Journal

Journal entry by Erik Olin Wright

I was hesitant to write about this incident because it is so hard to put it into words and it was so powerfully disturbing. I was sleeping yesterday afternoon and had an extremely brief dream snippet, not a full-blown dream with a narrative structure. The whole thing probably lasted a second or less. It was a malevolent scene, not a story: I opened a door to a room that was filled with everyone I love and who loves me -- all my immediate family, grandchildren, extended family, friends, students, colleagues. Everyone. And they were all laughing at me, mocking my efforts to understand my illness in my blog, saying I was ridiculous. There were no words but there was an instantaneous conveyance of meaning. I let out a scream and woke up sobbing, gasping. This, I feel, was the worst nightmare possible -- the very foundation of my life, love, became empty. I have firmer beliefs in the love I experience in the world than in my critique of capitalism. If love is false, there is nothing, nothing. I know what the dream expressed is not true; there is not even a shadow of doubt in my certainty about my feelings. But this flash of self-denunciation 

Later
When I wrote the last partial sentence, I burst out into loud uncontrollable sobbing. It took 15 minutes or so for me to regain control. I then meditated for half an hour, at Marcia's suggestion, and this dissipated the emotional turmoil.
       I want to wrap up this blog with a few reflections.
       I'm not sure what I was going to say after "self-denunciation", and it doesn't matter. This was the first time since the dream -- 24 hours of talking to Marcia and reflecting on it -- that this expression popped up, and it was the word that triggered my emotional melt down. It certainly reflects the way the dream was an attack on my confidence that I was the person I thought I was. 
       How to explain this? Why now? This has been an emotionally draining period and, of course, a few days ago I was physically miserable as well.  Taken together this certainly made me vulnerable. But there are two other things. The pain med I am taking -- dilaudid -- lists as one of its "rare" side effects "abnormal dreams." This may be in play. But there is another, interesting, subconscious force screwing around with my symbolic universe: THE GOOD PLACE.
       Marcia and I have been streaming The Good Place on Netflix. It's quite interesting if you have the patience to watch sufficient episodes to see how they build on each other in interesting, complex, layered ways. Individual episodes can come off mainly as silly. One of the many quirky aspects of the show is that nearly every episode includes a short, often interesting, mini-philosophy lecture on ethics. I especially liked the exposition of the "Trolly Problem" in an episode in season two. The "Good Place" is supposedly "Heaven"; the Bad Place, hell. Dead people go to one or other (mostly). At one point in the series, an official in the Bad Place is trying out a new way to torture people for eternity by designing each person's worst emotional nightmare. We had recently watched an episode in which this task was laid out. Well, if a Demon of the Underworld or Hell wanted to torture me for eternity, making me feel that the dream I had yesterday was Reality would be the way to do it. Perhaps the idea of The Good Place was buzzing around in my head and intersected my vulnerabilities, emotional exhaustion and the interactions of all the drugs I have taken.
                                                                    *
      I always try to see if I've learned anything from terrible experiences. Perhaps this experience is something like the mental experience of a psychotic break -- the paranoid feeling that everything you thought about other people is false, that everyone is out to get you. If this had pushed me over some tipping point where I came to believe that this horrible thought was true, that would make me crazy. The rapid breathing, gasping for air which I experienced in the emotional turmoil of the aftermath of the dream and my writing about the dream may be something like a panic attack. The most important thing, perhaps, is ironic: the horror and falseness of the dream's content revealed to me as nothing else could the centrality of love to meaning, for me anyway. I don't think a year ago I could have written the sentences above, "I have firmer beliefs in the love I experience in the world than in my critique of capitalism. If love is false, there is nothing, nothing." If someone had asked me if I agree with it, perhaps I would have said yes, but I would not have spontaneously said it. 
                                                                    *
One final thing: This is just a description of my experience. It has not shaken my beliefs in the web of love in which I live one bit. It is not a plea for reassurances.

