One More Time
…and then I’m done with chemotherapy.
Photograph of a White-tailed Tropicbird (Longtail) by me, Greg Frucci, 2024.
Part Three: Transcendence
I learned the hard way several years ago a profound truth: Don’t proclaim what you're going to do. Do it, then talk about it.
Yet, here I am writing about the future. Whatever. For some reason, I feel compelled to write about it. That’s me following my gut as an artist.
Just go forward and see what happens.
Chemo sucks. It literally sucks the life out of you…or at least I let it do that to me during the first round of chemotherapy last fall/winter. My doctor has told me that for my pancreatic cancer, I was given some heavy-duty chemo—poison, as I call it. I mean, that’s what it is. Chemo kills not only cancer cells, but also other cells in the body that don’t need to die, which will cause some nasty side effects. Sounds kinda stupid, but that’s the way it is these days until someone brilliant comes up with something different. What I couldn’t change was what the poison was doing to me. What I could change, however, was how I reacted to it.
Sketch of a sailboat by Greg Frucci, 2025
As I mentioned in earlier writings, I went dark at the beginning of all of this. Shortly after finding out that I have cancer, I wanted to die. I didn’t want to go through what I’ve gone through. I literally wanted to end my life. I even researched moving to a State that allows Physician-Assisted Dying (PAD). My first five months of my Cancer Journey were down this path. I felt like I was walking through hell. I allowed fear to take over. I didn’t like it very much.
I made attempts to climb out of the hell I had placed myself in. Sketching became an outlet, and I credit that time spent creating with not going deeper than I did.
I refuse to judge myself now, and I will immediately shut down anyone who tries to judge my past actions.
I hit the lowest point soon after the almost five-hour surgery to remove most of my pancreas. Yeah, the pain from the tumor was gone since they removed it, but I was emaciated and weak from the months of chemo before the surgery. I went from 160 pounds down to 112 pounds with very little muscle mass compared to my healthy surfer body before cancer.
To a close friend, Amy, I spoke the words shortly after surgery, This is my life now.
She called me out on it. She fearlessly challenged me to realize that I was in choice here. Sure, I could choose to be in that dark place, or I could choose the opposite. It took me several days while still in the hospital recovering from surgery to begin to climb out of the hole I had placed myself in. But I did. I started to make the climb. It took a while.
If you’re having a hard time reading this, please understand that I am having a hard time writing about it. But I feel I must. I know that others are going through the exact same thing, probably even now as I write. So, I will continue…
Photo of an Osprey and a fledgling by Greg Frucci, 2025
A few weeks after the surgery in late February 2025, I was informed that they wanted me to get radiation treatment. I went ballistic. I was pissed. For six weeks, they wanted me to get radiation beams shot into my belly once a day for five days a week. Side effects? Yep. No, not as bad as chemotherapy, but kinda nasty.
Although once I got into a rhythm with the radiation treatments, I began to go with the flow. Almost two months went by after the surgery before I started the radiation therapy. The treatments only lasted about fifteen minutes, and by then I was able to drive. I’d also gained some weight and strength back.
One day, I noticed an Osprey hawk sitting in a nest on top of a light pole in the parking lot of the Cancer Center. Seeing that bird using something unnatural for its natural instincts made me think about and feel my own reality differently. The Osprey didn’t care about how humans feel about seeing any of it. The Osprey had a natural job to do, which was to create a legacy — to continue life as an Osprey. The Osprey used what was presented to it for creation and continued life. So, why couldn’t I do that? I could. I can. I am.
The next time I arrived at the parking lot for radiation treatment, I had my Canon R5 camera with me, along with the 100-500mm zoom lens attached. The photo of the Osprey with its fledgling in a nest of sticks and moss is the Osprey of this story.
From that moment on, I have made it my mission to keep shooting. To keep creating. Sketching while I was walking through hell kept me going in a positive way, yet I didn’t realize it in fullness at the time. I see it now, though.
The Act of Creation…that’s what saved me. And that is what keeps me going now.
My sketching has taken on a new life, and I can see it happening as I draw.
Same thing with photography. My shots were different before the surgery. I have trouble putting my finger on it, but my photography is different now. In a good way, I’ve ascended with both forms of art.
So, here I am now in the present moment. In the final days of the second round of chemotherapy treatments, I am actually excited about the future.
Tomorrow, I will drive to the Cancer Center for the beginning of my final chemo treatment.
The way chemotherapy works in my case is that they pump six bags of poison into me over about five hours, then send me home with a portable pump for about forty-six hours. I have an implant in my upper left chest area. A Chemo Port. That implant is how the poison is delivered into my bloodstream. According to my doctor, this is the only way to deliver the liquid for the type of chemo that I receive. The implant had to be done. Without going into details, I can never paddle in the ocean for surfing with this implant because it could literally flip over, and that would not be good. Lol.
What I'm going to do is complete the chemotherapy next week and, at some point very soon thereafter, have the implant removed so I can surf again. Yep, I am going to risk having to have chemotherapy again just so I can surf. I’m breaking my own rules by making this declaration. What if something happens and I don’t have the implant removed? Like the doctor giving me news that the cancer is still in me and I need more treatments?
Then whatever. I am excited about completing chemotherapy. I am excited about turning in the portable chemo pump on Wednesday. I am excited about ringing the bell as a declaration of completion.
Early on in my chemotherapy last winter, I witnessed someone ring the bell in the Cancer Center. She was so happy. Everyone cheered. I did, but it seemed trivial. I didn’t get it back then. I didn’t understand what I was about to go through. Like I said, I was in a dark place—a place I never wish to go again.
Chemotherapy has a way of compounding upon itself as one progresses in the treatments. Meaning, each week gets more difficult with respect to side effects. Chemo does suck. The next couple of weeks are going to be rough, I know, based on what I’ve experienced thus far. It’s okay. It’s almost over. It will end soon. And the thing that sucks is not life, but just experiencing the thing while it is happening. Life goes on. Chemo doesn’t. I’m cool with that.
Photograph of the Atlantic Ocean by Greg Frucci, 2025 using a long exposure.
