CRY ALONE, BUT LAUGH WITH THE WORLD

FEBRUARY 13, 2022 – For this, my 1,000^th post, I’m taking a break from India to return to immediate concerns. Six weeks have passed since my first session with Dr. Kolla, my oncologist, who, as life turns, was born, reared, and educated in . . . India. I’d choose none other than this extraordinary doctor to oversee my treatment for multiple myeloma. Moreover, Dr. Kolla’s mentor, a quintessential tour de force, and head of the clinic, is Dr. Jahagirdar, whose origins . . . are also in . . .  India.

Every evening, I receive a call from my close, long-time friend, a dedicated family physician, Dr. Ravi Balasubrahmanyan, also born in . . . India. I take great pride, by the way, in my ability to pronounce and spell his last name as if it were my own. Ravi is highly knowledgeable about my disease and its treatment protocols, but most important is his indefatigably caring friendship.

This road isn’t one I’d have chosen or anticipated. Yet, as with my India sojourn two generations ago, I’ve learned to adapt and to embrace the great gifts and insights that accompany the unanticipated.

What lies ahead is a stem-cell transplant, a misnomer, since “transplanted” cells will be my own, withdrawn and stored ahead of a “chemo-blast,” conducted on an in-patient basis at the U of MN Hospital, to kill as many of the enemy cells as possible. The “good” cells are then re-introduced into my bloodstream on an “out-patient” basis, after I emerge from “chemo-combat.”

Enough medical talk. I’ve learned that when it comes to our physical existence, every single one of us is a “renter,” not an “owner.” If we’re good and lucky, we can extend the lease but never forever.

As a “renter” intent on avoiding early eviction, I’ve learned to intensify, yet soften my view of life.

I stay engaged every moment—except for a 30-minute nap in the late afternoon, and even then, I snooze to great music I explore on YouTube, such as the compositional fire of Fanny Mendelssohn, the ever-so-talented sister of her more famous brother.

When watching the Olympics, I know that even under a 99-year lease, I’ll never be a gold medalist in the Super-G. My goals have been modified. Dr. Kolla won’t allow me to ski at all this season but says I’ll be skiing next season. That’s my gold medal goal.

I laugh in amusement when reading that You-Know-Who tried to flush official papers down the toilet. Who in their right mind uses 8 x 11-1/2 paper for TP?

When I hear about the imminent Russian invasion of Ukraine, I ask, “What’s Putin doing to improve the life of his subjects?” And “How much could America enhance itself by diverting the cost of a few F-14s?” Let Putin save face by televising worldwide, how far he can pee in Ukrainian snow. On Russian TV, NATO commanders could then reveal their masculine inferiority . . . and win the Nobel Peace prize. But they’ll have to hurry—soon the snow will melt, and the pee-season will be over.

Cry alone, but laugh with the world.

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson