John, our other leader, tells us about tectonic plates, demonstrating how they collide at the inside passage by making a mess with mounds of ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise which he dabs on pieces of cardboard. He talks of glaciers, how they are formed, why they retreat, advance, why they “calve.”
As I raise binoculars to my eyes on the deck (in the rain), I notice the stiffness in my pectoral muscle, just over my armpit. It seems to be larger. I am worried.
We cruise Glacier Bay, exclaiming at the majesty of the enormous glaciers, Marjorie Glacier and Grand Pacific Glacier, 3 miles wide, inching down the 20 miles from the icefields above. We listen to the thunder of the huge pieces of ice cracking, “calving” and plunging into the sea as Marjorie Glacier advances over its foot and the saltwater undercuts the 100 foot wall of glacial ice.
In my bed, I lay awake and imagine that the sores on my tongue and throat are malignant, and that they will have to cut out my tongue and throat. I sit up, open my curtains and watch the ocean waves and the curve of the ships wake, lighted by the running lights along the side of the hull. Late night partyers, returning from the lounges, noisily whisper in the passageway outside my cabin.
A visit with the ship doctor is frustrating and does not result in any kind of treatment.
“Just a cold sore,” he pronounces. “It will go away.”
“It’s been five weeks,” I argue, “and may be related to my cancer or to chemotherapy. How about an anti-viral drug to rule that out”
“It’s not bad enough to be a virus,” he says as he accidentally pinches my tongue against my teeth with the coffee stirrer he is using as a tongue depressor.
“And I can’t do anything about your cancer.” he concludes, dismissing me.
We arrive in Seward, and board a bus for the Alaska Sea Life Center, a wonderful facility funded by Exxon after the Valdez oil spill. We hear a lecture, and wander among tanks of rescued sea lions, harbor seals, and rare ducks and view aquariums of every kind of fish and sea life.
We ride out to Kenai Fyords National park and hike to the retreating Exit Glacier, passing signs that indicate where the glacier was in 1927, 1961, 1984.
That night, in our motel, I tell my leader, Jerri, that I think I will try to make arrangements to go home when we get to Anchorage. “I am too worried to really enjoy myself.”
She, a kind and smart woman, says, “We’ll call Elder Hostel.”
She does and they fax papers.
We taxi to a small local clinic, get the papers signed by a young doctor, fax them back.
In the morning, the itinerary arrives for my red eye flight home, from Anchorage to Salt Lake City to Little Rock leaving at 12:40 a.m. and arriving at 1:30 the next afternoon. Eagles soar around the motel teasing us as we mill around, cameras raised, trying to get a good photo.
We drive out to the Kenai River for a float trip, and climb into big boots, rubber overalls, and slickers. We laugh at the salmon fisherman backing into the river away from a couple of approaching black bears, who clearly want the salmon they see. I am relaxed and having fun. After a couple of hours, I begin shivering in the drizzly cold, despite long johns and several layers of rubber.
We board the Alaska train to Anchorage, wind through wild, remote landscape, rushing rivers, deep ravines, more glaciers, We have dinner on the train, and I say goodbye to my new friends, who are going on to Denali Park.
The bus-driver, a petite woman who handles all the luggage, picks us up at the train, drops the group at the Ramada, and drives me directly to the airport for my 12:40 flight to Salt Lake City and home. She pulls the enormous coach right up to the gate, unloads my bags, and gives me a big hug
I arrive jet-lagged and weary in Little Rock on Monday afternoon. A worried Andy meets my plane. I go into the bathroom in the Little Rock airport and take off my long johns. I know it is about 100º outside.
A PET scan reveals tumor only slightly “hotter,” or metabolically active. Relief.
A visit to my doc results in plans for resuming chemotherapy, and a realization that I cannot expect an actual remission from this cancer. He is happy that it is relatively stable.
