Star student

My blood work revealed "rock solid" counts today, according to my oncologist. I'm still not into analyzing all the figures, maybe that will come, but I'll take "rock solid" as a good sign. I do know my cell counts are within the acceptable ranges. A nurse referred to me as "our star student" because I've so far escaped the nausea usually associated with chemotherapy. Medical folk give credit to the anti-nausea medicine and me being "a very strong man." You know, if I didn't have this cancer I think I'd be just fine. ...
I start chemo again Feb. 1. Three more days of five-hour treatments. ...
Once again, I'm tired at the end of the day. I was told early on that if eight hours of sleep wasn't enough, get 10. I think I'll try that tonight.
My daughter visited today. It was one of the best visits we've had in a long time. E-mails, cards and comments on this blog are always appreciated. And please keep those prayers coming, I'm sure they work just as well, or better, than the meds.

Ports

My port procedure went OK today. I hope the next port I deal with is Savannah on the way to my favorite place on the planet ~ Tybee Island. My wife and I had two trips to Tybee planned for 2006: March and September. Still shooting for September, which will be our 20th wedding anniversary. Back to the port in my chest. The last thing I remember in the OR is hearing my anesthesiologist say, "I'm going to give you something that will help you relax." The next thing I remember is being in recovery. I don't remember a thing about the surgery. It was a success and I was released from the hospital around 1 p.m. I have some soreness in my chest (feels like a bruise), but the Percocet has me relaxed. ...
I have blood work at the oncologist tomorrow. Guess they'll try out my new port. The blood work is to be an every-week thing. Back to radiation tomorrow. Apparently the sore throat I've had the past couple of days is because of allergies/sinuses and not the radiation treatment. That is a relief. ...
I understand I have been incredibly fortunate to have gone this long without any adverse reaction to chemotherapy. Not even any nausea ~ yet. I pray others in similar situations will be as fortunate.

Yes, that's me

Port surgery is set for 10 a.m. Tuesday. It's scheduled as a 23-hour surgery, but I'm told that is just a precaution. If all goes well, no collapsed lung, etc., then I should be home sometime Tuesday afternoon. Everyone I know who has had this procedure highly recommends it. It should make chemotherapy treatments and blood tests more tolerable. ...
Radiation continues. I've had eight treatments, which leaves 32 to go. I awoke with a sore throat today. Not sure if it's the radiation or just my allergies. I've been tired and sleepy today. I took two one-hour naps ~ very unlike me. I'm eating well and trying to keep up my strength. ...
I don't like this club, the cancer club, that I've been forced to join. Three of the most feared words are: You have cancer. "I have cancer" now flows easily off my lips. Chemotherapy, radiation, endless tests are now routine. And this has happened in a very short time. At church, someone asked my wife if I was the "man with cancer." Odd to be thought of that way. But, yes, I'm the one. ...
It seems everyday I find a new friend through e-mail, a card or this blog. Please keep sending positive thoughts. ...

Another day

Sunday was a pretty uneventful day. A scratchy throat and drowsy from medication. Otherwise, no noticeable side effects from the chemotherapy. Tomorrow is a day to reschedule appointments and try and find out how long I'll be at the hospital Tuesday for my port procedure. Our transportation problem for Wednesday has been solved. Thanks, Larry. ...
And thanks, everyone, for keeping me in your prayers, you are in mine.

Big hairy deal

To one generation, the world went to hell in 1964. To another, one word: Beatlemania. ...
Looking back, I'm so glad my mother didn't buy me that Beatle wig I wanted. I was 8 years old and probably would have worn it to school. I took enough grief for being the shortest and skinniest guy in class. Imagine if I had shown up with a mop-top wig on my head. But the desire to grow my hair long didn't end with Mother's refusal to let me make a fool out of myself with a wig.
By 1970, my own hair was long. By this time, though, I was following the style of another mop-top ~ "Pistol" Pete Maravich, the LSU basketball player who went on to star in the NBA and be elected to the Basketball Hall of Fame.
My hair topped out, or bottomed out I should say, at shoulder length when I was 18. It was at its shortest (other than at birth) when I was 19 and in U.S. Air Force basic training.
Hair. For so many baby boomers it was a badge of honor. Of course, it went against the wishes of most of our parents. My dad, a World War II veteran, was basically bald. And I gave him grief about it, saying he didn't want me to have long hair because he was jealous. Too bad Dad's not around now. In a couple of weeks I could tell him how jealous I am of what little hair he has. Rest in peace, Dad, I miss you. ...
Yep, chemo is probably going to make my hair fall out. Some folks tell me it may just get thin. Nobody knows for sure. I'm thinking of going ahead and cutting it off before it starts falling out. My way of dictating when it happens, I suppose. Really, I fear taking a shower and having a handful of hair come out during a shampoo. I'm not sure how I'd react to that. Any advice and/or thoughts on this subject are welcome. ...


