Not Great, Not Scary

My posts have been MIA for a few weeks due to the annual tests for cancer, so sorry if you thought I was dead.

I've posted before about the eerie silence of a cancer blogger/patient. Ii freaks people out, at least those who follow me. I've often wondered if anyone would update my blog with my death. Yeah, I know, this post is getting off to a morbid start but some things need to be said and I've never been shy in addressing those subjects that make people uncomfortable.

I found out 3 days ago that while my cancer (sounds like it's a pet when I say "my cancer") is not back, one of my lymph nodes has increased in size since last year's CT scan. I was told "it's in the normal range". The normal range of what? That's what I'll ask my ENT, who is the last stop on The cancer Check-Up Tour. She'll tell it to me straight and what I need to do. Probably nothing, but maybe I'll need to get a needle biopsy to ease my mind. Yep, I'm having a hard time with this bit of news even thought the Docs have said it's OK. The bitch of the whole thing is worrying only makes everything worse––some call worry "stress", which is a feeder to cancer.

I'm not going to lie, this is a shot to the gut. I had a feeling that something had changed––I get those feelings whether I want to or not. So I'm going to go hug my Wife and spend some time with my family.

That always makes me feel better.

Dr. Feelgood

I'm in the middle of check-ups, so naturally my thoughts turn to mortality. (Or maybe it's just natural to me).

I've graduated to once a year, as 8/7/07 gets smaller in my virtual rear view mirror. Once a year I get checked up to see if I'm winning or losing the battle with cancer. And yes, it is a battle. Why? Anything worth having is worth fighting for. In my case, my battle is making the side effects seem "normal" and staying ahead or at least keeping even with the work I do for a living. It's realizing that "normal" is not normal and my normal is just fine with me. It sure beats the alternative. But now that I've diverted your attention and haven't really written about "doctors", it's time to tell you why my Docs make me feel better.

My GP, Dr. Plescia, started this off by giving me a full physical, with the usual blood, urine and uh, ahem, a probe or two. Hey, cancer can strike anywhere. Dr. Plescia is that rare Doctor who actually knows something about you beyond the chart. He and I are the same age, which helps when he says, "guys our age have to do these things and get these things checked out. I go through it with my Doctor." Yeah, that's right. Doctors have Doctors. At least the good ones do, as they stay away from total self-diagnosis. Dr. Plescia is the one who recommended Dr. Lee, my ENT. Dr. Lee––who is a no-nonsense, straight shooter, just how I like them–– recommended Dr. Felice.

Dr. Felice, my Oncologist, is the kind of person you'd have a beer or two with. He's a big Mets fan and sports fan in general. And he ends every visit with a magic trick––yes, the best trick would be to make cancer disappear but not even Chris Angel can do that––that puts a smile on your face as you leave his office. Card tricks are his forte but he does this thing with a bottle cap and a bottle that blows you away. I go see him this week to get the usual poking, prodding and draining so I know if the cancer is back anywhere. And while I don't know if that's the case until I get my results, I do know one thing.

I'll walk out of there with a smile on my face courtesy of my Doctor.

Why I'm Not Celebrating Death

If you're a cancer survivor, you'll understand why I'm not celebrating the death of Osama Bin Laden.

In no way shape or form do I feel pity or sorrow for him. I was in New York on 9/11/01, watching the destruction and reactions across the city up close and personal. I'll tell the whole story in another post. If I never get to post the story, so be it. But what I saw that day was almost 6 years to the day BEFORE I was diagnosed with head & neck cancer in 2007. Shaking hands with death changes your perspective.

Every now and then I catch myself taking life for granted. I have a wonderful and loving family. I'm fortunate to live where the seasons change and see all it's beauty. I have a job that is a job I've been looking for ever since I left Chiat/Day in 1986. I live in a great neighborhood. But sometimes, I get caught up in too many things that in the grand scheme of things, are really unimportant and a waste of time. Life itself is precious in every way, every second of the day. Death, while inevitable, is a marker for those who come after us. Our lives are then reduced to stories––some true, some embellished and some absolutely too ridiculous to believe––passed on from generation to generation and more recently, over the Internet.

What I am celebrating is hoping that we ask ourselves how/why one person can influence others to kill another human being, especially those people who believe "it is God's will" to take another person's life. Now I know I'm treading on dangerous territory for many reasons. That is not my intent. I can't get you to believe the way I do nor should I try––you are your own person. And so am I. But as I said earlier in this post, I'm a cancer survivor. If you've ever heard the words, "I wish I had better news but you have (fill in ANY cancer here). Best of luck to you", the first thought/question is 99.9% of the time, "am I going to die?"

When you can answer that question with living proof, then maybe you'll understand why I'm not celebrating death.

More Radiation, Please

I was recently scanned by TSA at the airport.

When they told me to "put your feet here, face this way and raise your arms over your head" I said, "yeah I got it. Just what I need after 35 radiation treatments for cancer." My comment went over like a wet fart in church reverberating against the wooden pew. I got a look that was half stern and half WTF. It also jarred my memory that I needed to schedule my next scan. Even more radiation. More arms over my head. More prayers for a clean scan with no cancer growing in my body.

My good friend Matt––another cancer survivor of over 15 years––and I talked about the lasting emotional and mental scars that cancer treatment "gives" you. I asked him, "when will I not think about cancer every day?" He said, "you'll get there eventually". And I have. After only 3 and a-half-years since my diagnosis I don't think of "my cancer" every day. (I'm getting really close to a writer's world record for quotation marks in one space). But this time of year, I have to make my follow-up appointments with my team of Doctors. I started with the easy one, my GP. It's gets more invasive from here, with needles, radiation and tubes with cameras up my nose and down my throat.

