Dum ... da dum dum ...

I have no patience. My wife and mother are rolling their eyes at this admission. The word that surely comes to their minds: Duh! Yet through the years, most folks I work with will tell you I have a ton a patience. They don't know what's boiling just below the surface. ...
I've been on a slow boil all weekend. I had a PET scan Friday. It will reveal whether or not the monster I have in my body is contained in my lung. I find out late tomorrow afternoon. The results will ... well, I'm sure you can figure it out for yourself. ...
The day Lynn and I married, I woke up that morning and puked. Fear underneath the surface. The day my daughter was born, I woke up that morning and puked. Fear underneath the surface. Both events were positive, no reason for apprehension.
The evening before I was to begin my radiation treatment for this monster in my lung, I puked and spit up blood like crazy. The treatments so far have been a breeze.
Pending tomorrow's results, I haven't puked, but I haven't had a great weekend either. Fear of the unknown, I'm sure.
Last night produced little sleep ~ for me or my wife. I had the first night sweats my surgeon told me would eventually catch up with me. I've been coughing my head off (OK, my head hasn't really come off; I figure if it did it would only happen once and then my cough would stop). I used oxygen for the first time in two weeks. And I'm sure I'll have to use it tonight to get to sleep.
My chest feels like the Atlantic Ocean is inside it. As I breathe out, the tide comes in; as I breathe in, the tide rolls out. The wheezing sounds like a winter wind whipping through a hollow (pronounced holler where I come from) lined with trees with bare branches.
Waiting ... waiting ... waiting. I don't do it well. I dread the results, but I need to know. I pray that the news will be good. I'm neither positive nor negative. Numb. I just don't know. I know people of all faiths are praying for me. It is a comfort. Thank you. ...
Don't ask me why, but I have the need to mention this:
I have six grandnieces and no grandnephews. Why?

Waiting on Monday

I filed away a CD in my briefcase this morning. It is from the PET scan I had today. My oncologist will translate the results on Monday, and I should know then whether the cancer is isolated in my right lung or has spread to other organs. It's a good thing I have an iMac instead of a PC with Windows. Otherwise, I'm sure I'd be looking at the scanned images and probably just scaring myself. It seems I often enter the weekend with a cliffhanger that won't get solved until the next week. ...
My alarm clock went off at 5:30 this morning. I had a long drive in unfamiliar territory to get to the imaging center that performed the PET scan. Another IV. Such joy. I was shot up with a glucose-based radiopharmaceutical and sent to a "quite room" for an hour while it traveled through my body. The scan took about 25 minutes. I briefly fell asleep at one point, waking myself with a half snore. ...
My radiation treatment was a snap. Today was the first time I didn't have to pay to park. Daily radiation patients get 45 minutes free parking. I made it out in about 20 minutes today. Hey, I'll take whatever good news I can get. I saved $3! ...
I have a postponed Christmas party with my wife's side of the family tomorrow. It should be fun. We all have agreed that my cancer won't be main topic of conversation. So, what's the benefit in having a disease if you can't be the center of attention?

The learning curve

I've always prided myself in being a quick learner. It bothers me at work when I have to be told how to do something more than once. So, here I am on Day 2 of radiation treatment. I just know I've got this routine down. Into the lobby; swipe my ID card; into dressing Room D (I'm one of those folks who has to sit in the same pew at church, so I'm planning on having my own dressing room, too; I used Room D on Day 1, so I'll stick with it); off with the shirt, on with the gown; into the waiting room; into the treatment room; up on the table and I stretch my hands behind my head to grab, for lack of a technical term, the handle bars; I'm ready. "Take your arms out," the technician says. Huh? Oh, I've grabbed the handles but my elbows are sticking straight up. I relax them. "Take your arms out." OK, I'm confused. "Take your arms out of the gown." Oh. Here I was ready to have my radiation treatment with the gown still covering my chest. Yep, I'm sure the treatment will be much more efficient if I lower the gown. The treatment is over in about 5 minutes. ...
I see the doc for a couple of minutes; routine stuff. Then the dietitian comes in. ...
I'm pretty much eating the right things. I've gained 4 pounds in the past week (hey, they told me to fatten up!). She tells my to go high protein. I'm surprised that red meat is at the bottom of the list. Poultry and fish, beans, nuts, peanut butter (one of my favorites), eggs, cheese. I think I can deal with this diet. I'm told to forget the low-fat ice cream and go with the real stuff ~ Breyers, but only a scoop. Also, a supplement to drink twice daily. A darned expensive supplement I might add. But I'll go with it. ...
I really wanted to go visit my co-workers this afternoon. But I have to get up at 5:30 tomorrow morning to drive 30 miles for a PET scan. I'll catch them another day. I miss them. I miss work. I feel kinda useless right now. Nope. I'm not going to feel that way. My job is to get well. Kill the monster that's interrupted my life! ...
Wish me well on my scan. I should know the results Monday. Then, I'm told, I'll find out what my chemotherapy schedule will be. ...
I should have mentioned in my post yesterday that I called a dear friend and co-worker of mine. He's a blessing and we had a great conversation. I'm sure we'll have many in the coming weeks. ...
The weekend is almost here. We will have a postponed Christmas celebration Saturday with my wife's side of the family. It will be fun to see our grandnieces open their presents.

