The kitchen is nearing completion and a walnut-sized tumor continues to grow in my face. A few months ago, there was a negative biopsy result which was, in fact, a false negative. Subsequently, a scope confirmed the tumor’s presence, blocking my nasal airway. I am now alternating between different phases of exhaustion—total physical, utter mental, and nominally equal amounts of each—and wonder if the real inability to breathe (through my nose) is something of a metaphor.
Summer is over. I didn’t get to fly much this season but I had already made that bargain with myself at the outset of the remodel. The scale of this endeavor has been vast, beyond any past project, and I try every day to take stock of how much I’ve learned, the design choices made early that guided and simplified the work, the errors which required correcting. The sum total is a real thing that feels more like an elaborate art installation than a room. Every layer, every angle, every material is something I’ve touched or altered, informed by a vision, a picture of what it will become when little details are all that remain.
I never expected this to be easy but maybe I did silently hope that cancer and surgery would be a next year problem. I’ve been delaying, prioritizing work over wellness, knowing I’d suffer a bit more now, but will still willing to make that choice. The progress day over day, week over week, seeing the space slowly transform, moving closer to a cohesive and orderly future state, towards the vision...it’s addictive. Last year, I wrote and published a book. This year, my book-sized challenge was a 200 square foot canvas full of surprises and constraints, a work that has pushed my body to the limit, that has been collaborative at times, but mostly a solo effort.
The last recurrence and subsequent surgery was in February of this year, which would be alarming if it was unexpected. A full quarter of my life has been affected by this aggressive and uncommon disease that’s now reappearing more and more frequently. At this stage, I am fully comfortable with incurable and I wonder when (not if but when) we will arrive at inoperable.
On occasion, I think about dying and dying well. Recently, during a bout of awful nerve pain that had me laid up for a while (likely from the tumor pushing on the sensory spaces behind my face), I imagined deep breaths becoming shallower, sensation dulling, and everything slowing down. Then, simply, the end. Usually there isn’t much time to lie down and consider the final stages of life because there is too much to do; this pain commanded my attention and stillness for a while.
Idleness, rest, and purposefully doing nothing is tough for me. Some of this is an unshakeable conviction that my time is short, that I need to keep going while I can. The other bit is simply how I’m oriented—I like actively doing and learning, being in constant motion—building things and solving problems is a lot like play for me. I associate it with being alive and healthy; being sedentary is the inverse.
The pain was a reminder that there are limits and maybe the kitchen can wait, maybe I should take time off work that doesn’t involve more work of a different variety. Or perhaps I should double down since we are so close. Only two major bodies of work remain: the countertop fabrication and the final electrical panel connections. Everything else is minor: finishing details, trim and touch ups, little adjustments. Maybe I will rest when the kitchen is done.