One Foot Off The Ledge

I still want to do something a bit lighter after some rather heavy emotional weeks, but after my last posting on my reaction to the bronchoscopy, I felt I the need to close that loop. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a strong involuntary emotional response to anything in my life so many times, especially in such short order.

I've found leukemia to be nothing short of an emotional roller coaster. One day, I’m hurling in one of those little green tubs for all to hear and then something magical happens and it feels like I’m sailing along, whooping it up with my hands above my head, bravado showing for all to see as we all go down the next hill on track. I still have my not-so-great-feeling-really tired days, but thankfully, the really nasty stuff is behind me.

I’m in an outpatient status, but I’m spending the better part of my day at the hospital being infused with an electrolytic cocktail of potassium, calcium, phosphorus, and magnesium each morning before my anti-viral Foscarnet. I get this drug instead of Gancyclovir which I had been able to get infused in the hotel because after prolonged use, it took my blood chemistry down. The Foscarnet is manufactured in England and imported here. Afterward I get another bag of saline to protect my kidneys, so I have an IV pole for a dancing partner for about 5 ½ hours a day. So, if everything moves along, I can get back on the road to the hotel around 1:30 or 2:00. It makes for long days...and this assumes I don't get other things like platelets, other blood products, or another infusion that my morning tests said I needed.

I'm being prepped for the procedure. The camera is about the width of a pencil and the images are projected on these screens. Of course, I don't remember a thing, but I'm sure it was captivating.  Mr. DeMille, this is NOT what I meant about a close-up!

As a side-note, I can't wait for my hair to grow back. You could use the reflection on my head as a mirror!







I'm sucking down some Lidocaine to numb my lungs in this pic. I had tried to be the funny guy and play with the nebulizer like a flute, but my photographer missed his Kodak Moment®.

It’s a routine, but there are no breaks and I still have the mother of all pill boxes and my med-induced high blood sugar I need to monitor. It’s not enough to simply say that I have to take a certain medication three times a day because there are interactions that prevent something quite that simple. so I may have to offset one pill by an hour or two or with/without a meal. It gets complicated. Blood sugar is treated like a type I diabetes with insulin and I have two different types I have to work with based on the time of day and the particular sugar level.  Everything is closely regulated by the MTU pharmacy. Maintaining proper blood chemistry truly is a 24/7 proposition right now. It’s tiring, often wearisome, but it’s life right now.

But I still don’t have to sleep in the hospital…and that’s a good thing.

 

Now, I did say I don't sleep at the hospital, BUT I guess this would be the exception.

Prednisone is one of the many medications I take. It’s a corticosteroid and also acts an immunosuppressant. I take these in rather high doses being a transplant patient. The big thing it does is ward off Graft Versus Host Disease (GVHD). I used to be at more than double the dose I am now, but in order for me to escape the Puget Sound VA Health Care System’s gravitational beam and return to my home in Utah, I have to be off of these bad boys. So, the next step in this Rube Goldberg contraption is to further taper off the steroids and to do that we have to make sure my lungs are able to handle the reduction in the dosage (GVHD will often attack the lungs, hence the reason for pulmonologists involved and the need for the bronchoscopy). You can see the delicate balancing act on which all this hinges, now, right? Putting it all together took some time for me, too.

That said, having four white-coated pulmonologists tell me on Thursday they wanted to do a bronchoscopy on Friday, for whatever reason, was not a welcome proposition. Just the word made me shake involuntarily because no matter what mental machinations I tried to invoke, all I could see in my mind’s eye was the day I was whisked away to the MICU after a room full of doctors and nurses put an oxygen mask over my face, pumped the thing that looked like a toilet float to make me breathe and sedated me. I awoke in a strange place with a machine breathing for me and every time I needed to cough, I felt like I was drowning. The bronchoscopy they did en route to the MICU had involved a drug that paralyzed me so I could hear and feel everything but do nothing. All I can tell you it was the most terrifying thing I have ever experienced and nothing any of these well-meaning doctors could say could lessen that memory. I was officially freaking out despite their assurances that this would only take an hour, that no paralytic drugs would be involved, that I would remember nothing, and that it was really no big deal.

I went home after my routine IVs were over on Thursday, only to be greeted by a phone call to confirm scheduling of the bronchoscopy for 1:00 p.m. Friday, November 1. I told them I would haunt their dreams forever if it wasn’t exactly the way they told me…after all, it was Halloween. Again, I was assured six ways to Sunday that this would be quick, painless, and over in less than an hour and I would *not* be getting any kind of paralytic drug. Nothing per oral after midnight except my meds as directed by my outpatient team. Adding insult to injury, yes, I was really hungry!

