John Caldwell Fountain II: December 22, 1982, December 6, 2015

It’s the tenth anniversary of John’s death. While looking for something about my great-grandfather John Caldwell a little while ago, I came across this article that my friend Bob Horton had written for Greenwich Time back in 2015. I’d never seen it — I don’t know why — but Bob did a real mitzvah here, and so blessings on him. And on John.

Nonesuch river, pine point me

Bob Horton: A young voice, wise beyond its years, gone too soon

This week I am turning my column over to a voice that should be heard, especially at this time of year when we all try to gain some perspective on what is important in life, and what is just noise.

The voice belongs to John Fountain, a young man who grew up in Riverside, the brother of Kat and Sarah, and the son of Nancy and Chris Fountain. About two years ago, at age 30, John received a diagnosis of colon cancer. The news startled all who knew him.

John wrote to his friends and supporters periodically until his death earlier this month. His family collected his work under the title, “The Grand Adventure,” with the subtitle, “or, the collected wit & wisdom of John C. Fountain the second.”

He wrote this first:

“Dear friends! For your consideration, I present to you some s----y news.

Bored with the high-octane lifestyle of the Rockies, I came home and got the cancer. And boy did I get it good! Stage IV, present and hiding in various lymph nodes and organs for years. All very doom and gloom, if you’re into that sort of thing.

Fortunately, dear reader, this author has never had use for statistics or odds, for doom nor gloom nor nefarious stowaways. I’m also about as stubborn as a tree stump (I ain’t leaving till I see some flying cars), and aside from it being a real pain in my side, I feel great. My thoughts are remarkably lucid and I’m always inspired by a good challenge.

This will indeed be a long and crappy road. However, I am surrounded by good friends and a strong family. I’m a sturdy dude and I’m not afraid. I can motor through this. And if it kills me, screw it. I love dark comedy.

DO please send me your knowledge. I’ve never embarked upon an adventure of this kind. I would like a crash course from those who know. I’m making a real go at raw/vegan (I’m starving) and learning about some interesting alternate treatments (gonna pass on the coffee enemas).

DO NOT lambaste this page with sappy emotional quotes under pictures of sunsets and birds. I will perish to spite you.

Telluride, I am real sorry to not be coming back this summer. I’ll be on my feet soon enough and have every intention of seeing you again. Until then, please kill my fridge with fire.

Thanks to everyone who has already changed their lives to accommodate mine. I am already eternally grateful.”

And he published this update a year ago:

“Ohh my friends. In the immortal words of Steve McQueen, ‘Hey you bastards, I’m still here.’

What are we on, installment 8? It’s been a while. The thickening haze of ‘chemo fog’ has begun to impede my literary habits. Also, I was a bit frisky in my physical escapades and somehow pulled a muscle. Did you know the walls of your intestines are muscles? Mmmmboy was that a long and sleepless couple of weeks.

I have thus far made it through eight bouts of treatment. Let me tell you: good times. I have shown what the doctors call ‘mixed results.’ Some tumors have grown larger, some have disappeared. They say I’m showing ‘high tolerance’ of the treatment, which means that despite perpetual heartburn, the bleeding gums, the night sweats and the barfs, chemo isn’t killing me outright. So that’s nice. I’ll finish up these last four treatments and see where I’m at come February. If the doctors had their druthers, I would take a few weeks rest and then start this bologna all over again, so on and so forth until I inevitably perish. I guess that’s one way to go about it.

I’m not really sold on that approach. The chemo doesn’t seem to have an impressive effect on the cancer. It continuously degrades my body’s immune system. It costs tens of thousands of dollars. It feels like hell. Is that really how I want to live the rest of my life, to be saturating my body with toxic chemicals, playing medical whack-a-mole with the symptoms and chasing a mountain of side effects with still more pills?

Obviously, I’m not a doctor. This is my first time having cancer, so I may well indeed be full of bad ideas. But poison doesn’t feel like medicine. And it certainly fails to address the source of my cancer. The doctors know it won’t cure me. They sadly shake their heads and say, ‘it’s the best we can do.’

Well I ain’t buying it. I don’t think flooding my veins with toxins is what my body wants. I feel this disease stems more from an imbalance between the mind, body and spirit. (Sorry if that sounds too new age for you. Go get some cancer and we’ll talk.) Strange as this may sound, it doesn’t feel like an evil entity. It doesn’t seem some invading army hell-bent on my demise. This cancer is a growth of my own body, spurred on by an internal upheaval of my own design. The common and constant vernacular of violence (‘Kick its ass! Smash it!’) is so pervasive, but doesn’t seem to serve anyone well. I get the idea of the fighting spirit, but should I wish this violence upon my own body? Is that worth the constant angst that riles in my mind? Why focus on illness instead of health?

Following that line of thought, maybe the ‘point’ of this whole ordeal isn’t to survive. That’s not a surrender, that’s not giving up. However, an important part of facing this situation is accepting that death may be the end result. It may be completely out of my control, and that’s okay. Right now my focus is on enjoying every moment I have with you fools. It brings me such sincere joy to be out on the streets of Portland, Maine and in the company of such incredible people. The live music in this town might cure me alone. To all fantastic folks out west, I’ll see you soon. I want as much good to come from this ridiculous situation as possible. To impart even a fraction of the magic that I feel for being alive right now would be enough.

This existence is a whirlwind carnival, but the obvious and important fact is that we’re all in it together. We are all on this grassy little marble hurtling through the depths of space in spite of all odds against us. We live these quick, high-wheeling lives bound up inside the balloons of our bodies, flown from an unseen string the other end of which may or may not be held by a magnanimous all-knowing eternal soul. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. But if I was, my order would be to take care of one another. And to travel.

Speaking of which, I’ll probably be making some impulsive decisions come February. Some of you will freak out. Just be cool.

We cool? Cool.”

And I’ll give the last word to John’s sister Sarah:

“Though the docs can no longer offer help, John believes strongly in the unity of mind, body, and spirit. His treatment plan now is to live simply, composing what he can in writing, so if it is his last day, he can leave something behind … something that says, ‘John was here.’”