Landing in Winter Wonder

‘Tis the season for updates! Out the window in front of me, snow dusts the ground, large cars and gargantuan trucks pass hither and thither, and a few crows call about their business. We’ve landed in central Washington state! It’s strange that while so, so much has changed—we’re living in a different hemisphere and continent, transitioning from monocultural Asia to multicultural America, suddenly English-speaking seems everywhere, and we’ve traded tropical island vibes for hordes of weekend skiers plunging down evergreen mountain slopes—truly, daily life could hardly be more different!!

...And yet, it feels somehow as if I haven’t been living abroad for nine years. Somehow, my internal orientation of “this is home now” seems to have affected a feeling that we were just on a long vacation, or something, and now we’re back. The feeling is strange, and somewhat elusive of my describing. 

Maybe it’s akin to as if aliens had abducted me for some years, and then returned me to Earth but having erased from my memory the gross elements of whatever impulses allowed me to live and survive day-to-day on their spaceship or planet. Such that there’s a basic feeling as if I haven’t been gone at all really, while still retaining the knowledge that I was and that I am very different because of it. …Yes, that’ll do, the alien-abduction analogy! Nan-noo-nan-noo!

Sesame died in the few weeks before we departed Taipei. The sadness was exponentially more difficult than I anticipated, and we had no other option than to carve out some days in our hectic moving schedule to just cry and cry with each other. Ginger came on the plane with us, and was just a prince about being caged for nearly 20 hours as we criss-crossed the planet, seeming to take it all in stride, even rolling over and letting me rub his belly on the plane. His survival coping is strong, that one. I really wish we could have made the journey with Sesame. I think he would have enjoyed wintertime here.

We landed in Seattle and then drove to Ellensburg with our few possessions: some clothes, a couple pots, a rented vehicle. Thusly, the first couple weeks were almost nonstop shopping, which is quite stressful when it’s all real big things: a car, a bed, furniture, phones, services for living and communicating. But we’ve been slowly building our life here, and reality is starting to feel more steady, coming into focus a bit more clearly. I don’t feel like the dust has settled nearly enough for us to fully realize “what we’ve done.” I wonder when that’ll happen?

Meeting with my new oncologist in Seattle was reassuring, even though she informed me that she doesn’t have any clinical trials that are open to me. We talked through what it would take for me to do a national search and pursue the highly sought and coveted clinical trials for people in my situation. The process is not for the faint of heart. But for now, she advised me to “rechallenge” my first-line chemotherapy protocol, the one I first trialed on back in 2022. It seemed to work to control the cancer from spreading back then, so the hope is that it may still have some efficacy for me. If I would have taken this treatment direction in Taiwan, I’d have to pay out of pocket for it, whereas in the U.S. my health insurance should cover it. So, in that way the decision to change treatment locales already has some dividends for me, and that feels good. We just hope it works, and keeps working.

A couple weeks ago I was interviewed about what it’s like to live with a terminal diagnosis. We talked about the dynamics of “bargaining” with mortality that I’ve experienced since I was diagnosed, and which is common for people like me. One way that it shows up is, “If I do this [take this medicine, eat this diet, do this exercise, &c] then this cancer won’t kill me.” It’s not exactly a conscious or intentional or willed bargaining—it’s more automatic, or I'd say even autonomic. But for me, the bright light of hope lives inside of it, too. In the grief process, typically “bargaining” falls somewhat short of “acceptance” in the (non-linear) stages. Still, I think there’s a dialogue in the bargaining that’s natural, and worth having and worth working through, so long as I don’t get stuck going in circles or avoiding other necessary dances.

Moving back to the U.S.---a.k.a. moving back home—has another bargaining element swimming inside of it for me. 

"What if moving back home is the thing I needed for a cure?" 

"What if living in the U.S. again somehow carries the keys for me to skirt this terminal diagnosis?"

I know the maths on it are slim chances, but I live for them, each and every day