is what we are experiencing, I can only imagine what it must have been like for General Dwight David Eisenhower on June 6, 1944 as the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces sent thousands of men to the beaches of Normandy to free Europe. No wonder they called it “The Longest Day.”
Six hours later…
We just got the call—not cancer! I am in the 10% of folks whose PET scan lights up, and it is good news. Also it is not a tumor—possibly calcification of tissue and that could be a function of the aging process. Diane asked the doctor, “Should we be doing a happy dance?” and he said “that would be appropriate.” Diane is calling the kids while I type this, and it will be a “good news” weekend for the Taylors. We have had so much “down” news the past four months that we are cautiously optimistic that we have turned the corner on this onerous episode in our lives.
With cancer behind us, it is time to revisit the whole PEG issue as dragging a tube around hanging out of my stomach for the past almost three months has caused me to lose my old man sex symbol status. We will call Dr. Henrich, my Burlington ENT doctor, and schedule an appointment to determine how he feels we should proceed which I assume means we start with a new “swallow” test. Even if that does not work out, it is a relief to have this cancer scare in the proverbial rearview mirror.
As I type this, I am in a bit of a fog, a happy fog I might add. At some time, will need to process all that has happened to date and take stock of our good fortune. I do know that I will let myself believe that the prayers of loved ones and friends has made a difference in the positive outcome we got on the phone thirty minutes ago. This is as good a spot as any to say THANK YOU to all of you who have been there for us since we started recounting this story back at the end of June. I look forward in the weeks/months ahead to get back to the original purpose of my blog with an occasional PEG update interspersed as well.
It is Friday night and raining in Macomb but not at 35 Indian Trail. The sun is shining here, and I’ll bet there is a rainbow out there somewhere as well. Hooray and hallelujah. The waiting is over….
It is 10 a.m. and I am sitting here wondering what today will bring. Diane worked her usual magic and got my appointment moved from October 14th to today at 6 p.m., so we will be heading out to Iowa City in an hour or so. It is amazing how, in the throes of all this, life inextricably moves forward. This morning it was a trip to the dry cleaner and then the bank and a couple of loads of wash to be done for good measure. I did all this alone.
So, where was Diane? She was on the phone where she spends most of her time these days in a ceaseless quest to get things done in the most efficient and expedient manner humanly possible. In addition to getting my appointment moved to today, she is trying to retrieve records from my procedure done in Cape Coral, Florida, in March 2010 for base of tongue cancer as Mayo wants them as they continue to evaluate my case before deciding whether or not to “accept” me. It is a bit like being a senior in high school waiting to see if you are going to get into your college of choice. Diane talks to folks at Mayo, in Burlington, and Iowa City, Iowa, and Northwestern attempting to get things in order for second or maybe even third opinions. I am not mentally equipped to do any of this so fortunate to have Diane “in my corner.” Did I forget to add grateful? When I was out walking at 6 this morning, I thought, with the exception of actually undergoing the PET Scan or MRI or whatever the “treatment of the day” is, Diane has been way more involved. I’m just the patient.
The past ten days have gone by slowly, very slowly. There has been yard work to do, and some general upkeep completed by our friendly neighborhood contractor. We’ve watched football and post-season baseball. In addition, we enjoyed the fourth season of Goliath starring Billy Bob Thornton. We binged this series, viewing all eight one-hour episodes in a single day. We do try to keep our minds occupied.
As I close for today, I can’t help but wonder, “Is today the day we have a procedure (MRI) that will finally give us answers regarding my immediate mortality, be it good news or bad?” The journey continues.
Saturday, October 9, 2021
Back home in Macomb and our own bed tonight. Yesterday proved to be a long day. Iowa City was chaotic as it was the scene of Iowa/Penn State football game, so revelers were arriving. We got to at the hospital at 5 p.m. for a 6:00 procedure. It went without a hitch but lasted from 6:15-7:15 and oh so noisy. The MRI machine is very loud. Suddenly, it felt like 2010 all over again as they put me on my back and fastened a mask over my face so I couldn’t move. This would be an awful experience if you suffer from claustrophobia, which thankfully, I don’t.
Exhausted when we returned to the hotel so, of course, it was pajama time and then DATELINE. Today we attended the wedding of the wonderful man, who has produced all 300 of my local access tv shows, and his lovely and talented bride. We got back to Macomb at 5 p.m. and must admit, again, we are just “spent” and really tired. I can only guess it is the unrelenting pressure of “one crisis after another” for three-plus months.
It is our understanding that the results will come our way sometime next week. We don’t know if that will be via a phone call or personal appointment back in Iowa City. We are at the juncture where there is probably no more guessing as the MRI should definitively answer the question—”What is it?” The doctors will, we hope, tell us what lies ahead and how we should best proceed. The hours will continue to drag on but at least, in terms of some sort of end game, we will know precisely what we are facing.
Tuesday, October 12, 2021
We were hoping that yesterday would find us getting a call with results of MRI but no such luck. Consequently, it was another day of waiting and try as we will, that is simply not an easy exercise. It rained all day Monday so no walk for me and quite a bit of painting for Diane. It was just a pretty gloomy day except the most recent painting is beginning to blossom into another Diane Taylor work of art to brighten things up at 35 Indian Trail.
Today will be a look on the bright side as it is sunny crisp day that will bring us some good news—right? Actually, I’m somewhat optimistic though there is no medical reason for me to feel this way. For the life of me, I actually will be a little surprised if the results show cancer as since this sad adventure began, fast forwarding to the “hot spot” of September 1st and discounting the neck/pneumonia/PEG regimen of June and July when I was literally beside myself with pain and frustration, Gordy Taylor has been feeling pretty damn good. Now, for English majors among you, that stream of consciousness last sentence would be for the readers of William Faulkner, known for his long, very long sentences.
It would seem odd to me that I would feel fine if cancer is in my neck/head or wherever MRI explored and not feeling anything bad. For a while, I would wake up in the morning waiting for severe pain or blurred vision or something but to date, nothing, so will continue to hope for the best. As I type this upstairs, Diane is downstairs making what she refers to as “THE CALL” to see if results will be forthcoming today. Tick tock, Tick tock, Tick tock….
