Let me start by saying that I have no idea of the answer to the question asked. I'm not a scientist, not a researcher, I have only a general lay understanding of what cancer cells are and how they come to be. But, in my exploration of blogs written by others with cancer, (this time from a blog by Teresa, who has oral cancer) I came across a link to a website that presents an animation of the inner life of a cell.
The animation is facinating, accompanied by wonderful piano music, and presents elements of cell life that I've never seen before. The Inner Life of a Cell is worth watching, perhaps over and over.
When I watch, I wonder if seeing the animation can somehow help my cancer cells "learn" how they are supposed to be, if they were healthy, functional cells. As I asked before, I wonder if cancer cells can learn, can change, can be different from their mutated selves. Can they be normal? So, the scientists may say not, but who knows? The more I learn about cancer and cancer treatment, the more I see that it's both a science and an art, and that so much is unknown.
I want to know more about how healthy cells function when I see this, about the elements of a cell. There is information from the producers of the animation, but it focuses more on how they created the animation, rather than the science. You can read what the animators say here. Apparently, the animation was created for Harvard University biology students.
So, I watch this animation and I wonder "Can Cancer Cells Change?" Or, do they just need to die and stop threatening the life of those, like me, that they live in?
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
Who Knew?
Five months ago tomorrow, I was diagnosed with gallbladder cancer, and I was told that typically, folks live two to six months following diagnosis. Who knew that five months later I would be working, feeling good, still recovering from surgery, but showing no signs (to date) of the cancer spreading? Who knew?
At the time, I took on my mortality as fully as we can while alive and feeling essentially healthy. That's why one of the first questions I asked when I began this blog was "If you had just six months or a year to live, would you want to know?" And if you would want to know, how would that knowledge impact your life, day to day?
Taking on my mortality, and what seemed to be impending death, I wondered if I'd be alive to see the "06 midterm election" results, now two weeks away. I wondered where in the house my hospice bed should go. I wondered how I could possibly explain to my children that this illness had come on so unexpectedly, and that I was about to leave them with so little notice, so little time to say good-bye, to hug and kiss and love enough for the future time to be missed. And, more mundanely, I thought about some of my favorite television shows, and wondered how the plot would evolve in the fall, and then in the winter, and spring. Less mundanely, I thought I would not be able to teach again, and I grieved the thought of not teaching the new freshman class I had been prepping for months (and that I took to see the "Body Worlds" exhibit I wrote about a few weeks ago).
I no longer take my life, my continuing life, for granted, and I realize that tomorrow the proverbial bus could strike me, and then I would have died within that six month window. I do not assume that the good news of no evidence of cancer will continue forever, or even as long as I want it to.
And, I am grateful for the experiences these last five months have brought; the opportunities to love deeply; to laugh uproariously; to meditate intentionally and converse with those life threatening cancer cells; to stand with my students and explore new territory, new information, new ideas; to allow others to love me well and to express their care and concern in words and deeds.
I feel sadness with the changing season, watching the dying, browning leaves spreading over the yard, tree branches baring for winter. And I also feel gratitude to be here to see the season change. It was early summer when I was diagnosed five months ago. I have lived a summer and most of a fall since then, and I am grateful. And I wish for many, many more seasons to change during the span of my life.
But, five months ago, who knew?
At the time, I took on my mortality as fully as we can while alive and feeling essentially healthy. That's why one of the first questions I asked when I began this blog was "If you had just six months or a year to live, would you want to know?" And if you would want to know, how would that knowledge impact your life, day to day?
Taking on my mortality, and what seemed to be impending death, I wondered if I'd be alive to see the "06 midterm election" results, now two weeks away. I wondered where in the house my hospice bed should go. I wondered how I could possibly explain to my children that this illness had come on so unexpectedly, and that I was about to leave them with so little notice, so little time to say good-bye, to hug and kiss and love enough for the future time to be missed. And, more mundanely, I thought about some of my favorite television shows, and wondered how the plot would evolve in the fall, and then in the winter, and spring. Less mundanely, I thought I would not be able to teach again, and I grieved the thought of not teaching the new freshman class I had been prepping for months (and that I took to see the "Body Worlds" exhibit I wrote about a few weeks ago).
