Getting to Know Me from the Inside Out

I think I’ve figured out what’s wrong with my lungs: they’re turning into a broccoli patch.

Out of curiosity, I wanted to see what my CT scans actually look like. I used the image files from my last PET/CT and found an open-source program called 3D Slicer that can read and visualize medical data. After a full day of tinkering with it, I managed to create the piece of art below—clear evidence of a full-scale broccoli invasion in my chest.

When Sheryl saw the clip, she said, “It’s getting me to know you like never before—connecting with you from the inside out.”

If you’d like a T-shirt featuring one of my scans—or if you have your own CTs you’d like to turn into modern art—let me know. And if you’d like to adopt this idea for a startup—something along the lines of Iris Photography, but with CT scans—go ahead. I’d love to see you pitch it on Dragons’ Den, trying to convince them that broccoli belongs in the chest cavity.

The Good Boy Reward System

Just had a blood test at BCC and didn’t feel a thing! I told the nurse I usually lie down so I don’t pass out, but today I thought I’d be brave and try sitting. Maybe she didn’t want to risk an incident on her shift—down I went anyway. She then expertly threaded the needle right through the purple bruise the PET injection left, like it had a sign saying “insert needle here.”

And this is my reward for being a good boy: a delicious cheese scone from the BCC cafeteria.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Next on the menu:

• November 4: CT scan and oncologist consult (yes, she won’t have the results for another 10 days)
• November 8-13: Callanish cancer retreat
• November 22: MRI scan
• December 14: Hanukkah (donuts!)
• December 24: Christmas Eve (midnight mass!)

…and spiritual, psychological, and psychiatric counselling in between. At this rate, I’m afraid I’ll never be able to complete “My List” on Amazon, Netflix, and YouTube. Those algorithms are going to be so disappointed in me.

A Terrible Junkie

Tomorrow I’m heading to B.C. Cancer for a blood test. Unfortunately, my favorite spot on the left arm is still sporting a blue-purple bruise from the PET injection 10 days ago. I may have to sacrifice the right arm instead.

As Mark Steel put it: “I’d be a terrible junkie.”

Awe Belongs to Us

For a long time, I envied those who believe in a higher power—a deity, or some guiding intelligence—because their faith offers a quiet assurance, however unproven, that the self does not simply vanish with the body, but continues on in some other realm of consciousness. It’s a thought that comforts anyone facing death anxiety: the idea that when the body fades, something essential remains.

Lately, though, I’ve begun to feel more at peace with not knowing. That acceptance fits my scientific worldview. Science recognizes that mysteries remain—that not everything is yet understood. The key word is yet. As a species, we continue to push the boundaries of understanding, both of the universe and of ourselves. I can live with the unknown because I have faith in humankind: faith that, little by little, the sphere of mystery will shrink. Just look at how far we’ve come in the past two thousand years—or even the last hundred—in science, mathematics, engineering, art, literature, music, psychology, philosophy, and the countless other ways humans have explored, created, and understood the world. We did all that ourselves, with our modest brains, building on one another’s discoveries.

Various counsellors, in trying to ease my existential distress, have often asked: “Aren’t you in awe of nature—the majestic mountains, green forests, vast oceans, and wildlife?”
It’s a kind question, meant to help me find meaning and appreciation for every moment of my limited life.

My honest answer is: "No, I’m not in awe of nature." It definitely brings me joy, and I appreciate it deeply. But I’m not awed by the grand material forms that the laws of nature happen to produce. I love all forms of non-human life, many of which likely experience consciousness in ways we can’t imagine—but to me, evolution is a process, not a miracle.

What truly fills me with awe is us: what humans have managed to create and understand in such a brief span of time—a tiny, blink-of-an-eye fraction on the cosmic scale. Our curiosity, ingenuity, and persistence as a species have continually deepened our understanding and improved our existence. We did this ourselves and I see no need to invoke the belief that something "greater than us" is required to explain our incredible human achievements.

I’m content living with the unknown of what comes after death because I have faith that one day—perhaps in a distant future—we’ll know a little more. My position is, therefore, very closely aligned with scientific, secular humanism. I don’t deny the possibility of deities or an afterlife; I simply believe their existence is unknown, and perhaps unknowable.