Journal entry by Erik Olin Wright

The past few days have been an intense encounter between “me” and “my body.” I don’t know if this is exactly the same as the well-worn “mind-body” problem. Perhaps it is. But my experience is not exactly about my mind but about something more encompassing: “me”. My thoughts here are not especially coherent; more of a jumble. But I thought I would write them down anyway.
     I was so uncomforatable with my body for the twenty four hours when things were at their worst that it no longer seemed my body — I didn’t fit. It was like when you have a canvass cover for an outdoor grill and no matter what you do you can't get the contrours of the grill and the cover to align. I wasn’t nauseous and I didn’t have a headache, but my spleen pain was pretty acute, I was extremely weak and uncomfortable all over. I don’t know how better to describe it. Then yesterday the doctor convinced me to take dilaudid, a very fast-acting, short-lived IV pain drug. When it is administered to the IV, I instantly feel much better, but it only last an hour, then equally abruptly its gone. The short-acting quality is I supposed disadvantage but it makes me feel in control, and suddenly I felt at home in my body. We were reunited. At home and at ease.
   I will continue this for a few days until my spleen enlargement has decinlined to the point where it not longer hurts. According to the CT-Scan, it is currently about 50% enlarged. The main strategy to reduce it is to get my white cell count down, which is central to fighting the AML anyway. All of this will delay for a week or two the full strategy for dealing with this phase of my illness. Basically we are sort of back where I was in April, except with a new immune system coexisting with my mutant hematopoietic stem cells. The immediate task is to regain whatever control is possible over the Aggressive AML. This is why D. Michaelis is back in action alongside Dr. Hari — the heads of the hemonc BMT teams.

Comments Hide comments

Journal entry by Erik Olin Wright

It has been. Few days since last I wrote, and a couple of people have expressed concerns over my situation. It has been a rough couple of day — details to follow — but nothing of grave concern. If it should come to pass someday that something really serous happens, I’ll get Marcia to write the blog, so don’t worry if I skip a couple of days here and there.

Here’s the story: I stopped taking magical dexamethasone Tuesday morning, but I was still left with enough energy to actuall finish Part I of my Letter to my grandchildren, 45,000 meanderings words through the 1950s. I was planning to write the blog for that day Tuesday night, but at 7pm it was as if someone unplugged me, turned off the master switch. I was totally whacked. I had been sitting with Marcia at the kitchen table and my head suddenly felt it weighed like a watermelon, so I put my head on the table nestled on my crossed arms. No way could I write anything. Went to bed, terribly restless night.

On Wednesday morning I had standard labs and then a clinic visit. My Spleen pain was getting worse, especially when I coughed.When I went in for my clinic appointment the first thing that they do is “vitals”: blood pressure, pulse, oxygenation and temperature. When we got to the temperature part of the agenda it was 101 and change. Twenty minutes later it was 102.9. Dr. Michaels is felt I had to be admitted to the hospital, first to the ER and then eventually when a bed became available, to the hospital proper. We were taken by transporter to a perfectly comfortable ER cubicle, and then to a private ER room, and finally at 10 pm to the hospital proper. There were five hemonc rooms available, one on CFAC and 4 in a regular hospital ward. To my great relief, we got the CFAC room.

Then last night things went from bad to worse. The spleen pain was terrible,the fever remain high (although they let me take Tylenol to knock it down a bit) and I was so weak in bed that couldn’t turn over, sit up or even scooch around in the bed to get comfortable. Extreme temporary weakness is apparently sometimes a symptom of leukemia fevers. At 2:00 a.m. the PA on the floor finally invited me to take a low dose oxycodone. I’m very wary of any narcotics because of their constipating effects, but I gave in to get some rest. By 4:00 I was sleeping fitfully.

Today is better. The spleen pain is still there, but not quite as intense. The fever is down, and mostly the severe weakness us gone. Soon I will be having a CAT-Scan of my spleen to confirm what is going on and then I will be started on some medications to deal directly with that. I’ve also decided to go ahead with some modest narcotics for the pain. The PA convinced me that it will be only for a few days and, she announced, “I’m the poop queen. We’ll come out with guns blazing with things to counter the constipation.” Since this is really only for a few days, I guess I’ll go along with her advice. 

As things look now, I should be in the hospital for another 4-5 days or so. They need to figure out the fever before they resume the chemo to fight the resurgent AML and then be sure everything is stable.

When I woke up I told Marcia about a very strange dream snippet I had: I dreamed that our house was overrun with zucchini’s — piled on shelves and on tables, lining the countertops in the kitchen. Marcia said, astutely, “The mind is a strange thing. I think that the zucchinis were leukemia.”

Journal entry by Erik Olin Wright

2:30 p.m., November 26, Froedtert Hospital.
I’m sitting in a classic chemo chair in a nice, airy, chemo infusion cubicle. It’s quiet, no commotion. I’m waiting for the first infusion of my new treatment plan, decitabine.