Hair! (hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair)
Flow it, show it;
Long as God can grow it, my hair! ...

It's been a day since I finished my first three-day round of chemo. Still no nausea. That could mean the anti-nausea medicine is working, or it could mean sickness is just being delayed. I'm hoping the medicine is working. ...
Everyday I'm amazed at the show of support for me. I know your prayers are being well received. I also know there are people keeping up with this blog whom I've never net and probably never will meet. Your thoughts and prayers are as welcome as any. ...
It's been a good day. Shared time in person and on the phone with family members. Received thoughts and prayers from friends. Thank you. Let's do it again tomorrow.

Freaky Friday

Friday the 13th lived up to its reputation.
I had a long day and here at the end of it, an unanswered question: Am I having out-patient surgery Tuesday or will I spend the night in the hospital?
I'm having what's called a port procedure to have a catheter implanted in my chest. Basically, it will make it easier to take chemo and get my blood drawn. Today, I was stuck three different times in three different places (Have I mentioned I hate needles?). With the port, I would have been stuck once. The surgery, I'm told, lasts about 40 minutes and recovery is about an hour. Then it's head for home. But when I went to preadmission testing today, it was discovered my surgeon had scheduled me to be hospitalized for 23-24 hours. No one knew why, and by the time it was discovered, the surgeon's office was closed. A nurse theorized the surgeon may want a long observation time because I've already started chemotherapy. So, I have to contact the surgeon's office Monday and find out what the deal is. Meantime, my wife had scheduled to be off work to take care of me on Tuesday, but not Wednesday. Monday is MLK Day, so it will be hard over the long weekend to get alternative transportation if I have to spend the night in the hospital. It may not seem to be a big deal, but when you add up all the appointments I have to reschedule and how much juggling around her job my wife has to do, it is a pain. In addition, my surgery was changed from 8:30 to 8 a.m., meaning I'll have to try to change my radiation treatment from 8 to 7:30 a.m. I am supposed to have radiation at 3:30 p.m. everyday. Of eight treatments, four have been at 3:30. ...
AAAAUUUUGGHH! ...
I did see Gumby, my radiation contraption, today. Still no visible effects from the treatments. ...
Chemo is a done deal for 21 to 28 days. Had another five-hour session today. It started out strangely: I had gained 4 pounds overnight. No, it wasn't the sugar cookies my co-workers sent me yesterday. Turns out the steroids are causing me to retain water. A diuretic took care of the problem. Made me "pee like a horse," to quote my chemo nurse of the day. Next, an IV was inserted, but didn't work. It was taken out and another inserted. It worked (Have I mentioned I hate needles?). No problems yet with chemo, but all the nurses are predicting a bad weekend for me. Nausea will be the culprit, they say. We'll see. Please pray I don't spend too much time praying at the porcelain altar. ...
I am looking forward to Saturday and Sunday. No needles! (Have I mentioned ...)

Opinions are like ...

The computers weren't talking to each other at radiation today, so Gumby was a no-go. But I did have a session with my radiation oncologist. He said he'd looked at my PET scan and "it looks great."
Doctors. Some see the glass just above empty, some 30 percent full.
Doc 1 on Monday says: "You don't have widespread cancer."
Doc 2 on Thursday says: "You have curable cancer."
Doc 1 says: I have a "better than zero chance" of surviving this monster.
Doc 2 says: There's usually a 25 percent cure rate. He puts my chance at 30 percent.
I feel better after the talk with Doc 2.
The radiation appointment over, it's on to another five-hour date with chemo. ...
There are 26 recliners in this rectangular-shaped room, with the nurses' station in the middle. Some patients have a spouse or adult child or grandchild with them. Others are by themselves. There are flat-screen TVs on the wall, and several of us bring books. Others sleep. Those of us on "long chemo" for the day bring lunch, snacks and drinks. The nurses are tops. Especially when it gets past 4 p.m. ~ close to quittin' time ~ and there's just me and maybe one other patient in the room. My philosophy, though: What happens in chemotherapy, stays in chemotherapy. ...
It feels as if Christmas is still going on around here. I received a package from my copy desk pals ~ BJ, Steve, Cameron, Lisa, Lauren, Ashley, Anisha: Thanks for the Rx sugar cookies (see picture below); other friends have sent the book "Love, Medicine & Miracles" by Dr. Bern S. Siege, cards, letters and e-mails. All are appreciated. ...
Tomorrow: radiation, chemo (where I'll be reading "Love, Medicine & Miracles) and preadmission treatment for my port procedure. First appointment at 9:15 a.m., last at 4:30 p.m. ...
This from a friend:
"The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing (Zephaniah 3:17)."