I no longer take my life, my continuing life, for granted, and I realize that tomorrow the proverbial bus could strike me, and then I would have died within that six month window. I do not assume that the good news of no evidence of cancer will continue forever, or even as long as I want it to.
And, I am grateful for the experiences these last five months have brought; the opportunities to love deeply; to laugh uproariously; to meditate intentionally and converse with those life threatening cancer cells; to stand with my students and explore new territory, new information, new ideas; to allow others to love me well and to express their care and concern in words and deeds.
I feel sadness with the changing season, watching the dying, browning leaves spreading over the yard, tree branches baring for winter. And I also feel gratitude to be here to see the season change. It was early summer when I was diagnosed five months ago. I have lived a summer and most of a fall since then, and I am grateful. And I wish for many, many more seasons to change during the span of my life.
But, five months ago, who knew?
Friday, October 20, 2006
Musings and Body Sensations
It's been a while since I posted on the blog, and I'm acutely aware of that. Some of it is that my real, full-time, paying job has been demanding more attention, and the full-time, non-paying job of cancer has slipped into second place. For now, at least. The other part is that I was out of town last week for a professional conference, in New Orleans, seeing colleagues I generally see only once a year and exploring the city, post-Katrina. The conference was good, New Orleans was both sad and hopeful (bittersweet, like cancer?), and seeing my long-distance friends and eating great food was wonderful.
My body has had a few sensations that have taken my attention. Last week, my abdomen was sore as it hasn't been since the summer. I puzzled and worried about it for a few days, and then remembered that I had carried a kayak for a few hundred yards at the beginning of the week. The soreness went away, and I realized that it was probably more weight than I should have carried, even 4 1/2 months post surgery.
Then there was the firm spot in my abdomen, toward the end of my surgical scar. I felt that almost two weeks ago for the very first time, and puzzled and worried about it, but knew I wouldn't do anything right away, as I was going to the conference. So I prodded and pushed and worried when I remembered it, and a week later, I described it to the nurse case manager from my HMO in a phone call. Since I'm seeing my primary care doctor this coming Monday, I told her that I would have my doctor check it out. Instead, she encouraged me to call my surgeon about it. She sounded worried for me, and I had wanted to talk to the surgeon anyway, so I called and got an appointment the next day.
The surgeon had a great explanation for it. He is 99% sure that it's a knot of thread, used to stitch up the fascia (under the skin). They started at the center point on my incision and stitched toward my side, and when they get to the end, they made a big knot. Although the thread will dissolve eventually, he said it's not unusual to feel it (or to see it during subsequent surgery) within a year of the surgery itself. And, if he's wrong and it's a little spot of cancer growing, it's in the fat tissue and they wouldn't do anything until they have a better sense about what's happening. So, he'll check out my next CT scan to see what it looks like.
We also talked about the possibility of removing my cancerous bile duct (called a Whipple procedure) if I continue to feel good and the cancer hasn't spread and I am one year or so post surgery. I almost hate to admit my hopefulness for this, because the future is as uncertain as ever, and I just keep working to take my life one day at a time. So, I go through my life as well as I can, and try not to project into the future too much. Still, when I got the clean scan in September, Patty said "Let's use this time to talk about a cure, a real cure!" I knew I wanted to talk about the possibility of surgery with the doctor who did the surgery last May.
My next CT is scheduled for Nov. 17, with the new oncologist on the job. I hate changing physicians under any circumstances, and now I have to get used to someone new!
So, that's it. Next week marks 5 months post diagnosis, and I continue to feel good. The quiet around my disease is welcome, yet strange, and feels like part of this shift from acute to chronic. I've had these little worries over the past two weeks, and I'm fine and I'm working and I'm enjoying my family and my life.
My body has had a few sensations that have taken my attention. Last week, my abdomen was sore as it hasn't been since the summer. I puzzled and worried about it for a few days, and then remembered that I had carried a kayak for a few hundred yards at the beginning of the week. The soreness went away, and I realized that it was probably more weight than I should have carried, even 4 1/2 months post surgery.
Then there was the firm spot in my abdomen, toward the end of my surgical scar. I felt that almost two weeks ago for the very first time, and puzzled and worried about it, but knew I wouldn't do anything right away, as I was going to the conference. So I prodded and pushed and worried when I remembered it, and a week later, I described it to the nurse case manager from my HMO in a phone call. Since I'm seeing my primary care doctor this coming Monday, I told her that I would have my doctor check it out. Instead, she encouraged me to call my surgeon about it. She sounded worried for me, and I had wanted to talk to the surgeon anyway, so I called and got an appointment the next day.
