The dogless days of summer

Bookends; Ravi at the river at about T minus five weeks

Each Labor Day weekend for twenty years past we and our dog or dogs have accompanied chum G to her dacha, a rustic “vacation cabin” on Forest Service land in the Sierra foothills. There on Redacted Creek and, currents permitting, the nearby American River, we sun ourselves and splash about. Afternoons and evenings we chat, visit other lucky leaseholders, grill flesh, fish, fowl, catch up on back issues of the NYRB, with which the cabin is stocked in abundance. And the dogs, hers and ours, go traipsing through the forest, snuffling the expanded spectrum of smells (“Jeepers! Is that really bear scat?”) laid out for their delectation, to all appearances a welcome and exotic change from the urban message boards (“Reply all”) of their Oakland strolls.

This year, to our regret, considerations of health obliged us to break the cycle: it would not be feasible at this stage of her affliction for Lina to be a two-hour drive from her medical team, and they tell me that the cost of a ride in a medevac helicopter has gone through the roof. Accordingly we were not on hand to help G “close up the cabin” (as we “opened” it last Memorial Day) this time out.

In 2023 we managed September the trip, and so did poor Ravi, by then increasingly frail and incontinent (two words: “whelping pads”), who slept much of the day but who would eagerly bestir his sixteen year-old bones and totter outdoors whenever a turn along the trails was on offer. It proved his last hurrah. By October, as the slope of his decline steepened, we had begun having “the conversation”: we’d long felt that, however onerous his care might become, we would preserve the creature for as long as he appeared to enjoy his life as a dog more than not, and it was beginning to feel as though his morale was faltering. By the first weekend in the month we were thinking “This will probably be the week,” and Sunday afternoon his condition went gruesomely off the cliff. On Monday (“Indignant People’s Day” as we call it around here) we carried him to the car and drove down the freeway to “Creature Comforts,” whose head vet Ravi always liked and trusted—for example, he never flinched as we drove into their parking lot.

For the last quarter hour of his life, he tottered and sniffed around CC’s enclosed yard. A blanket was laid out for him; invited to lie down upon it, he did. Lina stroked his ears and Dr. W administered a sedative that induced slumber and then a compound that slowed and then stopped that noble heart. Lina held it together better than I did: I wept—I will not say unashamedly, because that’s not how men of my cohort and background roll, but as discreetly as I could, blotting up several sheets of tissue.

And so we have been a year and change now without the companionship of our dog, who brought such delight to our lives for almost fifteen years. He was released from the burden of his old age; we from his maintenance. It would not have been otherwise possible for us to leave home for ten days last spring chasing the total eclipse out at sea. And although we have both felt keenly impoverished for want of a canine presence in our lives since then, I would have been hard pressed to give even a healthy dog the time, energy and attention it would be entitled to, as Lina’s care has become increasingly a full-time undertaking. And when Lina is gone, which seems as though it must inevitably occur in the coming weeks, I don’t know that I could in conscience take on a pet whom I might leave bereft. But if this household is never to include a dog again, I take some comfort in reflecting that with Ravi we saved the best for last.

Gobsmacked, 5 July

I’m not going to whine about this again, but geez—fifty years!

The years of living cancerously

Just one entry since the last day of 2022? There must have been issues.

Well, yeah. The present entry will go on at considerable length as we make up for the deficit.

This weekend marks two years since the spousette received a startling email from CæsarCare, the HMO into the coffers of which I have poured treasure these (counts on fingers) forty-seven years past. C-Care used to be a bargain, but early in the present century they appear to have filled their board of directors with Enron alumni, and after that for a long time their premiums skyrocketed from year to year, generally eating up most of my modest salary increases.

Lina had been feeling a little unwell for a period of months, and C-Care was putting her off: “It’s probably a urinary tract infection.” She wanted a scan, and started pestering them that spring. Their response: “A scan? Sure thing. We’ve got an opening in August. August work for you?” Fortunately her “primary care physician” was able to intervene, and got her slotted in at the end of June.

