Real Bad Chemo Day

I once knew an old man
and when he reached that point
they chucked him into a nursing home
and sorted through his things
to take and sell and otherwise throw away.
Thereafter, I visited him once a week.
He was a spiritual man
a Baptist longer than I'd then been alive.
He tried telling me
he was ready for the golden ladder,
to cross the river, and the great reunion
and how he could do nothing
now that everything was gone.
He looked forward to being done.
Of course, the young pastor gave rebuttal
along the lines of how sometimes it isn't what you do
as much as it's who you are.
This was the best I could come up with.
One time I even said how he might outlive us all.
God forbid, he replied.
He was patient though, nodded sagely and encouragingly
waiting towards my inability to then understand.

Another Immortal Cancer Poem

Another Immortal Cancer Poem

I forget the exact day
but let's say it's been about a year
and me with an expiration date
of a fairly-well written situation-comedy.
I'd like to say it's been a precious year
and I did have three months of remission
until it hit the bones.
But there was some chemo in there
and some fatigue
and all the usual crap that goes with.
So precious isn't the word.
What then?
There is no word.
It's stupid to try to think of one.
So what am I doing this year?
Waiting for the medical marijuana?
Somehow they'll take all the fun out of that too.
I just know it.
I could put on my Eeyore
and complain about everything else…
too easy.
At this point griping is like deciding to cheat on your taxes
or asking doc for more pain pills
when the bottle isn't empty yet
or taking a little break with the treatments
when nobody is looking.
It feels good when it's happening
and then there's fright when it's done.
There are other options ahead.
Consider… this poem could go on a while
or I might wrap it up right quick.
Who knows?
That's the thing.
Who knows?

In the middle of chemo

Fight

and retreat.

There's nothing wrong with this strategy.

Capital city is miles away

and only if it ever comes to that

then be done retreating.

Begrudge it

the border counties,

the approaches,

rivers,

plateaus,

the faculties of what it takes.

Absorb this.

Give ground

as necessary.

Oh

I'm not saying give up.

But take a moment.

Realize the vast nation of who you are.

The reserves,

the untouched and untouchable places,

the industry,

the glorious shrines,

and all the landscapes

that even before the invasion

few bothered to see.

But you know them

and love them

and they are still there.

That's what you fight with

and preserve.

Some will be ruined

and really,

the entire place has already changed.

Yes, there is much to consider.

But right now, get through.

Later, reclaim.

Just don't worry about all that yet.

For now, hang on.

Fight

and retreat.

It's Not The Water

I thought I would do something today to feel a little alive

like maybe eat some popcorn or have a slushy;

roll the window down and turn the music up.

But those are little tricks

and they don’t work all the time.

I suppose they’re decent reminders though,

better than nothing.

The ironic thing, well, one of the ironic things

is that the medicine that’s supposedly killing the cancer,

or that I hope is killing the cancer,

is killing everything

and I am fully aware of this.

It’s like losing my hair;

not that I mind being bald

because it’s summer and I look like that dude on Breaking Bad.

But it’s too obvious to not notice…

that sort of thing.

It’s like how something once pleasant

like smelling a nice cup of coffee

makes me want to lose my breakfast

before I’ve even had breakfast

and that’s how the day’s going to go

and I know it before I even get out of bed.

I’m supposed to choke down these four pills in the morning

and then four identical pills in the evening, with food,

and of course the pills don’t have a taste…

you swallow them

with water

and that shouldn’t be so bad.

But the water tastes terrible.

Cancer Update #8 - It's Back

I finally know what I want to be when I grow up:  cancer free.  A few weeks ago I was told the cancer has moved to my bones and so that's that... hence a lack of April updates.  I can say these treatments are much more difficult than the first round from last year.  More later... but consider this little post a small attempt at me getting back in the saddle.

Cancer Update #7 - All's Well, For Now

Here’s the dealio… doc tells me my blood-work and body scans show no current signs of cancer.  Keyword:  current.  I go back in April for a rinse and repeat of the tests.

