January 20, 2000

Posted January 20, 2000

About Wally

I know a lot of you are concerned about Wally's condition, and I wish I had better news for you. There just isn't much to cheer about around here these days, although a few little silver linings pop up here and there. As some of you know, Wally's a very private person who doesn't want to push too much of his story onto his JoniMitchell.com friends day after day. At the same time, he's always been moved by the love and support he's received while fighting his illness, and asked me to send out this update. Since he hasn't posted an update since November, I guess I have some writing to do.

One little silver lining is the fact that Wally got to visit with Joni before he became too sick, although he had intermittent problems throughout the weekend. (Joni's sensitive, gentle attention to Wally during our visit was a touching thing to behold.) It was only after we got back to San Francisco that we found out what the problem was. One of the many "implants" (small cancer cells in the wall of his pelvis) had suddenly grown quite large, blocking his intestine. He could feel the food moving around inside him, stuck, and as time went on the ever-present nausea worsened. He became completely unable to eat, since there was nowhere for the food to go.

There couldn't have been a worse time for his insurance company to make the whole dilemma more confusing than it already was, but that's what happened. We found out from his oncologist and surgeon (both of whom he liked) that he was no longer able to see them because the insurance company had suddenly cut off coverage for their medical group. Although his primary doctor was still approved, and quickly put a new team together to treat him, having to start with new doctors at that juncture was a traumatic experience. After an unproductive week at the hospital in November, Wally finally left, disgusted, because no course of treatment had been recommended.

Wasting away started to become a real worry. He made an appointment with the new oncologist the following week to see if there were any other treatment options available. The prognosis was grim: Too weak for surgery. Too weak for the toxic effects of chemo. The oncologist recommended against IV feeding because of possible infections at the IV site, and because it would nourish the tumor just as much, likely prolonging the misery. He told us that the end for many colon cancer sufferers comes from malnourishment due to a blockage, and that it's actually one of the easiest ways to go. Not an easy conversation, but the big surprise was the timeline: after Wally walked to the elevator I asked the doctor how much time he had left; he said "probably around three weeks." (That would have had him checking out around December 15.)

Wally was unconvinced about the December 15 deadline, and decided that he wanted to make it to his birthday (February 6). Probably somewhere in between, I thought to myself. Well, he always did have a stubborn streak.

A visit to the new surgeon was only slightly more encouraging. He said there was a small possibility that his colon could be surgically re-routed around the tumor, if Wally could tolerate the procedure. He was offered the option of getting the surgery immediately, or waiting until after the first of the year. He opted for after the first of the year so he could finish getting his affairs together, and because he didn't want to be laid up over the holidays.

As December progressed, he continued to lose weight, continued to weaken. After an uneven Christmas holiday, overwhelming fatigue, nausea and pain became almost unbearable; he felt more and more miserable over the week between Christmas and New Year's. We finally got in touch with his doctor on Friday, and on New Year's Eve I picked up a morphine prescription that made him considerably more comfortable. I have a small mailing list I've been sending to just a few of his closest friends, and on January 1 the update sounded a little more upbeat: Breese (note: I've always called him by his last name, it's a long story) coasted into 2000 feeling pretty good last night. We donned funny hats and had a toast courtesy of Martinelli's, followed by sugary "ritual sips" of Sobe Wisdom, Energy and Power, then turned off the lights in the living room to see the fireworks over SF Bay. Our relaxed celebration was a direct contrast to the preceding week.

He feels pretty low sometimes, but when he bounces back there are still some good times to be had. He's up and about tonight playing with the stereo and the TV, getting himself drinks, fretting over the plants that have always thrived under his green thumb (my thumb is green enough, but somewhat forgetful). We're just sitting around talking about this n' that, like we always do. Works for me.

Evenings like that were, unfortunately, getting to be the exception instead of the rule. A few days later, the surgeon gave an emaciated Wally the bad news: He wasn't strong enough to tolerate the surgery. Given the uncertain outcome and invasiveness of the operation (and the possibility of some gruesome side effects), he'd pretty much decided against it already. It wasn't a big surprise: He was was almost too weak to get to the doctor's office.

The news none of us want to hear is coming soon, I'm very sorry to say. Wally hasn't eaten anything for well over a month, and he's simply running out of steam. Comments from a message sent last week: We're experimenting with the nurse to find painkillers that don't suppress his breathing. I wonder if his congestion has anything to do with dehydration.

Still, even though he's in and out on painkillers, he's often awake and lucid. He's sometimes conversational, even funny. I wish we could talk more, but he's largely lost his voice -- he often just speaks in a whisper. He periodically clears the pressure in his ears by talking (sometimes even when he's drifted off). "Testing," he says. "Testing."

He's now asleep or "out of it" more often than not, and struggling to achieve basic functions a good deal of the time when awake. Another small silver lining: Although he's uncomfortable and very, very weak, he's not in a great deal of pain (the painkillers are also helping to keep his anxiety level down). There are still occasions where he's foggily his usual self, smiling or speaking gently every once in a while -- very endearing, simultaneously heartbreaking. The real Wally is still there. He's still giving me advice on the website which is so much a part of him. He enjoyed Joni's "Both Sides Now" debut on Dawson's Creek, and manages short conversations with visiting friends. He needs help sitting up now, though, and it's starting to get to the point where 24 hour care is necessary because he's developing additional problems as his body gradually shuts down.

We're all doing the best we can out here, taking things day by day. If you'd like to drop him a line, please feel free to do so. I'll read as many of the messages to him as I can. Your kind messages of love and support continue to be an important part of his life.