I slept most of the morning in the outpatient recliner while getting my daily IVs – partly out of emotional escape, partly because of my inability to sleep through the night anymore. Once it was my turn to see the doctors for routine rounds, they asked me how I was doing and the irony was just like the previous day, I had a lot of energy. Physically, I was doing well…emotionally, I was a wreck and I broke down shaking and unable to hold it together. Thankfully, they all knew what I’d been through and the medical team really holds us as a big family and truly are rather tender with us – especially the nurses of course.  The attending physician, Dr. Wu, is awesome anyway.  He’s the one of the three attendings that seems to actually give straight answers instead of hedging around. Since it was the first day of the month, the new fellow was part of rounds.  She was pretty responsive for not knowing me or my history, but pledged to make sure she would make this a non-event.  They gave me some Ativan about 30 minutes ahead of my shin-dig, which officially put me under the influence of a debilitating drug and I was now no longer qualified to drive my IV pole to the pulmonary suite, which is about 100’ from the MTU where we were. I got wheeled over like a proper cancer sicko.

The attending physician from the ICU came in the room with the doctor that was going to do the procedure and I told him I had one word for him:  “E-I-E-I-O”.  He laughed and said, “You really were awake for the last procedure. I admitted that I had a little help on the clue to “Old McDonald.”  He told me that if I could remember the song they sang during my procedure, he’d give me a $100 bill (and he showed me the Benjamin to prove it). I didn’t remember that part of it, but I was very much awake and paralyzed and told him so.  He was shocked to know that and was profusely apologetic along with the other pulmonary people who were involved.  He again assured me this would be less than an hour and there were absolutely no paralytic drugs involved.  So, for the next 15 minutes, the technicians and nurses gave me different kinds of drugs to numb up my lungs, throat, and vocal cords so I wouldn’t feel anything, letting me know what they were doing every step of the way. I can’t say that I knew when I succumbed to the anesthesia. I just know I woke up and they said I did fine. 

Suffice it to say, without the emergent situation and 20 some-odd white-coated individuals in the room, the level of trauma was nonexistent. The technicians were very calm the whole way through…and since I was already doped up, that didn’t hurt either.  The end of this is that I should find out if it’s some sort of pneumonia, infection, or something else probably on Wednesday. All of the possibilities end in the same:  if it’s anything, it will be treated with some sort of oral antibiotic.

In any event, the bottom line is I’m OK and not quite as traumatized as before…although I gotta tell ya I’ve not quite had that kind of emotional response in anything, ever. I’m not over the whole thing yet because it’s still linked to those two very bad trips to the MICU, but if I have to have another bronchoscopy and they take me through it like this past one, I’ll be OK with a little nurse’s helper ahead of time!

It all feels very arbitrary some days and very logical others. What I do know is that I know my strength is returning incrementally and I’m able to sleep a bit more rather than in fits and starts. I have some days where I feel really great and I still have my days where I’m just exhausted and I understand that’s just something I’m going to have to live with over time and learn to listen to my body to prevent going backward.

Moving onward and upward…be well, stay strong, and much love to you all.

Music today from Rob Thomas – “Little Wonders”

 

Let it go, let it roll right off your shoulder
Don’t you know the hardest part is over?
Let it in, let your clarity define you
In the end we will only just remember how it feels

Our lives are made in these small hours
These little wonders, these twists and turns of fate
Time falls away but these small hours
These small hours still remain

Let it slide, let your troubles fall behind you
Let it shine until you feel it all around you
And I don't mind if its me you need to turn to
Well get by, its the heart that really matters in the end

Our lives are made in these small hours
These little wonders, these twists and turns of fate
Time falls away but these small hours
These small hours still remain

All of my regret will wash away somehow
But I cannot forget the way I feel right now
In these small hours
These little wonders, these twists and turns of fate
Yeah, these twists and turns of fate!

Time falls away, yeah but these small hours
And these small hours still remain, yeah
Ooh they still remain
These little wonders, oh these twists and turns of fate

Time falls away but these small hours
These little wonders still remain

Not Just An Academic Exercise

There are only so many ways to say, “Cancer Sucks,” but it doesn’t change the facts about the illness and it doesn’t change how I got mine and it doesn't change who else will find themselves dealing with all the less-than-fun aspects of “The Emperor of All Maladies.” With some exceptions, it just seems so random. Having been on the cancer battle lines most of the year, there’s just no getting around it and it seems like everywhere I turn, people I know are battling with me not simply as someone who is encouraging me in my own fight, but as someone who now has entered the fray with their own cancer. It's kinda like all of a sudden noticing the model care you just bought when before they were all invisible.