Now – this is good news – great news in fact.  But keep in mind, we’re talking five-freakin’-year bellcurves!  I mean, I’ll take my three months and be totally, completely, and ever irreversibly thankful.  But there’s April and the expectation that the other shoe could drop.  Then again, one of the great lessons here is that one never knows when the first shoe will drop.

In the meantime, the news continues to sink in.  The day the doc told me this good news, I felt like I was standing in the middle of a smoldering crater with a sense of now what?  There is a savor, I think, of PTSD (maybe, kinda-sorta?).  Having never been in combat I use the term in a highly unprofessional and completely non-clinical manner.  Apologies to those who have that real deal.  Then again, I’ve been in a number of tight spots and so my stress-memory isn’t as flabby as my midsection.  Bottom line here: sorting things will take a while.

Anyways – unless something happens, no more cancer updates for a while.

Cancer Update #6 - Nothing Too Clever

Treatment number 12 has been accomplished.  I stand at the finish line for round one with something like I'm not quite sure.  Accomplishment sounds goofy to describe this.  Pride doesn't fit anywhere.  Happiness?  Maybe, depending on what the doctor tells me in two Mondays.  Uncertainty is closer to the mark.  Surprise?  Yes, that sense of awe and incredulity remains.  Thankful isn't bad, but it doesn't cover everything.  I suppose the important fact is I'm still standing.

Just a few points to ponder:

Chemotherapy does not contain radiation.  Chemotherapy contains all kinds of nasty things for the human body, but radioactivity isn't one of them.  Besides, we obtain our daily recommended allowance of radiation from the reactors at Fukushima.  Remember that little deal?  They still haven't cleaned the area, but not to worry.  Hey, who are we to doubt what a government tells its people?  It's not like the earth has a wound with deadly isotopes leeching into the Pacific Ocean every day for the last two years or so.  If the Japanese government says there's nothing to worry about, that's good enough for me.

Number 12 was a particularly nasty energy zapper.  The run, run, run, run, of the holidays didn't help and I'm looking forward to dragging Mr. Tree to the secret Christmas Tree gave-yard where he can quietly turn rust-red and return to the soil.  We purchased a mean tree this year, one with a bad twist at the base.  Yet, would anyone listen to dumb old dad and not buy that one?  Of course not.  But who do they call when he falls over?  Sure, I can stop what I'm doing, refrain from saying, "I told you so," and go fix the problem.

I've been particularly blessed and otherwise healthy during the last six months.  And now, BOOM - head-cold city.  I woke this morning snarling like Gollum, hacking globules of putrid and maleficent yellowness.  My sinuses are blocked like the healthcare website.  I also forgot just how gooood a swig of Nyquil can be.  Yummy stuff that; spoken in that abject manner as only an old problem drinker can.

Staggering numbers of people have cancer.  Two out of five Americans will have some type of cancer in their lifetimes.  The Cancer Center is always full.  Six months ago, I never appreciated what this meant.

Finally for now, there's a group of ladies at the Cancer Center whose job it is to prep people for all types of unpleasantness.  Basically, they pierce the flesh over the port, draw blood, attach tubes, enter data, and when it's all over, they remove the tape and extract the needles.  I say ladies because that's who works in this section of the Center where I go.  Yes, I'm aware mileage may vary and if you think I'm a sexist pig-dog, that's your problem and not mine.  Anyway - these ladies have one of the more thankless jobs of the process.  Day after day they work with an unending stream of people who aren't at all happy to see them.  If you're the praying kind, send up a few words for them.  They're patient, professional, and they usually smile.  I can't imagine doing what they do.

Another Humorous Essay?

Another semester is rapidly closing.  With it, another humorous essay I write with one of my classes.  It's below, in all of it's wonderful prosiacness.  For regular readers, some of this will look familiar.  It's spliced together with bits & pieces of previous 'Cancer Updates'.  BTW - treatment #11 is done.  I have one more to go and then the bit wait & see.  Anyway, enjoy, or not.  Remember boys & girls, there's funny 'ha-ha' and there's funny, 'hmmmm....'