I believe we are capable of creating meaning and progress through our own intellect, empathy, and ethical judgment. My sense of purpose and hope rests within the human and natural world—built not on faith in higher powers, but on trust in what we already are and what we can still achieve. And that, to me, is good enough.

There’s an African concept called ubuntu—“I am because we are.” It captures something I’ve come to believe deeply: that our strength, knowledge, and meaning don’t arise in isolation, but through one another. The more we understand, help, and inspire each other, the more human we become.

The Week the TV Died

Amid all the talk about PET scans and the eternal public vs. private healthcare debate, I forgot to mention the real tragedy of the week: our TV died.

No warning, no flicker—just eternal black. Sunday morning. Within an hour I was on a mission—researching, comparing, and ordering a replacement. Same size, 65 inches, large enough for aging eyes and small existential crises. It arrived Thursday, and just like that, life had meaning again. A sense of cosmic balance returned.

It’s hard to escape cancer reality when it’s raining outside, the books feel like homework, and an iPad screen feels like watching life through a keyhole.

The TV died—but, thankfully, this particular crisis could be solved with nothing more than a credit card.

Perspective

Tomorrow morning, I have a routine dental cleaning. With chemo and radiation on the horizon, polished teeth rank somewhere between “nice to have” and “utterly irrelevant.” I’m quietly hoping the doctor finds a cavity or two—perhaps a modest root canal—to justify the trip.

Saying Hi to My EA Friends at the UFC Fight Night

Most people go to a UFC fight just to see the action.

Respect to UFC Fight Night Vancouver tonight, but I'm here to say hi to my EA friends—a lot of them are in the background!

PS

Reinier de Ridder vs Brendan Allen main event was a beautiful grappling performance, enhanced by our UFC Gameplay people next to me, who provided live commentary!

My Sweet PET

I had a PET/CT scan early Friday morning. They inject you with a radioactive tracer — and if you happen to be flying afterward, they give you a letter explaining that you’re not smuggling radioactive material like a Russian assassin. The substance is sugary, and since cancer cells are like kids in a candy store, they light up with high metabolic activity. I got the images on a USB, and the radiologist’s report will arrive in a few days.

For now, all I can say is that I look pretty colorful on the inside too!

Mindfully Transcendent

You may wonder why I’m lying down in the photo. This is my homework for the Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction class I started yesterday — a 40-minute body scan meditation. I’m trying to squeeze it in between my 20-minute Transcendental Meditation sessions.

This combination presents an interesting challenge: not mixing the techniques, since they’re basically opposites. TM is passive — letting the mind settle into deep rest. Mindfulness, on the other hand, is active; it cultivates present-moment awareness without judgment.

In theory, I should move smoothly between the two. In practice, I perform a confused hybrid: during TM, I methodically scan my body from toes to head like airport security going through the routine, and during mindfulness, I end up repeating my TM mantra instead of noticing my body, like a traveler quietly checking their phone while walking through the metal detector.

I may have accidentally invented a new form of meditation: Mindfully Transcendent. Its goal is to be both supremely aware and effectively unconscious. It hasn’t brought me enlightenment, but my entire anatomy is uncomfortably self-aware.

Mindfulness's Irony: Why 'Take a Deep Breath' Is Not Comfort

In many meditation practices — including those recommended by BC Cancer — the focus is on the breath. The guidance usually goes something like: “Feel your lungs expand and contract with ease as the warm air enters, moves through, and gently exits your body.”

The problem is, some of us don’t breathe so effortlessly. Sometimes, breathing comes with effort — or with coughing. I don’t expect traditional meditation techniques to change, but perhaps those suggested by cancer care programs could be more mindful of the largest group of cancer patients — those with lung cancer — and consider skipping the breath-focused imagery.

This morning, someone in the People Living with Metastatic Cancer channel posted the attached picture. She’s a lovely person, and I understand the sentiment — the metaphor of breath as life. But maybe it’s worth reminding the broader community that for lung cancer patients, “breathing” can be a loaded word.

I sense a need for a dedicated meditation app in the lung cancer community.

I asked our support group, "Am I being oversensitive?"

Claire wrote:
No you are not being over sensitive - I have felt the same way in guided meditations when they talk about filling your lungs with air... it made me feel uncomfortable. I think having lung cancer is really hard because it's so connected to breathing and we are all so conscious of this on a daily basis in whatever form that might take. I certainly think about it often when I exert myself physically.