I gotta say though for me, it’s a truly helpless feeling to witness someone’s processing that they have cancer, but all I can do is be candid in offering what I have gone through and be a source of encouragement, hope, and empathy to others who are now in the fight…and that’s provided I’ve been invited to be part of that discussion.

 

The aspect of cancer I haven’t been able to move past is the obvious – cancer kills. Academically, in my mind, on paper, I get it. Naturally, that’s one of the first places I went when I made the connection that leukemia is a blood cancer. What were the statistics that I would survive? Wasn’t it enough that the hem/onc doctor in front of me pronounced a death sentence on me of 90 days? I just couldn’t wrap my head around it all. Shoot, I didn’t even know the questions to ask. My prognosis was pretty positive with a bone marrow transplant, but even with that, I almost died twice in the space of a week. And yes, I still haven’t wrapped my head around that either. I just haven’t quite come to terms with it except that’s what people have told me. It has been a purely academic exercise, yet it really happened.

Then there are those who really, no-kidding, don’t make it.

Twice this week, I’m facing that situation and I’m truly at a loss for words, but I can’t avoid it. You see, walking into the MTU, it’s not unlike being a big family.  The caregivers and the patients alike are all part of something bigger than ourselves and we have a good idea of how everyone is doing. We can’t help but get emotionally attached to each other. People knew more about my situation than I did when I emerged from the MICU and eventually into outpatient status. Many of us stay at the same extended stay hotel and we swap stories and ask after one another. Earlier this week, I met up with a caregiver outside the laundry room who was commenting how good I looked. I asked after her husband and she was rather candid in that he wasn’t doing so well as he was out of remission and rather disappointed because of where that put him in the transplant process. Somewhere inside of him, he knew there was more to the picture and even said that he might die. She, rather matter-of-factly acknowledged as much that it was a possibility, not knowing that the next day, she would be getting the news that he, in fact, was no longer a good candidate for a transplant, which essentially translated into him being now a terminal patient with just a couple of months left on this blue ball. I was just outside the MTU moments after she received the news.

What do you say?

I sure don’t know…except to go with my gut and simply be honest. It’s a tough thing to face death, but I have to say that now having done exactly that, it gives me a sense of peace, but clearly others aren't where I am. I can't impart how I'm feeling to someone else and things can change, too. Shocking, end-of-life news is something everyone processes differently. I’ve said it many times and I’ll say it again, I have a lot left to do on this earth before I meet my demise and I honestly hope I get to do it all. But just like the caregiver I refer to above, the possibility that I may die before then is a possibility.

But I don’t know. I really don’t, so I asked a couple of nurses on the MTU how they've handled the situation over their tenures. Both have been working in transplant for years and it wasn’t all that long ago that the kinds of conditions that call for bone marrow transplants weren’t as successful as they are today. Advancements in pharmaceuticals have saved countless lives, but the nurses had to be the one to get families together to say their good-byes many times as the doctors either couldn't or wouldn't. In their experience, it again came down to being honest with the patient. They said that more often than not that the patient already knew things were pretty bad before it came to the point of ‘the talk’ and getting the family to a point of releasing their loved one with their blessing to move on.

Death and dying aren’t topics that people enjoy talking about, but evading them can be insensitive at best. Having come close to dying, myself, I can appreciate how important it is to make final arrangements so that those who are left grieving don’t have to second guess me, so yeah, I think it’s vitally important that people know what I think both in the legal and personal constructs. It’s not a morbid topic, unless of course, I were to dwell on the topic. With the experiences I’ve had this past week with incurable forms of cancer striking people I know as well as a couple of others where others are now starting their dance with the big “C,” I’m scratching my bald chemo-affected head a bit more than usual. Suffice it to say, there just seems to be no element of fair play, but then again, when did anyone say that cancer ever plays fair?

You can imagine that I’m a bit bummed about watching a member of our MTU family head home to live out the remaining few months he has…but at least he has a couple of months left. It’s definitely not a glass-half-full moment, but there is something in that glass. I’m bummed that I’m hearing from people I know are finding they are now fighting cancer like I am. But I’m still filled with gratitude that I’m making it and that there’s hope ahead and that there’s always some modicum of hope for those just finding out they’re now enlisted in a battle they didn’t choose either. I still don’t know what to say to the dying except the honest truth from my own heart because it really isn’t some academic exercise.