We were prepared for “Nothing to see here,” or for “Something wrong; here’s what we need to do to fix it.” Instead the terse, impersonal email said “advanced metastatic peritoneal carcinomatosis,” which turned out to be as dire as it sounds. Also, words like “palliative” and “hospice” figured in the message.

You could have, as they say, knocked us over with a feather.

Hard upon this diagnosis, the disease, which had hitherto merely been tuning up, announced itself with a fanfare, full orchestra and a lightshow, the symptoms coming in backed by a vigorous horn section and kettledrums. She spent most of the next ten days in C-Care’s emergency wing a mile away as liters of “ascites” were drained from her abdomen.

Myself, I had no issues with C-Care when they reamed out my cardiac plumbing in 2016: they identified the problem and addressed it briskly; the treatment has ameliorated the issue to date—although lately I have the sense that the relevant arteries might be silting up anew—and according to the rather censorious surgeon who reproached me post-op for my tardiness in consulting the competent authorities, that June’s could have been the last installment of Son of Urschleim, so I suppose that, the greedos on the C-Care board notwithstanding, I owe the outfit a life.

Still.

Lina was not pleased with them, particularly following her first consultation, once the initial crisis had passed, with the oncologist assigned to her. “There are no good outcomes here,” quoth the oncologist, which was and probably remains true, but the doctor’s affect suggested that she was keen to get this patient off her caseload and into some kind of palliative care that wouldn’t require regular supervision. And indeed, the literature we’d consulted at that point suggested that my wife would be well advised to finish up her estate planning before the end of the year.

An element of obduracy figures in Lina’s character, and she has never been one readily to accept “no” for an answer, and so she set about “doing her own research,” which fortunately was confined to reputable precincts: no quack cures, no crystal healing or suchlike. Her investigations suggested that nearby Stanford (Palo Alto) or distant Cedars-Sinai (West Hollywood) were her best bets for entities serious about treating patients rather than slotting them into hospice care. She was particularly intrigued at the prospect of a hyperthermic treatment, “HIPEC,” which has only lately been brought to bear on her condition, and which has yielded promising outcomes in a quarter of the patients so treated. C-Care was dismissive: we took the impression from their Doctor H that it was looked upon there as fringe medicine, even though Cedars and the Mayo Clinic appeared to regard it as a legitimate approach to treatment. Accordingly, we betook ourselves to West Hollywood for an initial consultation with young Doctor P, who looks just about old enough to shave but is possessed of a frank and appealing bedside manner. Doc P did not mince words, and advised us that L’s odds for getting through this were not great. He was lukewarm on HIPEC. “It goes in and out of favor. Lately it’s out.”

But wait! Also on the case is older Dr. M (I say “older” with Doc P as my baseline. Pretty much everyone we have encountered in the medical line has been noticeably younger than we are), the surgeon, who is a champion of HIPEC, and he persuades Dr. P that it’s worth a shot. And so, somewhat to my chagrin at the time, because I still entertained some faith, silly me, in my HMO, we committed to spending most of the next six months in the San Fernando Valley, as longtime readers of this blog—that would be me—will have been aware.

So, long stretches in a borrowed Northridge condo as Lina endures—fairly well, it must be said—chemotherapy, followed in November by surgery, Dr. M and a colleague attending, to scoop out her ladyparts, scrape the cancer from her peritoneum, and bathe her innards with a solution formulated to kill any rogue cells that might have eluded the scalpel. It was a daylong procedure, but toward the close Doc M excused himself from the operating theatre and visited me in the waiting room: “It went great. We could see where the tumors were, but no trace of where they still are.”

Well, yay. Lina was feeling pretty rugged in the immediate aftermath, but her characteristic cheer returned over the coming days. Dr. P was still not prepared to declare the patient cured, but allowed that we might look forward to a year of remission. Her “cancer numbers”—the blood antigen proteins present in her system, around 2500 at the onset of symptoms, were down about 95%. Yay, team! Yay HIPEC!

Except…early in 2023 the numbers began to climb anew. The magic bullet missed the target. Even Dr. P was surprised: he thought that the disease might lie doggo and demoralized for considerably longer before venturing again from its lair. Instead, barely a season elapsed before it came roaring back.

