Stick It To Me

This is my anniversary of the start of chemo. And was the continuation of a fear I've had forever.

Not the fear you might be thinking about––cancer is a big fear, undoubtedly––but I have a huge fear of needles. Hate 'em. Would rather be chased with a meat clever held by Usain Bolt. In fact, sometimes I thought the nurses who couldn't "find a good vein" would break out another instrument of pain in trying to find the perfect spot to inject the poison they were putting into my body to kill the disease that was REALLY trying to kill me. During my treatments––radiation, chemo, oral surgery, exploratory surgery, follow-ups, check-ups––I've been stuck with needle more times than I'd like to remember. Most of them were successful. And there were quite a few times I was poked 3 times in each arm just to "find a good vein". (Go to Being Cancer, and read the post about Evan Handler's book).

This Friday, I have signed up to get a flu shot at work. (Don't worry, a hospital and real Doctors and Nurses will be administering the shots). And the first thing I thought about is "getting stuck with a needle". Really. I've had a tube in my stomach for 10 months, had 35 radiation treatments, had three tubes shove down my throat all the way to my liver, emergency gall bladder surgery, three skin cancer surgeries and four teeth yanked out of my head WITH PLIERS and I'm worried about a stick in the arm––hey, I'd rather get the shot in my ass, but I'm pretty sure these will be done out in the open and baring my ass at work might not be "PC"––because did I mention I hate needles?

So I'm going to try to be a big boy on Friday. Not look at the needle being stuck in my arm. Not look at the nurse or doctor. Not yell out "son of a bitch"––which I've done before. I'm going to take the attitude of, "c'mon, bring it!"

I think.

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.

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.

Skin In The Game

Skin. Many thoughts run through your head when I mention skin?

OK, now that you've had your own personal skin flick, let's talk about skin. My skin, to be exact. A year ago, almost to the day, I heard the word skin attached to the word cancer. As in, "we got all the cancer from the skin on your neck. Let this heal a week and we'll get the other skin cancer spot on your back taken care of, OK?" Damn right it's OK! Why not get that baby off my skin right now!

As if learning you have cancer THE FIRST TIME is not bad enough, it's even more devastating, disheartening, disturbing and down right scary to hear again. After fighting through head & neck cancer, I now had to get through skin cancer? Now for those who have never had cancer, any time the word "cancer" is spoken and especially directly related to you, it's like a gunshot to the heart. Even when you beat it, you always have this voice in the back of your head: is it going to come back? When? Where? Will I have the strength--mentally, emotionally and physically––to get rid of it?

I remember the look on Teresa's face when I told her––at the Skin Doctor's Office––that I have cancer. Again. She's been through this before, with her Sisters Connie and Claudia. They both did not survive cancer, as it spread and took their lives at too young of an age. Her look was one of fear and determination at the same time. I wish her eyes would've become projectors, so I could see what she was really thinking inside of that beautiful head of hers. (Kinda like a cartoon or a superhero––we would call her "Emulsion". For film buffs, you know what that means). I knew what her heart was thinking. Not again.

So now I watch my time in the sun. I'm a disciple of SPF. Floppy hats are cool with me. Long sleeve t-shirts? I'll take 5-6. The beach? Let me put up this umbrella first. Me, a SoCal kid, running in the shadows to stay out of the sun. Does this mean I have to body surf with a wet suit? I can live in that skin. Exactly, that's what I'll do.

I'll live with it.