Cue

Saturday, March 19, after doing some light yardwork after sunset, I decided to take a shower.  I washed my hair last, because that is just the way it is done, and looked down at the drain.   A handful of my hair lay upon the drain.  Malena  told me that my new nickname will be ‘Cue’.   I hope that she means Cueball, and not cuecard, or q-tip.   That would be awkward.
This is no big deal to me, just an annoyance in my battle.   My hair loss may be frightening to others though, as I just do not have a head made for baldness.   To compare, I have some of the greatest bald heads in movie history:
Yul Brynner, image from The King and I (why is your head higher than mine?):

Telly Savalas of Kojak fame (Who loves ya, baby!):

Patrick Stewart of Star Trek The Next Generation (Make it so!):

Unfortunately, my noggin is more closely shaped to Worf:

Although our hue is different, the skull structure is quite similar.
Seriously though, this is not a big deal for me.   It is a HUGE deal for others that go through this, especially women.    Fortunately, there is something you may be able to do to help, and it is painless to you and your bank account.    Get a haircut.   If you can do without at least 7 or 8 inches of hair, you can donate it to be made into wigs for chemo patients (PS – your hair will grow back!).
Here are a few places where you can look into these programs:
Locks of Love
Wigs for Kids
Pantene
and a google search:
Google

Yesterday, I did my second of four rounds of chemo.    I was able to take the medicines as fast as they could administer them, which is very good.  There were two nurses in the room, wearing their blue nitrile gloves and attending to the patients.   So there they were, two by two, hands of blue, administering life saving medications.   They are wonderful people.   I noticed when I left that I was substantially more tired than after the first treatment.   It may be due to the lack of good sleep over the past few days, but it is something that we will watch.    I didn’t sleep at all last night, even with the help of Atavan, so Malena and I decided that we would work from home.   I really didn’t trust myself to drive.    I did go over to the Bruno Cancer Center at 1:00 to get my follow up shot of Neulasta, but it was a quick trip and I felt a bit more together.  
This is a race, and I am in the lead.   Cancer will lose.

Timing

 

Tuesday started off great.   I felt better than I had since my first chemo treatment, and I was ready to face a beautiful day.  By the end of the day, things had gotten interesting.   And if you have been reading my blog, you know that interesting means painful.   At 5:00 pm, my abdomen started to feel uncomfortable.   I went on a three mile walk with my wife at 6:00 pm, and by the end of the walk I was in pain.   I tried to eat, and I tried to suck it up and endure, but could not.   At 1:30 am Wednesday, I knew that this agonizing pain was not a simple gastro-intestinal issue, but a problem with my appendix.  I was nauseated and had a fever.  Malena took me to the emergency room, which was thankfully not busy, and we were immediately taken to an examination room.   I was given a saline IV, and some dilaudid for the pain, and had a CAT scan scheduled.   The dilaudid only took the edge off of the pain – it went from agonizing to ‘this still hurts!’.  After my CAT scan, the pain started to intesify again, so I was given more dilaudid.   The doctor arrives in my examination room and tells Malena and me that my appendix is fine, that I am having cramps.   Cramps?  Really?  If cramps can hurt that bad, they need a new name, like hyperpain muscle flexion or something.   The doctor gave me a new prescription to add to my growing collection, and sent us home.   We stopped to get the prescription filled, and arrived home just before 7:00 am.   It was a long night to say the least.   We tried to sleep, but an endless parade of phone calls and people banging at the door prevented any type of meaningful rest.  At 2:30 pm Wednesday, the hospital calls back to tell us a second radiologist looked at the scan and determined that it may have been my appendix after all.  The really weird thing is that this scenario played out almost exactly as it had in 2008.   Big pain, emergency room, not your appendix, oops - yes it was.   Different hospitals, for those wondering.   I am not in pain now, just a bit tender in my abdomen from the ‘cramps’.   I called my oncologist’s office on Wednesday to fill them in, and so they could decide whether or not to schedule an appendectomy.   I haven’t heard back from them, so I am guessing that since I am not in pain, we will delay the appendectomy until after chemo.    If I have my appendix removed now, I will have to completely heal before I can resume chemo.   On the other hand, if my appendix ruptures while my immune system is compromised from the chemo, things could get exciting.  I think a ruptured appendix is unlikely, and that cancer is my most pressing problem since I am not currently in agonizing pain.   But, I will do whatever my oncologist wants me to do in regard to my appendix.  My second chemo treatment is scheduled for Thursday, March 24th.  Hopefully, my blood counts will be good and my appendix and I can proceed with the chemo.  

