Recuperation or recovery?

Dana Jennings, a New York Times reporter who has been writing about his treatment for an aggressive form of prostate cancer, has, at two years out, been writing about survival.

A week ago, he wrote about the small ways in which he has been feeling like himself. He wrote that his post-treatment depression is lifting, he goes for days without thinking of cancer, and his mood is generally brighter.

Today, in a piece headlined "Healing Physically, Yet Still Not Whole," he looked at survivorship from a more somber perspective, as though he had hit a pothole when taking one of his five-mile runs. Talking about the difference between recuperation and recovery, he wrote, that recuperation is just physical, and that in our fast-moving culture, a sign of recuperation is jumping back on the treadmill, never admitting weakness.

But for Jennings, true recovery is taking longer, involving excusing himself from the daily grind, taking a deep breath, retreating into "a chrysalis of healing." He wrote that he couldn't bear the thought of answering the phone. "I didn't want to hear my own voice. I wanted to sleep, wanted to be in the wind," he wrote.

Been there. But with a little distance (and better weather), I feel like Jennings does in his earlier piece: brighter, more hopeful, less focused on the whole ordeal.

I guess everyone defines "recovery" differently. The definition may even vary from day to day. For most everyone, it involves time. If you're hit once, it's devastating. There are more layers for people with "special circumstances." What about someone who develops multiple cancers? Or people who relapse? Or someone whose cancer is followed by multiple blows, such as the death or illness of a family member or friend?

I put myself in that "special circumstances" category, because when I was three-and-a-half years out from my first bone marrow transplant, I really thought I was going to be OK. I almost shrugged it off when people asked after my health, as though I couldn't imagine why they'd even ask. Then came two relapses and three more bone marrow transplants.

It might be harder to recover if you've been hit more than once, but you still have to try. If you don't, you'll probably stay under a dark cloud, and nobody will want to play with you.

The healing powers of dogs

Yesterday, I came into the house and, as usual, my dog, Maddie, ran over to greet me, her tail wagging as she circled to be petted over and over again.

I got down on the floor and gave her a big hug. Getting down on the floor, and getting up, is not so easy, but that's what I wanted to do. I held her there, feeling the warmth of her body and the beat of her heart. It was better than taking an Ativan. She likes to cuddle on the couch and rest her head on your leg, but she's not big on getting a bear-hug (dog-hug?) on the floor. Still, she stood patiently for a bit but then dashed out of my embrace. She went into her perfect downward dog, then ran off and brought me a toy. We played tug-of-war and she ran around and around the dining room table. Made me laugh. So I got two doses of medicine.

With the healing powers of dogness on my mind, I sat down at my computer to check on the blogs that I follow and saw that New York Times editor Dana Jennings, who writes on the Well blog about his fight against an aggressive form of prostate cancer, had just posted about the ways in which the family dog has helped him. In a post titled "Finding My Inner Dog Through Cancer," he writes that their 12-year-old miniature poodle, Bijou, has been a canine Zen master, teaching him to understand his "inner dog," napping in the sun whenever possible and not keeping his feelings buried inside.

And, echoing the thoughts that I had just been having, he writes, "So often, we — dogs and humans — just need to be near each other. We need the presence of another heartbeat, the inhale and exhale of another soul. Dogs understand the healing power of having your skull kneaded, and constantly raise their heads toward our hands, the way plants turn toward the sun."

In an earlier post, he wrote about how Bijou helped teach him how to live in the present, appreciating the simple pleasures of daily life.

Maddie, my two-and-a-half-year-old chocolate labrador retriever, has turned into a real pleasure. During her long puppyhood, I complained about her behavior, but now she's doing for me all the things Jennings writes about.

I let her off the leash when walking around the lake, where she runs into the water, dashes into the woods and comes when called. Usually I put her back on the leash when we are about three-quarters of the way around. I don't know if this was coincidence or training, but yesterday she stopped and stood at the spot where I usually leash her.

When I took my mini-vacations, she was a welcome overnight guest in the home of our friends, Jim and Jane Bloom. She runs around in the backyard with their dog, Blue, and then settles into the household routine. They are really early risers, and sometimes Jim takes a nap in the afternoon after work. Maddie gets in bed with him and rests her head on his shoulder. She stayed overnight once with our friend, Karen, and slept in the bed with her son. It's great to have a dog that people like to have in their home.

Good dog!