2:45 p.m. 
Decitabine is now dripping for the next hour. I’m surrounded by snacks. Marcia went down to the business office to deal with our first insurance glitch since this all began — not bad, one glitch in nearly 8 months!
    The new treatment plan is all  set. Here is the situation: I confirmed with Dr. Hari that all of the action concerns my new T-cells. These are the cells that are vital for the fight against the remaining mutant hematopoietic stems cells that produce my acute myeloid Leukemia. Neutrophils have nothing to do with this.
      So, I need to adjust my metaphors to carry on the drama. No more rugby. T-cells are the warriors in the battle ahead; T-cells definitely do not play rugby. I can’t seem to avoid it, but I think the military metaphor is going to have to drive the narrative. T-cells are special forces, green berets, navy seals, take your pick. They take a lot of recruitment and training. Neutrophils are a dime a dozen. The develop quickly and then are out doing their business and playing rugby, and then within 24 hours they're dead (Dr. Hari said it was 24 hours, not 5). T-cells are more serious. Hard working, hard training, no monkey business. They survive for months in the peripheral blood. Dr. Hari, who has studied T-cell boot camp, says that with freshly transplanted stem cells it takes 1-3 months to get a full up-to-strength set of T-cells. Tomorrow it will be five weeks since my transplant, so the T-cells are definitely still in training, not up to their best. I know they’re working hard, but there is only so much they can do.
     While they are developing we have a more pressing immediate task: My AML is back in force, nasty, agressive, high levels of blasts, already doing some nasty work in my spleen (moderate pain indicates this). So, the first order of business is to Smash the Blasts, and that is what my chemo is designed to do. This week, five days of IV-infusions of decitabine. Hari wanted to add a newly available oral chemo to this, but the insurance rejected it because it hasn’t been approved by the FDA, so that is being appealed. He is certain the appeal will be accepted. Don’t worry, he told me. That will be added by the end of the week or next week. Hopefully these drugs will knock down the blasts in the peripheral blood to a low level. If not, there are other options in the wings. 
    Once the blasts level are down, then the fight really begins. Here the central theme will be that to unleash the new T-cell special forces against the resurgent AML requires reducing the anti-rejection medications so that the new T-cells feel they are in a more alien environment. This will trigger some level of GVHD [Graft versus Host Disease]. This will produce nasty symptoms. The most common are fever, rigors, rashes, and diarrhea. Hari said he looked forward to seeing the symptoms since I needed some level of GVHD in order for the strategy to work. He said that they had good medications to counter these side effects. I asked him whether it mattered which symptoms appeared. He said no, a version of any of the symptoms would be fine. That got me thinking: do I have a preference ranking? I hated the fever spikes and rigors I had earlier in my treatments. And the rashes from GVHD are described as “volcanic” which sounds pretty nasty. Rashes itch. I hate itch. So I picked diarrhea, which at least cleans out your system, and unless severe can be managed pretty well. I asked, "Should I celebrate the diarrhea when it comes?" He laughed. I'll celebrate. 
    If all this gets scrambled and doesn’t work, there are more options.....(Done with infusion. To be continued when I get home).

4:15, back at our cozy apartment, 3 minutes from the hospital. 
Dr. Hari has lots of other options ahead if this doesn't work out successfully. "We have lots of options, lots of clinical trials to tap into." He drew a diagram of options (see below). We hope to be following the most right-hand stream here. When my clinic visit was over, he parted by saying, "I never give up." I replied, "Me too, I never give up."

