"What a Shit!"

About 10 years ago, a French scholar named Francis Jaureguiberry from the University of Pau came to UCSB for six months to conduct research on technology and communication in the U.S. My job was to secure his housing and smooth over the inevitable university bureaucracy. He's an extremely down-to-earth fellow with a lively sense of humor. After he got to know us, he enjoyed practicing his English with Elvira and me. He also loved hang gliding and had brought his equipment from France to fly above Santa Barbara in his spare time.

Francis' stay in the U.S. ended earlier than expected. He was running at top speed in preparation for take-off from a local hill when he stepped in a gopher hole. The glider kept going toward the precipice, but Francis' leg was stuck in the hole. It took a medical helicopter to get him to the hospital. and years of knee surgeries followed the incident.

Well, Francis recently learned via Facebook that melanoma had invaded my body. He sent a very nice note and summarized the situation perfectly with the phrase, "What a shit!" I couldn't agree more. And if you read this, Francis, let me add my belated assessment of your hang gliding accident:

"What a shit, too!"

My Opdivo treatment yesterday went well. My oncologist seems pleased with progress and is planning a re-evaluation after my scans in September to determine the next phase of treatment. In the meantime, Elvira and I plan to go to the Music Academy of the West opera tonight at the Granada and continue our usual walks at Shoreline Park. Peaceful days with a bit of exercise are a beautiful thing.

Looking for Peace

It occurs to me that this cancer trip is like driving a formerly reliable but now sketchy car on a winding road late at night through a heavily wooded area in icy conditions. The doctors have recommended this road, which could lead us out of the dark forest to a sunny meadow brimming with wildflowers. But no guarantees. And it can be a very long road with sharp turns and unexpected hazards.

For the first few months after my metastatic melanoma diagnosis, it felt as if Elvira and I were just trying to avoid a crash. We hit black ice several times, sending the car skidding across the road. We almost ran out of gas before my combination treatments were done. Car parts grunted and groaned as we moved steadily forward, but nothing broke. At least, nothing essential.

Yesterday, my oncologist provided a peek at what might be down the road. He mentioned the possibility of sending me down to a UCLA melanoma specialist (the same one in Melanoma without a Cause) to explore next steps. With no new growth and apparently only one tumor showing remnants of disease, the question is whether my immune system is sufficiently tuned up by more than a year of treatment to keep me on the right road. Advances in immunotherapy also give doctors more treatment options.

This view of future treatment is exciting, but we cannot look too far ahead. We need to keep our eyes on every inch of the road even to have a chance at seeing that sunny meadow. But having a chance is all we ask.