One down, 39 to go

My 7 a.m. wakeup call was early for someone who is used to working an evening shift. But my body is beginning to adapt to a more "normal" sleep schedule. ...
First thing this morning was a brain scan. It was routine and uneventful expect for the IV. I hate needles! ...
This afternoon, my first radiation treatment went well. In fact, it was over before I really realized it had begun. Quick and painless. There was good news. The radiation will barely touch the edge of my esophagus, so throat soreness should be kept to a minimum and I shouldn't have as much trouble swallowing as a lot of people who go through this treatment. I'm taking this as more than a small victory.
I'm scheduled to have 40 radiation treatments, one a day Monday-Friday. The routine is simple. I swipe my ID card at the front desk then head to the changing room. I trade in my shirt for a smock and then have a seat in the waiting room. From there, it's to the treatment room. As I'm lying there looking up at this machine that's going to zap me with radiation, I keeping thinking what would happen if it fell on me. That would surely kill this monster in my chest. Of course it would probably do me in too. Before I know what's going on, I'm told: "You've just had your first radiation treatment."
Because it's my first session, a nurse asks me a ton of questions. She is concerned about my cough of last night and wants the doctor to prescribe some medicine for me. As it turns out, the doctor doesn't see a need for cough syrup. The nurse is not happy with him. I'll let her know if I have another coughing fit. ...
All in all, not a bad day. Mine was certainly better than the day the coal-mining families in West Virginia had. To be told your loved ones are alive just to be told later they are dead ... well, my heart goes out to them.
I received a couple of cards and e-mails from co-workers. That's always a pick-me-up. I got an invitation for beer and wings. I doubt it's to go to Hooters, though, because the invitation was from a man of the cloth. My daughter called and I spoke with my Mother. I talked to my sister last night. I have a great support system, starting with my wife. ...
I'm hoping tomorrow will be a lazy day. I'm a bit tired tonight. I have radiation tomorrow, and that's all that is on my agenda. You're reading this, so please say a prayer for me.

Let's get the ball rolling

I start radiation treatment tomorrow. It will be the first treatment I've received for cancer. I was hospitalized from Dec. 8 to Dec. 15. I was diagnosed with lung cancer a week ago. But tomorrow will be the first step in killing this monster living in my chest. If I had gone to the ER with a broken leg, which would not have been life threatening, I'm guessing I would have immediately been treated for a broken leg. But I went to the ER with shortness of breath. It took more than three weeks to be diagnosed with cancer. And a week after that, here I am waiting for someone to treat this monster. And I still don't know if this monster is contained in my lung or if it has spread. Sorry, but I can't understand why this is taking so freaking long. ...
Until tonight, I didn't physically feel as if much was wrong with me. I've known for a week I have lung cancer, but I've shown few symptoms. That changed after I ate supper tonight. I had a coughing fit for the first time since I was hospitalized. My coughing caused me to lose my supper and then spit up blood periodically for the rest of the night. ...
Is my mind playing tricks on my body? Yes, I'm nervous about tomorrow. Plus, I went to the law firm today where my wife works and signed my last will and testament. Coincidence? You tell me, if you can. Not too many people are giving me too many answers these days. ...
Tomorrow is a big day. Brain CT scan in the morning, radiation treatment in the p.m. Does it get any better than this?

The journey begins

Today begins a new year. I have no idea if I will be here to welcome in 2007. I have stage 3 lung cancer. I found out Dec. 28. It will be next week before I know if I have what doctors call "curable cancer." I start radiation treatment Wednesday. At that time, I hope to give daily updates of what I'm going through. As for my background, I'm a 49-year-old newspaper copy editor. I quit smoking almost four years ago, but for 30 years I had a pack-a-day cigarette habit. Why do 15-year-olds think they look cool with a smoke hanging from their lips? I have a lovely wife and two adult children. Below, you'll find a brief rundown of the cruel way in which I found out I have cancer. I guess there's no good way to find out, but. ... Starting Wednesday, I don't plan on being as clinical as the posts below. I hope to open up and share my thoughts, for better or worse, as I begin this journey. I am thankful for my family and the many friends I have who are willing to share this journey with me.