Wednesday, October 13, 2021
Nope, it didn’t happen!! Diane and I have been given a new date as to when information will be forthcoming. It can’t be soon enough. “They” called yesterday afternoon to inform us that a group meeting of specialists will be held Friday morning to discuss the results of the MRI. These doctors have independently reviewed the results, and they come together to discuss what was found and propose a course of action. I surmise that at this point, Diane and I are told how they collectively recommend we proceed and we go from there.
Today is Wednesday and of course Friday seems like a “new eternity” for us but then suppose we should be getting used to the way all this plays out. Naturally, the important thing is to “get it right” so wait we shall. Diane will paint; I will walk. By the time this concludes, Diane will have painted the equivalent of the Sistine Chapel; I will have walked back and forth across the United States twice.
I guess you could say progress is being made, just at a snail’s pace. After the needle biopsy cancellation due to “too risky” on September 10th, we had a meeting with an ear, nose, throat (ENT) specialist at the University of Iowa Hospital System on September 27th to determine the next step in the “needle biopsy odyssey.” We met for almost an hour as the doctor was able to bring up the actual images of the CT-scan and PET-scan on his computer screen and showed them to us. Then we moved into the interpretation of all this. He told us he has never seen a case like mine, and he writes articles in medical journals about this stuff.
The ENT decided to share my records and scans with interventional radiologists to try and figure out what to do moving forward and it would appear one of two options is on the table. One is to do an ultrasound needle biopsy where they literally go in and navigate through and around blood vessels to get a tissue sample from the tumor/lesion “hotspot.” The other option is to do an MRI which is non-invasive and can give them photos of the area in question without “going in.” After this procedure, in concert with the radiology team, they will come up with a diagnosis and plan. We believe the hope is to use a combination of radiation/chemotherapy to treat the problem, but it might be too close to the regimen for my base of tongue cancer eleven years ago to allow them to do this. Surgery is out of the question due to the location and the very real prospect that it could allow cancer cells to spread during the operation.
So here is what we are facing in layman’s terms. After the MRI, a plan will be developed. If they can’t go the radiation/chemo route, then we have a real challenge as options beyond that are severely limited. They would come up with “something,” but we sensed that would be more of a “delaying tactic” than anything else. Not the brightest of scenarios, however, our hope is that they can come up with a radiation/chemo plan. Who would ever have thought we would be “rooting” for another round of radiation/chemo?
September 28, 2021
Twenty-four hours later, our ENT specialist called to tell us that all the radiologists agreed that an MRI was the preferable option, and it has been scheduled for October 14th pending insurance approval. This waiting is agonizing for others but excruciating for us. This procedure will be done in Iowa City. Diane will also immediately search out a second opinion. We have been struggling to get a commitment from Mayo but that is due to a multitude of variables.
When the focus of “the blog” changed from observations on life in the 4th quarter to my serious health odyssey, I told myself that it was important that I be honest and straight forward and not sugar coat what the Taylors were experiencing. The goal is not only to inform our friends of our journey but also to provide background and comfort to others who might unfortunately find themselves on the same health trajectory. It is my heartfelt hope that in the days ahead and sooner rather than later, I can write here that I apologize, “Gordy is the boy who cried wolf and he is fine and this was all much ado about nothing.” At present, I don’t honestly believe that or I wouldn’t be wasting your time here. Yet, I do want to return to the previous perspectives on life postings as soon as these health issues are behind us.
Thursday, September 9th
Tomorrow is the big day with the CT-scan guided needle biopsy procedure in Burlington, Iowa. It has been eight excruciatingly long days since we got the troubling PET-scan results on September 2nd. Diane and I are continuously asked in one form or another, “How are you spending your time during this endless period of waiting?” Let me tell you. We try and eat together as best we can, I’m with PEG and 2 1/2 cartons of product per meal and Diane with carry out, leftovers, toast, English muffins, and cereal, endless bowls of cereal. She consumes Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes and Mini Wheats by the box, not the bowl. She is such a good sport but through “all this” her appetite is severely diminished. I confess, I am oh so tired of “product” and long for any food group or some form of liquid nourishment. It is very boring.
As for what we do daily, we are on separate trajectories. Diane Monet, Diane Van Gogh, Diane Klimt has taken up what I call sophisticated paint-by-number creations of famous painters which is slow but the finished product is excellent. She has an occasional lunch with a friend and has been out to visit a few of them. She is attending the local Gazebo Arts Festival and that should be fun as well. Diane is also our “in house” doctor, schedules appointments, does some medical research, and orders product for her husband–thankless work but has to be done. If anyone really knows me, I possess minimal technology skills. Heck, I loved my “flip” phone which met its demise in 2018 when in the early morning darkness in the car, I dropped it in my glass of Diet Coke forcing me to get a “real” cell phone. Diane does everything concerning the blog: initiation, posting, editing, photos, and collaborating on the written entries. Anyone want to play bridge? Diane loves the game and online bridge became the norm when her groups didn’t meet.
I walk and then walk some more. It is what I do to eat up the day—7 miles most days but throw in a 10 miler once in a while. How can that be? How does a person with what I might be facing walk that much every day? It makes no sense but at least it gives me sanity. I do scare people. Since I can’t swallow, I walk down the street, put water from my bottle in my mouth and then, because I shouldn’t swallow, spit it out. I must be quite a sight.
And then there is the mindless entertainment—Dateline, 20/20, 48 Hours, Cold Justice, Reasonable Doubt—you name it, we’ve watched it. What have we learned? If you are a woman, do not stand on a steep cliff with your significant other behind you, do not take a bath with a psycho husband in the house, or stand in front of a steep staircase. For the men, be cautious of antifreeze cocktails given freely to you by an overly zealous female. Gee, we’ve learned so much worthless information the past month or so, but it does pass the time. Reading is difficult as concentration is hard to do but need to work that into our routines. Of course, there is yard work and a house to manage but TIME has dragged on and on and on.