The surgeon had a great explanation for it. He is 99% sure that it's a knot of thread, used to stitch up the fascia (under the skin). They started at the center point on my incision and stitched toward my side, and when they get to the end, they made a big knot. Although the thread will dissolve eventually, he said it's not unusual to feel it (or to see it during subsequent surgery) within a year of the surgery itself. And, if he's wrong and it's a little spot of cancer growing, it's in the fat tissue and they wouldn't do anything until they have a better sense about what's happening. So, he'll check out my next CT scan to see what it looks like.
We also talked about the possibility of removing my cancerous bile duct (called a Whipple procedure) if I continue to feel good and the cancer hasn't spread and I am one year or so post surgery. I almost hate to admit my hopefulness for this, because the future is as uncertain as ever, and I just keep working to take my life one day at a time. So, I go through my life as well as I can, and try not to project into the future too much. Still, when I got the clean scan in September, Patty said "Let's use this time to talk about a cure, a real cure!" I knew I wanted to talk about the possibility of surgery with the doctor who did the surgery last May.
My next CT is scheduled for Nov. 17, with the new oncologist on the job. I hate changing physicians under any circumstances, and now I have to get used to someone new!
So, that's it. Next week marks 5 months post diagnosis, and I continue to feel good. The quiet around my disease is welcome, yet strange, and feels like part of this shift from acute to chronic. I've had these little worries over the past two weeks, and I'm fine and I'm working and I'm enjoying my family and my life.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Visualizing the Cancer
In two earlier posts, (Cancer: Call it Enemy or Call it Friend? and Naming the Relationship with Cancer, Pt. II, both from August), I wrote about the difficulty I was having trying to ascertain my relationship to my cancer. The "Cancer: Call it Enemy or Friend?" post drew quite a few impassioned responses. Those responses, my further thinking, conversations with friends, and meditation, have all helped me further clarify my relationship with the cancer.
In August, I was meditating and decided to "talk" to the cancer. At that point I didn't try to visualize it, I just had a conversation. I told the cancer not to rush, that there was no place in my body it needed to move to, and that it didn't need to be moving around. I told it that its presence endangers my life, and it needs to go. This may sound a little "rational," but it worked for me. And, I have to say that when I got my second clean scan, mid-September, I remembered that conversation, and had an odd feeling that somehow the cancer was cooperating, had been "listening." I was also struck that the oncologist said my cancer was "pokey." Just what I had envisioned!
In September while meditating, a visualization about the cancer came to me spontaneously. I imagined a beautiful sunset, full of reds, purples, oranges, pinks; a totally gorgeous sunset. I imaged the cells, arm in arm like Dorothy and the Tin Man, Cowardly Lion, and Scarecrow from "The Wizard of Oz" dancing and skipping and running toward the beautiful sunset. As they skip and dance, I wave good-bye to them, and say "Apoptosis, Guys!" (At some point in my wandering on the web, I learned that it's the word for cell death. Cell death occurs naturally and normally in our bodies as cells die and replace themselves. One problem with cancer cells as I understand it in my non-medical way, is that they reproduce quickly, and perhaps don't die as fast as we would like.)
Now here's another really odd thing. After writing the previous paragraph, I just looked up "apoptosis" in the online dictionary, and there is an online medical dictionary that has this definition: "Programmed cell death as signalled by the nuclei in normally functioning human and animal cells when age or state of cell health and condition dictates. An active process requiring metabolic activity by the dying cell . . . . Cells that die by apoptosis do not usually elicit the inflammatory responses that are associated with necrosis, though the reasons are not clear. Cancerous cells, however, are unable to experience the normal cell transduction or apoptosis-driven natural cell death process." I didn't know that! Here I've been visualizing the cancer cells having a "normal" cell death, when it seems they don't know how! Maybe they can learn!
So, when I meditate, or see the sunset, or think about the cancer cells, I wave to them, see them dancing into this beautiful sunset, and say "Apoptosis, guys, apotosis!" Is it working? I don't know, but I hope so. And, it has the added benefit of giving me a giggle as I imagine the cancer cells dancing and skipping into the sunset. Laughing is definitely good for my soul and my body. Bye, cancer cells!