***

Colon Cancer: It's Not That Bad

Every other Tuesday for the past six months I've been subjected to forty-six hours of chemotherapy treatment. It’s not a treat the way cookies and brownies are a treat. It’s a treat more along the order of having the toilet overflow. But doctors call it a treatment, and who am I to argue?  Chemicals with names like Oxaliplatin, Leucovorin, and 5-Flourouracil (better known as 5FU… get it?) make up the cocktail I'm given. I've had better cocktails too. Maybe the medical staff should hire a nomenclature expert. But, it is what it is. During said treatments I'm sent home with a Lovecraftian tube sticking out of my chest. After many an abject contortion, I've learned to sleep with this and in the days that follow have soldiered on with an energy drain reminiscent of a flu-whisky hangover combination. In the days of my misspent youth, I was familiar with the former, and everyone knows about the latter.

I'm not sharing this information for people to get all pouty like somebody just stepped on their kitten. Mmm-k? Instead, I'm trying to help people understand that having colon cancer isn't that bad. I mean, it sucks and everything, but I’ve also come to realize a number of benefits have come my way in the last half-year.

For example, I'm in the Cancer Center Youth Group. I get together in the brightly lit activity-room and color bowels and intestines in my official Cancer Center Youth Group color book. Then I get to play games like pin the polyp on the sigmoid. Last week I made a popsicle-cell anemia and three macaroni lymph node magnets for the refrigerator. The teachers smile and make me feel special and give me candy. Then I sit around and talk with the other Youth Group people about how I feel.

Ok, I made all that up, except for the part about sitting around and talking about my feelings with others; maybe that’s why I don’t go. But at 47, I’m usually one of the youngest at the Cancer Center, except for the nurses, and who doesn’t like young nurses?

Another bonus has been the loss of feeling in my fingertips. This is because one of the medicines contained platinum, which is a heavy metal. I never cared too much for heavy metal. But what happens when the human body accumulates too much of certain heavy metals is that it puts on the brakes and tells the central nervous system, "Enough of this. I’m outa here!"

I said contained earlier because on treatment number nine I had what they call one of them there anaphylactic reactions to the platinol (doctor talk for platinum). This included a twenty-minute hot-flash (more on menopause later), the inability to speak, general disorientation, and a really sucky afternoon when thinking coherently was the least of my worries. Next thing I knew I was surrounded by nurses (did I mention they're young and pretty?). One of them tore open my shirt and another fanned me. Then, the head-honcho nurse gave me a giant shot of Benadryl. Long story short no more platinol for me. But getting back to the numbed fingers, I can now take things out of the oven without a potholder and can scrape ice from the windshield with my bare hands. How cool is that? Don’t ask me. Remember, my fingertips are numb.

Then there's this: before I had cancer I could count on one hand the number of compliments I'd received on my physical appearance. That's ok. Manly men don't need that kind of validation. I always did figure my face was more masculine than it was handsome. But since the cancer diagnosis, I can't go anywhere without someone telling me how good I look. Friends, family, church members, and coworkers constantly ask about how I'm doing. Invariably, they follow this up with, "Well, you look good." Or, "You look great." And I'm all like, heck-yeah. Part of me wishes I were single. The point here is to forget botox and cosmetic surgery. If someone wants to improve their looks, they should consider cancer. The compliments just keep on coming.

Then there's the weight loss. This spring I was admitted to the hospital at a portly 184 pounds. Ten days later I left weighing 162 pounds. That's twenty-two pounds in ten days. Jenny Craig? Get out of my face! Biggest Loser? Go suck some wind. Diet pills, flush 'em. America's weight problems could be cured if only more people had cancer. And, during these past six months I've been eating like a freaking horse and I don't mean because I have buck teeth. It's great when the doctor says eat anything, whenever and however much. Today, after a half-year of playing Jack Sprat, I'm tipping the scales at a mere 182 pounds.

Finally, in terms of often overlooked bennies, I've saved the best for last. I discovered this one by a desperate accident. There’s a backstory. At the end of June, one of my wife's friends had the great idea (as only wife friends can) that my wife and I, her and her husband, and two other married couples should take a road trip to a Bloomington dinner theater and see a musical called, "Menopause the Musical." The official website declares the show to be, "The Hilarious Celebration of Women and the Change." Sidebar: why won't dinner theaters do anything like Shakespeare or Sophoclese? I mean, Oedipus Rex had singing. I've heard Cormac McArthy wrote a play. That might be good.