If Mr. Sunshine at the TSA showed any form of human interaction with me, I would've asked him, "does the scan show if I'm cancer free or not." I'm sure that would have put the whole airport on lockdown and I would've missed my plane. And I would have demanded that they show me the x-ray so I could take it to my Doctors and see if I could skip the whole scanning process. Could you imagine the press having a field day with this headline, "Former cancer patient tries to use his x-rays from TSA for treatment." For sure I'd get radiated EVERY time I went through airport security.

That would suck.

Just Try Not To Be An Asshole

This was all I had to do for Easter Sunday.

My lovely Wife reminded me that when I'm tired I'm a real asshole. And I agree, my assholed-ness gets pretty high when I have been able to sleep and I'm running on empty. No one knows this better than me or at least that's what I thought until my Wife reminded me. And while I know this is me, I at least thought I could fall into the "lovable asshole" category. You know someone like that, don't you? Yes, you do.

Since my fall off the ladder, I've been in pain and not sleeping––at least until Thursday night, when I had my pain killer prescription in hand. Or should I say in my body. So sleep was not an option until Thursday night. And since I was till a little loopy Friday morning, I didn't take any until Friday afternoon. Which knocked me out and I didn't let me sleep much that night because, well, I already had 4 good hours of sleep. You see the pattern here?

So when Sunday rolls around, I'm pretty wiped out from all the pills––I've gone from taking 1 pill to now taking 4 pills a day and it sucks big time––and all the highs and lows that the medication gives me and with the lack of saliva that the cancer has left me with. (By the way, one of the side effects of my pain medication is dry mouth. If my mouth was any drier I would be spitting sand every time I talked). And I can't lift anything, move anything or do anything more than walk because I'm in pain or in a drug stupor.  Which means I'm stuck with nothing physical to do except run my mouth. Nice, huh?

Not if I'm trying NOT to be an asshole.

The Fall

I fell off a ladder last Sunday and this is was "flashed" in my head in 5 seconds or less.

We had a bad storm the night before––35-40 mph winds with rain––so a few trees around my house took a beating. Especially the one in front of my house, at the end of the porch and hanging over my driveway. A branch was cracked and it would seem only hours or minutes away from falling right on the hood of my Wife's car, affectionately called "Honey" by my her. Which meant I had to cut it down––after I moved the cars out of the driveway.

I got my 4' ladder out––I have 3 ladders of various sizes for such things––and climbed to the safest/highest spot on the ladder. With a reciprocating saw in my hand. I was extra careful so as not to: kill the plants below me, break any garden statues and wear my work boots with the steel toes in case the saw falls out of my hands. I secured the ladder and up I went. Things were falling into place. Little did I know I would be falling as well.

Now for the flashbacks. With the big branch cut and covering the driveway, I started to get down––no, not like that––I got down from the ladder. And that's when my life did a quick review in me head. The ladder sunk into the soft ground and started to lean left. I, however, was heading right. I was still holding the saw. I was starting to fall and tried to gain my balance. Until my right foot slid across the rung and got stuck IN BETWEEN the rungs. There I was, falling backwards, with a saw in my hands and no one home to help if I really got hurt. This started this "video" in my head––I'm falling with a saw in my hands, please God don't let it cut me, shit my foot is stuck, SOB I'm going to hit the porch railing, no I'm going to gore myself on the pruners I just noticed, I think my ankle is going to break, don't fall, don't fall, don't fall, SHIT there's no one home what happens if I hit my head on the porch railing or cut my jugular vein or break my back, FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKK.

Fortunately, I just scrapped the crap out of my right arm (had to get a tetanus shot) and tweaked the hell out of my back. I did bounce off the railing of the porch. And my back was in a knot, so much so that I finally went and got some 'killers for the pain that had been constant since Sunday. I also had an interesting though sitting in the Doctor's office yesterdayt: after all the chemo, radiation and surgeries I survived during cancer treatments I could have died falling 4 feet off a ladder.

That would've sucked.

Save The Planet Or Myself?

I had a rather interesting "discussion" with someone at work about my use of a plastic water bottle.

We were talking about "rethink, recycle, reuse" when this person pointed out in a meeting with others that I "could get rid of the water bottle. That's a big part of our problem." To which I replied, "I need these water bottles." Then it got interesting. As we walked out of the meeting together I then told this fellow employee I needed water to survive because of caner. This person proceeded to admonish me, saying I could use a permanent water bottle, made of steel––I can't because of the metal reaction that occurs in my mouth––or I could use a Brita water filter––I do, at home and at work, filling my water bottle that I use for the day over and over and use it until the next morning. I've tried glass water bottles––I have broken two––and plastic bottles as well.

The treatments I had for Head & Neck cancer were extensive––if you've read this before, sorry––and included 4 oral surgeries, replacement fillings in 4 of my teeth, surgery to insert a feeding tube, 35 radiation treatments over 7 weeks and 13 chemo treatments, one a week for 13 weeks. While I'm thankfully still alive––no ghost writing here––the side effects are permanent. Especially the damage to my salivary glands. I produce about 25-30% of the saliva I used to produce. Which means I need water by my side 24/7/365. Not just because of constant dry mouth and throat. But as a result of not producing enough saliva, I now have acid reflux. And sometimes I start choking because I'm too dry and have mucous stuck in my throat––at least that's just one of the things that make me choke or cough at any moment. Swallowing? An adventure in itself.

Now I'm not looking for any sympathy. It just struck me odd that someone would not even listen to my situation. I did say under my breath, "if I didn't have cancer I'd be drinking out of a glass just like you" but when I was asked what I said I just replied "nothing." Because this person either didn't care or understand or is just a douche bag and nothing I said was going to change their mind. This person was determined to save the planet starting with me. I have no problem with that other than it got me thinking.

Today, I'll save myself so I can help save the planet.