Back In The Swing Of Things

Life after cancer is filled with milestones. Some are momentous. Some seem ordinary to everyone but a survivor. Some are so special in a personal and delightful way. (Did I just use the word "delightful"?)

I played softball for my company team, Ogilvy, on Monday. I waited to post about it until 2 days after, which usually is a good "soreness" barometer when you haven't used muscles since the last decade. After a forfeit win and 2 consecutive rain outs, we finally got to take the field. Now I describe this softball league as a rung below a Beer League, since there are no kegs at 2nd base or umpires to yell, er, talk to during the game. But hey, pride is big motivator when you're playing other companies in your professional field. Not much, but it's there for some.

I started to realize before the season began that I hadn't played an organized sport since August 7, 2007. The day of my head & neck cancer diagnosis. Almost 3 years. And so far removed from where I was before cancer––I was a college athlete and had played or coached in organized sports for over 40 years. But this was foreign to me. I felt like a rookie. Not only was I coming back from cancer, I was running away from Father Time. The mind says, "hell yeah, you can stretch that single into a double!" The body says, "think again, butthead. Not while I'm here."

I'm happy to report that two days later I can comb my hair without pain, walk up and down the street on my own power and haven't been swallowing Advil like a kid with Halloween candy. We won, 21-4, had a great time doing it and I'm even thinking of playing next week––I will be wearing cleats, since I have no concept of taking it slow and easy when playing sports––if time allows. I wouldn't say I swung the bat like I used to.

But then again, I wasn't coming back from cancer.

Why?

Stream of consciousness. Inspired by a night with other survivors.

Why did cancer happen to me?

Why did I survive?

Why don't people understand the change in me?

Why isn't there a cure?

Why do insurance companies deny my insurance randomly?

Why am I more emotional than before cancer?

Why do I take the things I love for granted?

Why do I sometimes take the people I love for granted?

Why can't I sleep more than 4 hours at a time?

Why do 1.5 million people every year live with cancer?

Why don't caregivers get more credit for all they do?

Why do I wonder when cancer will show up somewhere in or on my body?

Why don't I get a less stressful job?

Why do people take me for granted?

Why can't people in general be less judgmental?

Why was it that I only could taste cinnamon and corn during radiation and chemo?

Why do I still have a hole in my stomach from where my feeding tube was stuck in my body?

Why is chemo brain soooooo loooooooooooonnnnnnnngggggg?

Why does ice cream have a different taste to me now?

Why can't I make all the voices I did before the cancer?

Why do I love watching my Grandsons play baseball, instead of me coaching them on the filed?

Why do I keep asking why?

Why can't I just accept and move forward?

Why did it take me 2 weeks to post?

Why?

Because.

Cansurvivor

I've been in the most interesting state of mind I can remember in a long time.

Why? I have many thoughts, feelings, emotions and causes. And therein lies the issue, problem, situation and state of mind in itself. I'm a little over 2 years removed from my last chemo treatment and radiation. And since then I've had multiple gall bladder attacks that lead to removal and a myriad of physical crap that keeps me guessing. Is it the "side effects"? Is it stress? Is it my job? Is it all in my mind?

They don't tell you a lot of stuff when you are going through cancer treatment. And especially since my head & neck cancer is/was an unusual case––clinically the result of excessive alcohol & tobacco use and mostly found in people over 50––and has since been used as part of a study of the HPV virus and cancer in men. My cancer was in my tonsils, caused by HPV. Yeah, really.

So, is the scrambledness in my brain a result of chemo? Damn straight. How much? Who the hell knows. Is the fact that I wake-up every night, choking on my tongue because it's stuck to the back of my mouth/beginning of my throat part of the problem? Hell fucking yeah. Is my tolerance level of passive aggressive, know-it-all, sneaky-backstabbing people extremely low? Bet your life on it. But how do you explain all the crap that goes through your head, plays tricks with your body and generally has no road map for recovery or clinical explanation to those who are on the receiving end of you being an asshole? You can't. But I can explain one thing.

I am a survivor. A cansurvivor. Peace.

In Your Own World

"How come none of you all ask me why I curl me hair?"

About 2 feet away, while I was having lunch with my Daughter Kaity in DC, this is what some dude screamed out to a crowded restaurant. He was glassy-eyed, loud and popped in and out just as fast as he could ask that question.

The restaurant froze for a second. I grabbed my knife––growing up in LA, I guess––and watched every move he was making. Watching his hands. Watching his eyes. Watching my Daughter. It didn't phase Kaity. In fact, she just laughed as he walked out of the door he came in. The wait staff didn't move towards him or say anything to us after he left. I told Kaity, "welcome to DC."

I didn't think about that surreal moment until I started my 26 mile drive home that night. This dude was totally and completely in his own world. He had something on his mind and he was going to share. Probably didn't have anyone to share with, is my guess. Probably didn't have a blog like me. Probably living on the streets. (I did that for 6 months in LA in the '80's).

Escaping to a quiet place––through meditation, in your bedroom, in a middle of a party––is one of the things that helped me deal with cancer. I would "zone out" so I could focus on me. So I would feel the pain from chemo. Feel the radiation burning my skin. Feel myself fighting for my life. Why? Because I didn't want to forget. I wanted to tell anyone who would listen, that cancer is NOT a death sentence. It is not the end of your life. You have today to live. Live it.

Even if it's in your own world.

Mmm, Barium

Today I had a CT scan. Which means lots of prep––no eating 6 hours before, no liquids––and choking down two bottles of barium.

If you have never drank barium, consider yourself lucky. I did get to try the new––star burst goes here––orange flavor, which is used to mask the flavor of liquid chalk. My options were banana, berry and original and the new and improved––bigger star burst goes here––orange. Drink one bottle up 2 hours before the test, 1/2 of another bottle a half an hour before the test and the other 1/2 of the bottle at the radiation facility. De-lish. Yum. Tasty.

