Walk a Mile in My Shoes

When you're facing some particular adversity which you can't quite explain, the trite phrase "walk a mile in my shoes" is an invitation to others to experience what you are up against first hand. It's a phrase that's been on my mind lately. 

Why? 

Because Dr. Z feels the chemo I'm now on is working well. Because I'm no longer using the oxygen tanks that stand in the corner of my bedroom, looking like tiny ICBM's from a Cold War long since ended. Because I haven't taken a pain pill in weeks, thanks in large part to Bobby, physical therapist to stars like James Hatfield and me. Because today I literally walked a mile in my own shoes, including a couple of one minute jogs in the middle of that 20 minute walk. I had not done that in a very long time.

So all of that is good, why the invitation? 

Because despite all those positives, I haven't been myself lately. For a good two or three weeks, I was in a funk, and not just on the days right after chemo. I can logically say to myself, "look at all these good things in your life," but my brain responded, "meh." Given the option, I'd rather be doing relatively well physically and struggling emotionally, but the real goal is to make this an "and" not an "or."

So I started talking to people who can help, listening to feedback from Marcie, exercising a little, and generally trying to get right. I'm better today than I was a few days ago, and hoping to be better still before episode 3 of Zaltrap and Friends this Wednesday. It helps to hear from friends near and far. There's a core group I know will call or text on a fairly predictable schedule. Trust me, folks, those check-ins mean a lot. Some of you reading this don't know me personally, but take that advice when it comes to dealing with people you do know facing cancer or some other situation that may take months or years to resolve. Let them know you care how they are doing. That does more good than a whole bottle of narcotics. Well, you knew what I meant. 

I hope you never do walk a mile in my shoes. First of all they're probably bigger than yours and they smell funky. But I'd welcome anyone to walk alongside me, even if you can't quite keep up with the middle-aged guy with cancer.