Friday, September 10th—Morning
It is 5 a.m. and as I type this, I am thinking about what we have been doing the past twelve hours or so and I wish it was getting a good night’s rest but that was not to happen. At 5 p.m. we sat on the couch looking at each other and quietly asking, “What do you think will happen tomorrow?” We both uttered something positive and optimistic but not sure either of us was totally convincing. For dinner, I had the usual and Diane, why a small bowl of cereal of course. We watched the evening news then everywhere we looked, it was reflections on the twenty-year anniversary of 9-11. That was riveting to watch and took our minds briefly off today’s activities. I went upstairs and watched Tom Brady and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers against the Dallas Cowboys and I lasted for a half, turning off the tv at 9:30. Diane came up at midnight.
Here we are and it is now time to head out to Burlington for the needle biopsy. The sun will be bright this morning and directly in the eyes of those driving eastbound, so I’ve decided we should leave a little early so as to not be on the road traveling westbound when the poor folks going east can’t see us on the country roads. We should be traveling north by the time the sun comes up. See what you learn when you walk early in the morning. There is also the ever-present concern with deer at this time of year as the corn is high and not yet harvested so must be vigilant for them as well. Damn, I’m a planner.
As I close this segment, my thoughts are on the quote of noted writer, Anna Quindlen, who the day after the 9-11 attack gave us the following prophetic observation, “September 10th was the last everyday morning of the rest of our lives.” Will Diane and I be saying the same thing about September 9, 2021, as it relates to our lives? Time to leave. Is it OK to use the Beatles refrain and Diane and Gordy’s “song” “Here Comes the Sun” or maybe it’s Jackie Gleason, “And away we go.” My stomach is churning; I take one final look in the mirror to see what I look like before the next chapter in our lives begins.
Friday, September 10th—Afternoon
We’ve returned to Macomb and my looks haven’t changed much as the needle biopsy was CANCELLED!!! Do you believe it? We barely do. We arrived at 7 a.m. and did blood workup, explanation of sequence of events to transpire, and IV solution started. A CT-scan was set up where they attempted to get some measurements so a needle biopsy could be performed. I laid on my back motionless for 45 minutes as they tried in vain to get a good “photo angle” so the needle procedure could be done. They withdrew me from the tubular machine and announced “too risky.” Apparently, there is an abundance of vascular activity right in the path including the huge carotid artery, so the doctor said he just couldn’t in good conscience attempt the procedure. Again, Diane and I are disappointed and totally dumbfounded. We need some good news here folks and can’t seem to get any . Now, to be frank, kudos to the medical team for not doing what they felt they couldn’t do safely so there is that for which to be grateful.
Next step is to meet with our ENT doctor and develop a new strategy moving forward. We are saddened by the fact that things remain backed up due to Covid issues, primarily because of unvaccinated people who need medical treatment and are clogging up the system. I’m sorry, but I’m old school. This just doesn’t seem fair. If these folks had gotten the vaccine, I wouldn’t have to wait and then wait again longer than necessary because of their selfish behavior. We’ve been told that this issue is percolating down through the entire health care system and is not unique to Gordy Taylor but still it rankles me . OK, that’s it for today. Time for a walk, a very long walk.
Tuesday, September 14th
The waiting continues. Yesterday, through the relentless efforts of our ENT doctor and Diane, all of my medical records have been sent to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN, a 5 ½ hour drive from Macomb. We are now waiting (there’s that word again) for them to evaluate my case and in the words of Bob Barker on the Price is Right call us and say, “Come on up?” Here’s hoping.
Let me get right to the chase. The PET-scan was administered on September 1st; the process took roughly two hours most of which found me either sitting quietly in a chair while the radioactive fluid travelled through my body or in the PET tube. The actual scan took about 30 minutes.
September 2nd: Back to Iowa for our appointment to discuss the results of the scan. Dr. Henrich, Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor, has 25 years of experience and is person who got me through the base of tongue cancer episode over 11 years ago. He entered the examining room. Diane and I were expecting to discuss when I could have a swallowing video test with the hope that someday I could say good-bye to PEG. That was not to happen. He began, “Well, the results are not what I expected.” Diane’s and my eyes met above our masks as we knew this was not going to be good. It wasn’t.
The PET scan revealed a “hot spot” on my C3 vertebrae. The report states, “There appears to be bony destruction and an underlying soft tissue mass extending into the adjacent paraspinal musculature. Findings are indicative of local metastatic disease.” We asked Dr. Henrich what does this mean? He told us it could be an infection, inflammation, or cancer but he has already conferred with an oncologist. Next step? A CT guided needle biopsy has been scheduled for September 10th. This will determine the future course of action. None of this is good news, but we will have to wait until the results are in before we can do anything else. Now we wait. This is excruciating for the action-oriented Taylors who like to have a plan today—not at some underdetermined date in the future.
Obviously, PEG is a part of our lives for the time being. The swallow test is postponed. We are exhausted, sad, mad, frustrated, numb, and shocked.
My mind is racing. Could I actually be having another round of radiation and chemotherapy? Will I again be fastened down to a table with a plastic mask covering my face? Daily trips to Iowa? Tell me this isn’t again in store for us, but I fear it just might be. Diane and I are working mightily to not develop or “let in” a “why me?” mentality. We are trying not to project on what may happen after the needle biopsy; however, that is very difficult for us.
The Taylors have been blessed in so many ways, one of which is the friendships shared over the past 60 years. More than ever family and friends are what matter to us.
In March 2010 Diane started our first blog to keep people abreast of my base of tongue cancer battle and now eleven years later, damn it, we are doing it again. In January 2019, I never thought for a moment when we started up writing again that it would end up being anything like this. It was supposed to be about personal observations and how we boomers deal with life in the fourth quarter of a changing world. And now this–simply astounding and frankly unbelievable. We remain hopeful.