It’s very, very real.

Be well, stay strong, and much love to you all.

Music for the day from Craig David – Rise and Fall

Sometimes in life you feel the fight is over,
And it seems as though the writings on the wall,
Superstar you finally made it,
But once your picture becomes tainted,
It's what they call,
The rise and fall

I always said that I was gonna make it,
Now it's plain for everyone to see,
But this game I'm in don't take no prisoners,
Just casualties,

I know that everything is gonna change,
Even the friends I knew before me go,
But this dream is the life I've been searching for,
Started believing that I was the greatest,

My life was never gonna be the same,
Cause with the money came a different status,
That's when things change,
Now I'm too concerned with all the things I own,
Blinded by all the pretty girls I see,
I'm beginning to lose my integrity

Sometimes in life you feel the fight is over,
And it seems as though the writings on the wall,
Superstar you finally made it,
But once your picture becomes tainted,
It's what they call,
The rise and fall

I never used to be a troublemaker,
Now I don't even wanna please the fans,
No autographs,
No interviews,
No pictures,
And less demands,
Given advice that was clearly wrong,
The type that seems to make me feel so right,
But some things you may find can take over your life,
Burnt all my bridges now I've run out of places,
And there's nowhere left for me to turn,
Been caught in compromising situations,
I should have learnt,
From all those times I didn't walk away,
When I knew that it was best to go,
Is it too late to show you the shape of my heart,

Sometimes in life you feel the fight is over,
And it seems as though the writings on the wall,
Superstar you finally made it,
But once your picture becomes tainted,
It's what they call,
The rise and fall

Now I know,
I made mistakes,
Think I don't care,
But you don't realize what this means to me,
So let me have,
Just one more chance,
I'm not the man I used to be,
Used to be

Sometimes in life you feel the fight is over,
And it seems as though the writings on the wall,
Superstar you finally made it,
But once your picture becomes tainted,
It's what they call,
The rise and fall

As a post script, here are some thoughts on what to say to someone who is dying. It’s not the end-all, but it’s a good start.

Embrace the Suck

Just when you think you have broken the code, they change the rules! After five inpatient stays at the VA Hospital in Salt Lake City, I thought I had things figured out. There are certainly parts of being hospitalized that don’t change, but the level of things for the bone marrow transplant here at the Seattle VA are ratcheted up a few notches with respect to keeping things über-sterile.  I’m now well into the process of killing my immune system off to make way for the new one, courtesy of “Hans,” my mystery donor. This is Spring Cleaning taken to a whole new level!

And to take Spring Fever to a whole new level, I settled into the new digs in the room at the end of the hall of the Bone Marrow Transplant Unit (MTU).  It has a lovely view and I don’t even have to walk to the window to see where I’d really rather be. My son and I had a quick intro to some rules of the road from the night nurse and he was off…I was not. I’ll be here for 3-4 weeks while I get my chemo and the life-saving transplant.

With that in mind, I set out to start learning the new slate of names of the medical and support staff that make up the MTU and to be sure, I want them to remember me. In the time prior to being admitted, I found a souvenir shop downtown Seattle with a metal sign that was intended for a bar that read name your poison. Being one to be literal when it suits me, I bought the sign, wrote Busulfan on the sign, and hung it on my door. Keeping things light!  I have a few other smaller things for the upcoming days. I’m intent on keeping people smiling so that when I feel lousy, they'll get me smiling again.

With my sign on the left and my new fancy dancing partner flashing her toxic chemical goodness for all to see. I'll bet you're *so* jealous! ;-)

Late in the day yesterday, I thought we might be getting close to one of those points where I’d need a little help smiling. PICC lines have been the point of infusion and blood draws for the past six months, the most recent of which was installed about 2½ months ago. Sometimes, these catheters migrate a little and can be difficult to draw blood from.  Such was the case yesterday, so after some contortions to see if the we could get a blood return and half a dozen unsuccessful sticks into my skin (peripherals), I ended up having to get a new line installed. While it’s not as painful as a biopsy, neither is it painless. Essentially, a narrow tube about 16” long is routed through a vein in my arm up to a junction just above my heart near the superior vena cava. To get to a vein big enough to support that catheter, the nurse has to use an ultrasound and get rather deep into my arm. It’s semi-surgical. I stay awake for the whole thing and get a local injection of Lidocaine. When I found out I’d be getting a new PICC line installed, I was less than happy. This is actually my fifth. One of the nurses who had been trying (in vein?!)  to draw blood earlier was watching the procedure and was actually rather quick to offer me something for pain. I’m tired of hurting, so I accepted. I actually have developed a rather high threshold of pain, but after this long, I’m ready to adopt better life through chemistry as my motto until this odyssey is over.