5:30 p.m.
Two things before signing off for today.
       First, I have been on a mild dose of dexamethasone, a lovely steroid for my spleen pain, since Friday. It has given me terrific energy and focus, and virtually no fatigue. The feeling is amazing -- tasting my future, I hope. But alas, Dr. Hari told me today that I would have to stop it after the morning Dex tomorrow, so by Wednesday it will be pretty much out of my system. "Can't I occasionally use Dex for some respite from exhaustion?" "No," he replied instantly, "never use steroids just to get energy." So I won't. I follow instructions.
       Second, I had a brief conversation with the T-cell special forces recruits in the central bone marrow command center, somewhere in my left pelvis. The scene was a bit tense -- the remnant stem cells from my old system producing AML were also in the pelvis doing their malevolence, so there was often confusion and a bit of chaos. But the T-cells were undaunted, filled with energy and ambitions. I spoke to one.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Don't have a name, Sir. Just call me T-cell 1376528."
"OK T-cell 1376528. What's the situation here? How are things going?"
"Pretty bad at the moment. We can't quite figure out what's going on. There are all these cells in here buzzing around that aren't descendants of our hematopoietic stem cells, but they also don't seem like alien intruders either. They're a bit off -- kind of rude, pushing us around, no discipline, messy. But they also seem sort like one of us so we are hesitant to do anything about them. Still, we're training hard and new recruits are showing up pretty rapidly. We'll be prepared to take on any enemies soon, soon, soon. I'm sure."
"That's good my friend, T-cell 1376528. Those annoying cells are called blasts. You tell your comrades that I have enlisted the help of a fantastic team to try to get rid of most of these annoying cells. We're poisoning them. I hope the poison doesn't affect you, but we have to destroy the blasts so you can train and develop. You're right that they are not your cousins, but don't worry about that. Just keep up the training and grow strong."
"Not to worry. We are all very serious. No rugby."

Journal entry by Erik Olin Wright

I think I got the story of the battle between my new and old immune systems wrong. It is not the neutrophils that charge into this battle. They only know how to attack bacteria, which is why being neutropenic makes one vulnerable to infections. The component of my new immune system that needs to be ramped up to deal with my AML are the T-cells, and they are much slower to develop than the neutrophils. So that's the problem with this early reappearance of my refractory AML: my T-cells are not up to the task yet. That would take something around 100 days post-transplant. I'll confirm this on Monday when I see Dr. Hari and see what the new treatment plan is. 
     I will write a longer blog tomorrow. Right now I want to get back to the letter to my grandkids.

Journal entry by Erik Olin Wright

The labs and clinic appointment today confirmed the unfortunate news of my last report: the blasts increased quite dramatically since Wednesday, from 7% of white cells to 22%. Dr. Hari felt that this was of sufficient concern that he started one of the chemo drugs -- hydroxyurea -- today rather than waiting until next week. This is what I was taking in August and September and again in the run-up to the transplant. It was quite effective in reducing the blasts. Monday we will have the full report of the biopsy and a strategy discussion with Dr. Hari. I anticipate that the priority will be to push back the AML as quickly as possible and then worry more about securing the transplant's health, but we'll see.
     Yesterday, Thanksgiving Day, I was also beginning to have some pain in my spleen, which is also a sign of resurgent AML. I called the clinic and the nurse on call called Dr. Hari who prescribed  a small dose of a steroid, dexamethasone, to reduce inflammation. I will only be on this for a few days, but it gave me a huge burst of energy today. That was a good thing, because this afternoon Jenny, Mark and my super energetic three-and-a-half year-old grandchild Safira came for a wonderful visit in the afternoon. I had enough steroid-supported bounce to spend a good deal of time at the playground near our apartment and then later in the afternoon fiddling a kind of wild deconstruction of a Virginia Reel for Safira. It involved lots of chasing and circle-swinging by the wrists, but hidden in the melee were a few Virginia Reel moves. It was a joy to be with them.  They are gone now and I am not even exhausted. It is too bad even small doses of dex have significant side-effects if used for more than a few days.

Journal entry by Erik Olin Wright

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. I feel I have much to be thankful for in spite of everything: I'm alive; my fantastic donor of stem cells, who is trying to keep me that way; Marcia, who has made this intolerable ordeal tolerable and often a pleasure and is working so hard; the medical team which is doing their damnedest to get me though this disease; and all of you whose expressions of love have deeply bolstered my spirits. And now let me rant: I really HATE acute myeloid Leukemia. It should be illegal. A malevolent disease that continually wrecks havoc. I'm fed up with being exhausted and lately a bit queasy all the time. I love being alive and desperately want to stay this way for a couple of decades. It would be so stupid to die now; to imagine not being part of the lives of my wonderful grand children makes me unbearably sad. As Marcia has put it, this reality is so unreal. Enough ranting. As my extraordinary grandmother, Sonia Posner, would say, "it doesn't pay." [She made this comment when she was about 80 and totally blind and was talking about why she would never consider suicide.] I am alive now, damn it!

medical update
Yesterday I went for another bone marrow biopsy, only this time the provider said that she used an electric drill to get into the marrow rather than the hand-auger that had been used in my previous six biopsies. She said she preferred it because it was much quicker. I had perfected my meditation routine around the hand auger, so initially I felt some anxiety about the change. An electric drill sounded pretty grim. So, I focused my meditation, told my pain receptors to remain relaxed as Janet had instructed me, and away we went. It was indeed quick -- I think only about a minute. And it wasn't painful -- my pain receptors followed my instructions. My usual visualization of walking through a jungle between high hedges, however, got a bit scrambled because the PA doing the biopsy said "we're done" while I was still in the middle of the path. When she said "we're done" the hedges just sort of melted away.