In August, I was meditating and decided to "talk" to the cancer. At that point I didn't try to visualize it, I just had a conversation. I told the cancer not to rush, that there was no place in my body it needed to move to, and that it didn't need to be moving around. I told it that its presence endangers my life, and it needs to go. This may sound a little "rational," but it worked for me. And, I have to say that when I got my second clean scan, mid-September, I remembered that conversation, and had an odd feeling that somehow the cancer was cooperating, had been "listening." I was also struck that the oncologist said my cancer was "pokey." Just what I had envisioned!
In September while meditating, a visualization about the cancer came to me spontaneously. I imagined a beautiful sunset, full of reds, purples, oranges, pinks; a totally gorgeous sunset. I imaged the cells, arm in arm like Dorothy and the Tin Man, Cowardly Lion, and Scarecrow from "The Wizard of Oz" dancing and skipping and running toward the beautiful sunset. As they skip and dance, I wave good-bye to them, and say "Apoptosis, Guys!" (At some point in my wandering on the web, I learned that it's the word for cell death. Cell death occurs naturally and normally in our bodies as cells die and replace themselves. One problem with cancer cells as I understand it in my non-medical way, is that they reproduce quickly, and perhaps don't die as fast as we would like.)
Now here's another really odd thing. After writing the previous paragraph, I just looked up "apoptosis" in the online dictionary, and there is an online medical dictionary that has this definition: "Programmed cell death as signalled by the nuclei in normally functioning human and animal cells when age or state of cell health and condition dictates. An active process requiring metabolic activity by the dying cell . . . . Cells that die by apoptosis do not usually elicit the inflammatory responses that are associated with necrosis, though the reasons are not clear. Cancerous cells, however, are unable to experience the normal cell transduction or apoptosis-driven natural cell death process." I didn't know that! Here I've been visualizing the cancer cells having a "normal" cell death, when it seems they don't know how! Maybe they can learn!
So, when I meditate, or see the sunset, or think about the cancer cells, I wave to them, see them dancing into this beautiful sunset, and say "Apoptosis, guys, apotosis!" Is it working? I don't know, but I hope so. And, it has the added benefit of giving me a giggle as I imagine the cancer cells dancing and skipping into the sunset. Laughing is definitely good for my soul and my body. Bye, cancer cells!
Thursday, October 05, 2006
What, Me Worry?
What does a person with cancer worry about? Everything! Or, at least it seems that way. I started to call this entry "What do people with cancer worry about?" but I realized I can't speak for everyone. Well, I do know some of the things others with cancer worry about, because I read them online. Reading Leroy's blog, and comments there, reading the discussion boards of others with gallbladder or bile duct cancer (cholangiocarcinoma), I see that lots of folks are worried about their treatment not being effective, or, if in remission, that their cancer will come back. Many of us with cancer, and our friends and family members, are worrying about suffering, and about dying before our time. Those of us not currently having symptoms of our cancer worry about the symptoms returning. We worry about needing treatment.
I am definitely in that group, worrying and then trying not to worry about twinges in my abdomen, a small ache here, soreness there. Last week, I had indigestion for a few days, and it brought me back to the week before I was hospitalized last May. (I want to say now that I think, logically, that my indigestion was caused because I kept forgetting to take the Protonix prescribed by my doctors, the only drug I'm still on post surgery. Protonix is a "proton pump inhibitor" drug that inhibits the production of stomach acid, and keeps indigestion down.)
So, my indigestion story: Last May I was called to jury duty, and finally sat on a jury. At lunch on Monday, they set us loose, and I went down the street and, for lunch, bought a turkey sub which happened to come with tasty raw onions. Later, I had indigestion. Foolishly, on Tuesday I bought the same lunch, forgetting about the indigestion. Two days later, my urine changed color, and three days after that, my skin began to itch. So, my "story" about my blocked bile duct is that the final straw was caused by those raw onions! Obviously, the cancer had been growing for a while, and I don't "blame" those onions for my blocked bile duct, but the association is there for me. Once my bile duct was blocked, nothing tasted or sat quite right, and I had a rough week before going to the doctor's office. Having indigestion for two days last week reminded me of those days and brought up my fear about a repeat of the days before my hospitalization and then my surgery.