But anyways, I don't know a single man who wants to see a musical about menopause presented by amateurs. Guys, I don't mean to blow the cover, but it's true. And secondly, dinner theater dinner, at least in this tri-county region, is usually a click or two under the mediocre bar. And, more man-secret truth here, the plan for a, "couple's night" is usually nothing more than a thinly veiled, "ladies night" with men along so they can pay.
The men would have sat and nodded and spoken amongst themselves, listening for funny lines so they could later tell other men, "It had some funny parts." Or, "It was ok." Or, "Yeah, it wasn't too bad." They would have smiled saying such things, remembering the rubbery chicken with white sauce and the cold rolls from a bag and the lukewarm peas with pearl onions, and the beasts in their hearts would have growled and grown a little weaker. Oh, the things we do for love.

But, I remembered, barely in the nick of time. I DO HAVE CANCER. My type-3 was going to act up that night. Alas, I was unable to take the drive and would remain at home, alone. At the news, one of the brave husbands volunteered to stay with me. When the ladies saw how two of the men could not attend (one heroically and stoically battling cancer, and the other selflessly giving up the show on a Christian mission to console his brother), they decided a true ladies night would be best. I saved three other men from, "Menopause the Musical."

Like an additional disbursement of grace, I have been given something I call the Cancer Card. And who knows how in the future I may be able to channel the tides of history and further help my fellow men? Perhaps also, if daughter #1 would wash the truck, not forgetting to vacuum the mats, that too would help. Then, down the road, a larger screen to help me see the shows might uplift my downtrodden spirit. Next birthday, maybe a crossbow can take my mind off things. Of course, the Cancer Card, like all special cards, should be judiciously used. There's nothing worse than an overplayed special card. But, for those thinking of getting cancer, don't overlook this silver lining.

And by now, the intrepid reader may think me simple-minded and unaware the seriousness that besets me. May I allay those concerns? In December I will be finished with my first twelve treatments of chemotherapy. In January there will be scans and blood tests and who knows what. At the end of these, the doctor will tell me one of three things.

First, the cancer may be done. This has been my prayer all along. If this is the case I'll have the first of a year's worth of three-month checkups for more test and scans, and who knows what. The longer it doesn't return, the greater the odds it will not. The second thing the doctor might tell me is that the cancer is still there, no worse than it was. This will mean six more months of chemotherapy; rinse and repeat as necessary. The third thing the doctor may find is that the cancer has spread. This is not good for the home team.

But until then, no one knows. These are the thoughts that concern me most at night, after the lights are out and I stare at the ceiling trying to go to sleep. It’s true, cancer is not the zany, whacky disease many think it to be. But…

My approach has partly to do with the people I meet at the Cancer Center. I don't know how the elderly do this. Remember, I’m in the youth group, with relative health and reserves that many of the elderly no longer possess. Yet many, not all, of them smile and talk and carry their banners forward the best they know how. When the pretty nurses call my name for my next turn on the chemotherapy chair of funness, and I say to no one in particular, "Once more into the breach," these older people smile and some of them laugh. A rare few get the Shakespeare reference.

It's the younger patients whom seem the most aggrieved. They have darkness around their eyes and stare vacantly into tablets and cell phones. They carry damp Kleenex in their pockets, dab their eyes and noses, and seldom speak.

These are the two paths. I'm merely following the examples of the elders.

Cancer Update # 5 - Reactionary

I am in the midst of chemotherapy treatment #9 and am just 24 hours from being unplugged from my side-pump, which I have privately nicknamed something I won’t post here.  To bring everyone up to date, treatment #7 packed a punch in terms of energy drainage (coming second only to treatment #3).  Treatment eight was slower in regaining energy and taste buds.  Also, the day after I was unplugged from #7 my hands and toes were a nice shade of pink (somewhere between mauve and old blood) and feeling in my fingertips remains missing.  This will grow worse but, I am assured, the feeling will return, probably.  Number nine hasn’t been so bad, aside from the usual energy drain.