Lina wasn’t about to take this lying down. Doc P mentioned “Lenvima,” a pharmaceutical concoction, as a possible course of treatment. “It might be costly, though.” “How costly?” “I don’t know. Maybe a couple of thousand dollars a month.” Dr. P, bless him, clearly spends more time poring over medical journals than studying the annual reports of Big Pharma, because a thirty-day course of Lenvima retails for a cool $25K. We contemplated this figure glumly, reflecting how we’d have to cut down on our wild nights on the town, flinging C-notes to menials in our wake, to say nothing of our weekends flying out to the Côte d’Azur. But Lina always looks for an angle, and discovered that the manufacturer maintains a foundation for hard luck cases. After very little negotiation, it was established that the drug would be shipped here each month for…zip. Nada. Gratis. And there was much rejoicing.

Lenvima worked for a few months, until it didn’t. The efficacy waned; the side effects mounted. By November Lina was down to 89 pounds—forty down from her former weight—and frail, with little energy. “I was circling the drain,” she recalls today. At that point the supervising physicians switched her to a regimen based on a drug called “ENHERTU,” and this yielded dramatic advances: by January those cancer antigen numbers were down to 12 and then 9 (anything under 35 is considered to be within the “normal” range). She recovered not merely her strength but also half the lost poundage. Rejoicing was renewed.

“ENHERTU” worked until, yeah, until it didn’t (we thought “We’ve seen this movie before”). At the end of April the levels of CA-125, the dreaded “cancer antigen,” began to climb anew, and CæsarCare’s Dr. H, who has always seemed to us keen to drop Lina from her caseload, rather peremptorily discontinued it, as L didn’t learn until she appeared on the hospital premises for her scheduled infusion—C-Care ain’t great in points of communication. We’d remained in contact with Cedars, and the prospect of a “clinical trial” was held forth. We’d auditioned for one late in 2023, but were disqualified following a somewhat uncomfortable biopsy. This time we qualified and, again resuming our hegiras to Cedars-Sinai—four or five trips south since April—endured tests, scans, infusions, a daily regimen of pharmaceuticals following which, earlier in June, the Big Pharma “sponsor” advised the supervising physicians that we had washed out: the CA-125 numbers had skyrocketed to levels unseen in two years, which was not the result the shareholders were looking for (I am probably being unfair here: some useful data points were likely harvested).

We have since consulted with Doctor B, another C-Care oncologist, whose advice also does not conduce to optimism (“What is the outcome you’re looking for?” “Well, a cure, obviously.” “Not going to happen, I’m afraid.” “Yeah, but it was worth a try”), but who has advised us to return to the “ENHERTU” regimen. Given that the disease has been romping unimpeded for two months, he feels that it will have, so to say, let down its guard, and that a renewed course of E will yield another interval of respite. During this consultation the possibility was mentioned, incidentally, that the discontinued course of treatment may not have merely failed to retard the progress of the cancer, but might actually have spurred it on: apparently this has been known to happen. L and I looked at one another with the same thought—and this has not been mentioned hitherto why?—and then shrugged: “Forget it, Jake—it’s Cancertown.”

And here we are, two years in. Lina is dealing, alas, with what has proved a Houdini among maladies, an already rare cancer this particular variant of which possesses the uncanny knack of wriggling out from any restraints—straitjacket, locked steamer trunk bound by chains in twenty fathoms of shark-infested water—with which medical science may attempt to bind it. It appears that this will not end well.

Still, at the moment she soldiers on, not quite unbowed, but like the late Ravi (to be discussed anon), still enjoying life more than not. Dr. M (although we and Cedars-Sinai have likely finished up) reminds us that researchers are staying up late attempting to devise more magic bullets. The horse could learn to sing. For the rest, I am put in mind of the personal credo I have borrowed from John Updike: “We do, after all, survive every moment, except the last.” And while I am mindful that grief is poised to roar down the mountainside like an avalanche, well, we must live day to day, and all of us, as Samuel Beckett once put it, “die one day like any other day, only shorter.”

