Take Your Clothes Off

"When you take your clothes off, get in the chair." I'm pretty used to hearing that by now. But when it's you skin cancer Doctor that says that, it makes you wonder.

I had the full body scan today, every mole checked, every uneven patch of skin and every red spot looked at very closely. They even checked my head. And that's where they found it––right above my right eyebrow. A "cancer forming spot", said the Doc. "So I'm just going to freeze it. Keep your head still and WHAM!" (Well, he didn't go WHAM. This isn't Emril, this is my Doctor.) He shot it with liquid nitrogen. At about -350º. Yes, that's MINUS. (What's with all the shouting today?). It's called Cryotherapy. Isn't that what they used on Walt Disney?

Man, talk about a brain freeze. Imagine the worst brain freeze you've ever had. Now add an ice pick and a nail––and double it. Felt like a hockey puck hit me. Felt like my eyeball was frozen. Felt like that for about 15 minutes. Then it only hurt when I opened my right eye. It's been almost three hours since, and I'm now thawing out. Having some visual adjustment problems––fancy words for blurred vision for a second when I turn my head. 

Now the people at the Skin Cancer Center of Northern Virginia are great, but I'm glad they didn't give me the purple sheet of paper before I got the brain freeze.  The purple paper said, "When you leave our office, the freezing site will probably be red and swollen, and it may sting and itch as it thaws. Expect the site to look worse over the next few days before it gets better. Swelling and/or blistering often develop within a couple of hours after the treatment. 2-3 days after treatment a scab will probably form which will then take 7-10 days to fall off, leaving a pink smooth area." All I could think of was those ED commercials, "if you have an erection for more than 4 hours, seek medical help immediately." LMFAO.

So there I was, with a gown on and in my underwear and a quick shot in the head with liquid nitrogen. And if that weren't enough they were training someone, so I had an audience as they were telling me everything that was on the purple paper. Happy Monday! And I had to take my clothes off for this? At least next week, they'll shoot me with sugar water and other stuff so they can do a PET Scan and see if the cancer is still gone inside my body. 

I'll have to take my clothes off, again. But I'm pretty sure they won't shoot me in the head with liquid nitrogen.

Time Flies When You're Living

It has been two years since I first heard, "I wish I had better news", and my life changed forever. August 7, 2007. The day cancer came knocking on my door and said "tag, you're it".

The fact that I'm even writing this is a minor miracle in itself. Well, it's probably not a miracle. I didn't see a burning bush or Mother Mary in a dirty screen in a window. But it is spectacular on some level, right? The first time you hear that you have cancer, it seems like time gets all jacked-up. It speeds up. It slows down. It doesn't exist while you try to. Time gets in this place of not being important and at the same time being the most important thing in your life.

How many times have you said to yourself, "if I only had more time". "I don't have the time." "That's a waste of time." "Next time." Now I don't want this to sound like some mushy every-second-of-life-is-precious spew. It's just that these days I'm giving myself more time. More time with my Wife. More time with my kids. More time with family. More time to stop and really smell the roses and flowers on my pathway that greets me and sends me off into the world every day. I just have to remind myself sometimes to slow down.

After two years, I'm still getting scanned, poked, tubes up my nose and neck squeezes. Which I say, sure beats the alternative. I'm starting the next round of Greg Gets Checked For cancer tomorrow and for the next two weeks. If I get through cancer-free, then the scans go from 6 months to a year.

What a way to live.

Sound Of Music

No, this is not about singing on a hill with Julie Andrews.

I was walking into work today and heard someone playing the harmonica. Sounded a lot like Bob Dylan's The Times They Are A-Changing, so I had to look and see who was playing. It was a woman. A woman who lived on the street. She was dressed in all white––at least it was all white at one time––and had her head back and eyes closed as she whaled away on the "harp".

I was both stunned and in awe. Stunned that someone in such dire straits was playing with a happy soul. In awe of her talent. She didn't seem to have a care in the world. She didn't seem to mind that she was drawing attention to herself. Maybe that was what she was trying to do––make people notice her. And people did. Scowls, mouths opening and people walking the other way to avoid her. I just kept heading straight to get something to eat. And then snapped out of my self-induced funk as I kept thinking about The Harmonica Lady.