I’ll also mention I had my first reaction to a treatment.  Yesterday at the cancer center, on the last little baggie of poisonous-to-me cancer killer juice, my fingers began to have pinpricks, then my feet.  Then I had a fifteen minute hot-flash, some trouble breathing and my tongue suddenly felt two sizes too big.  By this time I figured I ought to get a nurse involved.  They turned off the little baggie, fanned me, and gave me a supra-shot of Benadryl.  I think it was Benadryl; then again I wasn’t thinking very clearly at the time.  When things calmed down I had to wait for 40 minutes and assure the nurse I was capable of driving myself home.  In the meantime, I was told I had a typical reaction and the culprit element in my chemotherapy cocktail will be changed for the last three treatments.  When the nurse was finally convinced of my sound-mind and dexterous self, I was free to go.  On the way out I pretended to stumble for a few steps in front of the nurses’ station.  They didn’t appreciate that very much at all, but I thought it was funny.

p.s. -- In October I’ve had 417 original page views.  That’s a new record.  Woo-hoo!

CANCER UPDATE #4 - Halftime?

So, treatment #6 is eight days ago.  This puts me over half-way done with the chemotherapy… sorta kinda.  Halftime is a relative consideration.  The prayer and hope is that it’s half finished.  But one never knows.  Cancer is a cloud and walking from beneath is not a simple matter of foreseeable distance.  I won’t know until December if this first round, and what a long round it is, does the trick and/or, at least for a while.  If not, there will be another around and, perhaps, another.

Otherwise, things are the same.  No new side-effects except for this weird toe-blister.  They said splitting and cracking skin on the hands and feet might happen.  I’m hoping it’s just a blister.  And blah-dee-blah-blah…  That’s what I think of this whole deal.   But, hoping it’s half-time and all, I’ll try to be profound, or at least a bit reflective.

For you history nerds, this reminds me of the false peace that descended along the western European lines in late 1939 and early 1940.  The British and French wondered if there would be real fighting or if the invasion of Poland might be it.  So the troops sat there, deployed, playing cards and doing whatever else expectant troops do.  That’s me, Mr. Expectant and hoping nothing further goes on with the deal.  I guess that would make the part of my innards they cut out like Poland.

Another thing I’ve noticed is that there is no end of documents showing the cancer patient when he or she is supposed to die.  Innocuously, the words ‘survivor’ or ‘survivability’ or some derivative appears in the titles.  But, the predictors point in less optimistic directions.  There are bell-curves and rates and all kinds of end-of-the-line statistics.  Imagine a team in the playoffs constantly reading about when they are going to be done and how they won’t make it to the finals.  Such reading cannot be good for the fighting spirit.  I don’t read it any longer.

And then I came to this other realization, born of those vague emotions that sand-blast the heart on the day of diagnosis.  It takes a while to sort things out.  I’m still sorting.  But, here’s the thing:  the cancer patient is ultimately alone.  I mean, they bear the disease by themselves and either maintain or fail to maintain in the wake of the seismic shifts of emotion and spirit.  Yes, there are support groups (I’ve ever been a support group kind of guy) and yes, people are helping, and yes there are family and friends.  I know that.  But I’m talking about those quiet times, after I’ve talked with God for the last time that day (and God is there too, always, but the flesh is very weak at times), and I stare at the ceiling after the lights are out or when I drive along playing ‘what-if’ in my head, not paying attention to the road or much of anything else.  Some days have what feel are a hundred such moments when the isolation cocoons the patient and the tested breaking point is once again stretched.

Finally, remember how Spider man has ‘Spider-sense’?  Like when an anvil is about to fall on his head he dodges out of the way?  I think I’m developing ‘Cancer-sense’.  There have been times when I see a stranger and I’m sure that person has cancer.  We have an odd moment and then quickly slide our gaze to something else.  It may the tone of their skin or the way they walk or some baffled light in their eyes.  I haven’t tested this theory, but maybe I soon will.

CANCER UPDATE #3 - Cancer Makes You Good Lookin'!