The next phase of treatment will be clarified by the biopsy. I'll have the results on Monday. What is already clear is that the AML is energetically back. In the latest lab numbers, from yesterday, the blasts hadn't changed (actually dropped from 8% to 7%) but my platelets had dropped quite a bit, which is another AML symptom, and my hemoglobin had dropped a bit. Once again, I experience this in terms of a military metaphor: my new stem cells were still in training when the enemy attacked. Another month or so they would have been ready, but now they have to fight without fully being prepared for the battle. The bone marrow transplant team will do their best to bolster the strength of the donor stem cells and weaken the AML, but it is a daunting task.

Journal entry by Erik Olin Wright

I had a blood draw and clinic visit with the head of the transplant team today. The news was mostly "bad news" -- let's reframe that as "unfortunate news" or "not what we hoped for." The blasts that made their appearance in last Wednesday's lab results increased from 2% of my white cells to 8%. This means that they are leukemia cells. It is not unexpected that eventually the AML would manifest itself, but the hope was that this would be after my new immune system was fully established -- more like 100 days post transplant rather than 23. Dr. Hari said that there were things that they can do and that I still have "some chance" that everything would work out. "Some chance", taken literally, means a chance above zero, but I didn't ask him for clarification. The strategy will be to first, do a bone marrow biopsy on Wednesday to get a more fine-grained picture of what the AML is up to in my bone marrow, and then next week, stop the anti-rejection medications (I think he said "stop" rather than "reduce") so that my new immune system will feel freer to attack my old immune system. This will be combined with some new chemo which they hope will affect the AML stem cells and blasts more rapidly than my healthy new immune system. As you can see, this is complicated involving quite delicate calibrations of contradictory imperatives -- this is all very dialectical -- and there are no certainties at all as to how well this will work.
    I remain hopeful, to be sure, but it is hard to sustain a robust sense of optimism in light of these developments. This is kind of like my real utopias vision of overcoming capitalism: the idea of real utopias is meant to kindle hope, a belief that there is some chance this can happen, but it doesn't make the optimistic prediction that in fact the strategy will succeed. Hope and optimism are close cousins, but not the same. I do remain hopeful; there is a real chance (I like real over some) things will work out. That's the way things are. It is what it is.

Journal entry by Erik Olin Wright

For whatever reason, in this period of physical vulnerability and 16-18 hours of sleep a day, my mind seems to be playfully story-making. Last night I had another dream in which I wrote the framework for a story. This one, I think, would make a terrific movie. I think the seed for it was hearing the name Alan Arkin in connection with a radio discussion of his Netflix series, "The Kaminsky Method". Arkin wrote a fantastic book called The Clearing about a lemming named Bubber in search of spiritual enlightenment. I totally recommend this to everyone even though it is billed -- incorrectly in my view -- as a children's book. Kids will enjoy it, but it is definitely just as much a book for adults, at least adults like me.
       Here's the set-up of the story, written in my dream:

A large group of forest animals is gathered in a clearing in the forest. They all speak perfect English and every one of them has memorized every line of every Shakespeare play. They would like to do a production on Broadway. "It would be a smash hit at least as a novelty," says a bear who likes to play hamlet. He can do it a la Richard Burton or any other famous actor. "The problem," an owl says, "is that we need a human intermediary to arrange this." The owl flies off to find one and comes into my study where I am writing a story about animals gathered in a forest clearing who all have memorized the entire set of Shakespeare plays. It seems that when I write a story it actually becomes true, except that once the characters exist in the world and not just on paper they have a will of their own and are perfectly capable of doing things I hadn't written about. (Big theological implications here: God the creator but not controller....). I had not written anything about the owl going in search of a human producer. I then go to see my daughter Becky and her husband Adriano for advice on what to do, since they are both theater artists. Adriano makes some calls and then the three of us rent a big truck and head off to New York with the animals in the back. That's where the story writing breaks off.
_____________________________________________________

No real medical update today. My next outpatient clinic appointment is Monday when I will have more information. Mostly I am very tired and sleeping much of the day. I rouse myself to take medicines, eat, and see visitors -- which I especially enjoy. But then I crash and sleep.