Chemo, costs and 'Chris'

I started chemo today, but not before a date with my radiation buddy, Gumby, and a visit to my surgeon's office to set up port placement surgery. As for the port, I'm looking at it as if I'm the keg and the port is the tap. The port is placed in my chest to make it easier to draw blood and drip chemo. I understand it will be underneath the skin, so I'll still face a needle, but I'm assured it won't be as bad as an IV. The surgery is scheduled for Tuesday morning. It is outpatient. ...
I knew almost nothing about chemo until I was told I would have to undergo treatment. I knew it was horrible, but I thought the treatments were horrible. No, the treatment (at least what I went through today) was just boring. The only pain I had today was the IV. (Yes, I'm still a whimp when it comes to needles.) The side effects, I'm told, come later, and will not be a piece of cake. My treatment today was five hours long. I took along "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone." I decided it was time to find out what all the fuss was about. I have three chapters left. My nurse for the day, who speaks with a British accent, has read all the books and seen the movies. She is without a doubt a fan. ...
I had quite an eye-opener today. I had three prescriptions filled. These medications are not designed to heal my cancer, but are supposed to ease the nausea associated with chemo. One prescription is for a TOTAL of THREE pills. Cost: $284.28. Another is for six pills. Cost: $213.70. The bargain medicine is 30 pills for $6.10. This stuff better work! Are poor people allowed to get cancer treatment? ...
Radiation and chemo tomorrow. And two of my favorite TV shows: "Everybody Hates Chris" and "My Name is Earl." As someone once said, "Laughter is the best medicine."

Three Old Men and Me

I walked into the dressing room at my radiation treatment center this afternoon and the curtain to Room D was drawn. My routine is interrupted. I've always changed into my gown in Room D. All but one of the changing rooms has clothes hanging from hooks. I take the only available room. I have to share it with a folded up wheelchair with a hand-written cardboard sign taped to it that reads "BRAKES DO NOT WORK." I take off my Tybee Island T-shirt and put on a gown. I walk toward the hallway waiting room where four chairs await. On my other visits, the chairs have been empty. Today, three are occupied with old men who look to be in their 70s. I sit down, making the hallway standing room only. For whatever reason, things are backed up today. Here we sat. Three old men and me. ...
"Three Old Men and Me." Sounds like a country music song waiting to be born. My songwriting, like much in my life, has been put on hold. The only things I write these days are on this blog and $15 checks marked "co-pay" to the doctors. ...
Eventually, I get my radiation treatment. It was about 20 minutes late; long enough to make me have to shell out $3 for parking. I don't know what this contraption that zaps me with radiation is called, but I've decided to name it Gumby. If we're going to be spending time together five days a week for eight weeks, might as well be on a first-name basis. ...
Tomorrow kicks off with radiation at 10 a.m. Then I shuffle over to my surgeon. He is going to put a "port" under the skin in my chest so I don't have to get stuck as often when I have to have blood drawn and when I start chemo. Ah, yes, chemo. That starts shortly after 11. Five hours of bliss, I'm sure. ...
My apologies to Fran Drescher. I just discovered the actress wrote a book titled "Cancer Schmancer." I don't expect her lawyers to be knocking on my door anytime soon, but maybe I need a new name for this blog. Some slogans I've already nixed:
Cancer, the other white meat.
Got cancer?
There's always room for cancer.
Cancer, it gives you wings.
For all you do, this cancer's for you.
Cancer, Australian for beer.
Maybe I'll just go with "Gumby, Dammit!" (Here we go with apologies again, this time to Eddie Murphy and "Saturday Night Live.")
Suggestions? Post them here or send to: b.cancerblog@yahoo.com
And pray. Please pray.

Oddity of odds

I have a "better than zero chance" of beating this monster living in my chest. That's what my oncologist told me today. You probably won't see those odds posted in Vegas. Then, again, if you heard this scouting report from a co-worker of mine, you might bet on me: "This cancer has chosen a formidable foe." Thank you, Shirley.
When I was positively identified with cancer, I asked for two things: That it not have spread beyond my right lung and that I be given a chance to beat it. Both wishes have been granted. Thank you, God. ...
The results of my PET scan show I do not have widespread cancer. It is contained in the right side of my chest. Still, I have stage 3B lung cancer. Here's the plan: Massive doses of kick-ass chemo. We start Wednesday. Three days of five-hour treatments. Take a timeout for 21 to 28 days, then three more days of kick-ass chemo. I continue my radiation treatments while having chemo. The chemo is going to give me fits, I'm warned. Horrible nausea. I won't have any problems while I'm undergoing chemo treatments, but come late Saturday or on Sunday, I'll be feeling more than a bit squeamish. I'm young, I'm strong, that's why the doctors are comfortable giving me these godawful doses of chemo. I won't bore you with the technical stuff; if you're that interested, leave a comment and I'll give all the 411. ...
Back to the odds. I asked the oncologist what I should tell my mother when she asks me if I will survive: "It's in God's hand." (My Mother will like that, because she turned things over to God several days ago.) Do I have a shot at being able to say after five years that I'm a cancer survivor: "Absolutely." She says she's had patients at my stage who can now say they're survivors. I plan on being a survivor in 2010.