So there I was, staring at the internet long enough to start having nerve-tremors when I happened to see August is almost finished.  But I haven’t even done three blog posts this month and my goal is one a week.  Apologies, shame on me… and that said:

As an adult, I can count on both hands the number of times I’ve been complimented on my appearance.  So maybe I'm a bit more masculine looking than truly handsome.  Case in point, I have yet to be ‘hot peppered’ on Ratemyprofessor.  And on those occasions when I do shave, daughter #2 tells me I look like a turtle.  Thanks sweetie pie.  Not that a well-grounded guy like myself needs such validation from outside sources.  I'm content in my own skin; I’m just sayin’.

 

All this, however, changed in June after I received my illustrious cancer diagnosis.  Now, I can’t go anywhere without someone saying, “You look good.”  And I’m all like, man, I wish I was single.  I mean church members, family, friends, and people at work are constantly telling me, “You look good.”  The next time one of those model-talent agencies comes to the local mall to stalk recruit teen girls, I’m going.  I could use a second career and who knows, maybe I'll make the cover of some magazine or appear in a bundle of stock photos companies buy for advertising.

I’m also seeing a new beauty line product.  Forget botox.  You want to look good?  Go get yourself some cancer, and in no time at all you’ll be having compliments out the wazoo, wherever that is.  I always wondered where the wazoo is…  Whatever it is, I’m confident mine is good looking because, like I said, cancer makes you good looking.

I know it's a kindness when people say, "You look good."  I think it's a combination of people wanting to encourage and not really knowing what else to say.  I appreciate it.  It's better than people saying, "Your skin looks like ash today.  Did you just have chemotherapy?"  It is what it is and, again, kindness is always appreciated.

Anyways – treatment four was about the same as the other three, except the day after.  I had to drag myself through the day, and only barely.  Mostly, I made the recliner stay still, though I managed to complain quite a bit.  I find complaining helps when you don’t have the energy to do anything else.  Still, no nausea, no squirts, no mouth sores - just extreme fatigue, a queasy stomach, and fried tasted buds that return after four days.

For the first three treatments I told myself, "This isn't that bad," and, "You'll get used to it".  Now, I'm not so certain.  It is about that bad, and only a unique constitution could get used to it.  It would be like getting used to the flu combined with a really rough whiskey hangover.  Yes, I remember those really rough hangovers of my misspent youth and, yes, I remember having the flu.

 

In a way, the, "You look good," comments from others are like me telling myself, "You'll get used to it."  It's nice to say and I want to thank my subconscious for at least attempting to encourage my own self.

CANCER UPDATE #2: The Cancer Card

Health Update follows essay.

 
A couple of days ago my wife and I were invited to a dinner theater presentation entitled, "Menopause the Musical."  The subtitle, from the official website declares, "The Hilarious Celebration of Women and the Change," exclamation mark and reserved word.

Sidebar:  why won't dinner theaters do anything like Shakespeare or Sophocles?  I mean, Oedipus Rex had singing in it.  I've heard Cormac McCarthy wrote a play.  That might be good.

But, back to the main idea - First:  no man I know wants to see a musical presented by amateurs about menopause.  Guys, I don't mean to blow the cover, but you know it's true.  I just had the courage to type it out loud.  Cancer has profoundly changed my perspective on such things.  Secondly, dinner theater dinner, at least in this neck of the woods, is usually a click or two under the mediocre bar.  That's true too.  You know it and I know it.  Together we can stop the charade.  Join me brethren!  Through solidarity we shall find strength.

Other couples are going.  It's not just lady's night.  The men will pay and sit and nod and speak amongst themselves, listening for funny lines so they can later tell others, "It had some funny parts." Or, "It was ok." Or, "Yeah, it wasn't too bad."  They'll smile as they say these things, remembering the rubbery chicken with white sauce and the cold rolls from a bag and the lukewarm peas with pearl onions, and the beasts in their hearts will howl and grow weaker.  Oh, the things we do for love…

BUT - I have cancer.  My type-3 might be acting up that night.  I may be unable to attend; stuck at home, alas.  And if I could get one brave man, amongst the men of the group, to volunteer to stay with me that night, that would help quite a bit.  Then, perhaps, when the ladies see how two of the men (one heroically and stoically and bravely battling cancer and the other selflessly giving up the show on a Christian mission to console his brother), yes, when the news gets out that two of the men can't be there, and here is my selfless hope, then maybe the other ladies will decide they don't want the single women to feel bad and how maybe a lady's night would be best.