When you’re a tsar they let you do it

Floridamandias

I met a pollster with the latest news

Who said—“Fleece vests and shiny boots of rock

Litter the Everglades. Near them, in the ooze,

Half sunk, a ruined campaign lies, in hock,

Disorganized. The race was his to lose.

‘Kick immigrants and fags,’ his handlers said,

‘LGBT—rile up the common folk.’

But out the gate the effort’s looking dead.

On OAN and Fox the chyron reads:

He’s Ron DeSantimandias, Scourge of Woke;

The budding fascist that this country needs!

It hasn’t worked. In Mar-a-Lago far

The Former Guy maintains a solid lead,

The MAGA hordes are sticking with the Tsar.”

 

Point of origin

 

Medical issues have compelled the household’s attendance to Southern California—specifically the San Fernando Valley, more specifically Northridge, a postal designation therein—since early summer. We have spent two or three weeks out of each five in the Southland as the spousette receives treatment for a life-threatening disease (Cedars-Sinai proposes to cure this; our local HMO was prepared to slot the patient straight into hospice care).

I quit the Valley for the first time—I was raised but not, as I tell friends, cultivated there—in 1970; found myself couchsurfing at various addresses within its boundaries in summers 1971, 1972 and 1975 before I finally shook its grit from my desert boots. Until this year I had seldom thereafter passed more than a few consecutive nights in the Valley.

A kind friend vouchsafed us her vacant, somewhat spartan condominium in Northridge (how is it that some people end up with multiple homes and others with none at all? It’s a conundrum as well as a condo). Here we sheltered in place over the therapeutic regime, cowering under the brutal SoCal heat, which hovered within a few degrees of 100°F all summer and a few weeks into autumn. Not until November did the weather abate.

The entire summer was oppressive. Come the autumn, though, I was distantly tickled by the cooler weather, the clear days, the brisk air between them summoning up my formative years: not to the degree that, visiting the region decades past, a sense of my salad days would occasionally descend upon me there with almost shattering immediacy, but sufficient to put me in mind of Mole from The Wind in the Willows when he catches a whiff of his old burrow, not hitherto missed, and the scent summons his attention, poignantly, to the memory of that abandoned past.

I’ve never wanted to live in the San Fernando Valley again, not the sprawling whitebread suburb I quit the first time in 1970, nor the polyglot slum, the wilderness of strip malls, into which it has devolved today, but I am obliged to acknowledge the tidal tug that even now, weather permitting, causes the hindbrain to twitch in response.

Above: Sunset from near the borrowed condo. More strip malls’n you could shake a stick at.

Fifty years(!)

 

I can scarcely believe that five decades have elapsed since that evening. It doesn’t seem possible meaningfully to enlarge upon this account of 28 September 1972, posted two years ago, so I will merely link to it anew. But half a century, geez…

A surfeit of Murdoch

At the end of 1986, with my domestic arrangements having fallen to flinders, a friend whom circumstances had granted a ringside seat to the debacle pressed upon me her copy of A Severed Head. “Read it,” she urged, “and understand.” Well, truth to tell, the novel hadn’t much to say about the particulars of my situation, but there was an eerie resonance with the tangled skein of personal histories, relationships, delusions and estrangements characterizing that bleak period. Looking back I suppose that, not unlike Murdoch’s fifth novel, the situation was not without its comedic elements (which I think my friend must have detected), but few of its principals were in a position at the time to appreciate these. Still, A Severed Head impressed me sufficiently that, Berkeley in those days still being my cultural center of gravity, I betook myself over the next few months to the used bookstores on Telegraph Avenue to score five or six copies of the author’s other works—which I then left untouched for a third of a century until I was unaccountably moved late this past spring to take up Under the Net, her first novel. For most of the preceding year or so I had been reading mainly histories and biographies (including The Education of Henry Adams in a handsome edition received as a birthday gift forty-nine years ago, to which I found myself at last receptive after reaching its author’s approximate age at the time of its composition), and only began to edge back into fiction recently.