It seemed like months from July 23 until August 4 when we arrived back in Macomb. Upon our return, we pretty much just collapsed–no unpacking or anything else for that matter, we were just glad to get home. Doctors encouraged me to take short walks so for the first week that is precisely what I did, just around the neighborhood but that was enough for me. I slipped into the regimen that I’m told will be my “new normal” for the foreseeable future. Give or take a few minutes, the daily schedule is the following:
6 a.m.—30 cc of water in PEG via the large syringe, crush a pill of Levothyroxine for my damaged thyroid from radiation in 2010, followed by 30 cc of water in PEG
6:30 a.m.—30 cc of water, 2 ½ cartons of Jevity 1.2 in PEG, followed by 30 cc of water (25 to 30 minutes)
9 a.m.—200 cc of water in PEG
10 a.m.—30 cc of water, crush a methadone pill for severe restless leg syndrome, followed by 30 cc of water in PEG
Noon—30 cc of water, 2 ½ cartons of Jevity 1.2, 30 cc of water (25-30 minutes)
3 p.m.—200 cc of water in PEG
5 p.m.—30 cc of water, one dose liquid Lyrica in PEG, 30 cc of water
6 p.m.—30 cc of water, 2 ½ cartons of Jevity 1.2 in PEG, followed by 30 cc of water (25 to 30 minutes)
7 p.m.—30 cc of water, crush a methadone pill, followed by 30 cc of water
8 p.m.—200 cc of water in PEG
And that’s a wrap! As Diane and I have said repeatedly to one another, “This is no way to live your life.” However, for now, I guess it is. Let me make an important point here—the main reason we are sharing our story. Do not read this and have your primary response be, “Oh poor Gordy and Diane, so sad what they are going through and this on top of his cancer in 2010 and then Diane’s TWO broken ankles in 2018.” Yes, those were times of rough sledding, but we came through on top and have so much for which to be thankful and that, dear friends, is the point of all this. Be grateful for each and every day you have on this earth. I was told by a wise philosopher (I think it was my dad), “You only go around once and then you spend the remainder of eternity on the other side of the grass so laugh, sing, dance, eat well, travel, embrace family, smile, act silly, and do what pleases you today because there are no guarantees for tomorrow.”
If you have a bucket list, start crossing things off it now. Why wait for a tomorrow that might not ever arrive. Don’t be totally imprudent but buy the car, or boat, or dress, or vacation home. Take that dream trip. There’s an old adage on aging: “You’ll never be any younger than you are today, and you’ve never been this old before.” So get with IT!
We are thankful we were able to do some significant “travel” before all this happened. I can’t take cases of Jevity 1.2 to a foreign country and realistically carry it everywhere I go so will we travel? Of course, but our destinations will probably be restricted. We think there are plenty of wonderful excursions yet to be had. All we have to do is pack and gas up the car and bring along an ample supply of good old Jevity 1.2 and away we go. We seldom think about it until it’s too late, but as we age, our health only becomes important when we no longer have it so take care of yourselves and don’t put off until tomorrow what you want or can do today. And that, ladies and gentlemen is my sermonette on living life to the fullest.
As the days pass since our return to Macomb, there is a certain “sameness” developing. We are living Bill Murray’s Groundhog Day but it’s in black and white, not technicolor. It is hard to “get away” from my regimen and that makes doing anything outside of that a challenge. I have seen three doctors since our return. All of them stress the importance of walking as a therapeutic and strengthening activity and that is fantastic news for a guy who enjoys that form of exercise. We anxiously awaited our doctor visits beginning with my pulmonologist. There was good news at hand. After a couple of tests to measure my oxygen level, breathing capacity, and a CT-scan, he was literally amazed at my rapid recovery. Most people with aspirational pneumonia take several months to recover, and while I still had a small “pocket” to get rid of, I was way ahead. I asked him, “Who should be my quarterback for all of this?” Without any hesitation he looked over at Diane and said, “Here’s your quarterback. She’s sitting right next to you.”
It was on to the ear, nose, throat (ENT) doctor who originally treated me back in 2010. He did the dreaded scope with a camera down my nose to the back of my tongue procedure and is basically our medical “quarterback” in terms of moving forward with my overall treatment. While things look positive, a PET scan on September 1st has been scheduled to make sure there is no cancer lurking. Final stop was my primary care doctor here in Macomb and he is a highly-competent professional who is wise beyond his years and has been extremely helpful evaluating various aspects of my “health journey” the past couple of years. He concurred with the advice of my other doctors and feels I am doing quite well.
This leaves us with that famous “800-pound gorilla” by the name of PEG that won’t let me go! None of these three doctors have seen my records from Northwestern Lake Forest Hospital. The issue is what to do moving forward and everyone needs to see the records for themselves as to why Northwestern hospitalists recommended what they did. We are laypeople, but to the Taylors it would appear PEG was inserted as I needed nutrition immediately and food/liquid via traditional manner (mouth) was simply not an option. As for the future, Northwestern doctors assume there basically is no future without PEG, but others who have known me for years feel there might be other options but simply can’t make such a recommendation until they see all the records, specifically the swallow test, which I failed so dismally. The ENT doctor has requested a follow-up swallow test to see if it has the same results as the previous one.
For the Taylors, we are just glad to have these three appointments in the rear-view mirror. We went into them with much reluctance, fear, and hesitancy. We were fearful that something would be discovered via breathing problems/pneumonia or PEG utilization and we would be moving backwards, not forwards. That simply is not the case. As I sit here typing, it is hard to verbalize our current situation. I feel good, very good. I am walking as before with no shortness of breath and sleeping soundly. My PEG adjustment has been seamless thus freeing Diane from that responsibility. Do we get a little bored by the repetitiveness of every day much the same as the last one? Of course, so maybe I need to vary my daily walking route—problem solved, sort of. The future is still uncertain, but we came through base of tongue cancer, two simultaneous broken ankles, and now this, so we will find a way to figure it out.
Sometimes it is the little things in life that “get to us.” Since we became empty- nesters 23 years ago, we have dined together as a couple, at least for the evening meal. We still do, BUT I sit on the couch restricted by PEG and the sameness of Jevity 1.2 via syringe. What is Diane to do? She has ordered out, attempted to cook for one, done some frozen meals, and while she gets sustenance, it’s just not much fun for her to sit there eating real food while I sit hooked up with PEG. Again, really can’t complain as we know lots of people who would be envious just to have their spouse alive; however, it is an unwanted change in our lives.
Another adjustment and question remain, is PEG permanent or is there hope for some sort of modification down the road? We shall see. The journey continues and the next stop for this health odyssey is a PET Scan September 1st.