I worry about the future. I worry about teaching next fall, about staying well long enough to continue with my life, to see Lucy move into junior high school, and then high school, to see Nathaniel compete in gymnastics for many more years, to grow out the two front teeth he's lost, and develop into a young man.
I worry about getting a bad CT scan and then needing chemo. Then, I worry about the effects of the chemo, and I try not to worry, because I don't want to anticipate how my body will react. I worry about worrying, and then I try not to worry. Some days since my last clean scan, I have thought only occasionally about cancer, about having cancer, and some days I can't seem to think about anything else.
After I wrote the first part of this, I had a conversation with Patty about this Sunday's sermon. (Patty is a minister, so most weeks, she has a sermon to write for Sunday service.) Our conversation reminded me of the Serenity Prayer, one so central to Alcoholics Anonymous, and one which speaks to so many of us. I think it's what I need to remember when I worry.
God,
Grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
The Courage to change the things I can; and
The Wisdom to know the difference.
I can't change what's happened in my body, but I can change how I feel about it. And when I worry, I can recognize that what I worry about is out of my control, and release it. I also want to remind myself that my goal since my diagnosis has been to live in the moment. When I worry, I project into the future and let go of the present moment. Serenity. Leting go of worry about the future. Being in the moment.
I am definitely in that group, worrying and then trying not to worry about twinges in my abdomen, a small ache here, soreness there. Last week, I had indigestion for a few days, and it brought me back to the week before I was hospitalized last May. (I want to say now that I think, logically, that my indigestion was caused because I kept forgetting to take the Protonix prescribed by my doctors, the only drug I'm still on post surgery. Protonix is a "proton pump inhibitor" drug that inhibits the production of stomach acid, and keeps indigestion down.)
So, my indigestion story: Last May I was called to jury duty, and finally sat on a jury. At lunch on Monday, they set us loose, and I went down the street and, for lunch, bought a turkey sub which happened to come with tasty raw onions. Later, I had indigestion. Foolishly, on Tuesday I bought the same lunch, forgetting about the indigestion. Two days later, my urine changed color, and three days after that, my skin began to itch. So, my "story" about my blocked bile duct is that the final straw was caused by those raw onions! Obviously, the cancer had been growing for a while, and I don't "blame" those onions for my blocked bile duct, but the association is there for me. Once my bile duct was blocked, nothing tasted or sat quite right, and I had a rough week before going to the doctor's office. Having indigestion for two days last week reminded me of those days and brought up my fear about a repeat of the days before my hospitalization and then my surgery.
I worry about the future. I worry about teaching next fall, about staying well long enough to continue with my life, to see Lucy move into junior high school, and then high school, to see Nathaniel compete in gymnastics for many more years, to grow out the two front teeth he's lost, and develop into a young man.
I worry about getting a bad CT scan and then needing chemo. Then, I worry about the effects of the chemo, and I try not to worry, because I don't want to anticipate how my body will react. I worry about worrying, and then I try not to worry. Some days since my last clean scan, I have thought only occasionally about cancer, about having cancer, and some days I can't seem to think about anything else.
After I wrote the first part of this, I had a conversation with Patty about this Sunday's sermon. (Patty is a minister, so most weeks, she has a sermon to write for Sunday service.) Our conversation reminded me of the Serenity Prayer, one so central to Alcoholics Anonymous, and one which speaks to so many of us. I think it's what I need to remember when I worry.
God,
Grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
The Courage to change the things I can; and
The Wisdom to know the difference.
I can't change what's happened in my body, but I can change how I feel about it. And when I worry, I can recognize that what I worry about is out of my control, and release it. I also want to remind myself that my goal since my diagnosis has been to live in the moment. When I worry, I project into the future and let go of the present moment. Serenity. Leting go of worry about the future. Being in the moment.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
"Body Worlds" Exhibit viewed by a Person with Cancer
Today I went to see the Body Worlds exhibit (An Anatomical Exhibition of Real Bodies, using a preservation technique called plastination) at the Boston Museum of Science. I took a class of freshmen in a seminar focusing on self and identity, and so I went as a teacher, professor, and also as a learner. When I arrived, I found myself viewing the amazing bodies of the exhibit through the lens of a person with cancer.