This is the cancer card in all its power and glory.  With just one use, I may be able to channel portions of the tides of history to help my fellow-men.

Next week I may have to buy a crossbow or a new pistol to take my mind off things.  And if daughter #1 could wash the car, not forgetting to vacuum the mats, that too would help.  Perhaps down the road, a larger screen to help me see things, might be in order.  These are just examples.

Like all special cards, the Cancer Card must, or should be, judiciously used.  There's nothing worse than an overplayed special card.  We don't want people to get sick of it because it's been used over and over and over again for every little thing that comes along.  But, if you have cancer, I urge you, don't overlook this new ability.

Health Update:  I am in the midst of my second 46-hour chemotherapy treatment.  They send me home with a little side-pump that makes me look like I'm on field-duty for AT&T.  The surgeon released me two weeks ago.  The family doctor said to call if I need anything.  The oncologist is the only doctor I'm seeing on a regular basis.  He's a nice guy, but really not my type.  I don't see the relationship going much further than where it is today.  My sense is that it's too early to tell how I'm going to react to the chemo.  There is a laundry list of side-effects.  Last time I had only small hints of cold intolerance, just a toying with of nausea, and a small yet noticeable impact on my level of energy.  That may have been beginner's luck.  Otherwise, so far, so good.

Cancer Post #1 - Happy Anniversary

I promise the next post will not be about my health.  Furthermore, the third post of each month will be dedicated to my health.  That way, readers can know what’s coming and decide to tune in, or not.  Don’t laugh, btw – in April I had over 400 unique hits to my humble blog.  Now, if one-tenth of those people would buy a book…

Being the kind of guy I am, I have trouble remembering anniversaries.  I mark them on the calendar in January and hope only to find them before they find me.  That said, here is one to remember:  on June 5^th of this year I was diagnosed with Type 3 Colon Cancer.  That puts me in what I call big-boy territory.  Today is my two-week anniversary.  I have two-hundred and fifty-eight weeks left to beat the bell-curve.

This will probably turn very ugly before it’s over, but today is a good day.  For the first time in two and a half months, I had a long grocery-store run and didn’t pause for either pain or lack of energy.  In fact, the only pain I have now is when I sneeze.

Sneezing pulls the guts where I had my bowel resection on the 4^th of June.  The only other discomfort I have is with my new port.  A port is a thing the surgeon stuck under the skin of my right man-boob this past Monday.  It allows doctors and nurses to draw blood and hook up the chemotherapy needles without making my arm look like I’m competing with Macaulay Culkin.  Today my man-boob is really itchy.

Furthermore, I have no restrictions on what I do or what I eat.  I am down to pre-wedding weight and the doctors tell me to eat what I want, when I want, and as much as I want.  That’s what I call a silver lining.  I’m coming off a cheeseburger binge even as I type and have managed to gain one entire pound.  So yeah, not a bad day.

Again, it’s extremely early in the struggle; but, not so early as to have failed to ruminate on a few things.  Here are a few of them.  They might help somebody.  They might not.

Cancer Rumination #1:  Having cancer is like waking from a dream that changes you.  This thought popped into my head last night.  I don’t know what it means, exactly.  But I like how it sounds.  It probably deserves its own post.

Cancer Rumination #2:  I have resolved that I will watch my daughters grow to be much older than they are today, that my parents and sister will not attend my funeral, that my wife and I have more anniversaries to celebrate, that I will own the boxed set of The Hobbit movie trilogy, that I have more books to write, that I will see Obama leave the White House, and that when I turn fifty I will buy a new motorcycle.

Cancer Rumination #3:  The only difference between a person with cancer and a person without cancer is the cancer.  This is more profound than it sounds.  Think about it.