As my eyes reluctantly view the keyboard, maybe I will wake up from this nightmare before I actually begin to type. Nope, that didn’t work. Every time I tell myself this can’t be happening, I realize it has. What is a person to do? Yes, others have worse stories, much worse, but for right now, at this moment in time, this is mine. It all started out on such a positive note. The date was July 21st and I had just finished typing Blog #20. I was full of hope and the promise of a health scare averted. The CT-scan indicated no cancer and my neck issues, at least for the moment, were subsiding and I shared that good news with my readers. Diane was in Grayslake with Ryan, Margaret and 2 1/2 year-old dynamo Dan. I was to join them the next day and from there Diane and I would proceed on to Ohio to visit Gordon III, Lisa, soon to be nine-years old Ava and four-year old Kent. I felt fine and went to bed without a worry in the world not knowing that 24 hours later, my world would be turned upside down and with it, those of my loved ones.
Thursday the 22nd saw me on Amtrak to Chicago and from there a Metra to Grayslake, IL. Ryan and Diane picked me up at the Prairie Crossing stop and then it was off to lunch where I consumed an entire cheeseburger which is unusually robust dining for me. Dan was picked up from daycare and after his parents put him to bed that night, it was time for wine, pizza, and ice tea. I was sound asleep at 10 p.m. and that was to be the end of my life as I had come to live it for 75 plus years. At 1 a.m. I went to the bathroom and on the way back to bed tripped. We didn’t know it, but that was a sign of impending peril–oxygen deprivation. I began to sweat and then the ever-vigilant nurse Diane said, “Gord, you have a temp and are coughing up lots of phlegm. Are you OK?” Clearly, I was not.
At daybreak, Ryan arranged for an appointment at Northwestern Medicine Urgent Care near his home and the senior Taylors began a nine-day voyage into the world of high stakes pneumonia. The staff at urgent care administered an X-ray which revealed pneumonia in the right lung, lower lobe. Immediately, we were sent to Northwestern Medicine Lake Forest Hospital where in the in-take room, they discovered my oxygen level was not only low, but dangerously low. I assume this might explain my “tripping” episode of the night before. The staff raced me 95 miles per hour in a wheelchair to a triage room. I didn’t think I was having any trouble breathing but when this happens, sometimes people don’t know they are oxygen deprived, and I clearly was. Next stop was a “step down” room which is one level below intensive care. I glanced over at Diane and inquired, “Are you alright?” Her eyes reflected the anguish she was feeling. She was not and apparently neither was I. Soon my clothes came off and a less than sporty gown became my attire for the next nine days. Oxygen was flowing once I got to my room and high-powered antibiotics via IV to combat the pneumonia were administered. I had no idea how serious all this was and in my mind was thinking “Hope this clears up today or tomorrow so we can head out to Ohio.” Many unpleasant surprises were in store in the days ahead.
Things were about to get interesting. I spent Friday the 23rd to Sunday the 25th lying in bed with “hook-ups” for oxygen, antibiotics, and hydrating solutions. I looked very scary and felt the same, sort of like that person “in the end stages” if you need a visual. The effects of all this in some respects are cumulative and sort of sneak up on you. Going to the bathroom became something akin to planning the D-Day invasion–unhook, detach, tiny steps, and then pleading by me to be left alone by nurses while the reluctant patient does what people do in the bathroom. There is some dark humor here. I used “dark humor” 11 years ago never expecting I would have cause to ever use it again but now both Diane and I do in spades.
Nurse to Gordy: “I will stand outside the door. Tell me when you are finished.”
Gordy: “Please leave the room as I will be standing here until next week unless I have privacy.”
Nurse: “My instructions are to remain here until you are done.”
Gordy: “Then I will just sit up in bed until I involuntarily pee my pants.”
Then I heard small steps on the floor as nurse exits the room.
Good news, Northwestern has a terrific kitchen and patients can order anything off the menu. I did. It was like being at a fine restaurant–chicken, hamburgers, fries, ice cream, chef salad, and so much more. Just call the kitchen and 45 minutes later your epicurean delights arrive. Unfortunately, one’s appetite often takes a nosedive when all this other activity is taking place and I was one of those people-a bite of this, a sip of that and I would be done. Nurses and hospitalists come and go and for a day or two things seem to be on track. But that is soon to end.
Gordy Taylor has suffered from severe restless legs syndrome (RLS) for the past 30 years. There is no pain involved, but I have the need to stretch my legs to get comfort and the phenomenon can go on for hours unless I find a way to get relief. For years, my neurologist tried everything to no avail until he went to a conference and they touted a new treatment that seemed to work—the lowest doses possible of methadone and Lyrica. STOP! I know how crazy that sounds but it is the ONLY thing that works. Without it, I can be up all night stretching my legs, night after night after night, so it is what I do. Unfortunately, the folks at Northwestern in Lake Forest, who have more important problems to deal with, are pretty much unfamiliar with all this and decide I do not need my daily regimen of these two dopamine prescriptions. They are wrong, very wrong. By Sunday night I am in great distress and find myself lying there from 8 p.m. to 4 a.m. stretching and then repeating the process all night long. I’m miserable but my predicament gets much worse. The IV antibiotics caused a horrible rash on my back and groin and within a couple of days those areas looked like raw hamburger. This is more than you need to know, but it gives you an overview of the multiple challenges facing the patient/medical dynamic. For three nights it was excruciating: stretching, itching, scratching, no comfortable position. I was going insane. Plus, and another touch of dark humor here: I was given a lotion to help alleviate the scratching so I applied it generously to my back and let’s just say “private area.” NOT a good idea. Remember the Jerry Lee Lewis hit from the 50s “Great Balls of Fire”? I shall say no more.