A Newtonian thank you

 

Sir Isaac Newton, the man who discovered gravity, co-discovered calculus and other things to torture high school students, once said “If I have seen further it is only by standing on the shoulders of giants.”   This quote strikes me as very relevant during my treatment.    I am going to beat this cancer.   I have no doubt of it.    I am going to beat it because of the giants who came before me - the millions of cancer survivors and victims who sacrificed so much so that countless medical professionals and scientists could learn how to fight this beast.    Millions upon millions of volunteers raising money to fund research so that I can survive.    It is hard to comprehend how much has been given and sacrificed.   But it has made a tremendous impact.   According to Cancer Research in the UK, since the 1970’s survival rates of Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma have more than DOUBLED.   There is obviously still work to be done, but the sacrifice of those giants has reduced what I am going through from a death sentence to an excellent chance of survival.   To all of you, I feel that I owe my life.    There is no way that I can fully repay the debt.   Thank you.

Since coming off of the steroids on Wednesday,  I have had to deal with a few minor challenges.   Wednesday’s fatigue was combatted with a nap.   I did not feel like I needed a sleep aid that night, since there were no steroids to keep me awake.   The result was a sleepless night.   Thursday was spent lounging around the house, napping occasionally.   Thursday night I took the sleep aid, just to be sure.  The result was a sleepless night.   I went to work anyway, and actually accomplished something.  That felt good.   My sleep is back in order now, and I managed to do some minor yard work today.   And in the spirit of full disclosure and too much information, my internal plumbing has been off since chemo.   This has started to resolve itself today, and I feel much better than I have in several days.    I think that I have turned the corner on this cycle, and that I will continue to feel better daily.   My sense of taste has changed.   Most foods are bland to tasteless, except sweets which are still sweet.   This includes citrus fruits, and banana pudding that a dear friend dropped off at our house.   

Tomorrow will start a new work week, and I am looking forward to it.   My goal is to work the entire week.   It will be the first time in quite a while.

Time distortion

I am a fan of science fiction movies, and love the older ones.   In fact, my online handle, klaatu, comes from the 1951 science fiction classic The Day the Earth Stood Still starring Patricia Neal and Michael Rennie as the alien Klaatu, aka, Mr. Carpenter.    Here is Klaatu with his pet robot Gort and a stylish spaceship (from wikipedia.org):

What does my affinity for science fiction have to do with my cancer?    I have noticed something about the way time passes since my diagnosis that I have only seen in science fiction movies and TV.    My days all seem to pass at normal intervals.   24 hours as they should be.   But the weeks somehow have had months inserted!   Many times I have tried to tell of an event during my journey, indicating  that the event happened days ago, or perhaps last week, only to be told that it happened the day before!   This scenario has been repeated several times.   I think that this could mean that I am losing my sanity, which should be documented, or that this is a phenomenon which others experience during such times.   If you are one of the patients of cancer and have found my little blog, and you have the same feeling of time distortion, you are not alone.   Or I am nuts.   It could go either way honestly.

I have been on prednisone for 5 days since my R-CHOP chemo treatment.  That ends today.   No steroids tomorrow.  I was warned and am fully expecting some sort of crash but have no idea how it will affect me.   We will find out together.   I know that I have been very tired the past couple of days, as if recovering from a cold.   Just washed out.   Nothing to worry about though, I have been through much worse than a ‘washed out’ feeling and came out OK.  We are still winning, and will continue to do so.

We have the TOOLS, we have the TALENT.

This is a line from my all time favorite comedy, Ghostbusters.   I thought it to be a fitting title to the post, as I want to talk about the tools that have gotten me through this far in my ordeal.   Faith, Family, and Friends.
Faith.   I am a Christian, although not a very good one at times, but I try to improve.  I know that God has a plan, and if that includes cancer taking me, then so be it.  I am totally at peace with that.   I know that Heaven is a better place than here, so the thought of being there someday makes me happy.   It is this peace that allowed me to comfort my family during the early days when my death seemed more imminent than it does now.  I have personally seen God’s hand in my life, and in life all around me.   Non-believers have somehow blinded themselves to these miracles, or rationalized them in some way.   I’ve been on that side too, and eyes open is a much happier way to live life.  
Family.   I have had phone calls, emails, texts, and visits.   Family traveling from across the country to see me and help.    So many offers to help that there is no way to use them all in two lifetimes, much less one.   But it builds me up.  And makes me stronger.   Then there is the family Malena and I created.   The kids writing ‘get well soon cards’ with the school and Sunday school classes.   All of their friends and teachers praying on my behalf.   All of it is emotionally overwhelming.  
One night, as I lay in bed at peace with whatever decision God has made, Malena came to bed and started to cry.   The thought of losing me was unbearable to her.    You see, in 1979 she lost her father to a heart attack.    In 2000, she lost her oldest brother.   One year prior to the day of my lymph node removal, she lost her mother to pancreatic cancer.    She has suffered enough.   During her crying, she planted a little seed in my mind which she would cause to bloom later.   I started saying prayers for her and the kids, so that they would be taken care of, and be strong and comforted.  All of this helped to build me up.   The seed germinates…
Friends.   I have the best friends in the world.   Bar none.   There are phone calls, emails, postings, instant messages, and personal encounters offering support.   Some of these are with people who I have never met, but are now my friends.   I have people in countries all over the world, and from many different religious beliefs, praying for me.   A group of co-workers got together and made me a chemo-blanket (chemo can make you cold), and support bracelets to show their solidarity with me.    Never throughout this experience have I ever thought that I was alone.   And on the way to the Bruno Cancer Center yesterday,   I received many messages and emails giving me support.   I told Malena that I was not sure that I deserved all of this.    Here comes the bloom:   She said, “Of course you do. You have touched many, many lives”.   I sat there and took it in.  It was very Capra-esque.  And I was built up even more.