Cancer Rumination #4:  Most people don't know what to do when they find out that I have cancer.  Reactions tends towards awkwardness or wanting to help.  The outward support I have received thus far has been tremendous.  People have brought food and have mowed the lawn.  They’ve stopped by for visits and are there for my children and my wife, which I appreciate more than I can articulate.  The shittiest part about this is the burdens, the worries, and the helplessness they feel.  I think, so far, I’ve taken the news better than they have.

Cancer Rumination #5:  Some families only get together during funerals.  Then they leave, years pass, and they see one another only at the next funeral; a little of that has come my way.  People I have not heard from in years have contacted me to share their support and concern.  It’s goodness, really it is.  Don’t be shy.  Send me a note.  It’s just a shame we don’t stay in touch during the good times.

9 Days to the Starting Line, One Day to Get Home

As in life, so in writing…

A writing project can be seen as a series of decisions.  Consciously or otherwise, the decisions are made.  The decisions represent an author’s level of control over his or her work.  The decisions will be made whether or not the writer is aware of making them.  The idea is to control the writing.

I ended the previous post by self-depreciating my polyp story to that of something not many people would be interested in reading.  Sometimes I self-depreciate faster than the U.S. Dollar.

Upon review, and as a lesson on writing (because sometimes this blog is about writing), I decided to take my 10-day hospital say and turn it into a creative non-fiction piece entitled:  “Nine Days to the Starting Line, One Day to Get Home.”  Because I am not writing a mystery, here’s the punch line.  I have been diagnosed with colon cancer.  Those of you who are the praying kind, I’d appreciate some of those.

Getting back to the writing decisions, there are many.  Because I’m just starting, I need to keep the decisions high-level.

For example, how long is this article going to be?  I need to decide that, or the decision will make itself.  When decisions make themselves the writing isn’t always as good as it could be.  I have the luxury of going on and on, and on about this episode.  And how uncomfortable is it to listen to someone go on and on, and on, about their health problems?  So, another decision I’ve made is to include humor.  Since humor runs on brevity, the word-count will need to support of this.  I’m thinking somewhere around the seven thousand word mark (six hundred words for each day in the hospital, plus an introduction and a conclusion).

And why humor, one might ask.  People get pretty tight about cancer.  It’s easy to imagine someone becoming huffy.  But it’s my essay, so deal.  As a pastor, and as a human being, I have seen all types of reactions to health problems.  These reactions tend to hover on the negative end of the scales:  hysteria, depression, suicide, resignation, why-me, woe-is-me, and all that.  I may get there.  But for now, I’m going to laugh at my cancer.  Please don’t think I’m unaware of the seriousness of the situation.  The five year survival clock started ticking on the fifth of June.  I know that – mmm-k??  I could use a laugh or two right about now.

Another decision is that of how to organize the essay.  I like the title:  “Nine Days to the Starting Line, One Day to Get Home,” and tying the organization of the ideas to the title is always goodness.   So, I’m going to organize this around the days spent in the hospital.  This sounds neat enough, but the approach poses challenges.  From previous attempts, I know I will want to emphasize a number of ideas along the way.  These ideas don’t all fall into neat little ice-cube shaped day-events.  So, I’ll have to untangle the ideas carefully.  I’m thinking each idea can be brought out in a day or so.

Finally, for this post anyway, I have decided to outline because when I write non-fiction outlining helps more than it gets in the way.  It also helps when writing fiction but something about outlining a creative piece chaps my still-tender derriere.  This is a shortcoming I need to get over.  Nevertheless, outlining presumes (and it is a correct presumption) brainstorming.  There are plenty of ideas on the board to choose from.  There are plenty of other ideas I don’t yet have the courage to put on the paper.  But all that will come later.

So, here’s where I’m at so far:

Title:  Done.

Event / Topic:  Nine days leading up to a colon-cancer diagnosis and the day I wait to go home.

Length:  Approximately 7,000 words.

Organized:  by day

Will use humor / will outline

Big writing moral:  if something is hard to read it usually means the writer did not take pains to make it accessible to the reader.  Again, the decisions are critical.