Before I say more about that, I want to also say that I felt privileged to see what's inside our bodies in an amazing, graphic, way. I felt initiated into the inside of the human body in a way that has traditionally been available only to medical students, doctors, nurses, and others in the medical profession.
Having said that, I was aware from first stepping into the exhibit that I was looking for information about my own body, not just participating in an abstract exercise. Looking at bones first, I checked out the fibula, to see a representation of my ankle broken last winter, looking for an ankle which carries a metal plate and six screws that poke a little out of the bone, just like mine. They showed metal joint replacements, but no metal plates stabilizing broken bone. In one part of the exhibit, there was a body with nerves exposed, from head to toe, including nerves across the foot that must be the ones that sometimes tingle next to and down from those stabilizing screws.
The internal organs come a little later. I saw lungs and liver, stomach and kidneys, and finally a gallbladder, even one with gallstones. I saw livers with cancer metastisized in multiple spots across the organ, and I saw cross sections of cancerous lungs with tumors, some small, some large. I saw brain tumors and breast tumors. I didn't see a cancerous gallbladder, or a cancerous bile duct, but of course these are both rare cancers. I wanted to see the relationship of all of these internal organs to each other, to see where they fit together, how the gallbladder is tucked up under the liver, how big the liver is in relation to many of the other organs in the area.
There were a lot of smokers' lungs, some with cancerous tumors. Last week in his blog, Leroy talked about not wanting to "police" the behavior of other people, not wanting to be their moral guardian. He doesn't choose to criticize someone who smokes for example (although he does think they should quit!). I have to admit that I was pleased to see many samples of smokers' lungs, for my college students and others who smoke. If none of my students smoke, they would be an unusual class, as in the last few years I have found at least a handful of smokers among the young adults in every class. The lungs of smokers were dark and discolored, and looked very unhealthy and very different from the healthy lungs.
Going to the exhibit, I expected to be informed and educated. I didn't expect to be engulfed by feelings and thoughts and worry about my cancer, my body, my still cancerous bile duct. I wouldn't have missed the exhibit, but I would have enjoyed it more a year ago when I wasn't looking for signs of cancer, signs of internal organs not doing their job because of cancer.
Before I say more about that, I want to also say that I felt privileged to see what's inside our bodies in an amazing, graphic, way. I felt initiated into the inside of the human body in a way that has traditionally been available only to medical students, doctors, nurses, and others in the medical profession.
Having said that, I was aware from first stepping into the exhibit that I was looking for information about my own body, not just participating in an abstract exercise. Looking at bones first, I checked out the fibula, to see a representation of my ankle broken last winter, looking for an ankle which carries a metal plate and six screws that poke a little out of the bone, just like mine. They showed metal joint replacements, but no metal plates stabilizing broken bone. In one part of the exhibit, there was a body with nerves exposed, from head to toe, including nerves across the foot that must be the ones that sometimes tingle next to and down from those stabilizing screws.
The internal organs come a little later. I saw lungs and liver, stomach and kidneys, and finally a gallbladder, even one with gallstones. I saw livers with cancer metastisized in multiple spots across the organ, and I saw cross sections of cancerous lungs with tumors, some small, some large. I saw brain tumors and breast tumors. I didn't see a cancerous gallbladder, or a cancerous bile duct, but of course these are both rare cancers. I wanted to see the relationship of all of these internal organs to each other, to see where they fit together, how the gallbladder is tucked up under the liver, how big the liver is in relation to many of the other organs in the area.
There were a lot of smokers' lungs, some with cancerous tumors. Last week in his blog, Leroy talked about not wanting to "police" the behavior of other people, not wanting to be their moral guardian. He doesn't choose to criticize someone who smokes for example (although he does think they should quit!). I have to admit that I was pleased to see many samples of smokers' lungs, for my college students and others who smoke. If none of my students smoke, they would be an unusual class, as in the last few years I have found at least a handful of smokers among the young adults in every class. The lungs of smokers were dark and discolored, and looked very unhealthy and very different from the healthy lungs.
Going to the exhibit, I expected to be informed and educated. I didn't expect to be engulfed by feelings and thoughts and worry about my cancer, my body, my still cancerous bile duct. I wouldn't have missed the exhibit, but I would have enjoyed it more a year ago when I wasn't looking for signs of cancer, signs of internal organs not doing their job because of cancer.
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