Good Lord, what else can happen–burning body, return of RLS, oxygen, IV antibiotics/saline solution hookup and oh, of course, I have pneumonia. We would soon find out. Because I mentioned the episode of base of tongue cancer, (35 blasts of radiation to the neck area and 4 concurrent chemo infusions) the hospitalist team decided I needed a swallow visual test to be administered by a speech pathologist. Horror awaited the Taylors. When I eat, I take a bite of food and then need a sip of something, anything–water, ice tea, lemonade, diet coke, wine in order to get what I’m eating to go down. I pretty much have this figured out, but it is not unusual for me to have a mild gagging reaction though ultimately, I am able to swallow. The test was administered and the pathologist revealed to the medical staff, “This patient has parts of what he swallows going into his lungs and not his stomach. I recommend he never eat or drink anything by mouth for the rest of his life.” Diane and I look at each other and the words just flow from our lips, “You have got to be s—-ing me!” Diagnosis and get this: Gordon Arthur Taylor Jr. has silent aspiration bacterial pneumonia. Food is entering his right lung without his knowledge, thus and eventually causing his current condition. If he continues to eat and drink through his mouth, it is not a matter of IF he gets pneumonia again but rather WHEN. The next time it may be fatal. The hospitalist team recommended a Percutaneous Endoscopic Gastronomy (PEG) or feeding tube. NO NO NO NO! I had one of these in 2010 for eight months while receiving radiation when I was unable to eat, drink, or talk. And now, they’re telling me I need PEG again! This time for every day for the rest of my life. This simply can’t be happening. The Taylors are inconsolable, dumbfounded, and heartbroken.
I can’t live this way and say NO to PEG. “Hell, I’ve had 40,000 meals since 2010 and while I have a little trouble eating, I’m still here.” The hospitalist replied, “Yes, you are but when you get this again you will most likely be intubated, and you best get your affairs in order.” He then informed me that Northwestern could no longer feed me through the mouth due to liability issues though I would remain there until my pneumonia cleared up. I was admitted with aspiration pneumonia and their goal is to get rid of it. The “Mexican Standoff” begins with me saying no PEG and Northwestern saying no food. My last meal was tomato soup and a coke on Monday, July 26th. Really, after all the incredible meals I’ve had in Diane’s kitchen and restaurants, it is to end that way? Unbelievable.
Tuesday the 27th is a very long day. Our hospitalist (an extremely competent young man) sat with us after we had made some calls to other doctor friends in our universe and both Diane and he told me it was my decision whether or not to get PEG. I sat there for a long moment before saying, “That’s not correct. I really don’t have any choice. This is about science so let’s get it done.” The point here is that with PEG, my chances of getting this particularly virulent type of pneumonia will be diminished greatly and my chances of living longer will be increased. How all this will affect our lives is to be determined; however, I can assure you, it will not be fun.
On Wednesday, July 28th I have successful surgery. PEG is back in our lives. The Mexican standoff ends. Diane leaves that night. Her 20-minute ride back to Ryan’s seems like three days to her. She feels dejected as does her husband and our three kids. It has been a very long day but the night will be even longer–restless legs, hamburger back, multiple hookups, PEG insertion soreness, and don’t forget the Jerry Lee Lewis affliction. I thought the night would never end.
Thursday the 29th arrives. I have had no food since Monday, and today they hook up PEG which I will apparently be using for eternity. The rash caused by the antibiotics is subsiding, we have agreed to a methadone/Lyrica regimen, and I am recovering and needing less oxygen. I got to wash my hair in the sink and am allowed to walk, untethered to the bathroom. EUREKA. I sit up in a reclining chair and on Friday afternoon the 30th Gordon III surprises me from Ohio. We actually take a little walk around our floor. That night I feel the best I have as I know Ryan and Gordon are having fun “catching up” and Diane is with young Dan and his thoughtful and supportive Mom, Margaret. Rumors are flying. Is Gordy Taylor getting out on Saturday the 31st? He is and he did. The senior Taylors convalesce with the Grayslake Taylors until Wednesday, August 4th, when Diane drives her patient back to Macomb. It has been an extraordinary thirteen days which promise to be a precursor to more health adventures in the days ahead.
In the Taylor household when our kids were growing up, we would post a “quote of the week” on the refrigerator. Some were funny; some were outrageous; and some were thought-provoking. Diane gets the Taylor “quote of the week” for August 13th. “Gord, it’s been an unusual month.”
I wrote the following on July 21, 2021 before taking Amtrak to Chicago and Metra to Grayslake. It was intended to be a bit of closure on recent happenings in my life, but you will soon find out, it was nothing more than light showers before a health hurricane became a part of our new lexicon which is the focus for Blog #21 (soon to come).
July 21st: Not sure where I’m going these days. My mind, what’s left of it, seems to be on three distinct paths these days:
How does one deal with the ongoing complexities of Covid?
How can I spend more time with my family without overdoing?
Health issues in the fourth quarter?
Let’s start with, strangely, the easiest of these–Covid. Maybe it’s the Boomer Generation as we make our last stand for relevance in a changing world but most of us seem agreed on one tenet, “Get the damn shot. No muss, no fuss, no political intrigue, get the shot and maybe, as a nation we can move on to other issues facing the nation and the world.” In 1954, I was a polio shot recipient and nothing could have made my parents happier. No more worrying every summer about the possibility of one or more of their sons ending up in an Iron Lung. It was good news all around and like mumps, measles, and other diseases a major health concern had been eradicated. Of course, there is now the reality that some of these avoidable diseases are returning as anti-vaxxers decide, it is their constitutional right not inoculate their own children when fortunate for them, their parents had the wisdom to get them vaccinated. One wise person wrote, “The saddest aspect of life right now is that science gathers knowledge faster than society gathers wisdom.” Let’s hope that a critical mass does get vaccinated in the days ahead so we can get everyone’s kids back to work and our grandchildren back in school.
Now let’s talk about family: Diane and I have three kids–Jennifer and her crew in Corpus Christi, TX; Gordon III and his family in the Cleveland area, and Ryan and his in Grayslake, IL. There are six grandchildren and, of course, like all grandparents we love them all and they are the apples of our eye. The challenge is how to get around to see everyone without spending all our time “on the road.” Get out a map of the United States and you can see our dilemma as everyone is spread out in areas that take time to get to. Ryan–no problem as Grayslake is four hours away but Chagrin Falls, Ohio, is nine hours away and Corpus Christi a full day by plane. This may not seem like much of an issue to “young” people, but while the ultimate destination is always worth the travel, getting there is harder than it used to be and takes a lot out of these two old-timers. My challenge is to realize it’s just not like driving to the other side of town; I envy those of you with that situation. I need to wrap my arms around the fact that we just might have to settle for seeing the “distant” families once or hopefully twice a year as Father Time or Mother Time keep ticking. Of course, they could all come see us but the amount of planning that entails for each of them with young kids is incredible. I’ve seen that first hand. Put this on the list of “small problems.”