This is a PICC catheter going in and yes, that's me. The keyboard to your left goes to an ultrasound machine that helps the nurse/IV technician find the best vein. Inside the central line catheter, there is a little metallic piece that is picked up by the gray yoke/magnetometer on my chest so the exact location can be determined. After he positions the PICC, I get an X-Ray to confirm it is in the right place and they put a sterile dressing on the insertion sight. You can see the line going in my arm through a small incision.

Thankfully, the pain passes in a day or so and I get back to my normal jovial self. Even my favorite Brooklyn-born nurse told me I that I looked good today. I’m feeling good…for now. I know everything could change on a dime, so I’m doing what I can to enjoy the moment – carpe momentum! – or something like that anyway. By the time the late afternoon arrived, it was just the two nurses and me – from a pretty noisy day to a quiet ward. Suffice it to say, with no other inpatients, the nurses and I struck up a good conversation until sleep finally caught me.  I don’t know if it was the pre-meds, nerves, or something I ate, but I was back to my old hospital habit of staring at the ceiling in the wee hours of the morning.  Last night though, I was out cold.

I started chemo yesterday morning at 0-dark 15. It had to be started with near military precision so that blood levels could be measured at prescribed intervals. That tells the pharmacist how to adjust the dosage – something called pharmacokinetics. Say that 3 times fast! Since it’s impossible to reverse, I’m strapping in and holding on for the rough ride ahead. The transplant itself is less than a week away…hard to imagine that in six days, I’ll begin the process of coming alive.  So many parallels could be drawn at this point, but I’ll hold back until I actually have the new stem cells coursing through my veins.

Certainly, there will be much to think about as my body starts succumbing to the toxic chemical goodness and I take a nose dive back into frailty. There will be a lot as well to build up on the recovery side. I took a tour of the all new Salt Lake City Public Safety Building just before I left for Seattle and I saw the particular members of the structure that made it capable of withstanding an earthquake. Much like that, I know that my own body will resemble that in a way. It may appear similar on the outside, but perhaps a bit different than I can conceive; and I know the rebuilding will be good as well as necessary and it will belie the inner strength that comes from a visit with death. You can’t not be changed when you stare death in the face, but neither should one be cavalier about it. The stakes are just too high and they are permanent. It’s gonna hurt and it’s gonna suck, but the cost of life doesn’t have a price tag. Time to embrace the pain; time to embrace the suck (see note below)

Be well, stay strong, and much love to you all!

Music for the day from the Goo Goo Dolls - Better Days

And you ask me what I want this year
And I try to make this kind and clear
Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days
Cuz I don't need boxes wrapped in strings
And desire and love and empty things
Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days

So take these words
And sing out loud
Cuz everyone is forgiven now
Cuz tonight's the night the world begins again

And it's someplace simple where we could live
And something only you can give
And thats faith and trust and peace while we're alive
And the one poor child that saved this world
And there's 10 million more who probably could
If we all just stopped and said a prayer for them

So take these words
And sing out loud
Cuz everyone is forgiven now
Cuz tonight's the night the world begins again

I wish everyone was loved tonight
And somehow stop this endless fight
Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days

So take these words
And sing out loud
Cuz everyone is forgiven now
Cuz tonight's the night the world begins again
Cuz tonight's the night the world begins again

"Embrace the suck" is actually a military term meaning: the situation is bad, but deal with it.

 

Part of the Plan

There are two ladies who handle appointments at the Marrow Transplant Unit (MTU). They are amazingly efficient at directing traffic, they are calm under pressure, and they even remember my preferred name instead of simply referring to me as Mr. Park.  I watch the two of them and am amazed at their perpetual smiles and how efficiently they keep things moving. Considering the sensitivity of the work on the ward and that there are double the people (patients and caregivers) who are constantly coming and going, it’s actually rather noisy and even confusing, but these two ladies are cool customers!