Under the Net (1954) was entertaining, picaresque and ultimately, I thought, pointless, although the inclusion of a movie mogul distantly based on Wittgenstein was an amusing touch, and had this been my sole exposure to the writer’s œuvre I doubt whether I should have been moved to pursue it further, but on the strength of what I recalled of A Severed Head, I prepared to submit my decision to a tiebreaker, and somewhat arbitrarily selected from the backlist on hand her nineteenth novel, The Sea, The Sea (1978), which scored its author the coveted Booker Prize.

Its opening chapters were…exasperating. I recognized that Charles Arrowby, the narrator, was intended to be off-putting, but half an hour in I felt far from certain that I could bear, at that point, another 450 pages (in my Penguin paperback edition) of his company. Screwing my patience to the sticking place, however, I plugged on, my interest gradually engaging, as Arrowby related the tale, discreditable to rational reader, of re-encountering after half a century his first love—in memory a sylph, a soulmate, his very anima; in 1978 a drab, faded housewife unaccountably unwilling to leave her husband to take up again with the boyfriend of her teens, whose importunities to this end become increasingly unhinged. My exasperation never abated, but my interest was engaged.

From here I was moved to take in The Sandcastle (1957), in which a forty-ish schoolmaster becomes infatuated with a young painter who returns his affection, the romance being thwarted by the educator’s dithering and the intelligent machinations of the wronged wife. Next up was the very interesting The Bell (1958), in a 1966 American paperback edition that hilariously misrepresented the tale as a bodice-ripper, and then a reprise of A Severed Head, which did not disappoint upon a second reading.

Thence: The Italian Girl (1964). A misfire. Murdoch published twenty-six novels in four decades, and even her most sympathetic critics do not assert that all of these were of first quality. This one I will not soon revisit. The Red and the Black (1965) was Murdoch’s only “historical” novel, set in Dublin on the eve of the 1916 Easter Rising, and to my mind engaging and quite readable, with the “obsessive lover” note, so prominent in most of the novels I’ve read thus far, not absent, but nothing like as front-and-center as seen elsewhere to date.

A Fairly Honourable Defeat (1970) included a figure recurring frequently if not invariably in Murdoch’s novels: charismatic, enigmatic, demonic, occasionally destructive, as here, in which a visiting academic attempts unsuccessfully to engineer for his own amusement the estrangement of a homosexual couple (a relationship sympathetically, even compassionately portrayed by the author), an undertaking which, as an unintended consequence, results in the destruction of another character, an armchair philosopher, this collateral damage occasioning not a moment’s remorse on the part of the culprit.

I might mention that I took in most of these novels while laid low with The Thing That’s Going Around, which entered the household shortly after mid-June, probably with SWMBO after she attended an outdoor concert a few days earlier. We were flattened sequentially; she first and than, a few days later, your proprietor: it is difficult to maintain social distancing in 1700 square feet. But thank Log for the vaccines and boosters! I was still bedridden by the time I took in The Black Prince (1973), and maybe it was covid and maybe I’d lost patience with Murdoch’s obsessed narrators chasing after young girls or their phantoms, but the exasperation I felt in the opening passages of The Sea, The Sea had returned by the time I closed this one.

Murdoch’s books are not page-turners—sometimes, indeed, they’re a chore to get through—and her prose style, while unobjectionable, is generally unmemorable. In fairness, though, every now and again the lady lights it up and demonstrates what she’s capable of, and on these occasions she boosts her gifts to very high altitudes indeed. It is her intelligence, though, that kept me going through nine novels (and likely through more presently, although for some reason I am willing to acquire only “used” editions, and have scoured and plundered most of the vendors in reach), and her ability to finish strong.

Having completed The Black Prince I craved something at once comparable in points of style and respectability, and also more readily readable and less likely to provoke impatience. A few days later some household circumstances arose that thrust considerations of literary entertainment offstage for the moment. Since then I have found myself drawn in my idle moments (few of those as present conditions permit) to distractions, and to this end the “Aubrey-Maturin” cycle of novels by Patrick O’Brian have answered very well. These are page-turners indeed, not the least exasperating, and as prose impeccable: indeed, Iris Murdoch was among the series’ early champions. So there’s that.

Above: That’s the legendary “Marber grid,” which dominated Penguin cover designs for years.