a radio was on.

Tracy Brown passed on from the material world today at 1:44 p.m.  She was surrounded by loved ones, including all of her children.   One of Tracy’s favorite pictures said, “Somewhere just out of sight, the unicorns are gathering.”  I (Kyle) bet Tracy is now gathering with them.  She could not have been more loved.

For anyone who might want a message read to Tracy, please feel free to leave a message in the comments.  We will be sure to read anything left in the comments to Tracy. 

It’s Kyle writing.  Tracy had a series of seizures on Saturday.  She was rushed to Massachusetts General Hospital.  Scans suggested that Tracy has leptomeningal disease, which means the cancer is in her cerebral spinal fluid.  She also has lesions in her frontal lobe, temporal lobe, and cerebellum.  The leptomeningal disease is the real issue, though.  The steps that could be taken to contain the cancer did not present quality of life for Tracy, and she continues to have seizures.  The decision was made to move her to hospice today.  Rest assured Tracy is being kept comfortable and surrounded by so much love. 

And so the winter passed and the writing ceased. I spent time in my body, which seems to me to be slowly failing as I try one medicine after another. I got kicked out of a clinical trial when the cancer progressed right away. I tried another clinical trial medicine that dragged my blood pressure into the basement. I had back surgery again. I got a port. I dug deep into my body and it was not a place of light. Some of you may have noticed I stopped consistently responding to texts--a flurry one day and then the silence of a snowfall the next.  I got a little cynical, which was not attractive. "Oohh, a clinical trial," people would exclaim excitedly. As if a clinical trial was good news. And I thought of all the mice who took the medicine before I got the nod. These are phase one trials. Of course, the people running the trial have reason to believe there is some efficacy to the drugs, but phase one also means the real goal of the study is to identify a dosage that is not toxic

A thread of sadnesses, a crowd of sorrows, a clutch of fears. An ambush of tigers. A sloth of bears. A murder of crows. A range of mountains. A forest of trees. A flight of stairs. And why not a clutch of fears?  I went to see my surgeon yesterday. I think of him as mine now, because that's how my team refers to him. As in, we need to run these scans past your surgeon. When I met with him, he was much warmer to me than he was in the spring. Maybe he is starting to think of me as his patient.  He specializes in orthopedic oncology and is startlingly frank about my cancer (I think of the cancer in my body as mine, too). "That leg is full of cancer," he says, as an aside. I know that already, so it doesn't strike new fear into my heart, but it does feel a little like a soft drumbeat in my mind, where I keep my clutch of fears when they haven't wandered into my heart.  You might remember I had surgery on my left leg last winter. I had a plate put into the left leg in

And another summer's week at the Cape. All the children are here: Cameron, Kaitlyn, Zachary, Avery, Zoe, Asher, Elijah. And Dave, Kaitlyn's husband. And my niece Katie, and her girlfriend from Texas, Rachel. Tomorrow Kanika arrives, Cameron's wife.  Everyone was scattered through the first floor, making lemon zucchini cake, playing a complicated board game called Everdell, resting on the white furniture (why??) shimmying to Avery's playlist. And Zoe said, "Are they all yours?" in a sarcastic, Massachusetts accent.  Years ago, when the kids were Asher and Elijah's age, this is how we were greeted once at Honeydew Donuts. "Are they all yours?" Yes, I said then, shelling out eight dollars for four donuts and an iced coffee.  Yes, I say now, although they have multiplied, have various mothers and fathers, coupled and uncoupled with sundry partners, and yes, although they aren't strictly all mine, they are mine to be with, mine to love.  I'll

The New Yorker introduced me to the concept of interoception last week. It's simply our ability to feel what's happening inside our bodies. A "portmanteau of interior and reception." A consciousness about our own body's inner processes. A breakthrough to the surface: the body is exhausted--we think: I'm so weary, I need sleep. An unconscious knowing: our brain detects high glucose levels in our liver and releases hormones triggering metabolic changes. A response on the part of our bodies and minds to what will happen next, a forecasting of the future. This last idea confuses me: is this kind of interoception unconscious or conscious or somehow both? The article spoke of cancer, but not in the way I needed. A study suggests tumors consume huge amounts of energy and interoception might offer a way to alert us to cancer earlier. Totally unconsciously, so measured by what? Changes in blood measurements? I don't know--the research is in its infancy.  What I