I’ve had some minor health issues lately. In March 2010 I began a difficult journey with base of tongue cancer that involved 35 blasts of radiation over the course of five week and concurrently 4 chemo treatments with cisplatin (the Red Devil). I have been fortunate to be NED—no evidence of disease for the past 11 years. The Taylors are most grateful. Now, don’t worry, I’m fine and this story has a happy ending so read on without me talking about my obituary. I continue to walk 4-5 miles most days and feel good most of the time. I love chocolate, ice cream bars, and Diet Coke. Sitting on our deck, Diane and I enjoy a glass of wine before dinner. I am not the man I was at 30 or even 40 or 50 or 60 or good God 70, but I’m hanging in there. It is apparent that Gordy Taylor is slowing down a bit and while not a real “nap taker,” I no longer fight lying down after working in the yard or returning from a walk. Squamous skin cancer regularly appears as punishment for an unhealthy preoccupation with the sun but as long as I keep melanoma at bay, I pretty much live my life with impunity. Both Diane and I had bouts with Covid but are fully vaccinated and moving on with our lives. Yet, age is now always out there, lurking around, playing games with my mind, and making me wonder: Is this it? Is something happening to me? Should I be worried?
BOOM! Here goes: I just had my most serious health episode since 2010. It all started on Sunday, June 20th. I had a rash on my back and was looking for something to help me sleep that night and found something called Ativan in the “Taylor pill arsenal.” It said take 1-2 at bedtime for itching so I was good to go. Now, I’m a guy, so if one is good then two must clearly be even better. I went sound to sleep and woke up the next morning with a mild pain in my neck which was probably caused by my “overdose” that resulted in sleeping incorrectly all night. I didn’t think much about it and on the 21st Diane and I headed up to visit the Grayslake Taylors. On the 22nd I took a Metra to Chicago and Diane stayed behind to bond with 2 ½ year old Dan. I flew to Corpus Christi on the 23rd and hooked up with the Stevensons and Gordon III for a weekend of family stories, walking, dining, and good fun. My neck continued to bother me so I had a couple of chiropractor visits but I was surviving, not happy about it, but getting by.
I was scheduled to leave Corpus on the 28th as I was interviewing Dr. Huang, our new president at Western Illinois University on the 30th on my local access tv show. Southwest texted that my flight was cancelled but they could get me “out” on the 29th which, while extremely difficult, could be done in time to get to Macomb for that 10:30 a.m. interview on the 30th. Are you still with me?
Here we go–planes, shuttles, and cars. I arrived at the Corpus airport in plenty of time for the 4:35 flight to Houston with a very tight connection to Midway. I looked up on the board, and there was that word DELAYED. My heart sank; I’ll never make it. However, miraculously I did. I got off the plane in Houston and the gate to Midway was 10 minutes away and my flight was leaving in 6. Hooray, all my walking paid off and I was on the plane with a mere 30 seconds to spare. I arrived at Midway and met Diane who had driven down from Grayslake and got us a hotel reservation. We were asleep at 11 p.m. and headed to Macomb at 4:45 a.m. We arrived at 35 Indian Trail at 8 a.m. and, and I met President Huang at 10:30 a.m. and 90 minutes later, the interview was “a wrap.” OK, why didn’t I reschedule the interview? I had already done so once and I felt the need to get “his story” out to alumni and friends of Western in a timely manner. Bad judgement on my part? I suppose, but sometimes you just do what you have to do.
Now what about that NECK? All the travel did me no favors and on the evening of the 30th Diane said, “I hate to mention this but the left side of your neck looks swollen. Is it?” I also had noticed it as well and the next day, after some Diane Taylor phone magic we were on our way to West Burlington, Iowa, to meet with my ear, nose, throat (ENT) specialist. We were both in a state of shock. After 11 years, had “it” returned? Was this the beginning of a downward spiral? We were both very and I mean very worried!
The doctor felt my lymph nodes, put the tube down my nose to look at the back of my tongue, gave me ultrasound and then said, “I think you need to get a CT-scan, just in case.” We inquired, what does “just in case” mean, and he explained that while he was optimistic, we needed to check things out. If the CT-scan showed something, then it would be necessary for a needle biopsy into the node he had found and we would go from there. Radiation? No, that was a one-shot deal in 2010. Other options would have to be explored. Holy smokes, July 2-9 was a very long week as we waited for the CT-scan which was scheduled late the afternoon of the 9th. And the NECK. It was getting worse each day. I now could not move it to the left or right and the pain was extreme. What was happening to Gordy Taylor? That weekend seemed like it would never end. On Monday, “Dr.” Diane was on the phone and got the news–NO CANCER and the happy dance began. More checkups would be necessary but for now good news. They said to come back in three months. Hell no, I need relief for my neck now, the pain is unbearable. Soon a prescription for prednisone and a regimen of physical therapy were in the pipeline.
On Wednesday afternoon, July 14th, I entered Advanced Rehab in Macomb. Diane had to drive me there because the neck trauma was that acute. I told the therapist “Please help me, I can’t go on this way.” He took some readings and the search was on for what had mysteriously caused all this difficulty. It appears that fateful evening of June 20th, I had somehow gotten some muscles wedged between a couple of vertebrae. Really, yes really. Improvement has been very gradual but it is happening and my range of motion is improving and the pain relenting.
And that’s my latest 4th Quarter story. I am coming to terms with the reality that someday everything might not work out in my favor, but this time at least, it pretty much seems I’m back on track. I wonder how would I have navigated these perilous waters of the past month without Diane and the answer is pretty obvious to me–not well. Sometimes the stress of health issues test relationships. I’m grateful that after almost 53 years we are still managing to travel this tapestry of our lives together and with optimism and hope for the future. Take each day as it comes and enjoy them as well. Maybe the old woman I ran into on the beach in Florida decades ago said it best. “Young man, everyday above ground is a great day.” I need to remember that.
