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.

The port

I had my port put in yesterday.   It is a larger device than I thought it would be, and there is a lump on the left side of my chest.   The procedure wasn't bad, but I was a bit sore coming out of the hospital.    The biggest problem with it so far is that I could not get into a comfortable position last night, so I haven't slept.   Hopefully the Lortabs will at least allow me to catch a nap today.

Why I write

 

I write these little bits not only for my own peace of mind, but also in the hopes that someday, someone who is researching cancer or diffuse large b-cell lymphoma may stumble upon these words and know that it is OK to laugh, and to cry (not that you have much choice in the latter).  I also hope that the researcher may establish a bond of sorts with me and my support,  even if only in spirit.   Some posts will be almost technical, where I am just trying to pass along information, some posts will be humorous, as I try to make light of most situations, but there is just no humor in some posts.   This will be one of those, as I relate the nights where we broke the news to our children.   

We had decided not to tell our children right away, as there was nothing really to tell.   Another factor was that Malena’s mother had passed away from pancreatic cancer 1 year to the day of my lymph node removal.  

Friday, our oldest son, 13, came home with an attitude.   He didn’t want to do homework, was upset that we had grounded him from the Xbox 360 because of his grades, and was just generally in a foul mood.   Malena decided that it was time to rock his world.   She took him out, under the guise of needing help picking up something to eat, and drove to the local library where she told him that I had cancer.   I cannot really comment on the conversation, since I wasn’t there, but he came home about an hour later in a much different mood.   He was very subdued and serious.  He asked to speak with me in private,  and we retreated to his bedroom.   He turned around, gave me a big hug, and started to cry.   That started me as well, and I told him it was going to be alright, I was going to beat it with his help.   Mind you, we only knew that I had lymphoma at this time, not the type.   

The following Tuesday, we found out which type of cancer I had, and decided to tell our youngest son 11, and daughter, 8.   We all sat together in the living room, Malena and the kids facing me.   I started to explain cancer in general to them, and that cancer didn’t always take a person’s life, like it did their Nana.   At this point our daughter looked at me and said, “please don’t tell me this is about you”.   I told her that it was about me, and that I had a type of cancer that was treatable, and that I was going to fight it and beat it.   She stood up, found her Nana’s jacket and wrapped up in it.  She then crawled on top of her mother’s lap and started to cry.   Our youngest son tends to clam up under pressure.   He sat there, sad, and didn’t want to discuss the matter.   I sat beside Malena and hugged my youngest son.   My oldest son sat beside us in silence.  Malena asked our daughter if she wanted to give me a hug, but she told her she was afraid she may catch cancer.   After assuring her that you cannot get cancer that way, she sat in my lap and hugged me.   We sat together like that, in silence but for the sobs, for quite some time.  All of the kids are doing fine now, and we plan on having them visit a counselor just to be sure.

The day after we told our children, our daughter organized a ‘get well soon’ letter writing campaign in her 3rd grade class.   While most of the cards were from her, some were from her classmates, and one was signed by the entire class.

 

I’ll keep those cards forever.