To characterize this message as inspirational is probably over the top， but grant me this much—it stands in refreshing contrast to the stories of other victims of life-threatening illnesses that are intended to be inspirational but end up sounding superhuman. The protagonists in these tales meet any challenge， climb any mountain and draw their last breath with optimism and grace.
I admire the take-charge attitude and energy of such people， but I have nothing in common with them and they bear little resemblance to anyone I know. Zevon， however， I can relate to.
In February of 2002 I was diagnosed with lymphoma. Since that time I have be come increasingly aware that the world-beater stories are simply part of a larger conspiracy to get everyone in the country to live life to the fullest—travel more， learn to play the tuba， teach our grandchildren about the fall of the Roman Empire， build our own lathes and turn that cherry tree in the front yard into salad bowls for the whole neighborhood.
Each of these ventures is fine when considered by itself (except maybe for the salad-bowl thing)， but I am suspicious of the cultural imperative that whether we are sick or well， more is better. I have no quarrel with those who， faced with a catastrophic health event， want to put more pins in their maps， but there are some of us who simply find renewed meaning in our already existing worlds.
Since my chemotherapy treatment， I have experienced small “Zen” rushes—an arresting sense of tranquility coupled with the heightened awareness that what I am doing at that moment is exactly what I want to be doing—whether I’m sitting in a restaurant with a newspaper， reading a book in bed， cooking a meal or watching a movie with my wife. I had these moments before my diagnosis， but not as often or as easily.
This sense of well-being is a welcome change， but I can’t say that it is due to a major shift in my priorities. The changes here have been small ones. I did not consider myself particularly materialistic before cancer， but I am definitely less so now. I used to be hungry to see live performances—plays， symphonies， singers—but I am more easily satisfied these days， and I don’t feel as much that I am missing something if I don’t go. Family and friends have always been important to me， but cancer has a way of separating those who are closest to you from those who are not.