PD wrote:

Luc-sometimes i cough when i breathe, sometimes i hear that gawd awful wheeze, on some days i just breathe-but i continue to breathe…I think we can become very sensitive when we fear that our breath is being taken away ❤️

Wendy wrote:

I also feel this @Luc Isaak.  Ever since I can remember, I have always had a fear of not being able to breath, that something would happen to me and that is how I will die.  I feel uncomfortable when breath work, or breathing is referenced, it triggers that fear back to the forefront of my mind, even if just for a second or two I feel it.

Denise R wrote:

I have to say regarding breath work, now that the pleural effusion has subsided I do breath well and enjoy breath work. However, this doesn’t mean I do not empathize with those that do have difficulty. I know there will come a time that it is difficult for me to breathe. Especially with the lack of care at BC Cancer. I’m sorry but i have never really had a cough. Only when the pleural effusion was so bad that when I lay down I would cough.

Denise V wrote:

I actually appreciate the breathing cues.  I find I don’t breathe and feel like I’m holding my breath, esp if I’m in a crowded room (protective of my lungs).    I think, like exercise, we have to find our own rhythm and limits.

Angus wrote:

I used a meditation app (calm) for a long time to relax. But the constant focus on breath with my pleural effusion is too much. It's when I sit up that I have to cough a few times

Big Lungs

After a mere 18 attempts, I finally feel like I’ve triumphantly conquered the marathon distance—if you overlook the minor detail of a slightly inconvenient respiratory problem. Now, it’s clearly time to move on to new challenges: trail running!

Training began today with the epic task of tackling a 400-meter stair path to Sandcut Beach on Vancouver Island (thanks Andrea!). It took me just half an hour to walk down and back, so I’d say the future looks… wildly promising!

Some people are known for their big hearts—for being kind, generous, and compassionate. Me? I’m aiming for “Big Lungs Luc.” Even if those treacherous organs are currently spreading malicious lies and doing their best to assassinate me.

L’Chaim: Marathon Full Circle

The Victoria Marathon holds a special place in my heart. It was my very first marathon back in 2013, and I loved the sense of quiet closure that came with it also being my last.

I completed it today. A wave of fatigue hit me around the halfway mark, and I ended up walking the last 10K. No matter—I simply wanted to finish, and I did, regardless of the time. As recently as yesterday, I wasn't even sure I'd be able to make it to the starting line. Sheryl convinced me to at least begin, reminding me that I enjoy being with "my people"—other obsessive runners—more than I enjoy the painful run itself.

I ended up near the back of the pack, but I truly don’t care. My only goal was to end my marathoning journey where it began, and I’m so happy to have finished under the 6.5-hour cutoff. My time was about 90 minutes slower than last year, but that's perfectly okay.

As it happens, this was my 18th marathon.

In mystical Judaism, numbers and letters are connected through Gematria, where each letter has a numerical value. The number 18 represents "life." It feels perfectly fitting. I’m grateful to have "my people"—both my running family and my EA family. Of course, these are in addition to my real family.

My wife Sheryl took the video below, after waiting patiently for five hours (!) in the rain. That's way longer than any race I was patient enough to watch. She is my biggest fan.

And  just to be clear—I didn’t share this to show off or prove I’m an invincible machine. I’m definitely not a tough guy. My left lung is still collapsed, and my breathing sounds more like an elderly poodle in a stroller on the streets of Vancouver than a marathon runner.

The fact that I managed to run two-thirds of the race, despite being wildly underprepared, is thanks to whatever was left from fifteen years of past training. I walked the last third once I realized I could still beat the cutoff time and just finish.

I’d also like to use this little adventure to raise awareness among “my people” about lung cancer and the importance of early detection. I’m still working out how to do that in a way that feels genuine, not performative.

Meh and Blah

This morning we visited the Sooke Country Market. Farmers’ markets are not my favorite activity, largely because of an article I once read about some unscrupulous vendors who sell produce they buy from grocery chains.

On the way, Sheryl kept repeating: “I know it’s not your thing. It’s not remotely interesting to you.” I assured her that simply going out was fine. When we arrived, Sheryl asked: “Do you want to stay in the car? You may find interesting people to talk to. Maybe you’ll find someone working on an interesting craft, and be curious to watch how they’re doing it. Maybe you’ll find some vegetables you’ve never tried before.” The last suggestion was so unlike the old me that I eagerly got out of the car.

