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The Audacity of Pope chronicles my experiences undergoing treatment for testicular cancer. It’s sometimes funny, sometimes serious, sometimes a bit of a mix. And it has a happy ending—I’m cancer free since May. If you’re tuning in now, the story begins here (at the bottom of the page).

Thanks for visiting. I hope you enjoy.

-Raphael

Decided I had the strength to pull out the computer for a few minutes today (not literally pull it out—I had to ask the nurse to do that for me, but you get the idea).

Anyway, I haven’t had the chance to read over all the e-mails in my inbox, the comments on the blog, or the posts Pete’s written, so I will have to respond to all that stuff later on. For now, I just wanted to say hello to y’all. I have walked 16 laps so far today (that’s more than a mile). Otherwise, I’ve mostly been sleeping.

Not too much to report other than to say that the doctors tell me I’m doing really well in terms of recovery. Also, the cut on my abdomen is still pretty painful. So that’s where I’m at for now. Thank you so much for the words and thoughts of encouragement and support. I’ll be out of this medical establishment before I know it!

Until then, Pete is still in charge of the blog, so he’ll post agan if he has anything to report.

Keep on keepin’ on, folks!

Just wanted to write here in brief to say that I’m doing alright. I’ve spent most of the past two weeks sleeping, and I’ve been quite worn out when I have been awake. But apart from the enervation and consistent low-grade nausea, I’m doing alright. My physical energy is just now starting to return, so with any luck I’ll be feeling a lot better by the middle of this week. As for my mental energy, I’m not quite sure of the outlook. When it does begin to come back, I’ll probably start writing here again. Until then, I’ll continue resting and recovering.

Happy Easter or Passover—I hope you are all enjoying in good spirits and good health.

Yesterday, someone found my blog on Google while searching for “what does inside of the pope’s elevator look?” It’s a provocative question. According to image search, the answer is this.

In all seriousness, though, it’s a simple query to answer. I don’t have an elevator.

So I’m up at the hospital on IV-fluids again. Completely exhausting day and similarly exhausting weekend. I haven’t had much energy to write here. Fortunately, those around me have kindly provided some material for the blog. Just yesterday, I got this e-mail from a friend:

I totally had a dream last night in which I ran into you on Broadway (where there were snow drifts) and you told me you had to go because you had to vomit. So this is just an e-mail to let me know that you’re obviously in my (weird subconscious and waking) thoughts. This is clearly not a dream that I want to come true; snow and vomiting—all bad. But you should maybe be pleased that your writing is humorous/vivid/eloquent/balanced enough for me to read it and incorporate it so thoroughly into my psyche. Sending positive thoughts your way (not that you necessarily want thoughts from my twisted, thesis-addled brain coming at you, but it’s all I’ve got).

Well, the good news is my writing is striking a chord. Bad news is that people are terrified of me vomiting on them. I guess I can accept that trade-off. Anyway, that’s my little report for now. I’m slowly returning to the world of proper hydration, so perhaps tomorrow or Monday I’ll have more energy for a complete post.

Sort of straddling the line between feeling like I can eat a meal and feeling like I could win a shot-put contest with on force of my stomach’s reverse peristalsis impulse. But today’s medication can’t be taken on an empty stomach, so I settled on eating a bowl of this. When I was younger I was a serious Gerber Baby. Not when I was a baby (I don’t remember what kind of baby I was then), but when I was between five and 10 if I had a really weak stomach I’d ask my mom for Gerber Rice Cereal. It’s soft, kind of starchy, and has a perfectly inoffensive taste. Very useful in situations like these.

Anyway, I’ve managed to make it almost 48 hours without vomiting. I think if I sit still enough in bed for the next day or two, I should be able to extend that streak into Monday or Tuesday. At which point I may legitimately be able to wander around without much nausea.

In more philosophical news, I’ve thought about it some more and this third cycle has definitely been the most trying part of my treatment. I don’t mean “trying” in the sense that I’ve been trying not to accidentally eject my gall bladder through my mouth during the endless and spastic retching spells (though so far success on that count). I really mean “trying” in the sense that I’ve frequently been wondering where I would get the energy to make it through the week.

It has helped that I’ve been doped up on Ativan (not to mention stool softeners—that’s the buzz of a lifetime) the entire time (I’ve been sleeping like 16 hours a day). But when I’m not basking in the palliative effects of the drugs, I have this strange and disconcerting feeling of being on a sort of roller coaster (I’ve only been one serious roller coaster in my life, so it’s understandable the feeling is so strange). You’re rolling along, feeling the just-a-little-too-wobbly track beneath you, and wondering what kind of twisted fantasy the track designer has schemed up for your impending doom. So there I am, at this metaphorical Six Flags (Great Adventure), holding a plush octopus (probably made in some sort of Chinese melamine foundry) I won at Whack-a-Mole, wondering when the rickety feeling beneath me will—in the flash of an eye—give way to a sickening, hair-raising free-fall.

Which is worse? The nervous waiting, when your knuckles are white and you’re hoping somehow this is the kiddy-coaster? Or is the chilling sensation of your life ending, when you slip over the brink and begin the fall toward what appears to be certain death?

I really do not like roller coasters. But to return to the metaphor (which, in both scenarios ends in me puking my guts out), I’m not entirely sure which is worse. I think it’s the waiting. There’s just a sense of uncontrolledness about it that utterly discombobulates. And that’s what has been so draining and disorienting about this cycle. I’m constantly waiting to see what will happen next.

In a sick way (pardon the pun), I think I’d rather be vomiting. Probably should put that on a bumper sticker.

But let not that thought depress. The worst of this cycle is (knock wood) over. Just one more to go. And if a friend ever tries to convince me I’ll have fun on a roller-coaster, I now possess the fortitude to politely decline. And then maybe hit him with the Whack-a-Mole stick for good measure.

The post that’s going up next is a bit of a magnum opus. My boy Pete, who edits a lot of what I write here, did a major editing job on the post, so he gets an official shout out here. If you enjoy the post, know that Pete deserves a lot of credit for it.

In casual conversation, I remarked to Pete that no one should have to be 13.

me: Why do they exist?

Pete:  13-year-olds?

me:  Yes.

Pete:  Well, age isn’t like elevators.