A couple of weeks ago I rolled up my sleeve and got jabbed with the Pfizer booster shot, which ought to immunize me against Covid for a long time to come. But the virus has taken a back seat as a menace to my health: less than two months ago, I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease and aggressive prostate cancer, a double whammy that’s set me back on my heels.  I am 80 years old. The lesson is, one of the lessons anyway, is that if you hang around the planet long enough something is bound to go haywire; however, having beat bladder cancer recently, I did not expect two more things to go  wrong at virtually the same time. Stoic philosophy, which I’ve been studying and attempting to put into practice for the past 25 years, advocates a method known as premeditato malorum, literally the “premeditation of evils.” Through this Stoic exercise, we imagine things that could be taken away from us or anything that might go amiss as a way of preparing for life’s curve balls and developing resilience in the face of uncertainties. It’s a useful practice, but it’s impossible to anticipate every evil that might befall us, and as I’ve said, I did not expect to be struck by two serious illnesses one right after the other.

That said, Stoicism has proven to be invaluable  in confronting this situation. Parkinson’s, a neurological disorder that afflicts millions, is incurable, though it can be managed with a Levadopa, a medication that replaces the loss of dopamine in your system. Lots of physical exercise also helps, particularly sports that emphasize balance, like boxing workouts, and certain forms of physical therapy. I was an amateur boxer when I was young, and continued heavy bag and speed bag work, as well as shadow boxing and light sparring routines into my old age. So doing what’s necessary to combat Parkinson’s effects has not required a radical change in my lifestyle. The prostate cancer, a disease more common in men than breast cancer is among women, is another matter. Mine is a high-grade cancer, scoring a 9 on the Gleason Scale (nothing but the best for me), but  it has not spread beyond the prostate. It’s currently being treated with hormone therapy; in about four months, I will undergo radiation treatments for about 5 weeks, and then an additional 18 months of hormone therapy. That deprives the cancer of testosterone, the male hormone the malignant cells feed on. It’s sometimes called “chemical castration.” As an old-fashioned guy who thinks the current trends toward gender fluidity are nonsense, the term sends chills up my spine. Not that I’ll soon be singing soprano.

I’m not giving up. I will continue doing the stuff I love to do until I’m incapable of doing it. I hike in the woods several days a week, both for the exercise and to boost my self-confidence negotiating difficult terrain. Earlier this month, I traveled to western Maine to go grouse and woodcock hunting with my English Setter, Luna; later today, I’ll be flying to to a Colorado for an elk hunt.

I have no fear of death, having faced it in Vietnam and the Middle East when I was in my 20s and early 30s, but I’d be less than candid if I did not admit that I dread becoming a helpless geezer who cannot tie his own shoe laces. On the plus side of the ledger, I have led a long, interesting, fulfilling, and productive life, and though there are a few things I would do differently if I had them to do over, I will leave it with no regrets.

My apologies if this entry in the Plague Year Journal has been more personal than the others.

 

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