My Brain Cancer Diary living with gliosarcoma By Bogart Salzberg '96
nothing to me. While I sit idly by, the government deposits money into my bank account. I could say I retired early, while I still have time to enjoy it. Technically I'm "disabled" and today I'm not enjoying it. I'm sitting in the warm sun on a sandy beach, but I'm restless. I yearn to be alone in silence. I walk into the water and swim away. Miles away. I'm desperate to deplete myself. I wonder how far I can go before I can't come back. I return sore and tired, cold and hungry; changed. I want only to be in or on the water. I buy a wetsuit, fins, snorkel, and mask. Then a kayak. Then a sailboard. I want to wear myself out, to be dragged down into sleep I've earned. 2012 Winter doesn't start well. An increased dosage of chemotherapy cripples me with nausea. It feels like someone has pulled my stomach out through my mouth. I'm out of tune, hot and cold, dull and disinterested. I want to die. I fantasize about drowning. I want to drown. But I won't do it. It would hurt people I care about. ≈ Spring limps home. I ought to see summer, perhaps my last. My prognosis, a median life expectancy for my disease, expires in August. It may be my last chance to do something important. I should submit to charitable deeds, but I want an College of the Atlantic Magazine
adventure. I want hardship and perseverance and triumph. I so often see the span of Casco Bay from the hill where I live: a dozen miles of open water. That's the way I want to go: far, far away, over the horizon. It is with this in mind that I conceive my adventure: a journey, by water, from Portland to Bar Harbor. I choose to sail, instead of kayak; it seems wise to harness the wind. I choose to sail my sailboard because it's the only sailboat I have. But it isn't even a boat, really. I make a paddle (my engine), collect safety gear, and stock up on sports drinks and protein bars. Through the height of summer I "train" for my trip. I have the Coast Guard looking for me a couple of times, am almost run over (twice), endure a thunderstorm, lose my sail (temporarily), and almost spend the night on an uninhabited island. Some people are worried about me. What's the worst that could happen? I'll die? August 12, 2012 If I somehow deserve terminal cancer, then this is what it bought me: seven days of exploits I'll remember in my hospice bed. I launch in the pouring rain. The wind is light, but I'm optimistic and excited. I drift with the tide, behind schedule from the very start; I never catch up. There's not enough wind and I'm caught in the currents. There's too much wind and I can't sheet the sail. There are moments
of wonder: settling a tiny unnamed island; bright stars crowding the sky above a dying fire; the electric seams of sunlight on the water. After four days of struggle, my body is broken. My skin is burned, grimy, caked with salt. My fingertips are nearly worn through from gripping the boom. I text Ava: "Meet me in South Bristol." I've covered only a third of the planned route. I crawl into bed around midnight, delirious with fatigue, too tired to regret my failure, knowing I'll try again. September 6, 2012 This time I opt for kayaking. I depart from Pemaquid Harbor, mid-afternoon. Miles ahead, Pemaquid Point appears to spray gaily. But up close, six-foot swells break on the shoals with a terrible power. I keep a wide margin, then turn east to Port Clyde. September 7, 2012 The NOAA weather radio calls for winds and seas to build tomorrow and worsen after that. I'm desperate to reach Stonington. I'll paddle in the dark if need be. But Penobscot Bay is fogged in. Horns at Owl's Head and Rockland are blaring, and VHF channel 16 is chattering non-stop. It's a nervous but uneventful two-hour crossing to the Fox Islands Thorofare, navigating by compass. By the time I emerge on the eastern side, the sun's going down. But the end is dead ahead four miles, Mark Island light and the way to Stonington; the rest of Deer Isle on the left; and the 29