It's funny how certain events, experiences and quick glimpses of life make you stop and think. I've been thinking about my future. Today. Tomorrow. Next year. I have a PET Scan coming up in 3 weeks. It will be 2 years since my cancer diagnosis, next week. I feel the best I've felt physically in a very long time––about 2 years. But my mental state of mind has been fragile. Questioning. Wondering. Searching. Am I close to "beating" cancer? Will it come back? Have I changed through all this for the better or worse? As I said, lots on my mind.

The sound of the harmonica woke me up. The vision of someone who is in such dire straits snapped my ass back to reality. I have it really good. Really, really good. I'm alive. I have a wonderful family. I have a great job. What the hell is wrong with you, Greg?

I just needed to stop and listen to the music. And enjoy life's special little moments.

More Than A Blog?

It was a year ago, almost to the day, that I started posting. Yeah, amazing.

When I decided to start my blog, I did so with very little expectation and even less encouragement. A colleague of mine––who will go unnamed––discouraged me TWICE when I approached this person about blogging. I was seeking advice and hoping for a little boost to get me going. I received this response: "it's a LOT of work. I'm not sure you can keep it up." And this nugget: "you have to understand how social media works." At the time, I was still feeling the side effects from cancer on a daily basis––extremely dry mouth, chemo brain and very little muscle tone and strength––and trying to kick start my creative juices, as I was beating my head against the wall trying to do great work at my job and I really, really needed to create something that I would be proud to share.

As I walked through the process of beginning my blog––which was made sooooo easy because of the people at blogger.com––I had to write a brief profile of myself. And I despise writing about myself, my accomplishments and my contributions. (This subject is for another post). But I did manage to write this, "I'm your average person. I'm married with four children and two grandchildren. I get up every day and go to work just like millions of other people. I do want to end cancer in my lifetime. By sharing my experiences, thoughts and relationships I hope in some small way that others may benefit."

Thanks to those of you who read my ramblings, one or two people have expressed how much they enjoy reading my blog. How it has helped them smile again. Understand what their loved one is going through. Know what's going on in the head of a person who has cancer––at least my head. And thanks to all of you who inspire me to keep writing, I will continue. Because as I have found out, this has become more than words on a computer screen. This is my outlet. My comfort zone. My connection to others, so I can keep in touch. I also feel very lucky to have lived long enough to have a year of posts under my belt. 

Has this blog been a lot of work? No. A lot of love. Hope. And personal satisfaction. 

A Dog's Life

I have three dogs. So I guess you could say I'm a dog lover.

Pets have a way of becoming an important part of your family––even if it's just you and them. I've had dogs most of my life. Baby. Gypsy (Teresa's dog, actually). Ricky. Malcolm. Roxi. And now, Tedi, Lola and Barnaby. Lola and Barnaby are rescue dogs. OK Greg, what's the deal with writing about dogs? A lot of people don't even like dogs or have never had one as a pet. But then again, no one but me has Tedi.

Tedi is the biggest Cockapoo our vet has ever seen. He's the mellowest, kick back dog I have ever seen. He hangs out with everyone. He doesn't bark very often or whine. He doesn't get in the trash. He doesn't dig. So what does he do? He loves me. He loves our family. He loves who we love. How do I know? Tedi is one of the reasons I survived cancer. He was there with me the whole time. He laid at the foot of my bed when I couldn't get up. He kissed my face when I looked at him––his love is unconditional.

So why am I writing about Tedi? I thought he was dying Saturday morning. He woke me up about 5:30 AM, trying to get up. His legs weren't working. He was struggling to get up from the floor next to my bed. He was freaking out. He was dying? Teresa and I put him on our bed. I had to piss like a racehorse––hey, I just woke up and that's what I always do when I first wake up––and while I was in the bathroom, Teresa carried Tedi down stairs. (Tedi weighs about 40 lbs). I had no idea what to do. We had no idea what to do, except make sure Tedi didn't die. 

Now Tedi isn't an old dog––he's 5––and he's as healthy as they come. But his heart was racing, he was drooling and he was fighting us to get up, as we both were holding him down and making sure he wasn't having a heart attack or a stroke or whatever was happening to him. We gave him water by hand, which he sort of licked up. We were trying to calm him down. I started to pray. I couldn't loose Tedi. He couldn't die. Not now. Not in my arms. Not today. He did calm down a bit and went outside to "do his business." He seemed OK. Until he fell down again. I ran to get him and he fell on his back. He looked like he was dying.