After I left the hospital Friday afternoon, I got a call from one of these ladies. She told me that on Monday morning, I would be meeting with the doctors to determine my course of treatment – the next part of the plan. I was left with the impression based on the transplant date that I wouldn’t likely be seeing them until some time around the 12^th even though they would be probably meeting on Wednesday to discuss my case. My gut feeling from what I’ve been hearing is that I’ll be undergoing a standard myeloablative transplant rather than the “mini” (non-myeloablative). Because of my good physical condition and age, I’ve been told I can tolerate the rigors of this procedure. If this happens, I’ll be admitted on August 14 and begin a course of busulfin and cytoxan, two very powerful chemicals to decimate my immune system so that the transplanted stem cells will engraft when infused a week later.  There are apparently fewer complications for this procedure than the mini and it will put me on the road to recovery and subsequently home sooner, provided that everything works out well. The other plus – and it’s a big plus in my mind – is that I would not be undergoing total body irradiation. Like I posted yesterday, there are plusses and minuses to both procedures and the big minus to the standard transplant is that it will make me a whole lot sicker than the mini and I’ll be inpatient for about 3-4 weeks.

I met with the transplant coordinator on Friday as well and she advised me that my correspondence with my donor wouldn’t be possible for two years. There are some very strict privacy regulations with respect to donor privacy and my correspondence has to be very generic and can’t even include anything that would indicate the country in which I am living! That leaves things pretty broad, reminding me of the kind of letter a third grader writes to the fireman who visits the class for a super show-and-tell. While I understand confidentiality, HIPAA, and privacy, I have a profound sense of gratitude that generic greetings cannot possibly convey. I’m inclined to believe my donor came from out of the country as the waiting period is two years instead of one, the usual period for domestic donations. When the prospect of a transplant became a necessity back at the beginning of this odyssey, there was some discussion about Germany having a very robust bone marrow donor program. At the time, I joked about coming through the process with a German accent à la Hans and Franz from Saturday Night Live. All I do know as a matter of fact at this point is that my donor is male.  Even though I am genuinely grateful, I tend toward the irreverent (yes, it’s true) and I am inclined to believe my donor is foreign, so I am referring to my donor as Hans from this point forward. He has to have a name after all and I obviously have Northern European genetics. I do hope that I get to meet him face-to-face at some point. I’d very much like to extend my gratitude to him in person. Perhaps by zen, I’ll be talkin vis a German accent and very muscular – ve vant to pump you up!

Hans and Franz from SNL ... pumping me up with stem cells! 

One part of the plan at a time.

In the meantime, I’ve continued to terrorize Seattle as a tourist. The people I’ve met have been wonderful, all great ambassadors of the city. On the road, I’m less inclined to speak in glowing terms and that extends to the parking lot. So, today, instead of playing the alphabet game as I did during the last road trip I took with my sons, my ‘game’ was to spot the most egregious parking job. We came across three pretty good examples in short order. Being a tourist has been both bad and good.  Suffice it to say, anything to move me closer toward returning to life as I knew it, or at least as close to it as I can get, is movement forward. On the other hand, I’m facing some unpleasantness over the next few months, some of which will make me feel pretty durned sick. My sleep schedule will return to the erratic inpatient routine and I’ll get intimate with white-coated folks who are interested in how regular I am. This time, my middle-of-the-night conversations inside my head about mortality will have more gravitas, even though I have no intention of going down that path.

And yet…

There is much to be grateful for and much to look forward to and much to live for, even if it looks different than I had thought it would. It’s all part of the plan

Today’s music from Dan Fogelberg, appropriately enough, Part of the Plan

I have these moments
All steady and strong
I'm feeling so holy and humble

The next thing I know
I'm all worried and weak
And I feel myself
Starting to crumble

The meanings get lost
And the teachings get tossed
And you don't know what
You're gonna do next

You wait for the sun
But it never quite comes
Some kind of message
Comes through to you
Some kind of message
Comes through

And it says to you
Love when you can
Cry when you have to
Be who you must
That's a part of the plan
Await your arrival
With simple survival and
One day, we'll all understand
One day, we'll all understand
One day, we'll all understand

I had a woman
Who gave me her soul
But I wasn't ready to take it
Her heart was so fragile
And heavy to hold
And I was afraid
I might break it

Your conscience awakes
And you see your mistakes
And you wish someone
Would buy your confessions

The days miss their mark
And the night gets so dark
And some kind of message
Comes through to you
Some kind of message
Shoots through

And it says to you
Love when you can
Cry when you have to
Be who you must
That's a part of the plan
Await your arrival
With simple survival and
One day, we'll all understand
One day, we'll all understand
One day, we'll all understand

There is no Eden
Or heavenly gates
That you're gonna
Make it to one day

But all of the answers
You seek can be found
In the dreams that
You dream on the way