Now let me explain a few things––technically these are called side effects––that have happened since head & neck cancer decided to invade my body. I have about 30% of my saliva producing abilities, the radiation destroying my salivary glands. My taste buds are an adventure. Sometimes things taste normal, sometimes I taste the ingredients of what I'm eating––I can break down ketchup into vinegar, salt, tomato paste, Red Dye #5––and ice cream is mostly disappointing now. (Yeah, I know. It sucks). My sense of smell, however, is stronger than ever. Supposedly, there's a explainable reason for that. And the barium did it's own little dance with my nose, mouth, throat and stomach.

The only good thing was the barium is a liquid. And since I can't produce enough saliva and I couldn't drink any water before the CT scan, chalky smooth barium provided a little relief from dry lips, a dry mouth & throat and kept my tongue from sticking to the roof of my mouth. Yummy.

My CT scan was scheduled for 3pm and I was to arrive 15 minutes earlier. I had to hand in my paper work, which included signing a waiver that stated I understood that the contrast they would inject in my body could cause severe complications or reactions, with odds posted that 1 in 100,000 people have reactions ranging from convulsions to even fatal consequences due to allergic reactions. Yeah, fun. I've had the contrast numerous times and always have fun stuff happen like severe headaches, stomach problems and a rash on my arm from the injection. Like I said, fun.

But that was nothing compared to the "fight" I had once I arrived. Kimmi, the receptionist, informed me that my insurance––that is another blog post for another day––denied my full body scan. That I would only get my head, neck and chest scanned. Not my stomach and pelvis. WTF? I told Kimmi I confirmed yesterday that everything was approved. She asked me who told me that. I told her you guys did. She said when did you call. I said yesterday. She said, "are you sure you talked to someone here." No bitch, I talked to the psychic hot line and they told me it was approved. (OK, I didn't say that. But I did on the inside). I then showed her on my cell phone that I called at 2:48pm, March 23rd and talked for 5 minutes. OK, 4 minutes and 55 seconds. And your office told me everything was approved. BECAUSE I SPECIFICALLY ASKED ABOUT THE STOMACH AND PELVIS. I had already postponed the CT scan once because I didn't have approval. Well, Kimmi wasn't going to budge and kept repeating herself over and over that it wasn't approved and who did I talk to. I talked to you guys!!!!!! I finally talked to the supervisor, who said that it was denied and my Doctor agreed to just the head/neck/chest.

Fucking great. I just drank a bottle and a half of chalky shit for nothing. Oh, I'm sorry. I got something out of it––an hour on the toilet and stomach cramps for the rest of the night. And tasty, new and improved––yeah, star burst goes here––orange barium.

Mmmm.

The N Word(s)

Now before you go all freaky on me, the headline is not what you think as it relates to our society and culture.

I'm talking about 3 n words that have taken on new meaning in my life since I was diagnosed with head and neck cancer––never, normal, now.

Never is an awful word. (I often think of the song, "The 12th of Never", when I hear that word). As in, "I never want to see you again." Never mind. Never, ever. Never in a million years. Never be a superstar. Such a negative word. Until you utter to yourself, "I never want to get cancer. Again."

Normal is a strange word. Normal can be good or bad. Everything is normal––is that good or bad? Normal temperature. We even shorten the word––that's the "social norm". And then there's the cancer version––when will I get back to normal? Hell, after cancer, normal takes on an entirely new meaning. For me, it's normal to choke and/or cough because I can't produce enough saliva due to the cancer treatments. This usually happens 2-3 times a day, especially when I'm eating or drinking. And because I cannot produce enough saliva, I'm drinking constantly during the day & night. (I wake up 2-3 times a night to peel the tongue off the roof or side of my mouth with a sip of water).

Now has become my favorite word. Now is the best time to do something. Anything. Everything. There's no better time than NOW. Now is ALL we actually have––I believe that's what they mean when they say, "live in the moment". I try to enjoy now, because I might not have tomorrow. At the moment, I'm enjoying "now" because tomorrow I'll get a needle in my arm to draw blood at my Oconologist. I hate needles. But I love to live.

Now is the perfect time to live.

Snap Out Of It

I've been in a funk for weeks.

I'm over-thinking things. I'm too emotional. I'm doing too much. I'm letting work consume my every waking moment and creep into my dreams. And in many ways, I can't help myself. Because I'm overdoing it all. And because of that, I'm not accomplishing anything. Am I depressed? Going crazy? Burnt toast?

I am fortunate enough to get paid for what I think. My mind is my hammer, my computer, my co-worker, my instrument. So when my mind is not right, everything else seems to suffer. And that scares me. I need to get focused. Re-center myself. Keep my ass from dragging on the floor. I know all this. I know it will pass. I know I'm human. I know this is part of my ongoing recovery from cancer. I'm just having a hard time snapping out of it. And yet I'm very accepting of the fact that every day can't be a bed of tulips. (I know it's a "bed of roses", but roses have thorns). And sorry to all of you who have had to put up with me during this time.

For me, this is what has happened during my recovery many times. Usually, I have been able to step back and be extremely thankful for being alive and that gives me the juice to get outta the funk. The mental recovery in many ways is much more difficult that the physical recovery from cancer. My life has been changed forever. And I am extremely thankful for that. I'm a better person––I hope. I'm much more patient. I'm much more expressive of my feelings––sorry to those who just said out loud, "oh great. Greg being more expressive is like being blasted with two fire hoses instead of one." I have discovered a writing outlet that now inspires me. So excuse me while I talk to myself in front of you.

SNAP OUT OF IT AND LIVE, DUMB ASS.