Constance Pranger Taylor, 18 years old, Wedding Day, November 17, 1940
She has been “gone” for 52 years but remains vivid in my memory as one of the most extraordinary people to be part of the framework of my life. I feel so sad that she missed the best part of my life: marriage to Diane, our kids, rewarding career, and all the rest that comes with time. I talk about being in the 4th Quarter of my life. She never lived through the 2nd Quarter of hers. Mom was everything to my three brothers and me. We were born on February 9th, 10th, 11th, and 20th so the family joke was that Dad had to finally send her away during the month of May. Connie Pranger was the “it” girl of her generation. Raised on the south side of Chicago, she had it all–brains, personality, athleticism, and beauty. At the age of 18, she married optometrist and stellar athlete Gordy Taylor who was 26. They were a couple destined for great things; it didn’t turn out that way. It started out with great flourish but then, as happens to some folks, the breaks simply did not come their way, at least not good ones.
I have wonderful memories of the “early years.” My parents were Ozzie and Harriet and we boys were not My Three Sons but rather My Four Sons. We all thrived in a modest, very modest home with three bedrooms and one bathroom. The Taylors made it work. I fondly remember days after school when I’d bring a friend home to play and soon there would be cookies and milk for us to enjoy. On more than one occasion I’d hear, “Boy, Gordy, your sister is sure good looking.” I’d smile and reveal who that beauty really was—MOM. Connie was fiercely protective of her sons and once after an article appeared in the local paper critical of young people, she wrote an editorial stating that not all kids were societal problems and proceeded to talk about her sons and what outstanding young citizens we were. I still have that editorial and smile every time I reread it. She was loyal to each of us and was always there for us.
Mom took pride in her home and was admired, loved, and respected by everyone. She even played a mean shortstop. Mom had a quick wit and a wonderful sense of humor which she needed living in a house with five males. Heck, even Caesar the wonder dog was male. Then it all ended. Just like that it was over and her world and ultimately that of the entire Taylor family would come crashing down in a disaster of the highest order. On Monday, August 27, 1962, her doctor called to say the results were in–Connie Taylor had tuberculosis. The next day she was admitted to the Cook County Tuberculosis Sanitarium. Our lives were to be changed forever. I was 16 years old.
Back then, due to the contagious nature of the disease, admission to a TB sanitarium meant the patient remained there until recovery or death. None of us had ever experienced life without Mom who was the chief of our household. Suddenly Mom wasn’t there to greet us after school, hug us good bye, make sure our homework was complete, or there to do the thousands of things Moms do for their families. Oldest brother, David, was off at college, so it fell on me to fill in around the house, including meal preparation. We almost starved.
Dad worked long hours and brothers Doug 11 and Greg 5 did what they could but long before Michael Keaton would popularize the term “Mr. Mom” I became that person. As a high school sophomore, I dusted, vacuumed, changed beds, did dishes, cleaned toilets, washed clothes, watched my brothers, and worked part-time at the local grocery store. Doug and Greg were not allowed to visit Mom inside the sanitarium because of their ages, so it was up to me to pack up my younger siblings in the venerable ’55 green Chevy and drive them to a location about 50 yards from a window outside Mom’s room. I would then run inside and escort her to that same window so she could wave to her two youngest sons. It was awful, but it was the best we could do.
Connie Taylor never gave up. She told us she’d get well and soon we’d all be together. She always had a brave facade, but I think we all knew better. Her condition slowly improved; however, she had major surgery and lost all of one lung and part of another. The empty chair at the kitchen table remained that way for another year. When we finally got her home, the old zip was gone. The joie de vivre was absent and her pain was evident. Smiles were forced and her once bright eyes dimmed.
It just couldn’t happen, but fate would simply not leave us alone. The Taylors had no money. Between medical expenses and financial setbacks for my dad, the Taylor family was sinking like a rock. Friends stopped coming to visit their friend, Connie, as they were afraid they would contract TB from her, reminiscent of AIDS a decade later. We were naive and didn’t see it happening, but Mom found an ally, an insidious, cruel, unforgiving, and incrementally poisonous ally–ALCOHOL. In her mind, she had lost everything–health, looks, friends, money–all gone. However, concealed from us, she could find momentary relief in vodka, apparently lots of vodka. I’m pretty confident Dad knew it was happening; their marriage was crumbling under the weight of all the adversity embroiling them. He pretty much just looked the other way. He just didn’t know what to do.
I went off to college at WIU, but impending disaster was in the air. Poor Mom just couldn’t catch a break. In 1968 she had a radical hysterectomy and then in 1969 the infamous Hong Kong Flu struck which dealt her the final blow. It was June, and I’d momentarily left graduate school at the University of Florida to come see her as David called and told me, “Something is terribly wrong with Mom. You better come home.” He had his suspicions.
At the end of my week’s stay, things seemed pretty good. I questioned David’s judgement in calling me. I’d been out working in the yard, was sweating, and came in to say hi to Mom. Sitting on the table next to her bed was a large glass of Pepsi. I asked if I could take a sip and before she could yell, “Don’t do that!” I had taken a gulp. It was too late. It was almost straight vodka. I can visualize this as if it were happening “in the moment.” I smiled, said nothing, left her room, and went back outside. I sat in the back yard, alone, sobbing uncontrollably. It was the most alone I’ve ever felt in my life. This just couldn’t be happening, but it was. Connie Taylor was a raging alcoholic. I flew back to Gainesville a couple of days later to complete my graduate course work. By the end of July, it was over. Mom was dead.
To this day, I lament that we couldn’t help her to help herself. We didn’t, but I’d never heard of AA or other alternative programs to deal with alcohol abuse. On multiple dimensions, 47 was way too young for the once bright, promising life of Constance Pranger Taylor to be dimmed forever. I never for an instant blame Mom for any of this. Financial calamity of the highest order, a marriage that was going to end, and spirit-draining health disasters one after another were simply more that she could endure.
In 2021 we might have seen a way to provide the help she needed. In the 1960s we did not. I sometimes wonder if my life experience might have seen a parallel trajectory. Had I been diagnosed with base of tongue cancer in 1970 and not 2010 would I be writing this? I was blessed that medical science was there to save me and along with the loving care of Diane here I am.
We all have our stories and this is part of mine. I love you, Mom.
Gordy and the Fourth Quarter 