She continued: “You want to belong, but you’re not doing anything about it because you think it’s too much work to get to know anyone.” That’s true-but I doubt that with my gentle hands I’d be accepted into the farmers’ association. I settled for petting every dog in sight.

I assured her that since attending four different forms of psychotherapy in the past few months and transcendental-meditating daily, I’m a transformed person. I’m open and accepting of most experiences I used to avoid-including small-town farmers’ markets, psychotherapy, spiritual counseling, blood tests, and CT scans. I even use three different kinds of creams for the skin-drying side effects of the cancer pill. Yet, I do have red lines: I refuse to go line dancing.

Nothing signifies an attitudinal change toward the entire experience of living with terminal cancer like “Meh” or “Blah,” depending on your upbringing. So, my souvenir purchase from the market was this magnet of a sheep.

Rainforest

A week ago, as a shore excursion on the Alaskan cruise, we walked in a rainforest. Today we biked in one in Sooke Potholes Park, BC. I’d say that our local.rainforest is more authentic - it actually rained here in the morning.

Inside Passage

It seems fitting to finish my reflective cruise from Anchorage to Vancouver by sailing through British Columbia’s Inside Passage at sunset, under an almost full moon. The Passage is a sheltered, sometimes narrow coastal route that winds through islands, fjords, and forested mountains, known for its calm waters and occasional wildlife.

Mountains, ocean, and cedar trees that have stood for ages,
remind me how brief our time is.
The water is calm, and everything feels still.
I hold the moments I can, letting the rest fade quietly.

Falling asleep

Some members of my club—the one no one wants to join—a club for people living with metastatic cancer, choose to end their suffering through Medical Assistance In Dying (MAID). In Canada, it’s legal and carried out in hospitals or certain hospices with an IV injection that eases you into sleep and brings the heart to rest—two of our "members" have taken that path in the past weeks.

Now we’re on Betton Island, near Ketchikan, Alaska, standing in a primordial forest. I think I’d rather lie down on a bed of moss, soft, lush, and green, and slowly compost back into the earth.

Canoe vs Kayak

We’re in a canoe on Mendenhall Lake in Juneau, Alaska. Fourteen of us paddle side by side. When we fall out of rhythm, the boat slows down, but when our strokes align, it glides smoothly across the icy water in quiet harmony.

For most of my life, I’ve been drifting in a kayak, and for the better part of that time, only with Sheryl by my side. Now, I long to belong - to be a part of a tribe, a community, a canoe crew, even if I only paddle slowly, matching only every other stroke.

Train to nowhere

We boarded the White Pass & Yukon Route train from Skagway, Alaska, for a three-hour scenic ride. It climbs from sea level to 2,888 feet before turning back down. Our excursion was a sightseeing journey with no particular destination - just a splendid passage through mountainous terrain.

In much the same way, I don’t believe there is a meaning to life. There is a meaning in life, but not a grand goal. I’m here for the ride, for as long as it lasts, up and down. I only hope it isn’t a short-lived Klondike rush, coming to an end before its time.

Bear vs Deer

 I have never seen a bear in the wild. I have tried in several places where people report frequent encounters: North Vancouver, Whistler, Banff, and Jasper. Now, here I am, standing next to a river abundant with nutritious salmon on a bear search tour in Hoonah, Chichagof Island, Alaska. The island is home to the world’s highest concentration of brown bears, with approximately three bears per square mile. And yet, there is no bear in sight.

It seems no coincidence that a bear has never appeared before me. Clearly, the bear is not my spirit animal. I learned that In indigenous cultures, such as the local Tlingit, the bear symbolizes strength, courage, sovereignty, and leadership, and a deep, primal connection to the earth and personal inner power. The bear is a guide for introspection and finding balance. It embodies the ability to overcome challenges.” It’s as if my guiding spirit is the animal that is the very opposite of the bear.

I did see several local Sitka black-tailed deer. I asked the AI to consider this species as my symbolic “spirit animal,” and it gave an answer that resonates with me:

Like the Sitka deer that startles easily and holds back from risk, its shadow side suggests a tendency to hide my true self behind caution, choosing safety over uncertainty.