Running low on breath

It's late evening Dec. 7, a Wednesday. I walk the 300 or so feet to my car after finishing work. I can barely catch my breath. I wait a few minutes before cranking the engine for my 31-mile journey home. I'd had an off-and-on nagging cough since summer. Just last week I'd been to the doctor. The antibiotics had done little to rid me of this cough. And now this shortness of breath. Time for another trip to the doctor. ... Early afternoon Dec. 8. The nurse practitioner clamps the oxygen meter on my right index finger ~ it registers 64. It should be 100. "You're going to the hospital," she says. Great! Must be pneumonia. My wife and I will have to cancel our trip to Macon this weekend. OK, at least I'll be well before our scheduled trip to Tybee Island to welcome in the New Year. ... Dec. 9. The lung specialist said we had to consider cancer. What? I quit smoking almost four years ago so I wouldn't have to fear that word. Probably just covering all his bases. Over the next few days it's antibiotics, steroid shots to the stomach, blood test after blood test, and then some more blood tests. I undergo a chest X-ray, a CT scan, a bronchoscopy. Finally, a needle-guided CT scan for a biopsy a week after being admitted to the hospital. It's Thursday, Dec. 15. They are letting me go home, which is welcome news. But news of the biopsy will have to wait until Monday.

A wonderful Christmas present

Monday, Dec. 19. During my morning shower I think of all the people who are praying for me. I feel like George Bailey in "It's a Wonderful Life." I cry. I pray. And I pray some more. An afternoon visit to the lung specialist. He's awaiting a fax. In the meantime, I do a six-minute walk to test my oxygen ~ it varies between 90 and 96. Good news. Take a breathing test. Await the fax. Finally the news is in. I have a mass of dead tissue in the upper lobe of my right lung. I'm told it is nonmalignant. That was the answer to my prayer. I'd endure anything, I told myself, as long as it wasn't cancer. I would need surgery, I'm told. The mass must come out, and possibly the upper lobe would have to be removed. But there was no hurry. I was going to be OK. Go home and enjoy the holidays, I'm told. An appointment with a surgeon is scheduled for Dec. 28. I call my Mother with the good news. My children, co-workers, other friends, my relatives ~ all are relieved. It was a wonderful Christmas.

Dammit!!!!

It's 9 a.m. Wednesday, Dec. 28. In the surgeon's exam room I'm wanting to get this show on the road. Let's decide what type surgery I need, do it and let me get on with my life. Back to work, back to normalcy. The surgeon walks in, introduces himself and starts talking about my cancer. CANCER? What do you mean by cancer? Are you talking about my nonmalignant mass? I have cancer? Yes, this is the first time anyone has told me I have cancer. I was told it was a nonmalignant mass. My body felt like it was on fire. My wife was crying. No, dammit, I was told I didn't have cancer. You're telling me I have to tell my Mother, my children, my sister, my friends that I have cancer? After telling them I didn't? Damn you!!!!! Go straight to hell you #@%$er*&%#er!!!! By day's end, I have a second and third opinion. It is cancer. No doubt, I'm told. I also have a team of five doctors and a datebook full of appointments. My oncologist is upbeat. I'm young (49), she says. I'm strong, she says. I look so good on the outside to look so bad on the inside, she says. I'm numb. They can't operate, she says. So, is this going to kill me? "You're not going to die tomorrow," she says. What a comfort (dripping sarcasm on my part). The plan is to kill the monster that is raging in my chest. I tell my oncologist I was told it was a dead mass. "It looks very much alive to me," she says. Please, I pray, let them kill this monster.

Happy New Year

My wife and I were supposed to spend New Year's weekend on Tybee Island, just south of Savannah, Ga. It is our heaven on Earth. It would be our fourth trip there in 2005. Instead, we spent Dec. 31 in front of the TV watching Dick Clark. I'm really glad America's "oldest teenager" is back on the air, but this is not how I wanted to ring in 2006. The first week of January will see me have a brain scan, a PET scan and three radiation treatments. The radiation begins Wednesday. I'm scheduled to have treatment at 3:30 p.m. everyday this month and beyond. The plan is to shrink the monster to improve my breathing so we can attack the monster with chemotherapy without as much fear of me catching pneumonia. Funny, I thought pneumonia is what landed me in the hospital. It will be next Monday before I know what the PET scan reveals. It will show whether or not the cancer has spread outside my lungs. If it is isolated in the lung, I will undergo aggressive chemo. If it has spread ... well, I'm not ready to go down that road just yet.