Tedi never cried or yelped or whined. But he did do one thing that I'll never forget. He looked at my eyes. He gave me a kiss on my cheek. And most important of all, he lived. In fact, he lying at my feet as I'm writing this post. I think he knows I'm writing about him. I think he's the best dog, ever. I can't think about yesterday without almost tearing up. I know he's only a dog.

But he's my dog. And his life has made my life so much better. 

A Vacation From cancer

I recently took my first vacation since my cancer journey––and the other health issues that resulted from chemo, radiation, tubes and all the meds they pumped into my body.

I've spent most of my vacation time the last two years in surgery, recovery, follow-up Doctor visits with all 7 of my Docs and in the hospital having tubes shoved down my throat and stuck in my arms. Yes, everyone should have as much fun as I did! But you have to have cancer first! (Please note the extreme sarcasm that's flowing from my fingers to the keys to the screen).

My family from LA came to visit for 6-7 days. They stayed with us, which was great and we got to spend a lot of time with the East Coast & West Coast extended family. We went to Annapolis and ate lunch on the water. (OK, we didn't eat on a boat, but if Jeff leaned back about 6 inches, he would've been in the Bay). We took the short tour of DC––some walking, some driving––and even saw the White House from the front and back. We went to the Delaware shore for 24 hrs. And we ate, and ate and ate and grilled and noshed and had a week long feeding frenzy. We talked about the good times. The not so good times. The good family memories. And of course, the family memories we wish we could forever forget but will forever be with us as long as we're alive.

After I dropped off my family at the airport in plenty of time to catch their plane––insert inside joke here––and I hugged them and fought back a tear, I got in my car and drove back home. On my way home, I thought about the new experiences we just had and will talk about the next time we get together. And I also came to realize a break through––I didn't think about cancer while they were here. Oh, I had a moment or two with my Dad––also a cancer survivor like myself––about my seemingly permanent side effects. But I actually had a few cancer-free days in my head. No worries about if or when it will come back. No thinking about me and my cancer––although I WAS keeping my eye and brain on Teresa's recovery from skin cancer surgery––and letting my mind drift. Yeah, it was a welcome break. A long moment of normal. A few days of just l-i-v-i-n-g. Wow, it felt great.

Can't wait until my next vacation.

OK, This Is Not Funny Anymore.

What the hell is going on?

The last 24 hours have been very tough. I think God is trying to test me. Again. I know I'm not the only person with troubles, but it seems like I'm on a game show––Let's Make Him Squeal! Some of you will read this and say, "how you didn't tell me?!?!" Because I'm trying to sort it out myself. It started with Travis being rushed to the hospital––"Dad, I'm at the Fire Station across from my work. They're taking me to the hospital because I feel like I'm having a heart attack."––and me running out of a client meeting, around my office and through the streets of DC like a madman. I got there so fast, they didn't even have Travis listed at the front desk. (He's home, after an EKG, x-rays, two blood tests and oxygen. But we still have a Dr appointment tomorrow morning).

This morning, I took Teresa to have skin cancer removed from one of two spots on her face. They had to cut her twice, as the first part of her surgery didn't get all the cancer so they had to go back in. Next Tuesday, we do it all over again as she has one spot removed just below her left eye. She's tough. But it hurts me to my soul to see her in pain. Give it to me. I can handle that. Hell, they've cut me so many times and stuck so many needles in me the last two years that it ain't no thing. And work is EXPLODING, with so many things happening at once. It's a good thing I don't drink––well, at least not heavily––or I'd be into a bottle of Maker's Mark right about now.

Right now, I wish cancer was something I could hit. 'Cause I'd beat the shit out of it until my hands hurt. Or until it was dead. I'm past being tired of hearing the word cancer. I'm just out and out pissed. My Irish-Mexican temper/passion is flowing at an all-time high. I haven't been this pissed since I was beating the carp of my best friend on the playground at Holy Trinity in 8th Grade. I got so mad, because Bengie had a splint on his finger and he took a swing at me. Cut me on the side of my face. I went ballistic. I was so mad I temporarily blacked out, coming to as I was on top of him slamming his body into the playground floor, with 3 guys trying to pull me off of him. It was right then and there I realized I needed to control my emotions and temper. I would be dead today if I hadn't controlled it through the years. Yes, it's a scary thing to write about and admit. But I'm in a much better place these days. Except when it comes to cancer.

I have to stop writing now. I'm getting all worked up and I need to keep my wits about me and take care of my Son and Wife. This is serious business. And not funny at all. I think I'll watch some George Carlin.

Now that's funny.