Journal entry by Erik Olin Wright

Four happenings of the day.

1. Visit by Barry Edlin, Pete Ramand and Kris Arsaelsson
I had a wonderful visit from two of my current students, Pete and Kris, and Barry, now an assistant professor at McGill and a few years ago a post-doc in economic sociology at Wisconsin. Barry brought me a copy of his fantastic just published book, Labour and the Class Idea in the United States and Canada (Cambridge University Press, 2018). I recommend it to anyone interested in understanding the interplay between political institutions and the labor movement.
      Their visit was wonderful. We had a free-wheeling discussion of theoretical and empirical issues in a paper I plan to write with Kris on the idea of direct citizen voting representation (the idea I discussed in the op-ed I wrote in October where there are multiple elected representatives from each district and, when voting in the legislature, each casts the number of votes they received in the election), and the themes of the seminar I hope to give in the spring (on the problem of emancipatory transformation: how to get from here to there). It was exciting for me to find the energy to be fully engaged in the discussion. This very much reinforced my feeling that if I am able, giving a seminar that would meet in my house would be a good idea for me, not just for students.


2. Marcia makes me a workstation
Our little cozy apartment is pleasant, but there was no place for me to set up a proper workstation, so I had been using the kitchen table. So, Marcia went to Ikea, 20 minutes away, to find a small table. She returned and started to assemble the thing. It required a Philipps screwdriver to attach the brackets into which the legs would be screwed on the underside of the table. There was a Philipps in a drawer, but it was too small, so off to the hardware store went Marcia. The drill holes were a bit small, but with mighty effort by Marcia, two brackets were duly installed. Then Marcia discovered that she only had three brackets for four table legs. We looked everywhere, but the fourth bracket was nowhere to be found, so Marcia drove back to Ikea even though it was 7pm, got the missing bracket, came back and finished the job. Heroic effort. So now I have a nice place to work. (see photo below).

3. Taste buds are coming back
It seems that my taste buds have decided to make life better for me. Today I had Marcia's wonderful scrambled eggs for breakfast, a ham sandwich for lunch, and a hot dog with sour kraut and baked beans for dinner. All were palatable. On the advice of one of the doctors, I brushed my tongue before meals, and maybe that helped, but in any case I no longer have to get my calories only from protein-fortified drinks! 

4. Walk in the neighborhood
Dr. Hari nixed the idea of my going to the gym any time soon. He said that I would have about a 30% chance of getting the flu if I went and if I got the flu, a 10% chance of dying. So that's out. So we tried a walk. The neighborhood is pleasant, with an elementary school nearby with a fantastic playground if my grandkids or grandnieces come to visit and even a set of adult outdoor elliptical trainer and rowing machines, which if it warms up a bit and I have more energy, I think I can use. (see photos below).

_______________________________________

Further thoughts on my 2% blasts
I try not to dwell on adverse numbers, but in this case this has been hard to do. The possible -- probable really -- reappearance of leukemia this soon after the transplant is scary to me. For so long I have focused on the transplant as the Big Goal, feeling somehow that once this was accomplished things would become straightforward. I knew this was not the case, but that is not how I felt. The thought that we already have to start battling the AML directly is discouraging and, as I said, scary. I will, of course, take things "one day at a time" (the oft-repeated cliché in cancerworld), and mostly that works. But not always.
     One thing I will do is shift my attention a bit from my blog to my letter to my grandchildren, which I have neglected a bit in recent weeks. This was mostly because of exhaustion -- the blog takes less energy somehow to write -- but now that once again I feel the uncertainties about my future, it is  time to make more progress on the letter.

Comments Hide comments

Journal entry by Erik Olin Wright

I decided to open this CaringBridge website to make it easier for people to get updates on my health status, but I still very much enjoy personal emails and letters rather than having all communications take the form of journal postings + comment threads. So don't hesitate to write to me directly at eowright@wisc.edu.  

Comments Hide comments

Erik’s Story

Site created on April 19, 2018

Erik is in treatment for acute myeloid leukemia. He is keeping this journal to share his musings on this experience as well as to update people on his condition.

SVG_Icons_Back_To_Top
Top