Before the chemo started yesterday, Malena and I met with my oncologist.    She had the PET scan results.   Because of God’s grace, all of the support I have received, Marine Corps altered DNA, and I am a man that is usually only read about in Greek mythology,   my stage came back as Stage I.   This is very uncommon, actually ‘rare’ is the word she used.    Cells travel quickly through the lymphatic system, but were only found in the node that the surgeon removed.   She said that some of the other nodes in my neck were reactive, which means that they could be fighting a bacteria, virus, or even the lymphoma.   But there was no cancer.
The treatment is:   4 R-CHOP chemo treatments (1 down, 3 to go!)
                                6-8 weeks of daily radiation on my neck.

This is truly the best news we have received in months.   So good, it made my mother and wife cry.    I may have welled up a bit myself.

Round 1

I had my first round of chemo today.  Everything went well, and I had no adverse reactions to the medications being pumped into me.   We were there most of the day, some of that time was spent  pre-medicating and waiting on chemo medicines to be mixed.   The actual chemo took about 6 1/2 hours.   I am exhausted, but wanted to let you know that I am OK and will post a more detailed report tomorrow, including some good news.

The Ultra-Scan report

 

Monday’s trip to the Bruno Cancer Center was largely uneventful, i.e., not painful.   However, while waiting for my echo cardiogram (an ultrasound for my heart), we were treated to the woeful cries of a woman, who was obviously having something near and dear to her violently removed without even as much as an aspirin for the pain.  “Lord, please hep me!   Hep me Lordy!  Ohhh!”.   This went on for several minutes/hours/days, I’m not really sure.  I was having serious concerns at this point about what I perceived to be a simple procedure.   Maybe they had to crack open my sternum in order to perform the echo cardiogram.   Or maybe the ultrasound scanner wand had to be inserted into uncomfortable places in order to get a good reading.    I was not in my happy place.  I was eventually called back toward the torture chamber,  and could not bring Malena with me.  I supposed that they did not want any witnesses.  But my trepidation was all for naught.   I only had to take off my shirt this time.  I laid down on my side, the technician waved her wand and took the magic readings.   Took about 15 minutes, and most of that was because the machine started to act a bit wonky.  You know how magic is sometimes.

Next up was the PET scan.   This was in a different location by way of 5 floors,  4 hallways, 3 automatic doors, 2 buildings, and a parking lot without a pear tree.   They were expecting me when I checked in and handed me some paperwork to complete.   Minor stuff.   I was called back quickly, and the technician explained the process to me and my wife.   He was going to inject me with radioactive sugar (at least I think it was radioactive – I haven’t gained any superpowers so I am not sure), and let it circulate through my bloodstream for an hour, all the while I was to sit in a recliner.   This was no ordinary recliner, mind you.   This was what I will call the Montalban model, with rich Corinthian leather.   It was a very comfortable chair.   So I sat there, chillaxing with my nook (Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, thank you very much), waiting for the hour to pass.   After my 60 minutes of total chilling, I was led to the scanner gizmo.   I laid down on the table, and had my arms wrapped up so they could not move.   I am not claustrophobic (I love Santa!), nor am I afraid of tight spaces.  The table started to move into the gizmo, so I did what any sane person would do – I took a nap.   The technician woke me up about 25 minutes later, and told me that my oncologist would have the results the next day.  Wow!  She told me it would take a week.   Maybe she needs to interpret the results.   Anyway, I am hopeful that I can get the results on Thursday when I go in for my first chemo treatment.   It would be nice to know what stage my cancer is in to know what we are really dealing with, so keep your fingers crossed!

On Thursday, cancer, you start to go down.