Forgive the war language below, but let’s face it, anyone who has cancer or has loved someone with cancer knows that’s exactly what the fight against it is. After all, it’s nothing less than a life-or-death struggle, inch-by-inch, for territory. Of course, the territory being fought over isn’t a forest or a hill or a valley, it’s a lung or liver or a breast, brain, or bone. Lose too much ground, or the wrong piece of ground, and the enemy will overrun you. Speaking of the enemy, it’s a sneaky bastard, and it’s nothing like you and I. There’s not a shred of humanity in it—it shows no remorse, no mercy, no restraint.
Like all wars, any individual war against cancer can be messy, brutal, and complicated. It often involves complex, strategic decision-making and powerful weapons (“local treatment” like surgery or radiation to attack specific tumors, or “systemic treatment” like chemo, immunotherapy, or hormone therapy to attack the cancer as a whole). Of course, these weapons are never as precise as we want them to be. There’s always collateral damage—the territory being fought over bears the burden of this conflict—so we have to be judicious in our use of these weapons, less we destroy the land (body) we’re fighting for. Sometimes we get lucky, and the right weapon can be deployed early in the conflict, and the enemy can be wiped out before it gets a solid foothold. Sometimes we don’t get so lucky, and the enemy aggressively invades and takes too much ground, on too many fronts, too fast, and it’s over quickly. Often times, we find ourselves somewhere in the middle of these extremes, in what becomes a war of attrition—a long, ugly battle that can stretch out for years, even decades.
Turns out the fight against cancer can also be, at times, something like a full-time job. From June 1 to June 30, we had 15 separate doctors’ appointments, including 5 scans (2 CT, 1 PET, 1 MRI, and 1 X-ray), in 4 different states. What a colossal pain in the ass! The issue, once again, is that I have a very rare cancer that is behaving quite mysteriously. Simply put, type A thymoma cancer isn’t supposed to spread much, but here we are, with about 50 tumors in my lungs, one between my left lung and my heart, one in my spine, and 3 in my ribs. The good news (yes, there is indeed good news) is that my cancer is behaving in at least one way it’s supposed to—overall, it’s relatively slow growing. Nevertheless, the bottom line is there’s no playbook for this particular war we find ourselves in, hence the many tests, consultations, and opinions on how to proceed (what weapons to employ, when, and where).
So, after nearly two years, here’s my official report from the front lines … We need to do something about the bigger tumors in my lungs and the whole broken rib situation. We also need to stop the cancer from opening up new “fronts” in other areas. We met with the surgeon up in NYC a few weeks ago, hoping maybe he could cut out the bigger tumors in my lungs, but it was a no-go—he’d just have to take out too much tissue to get to the trouble areas. We’ve also discussed radiating these tumors, but you can only get so much radiation in the lungs (remember that whole collateral damage thing?) over the course of your life. So, basically, we’re looking for a way to stop the advancing enemy in its tracks and maybe even take back some territory, without causing too much collateral damage and without using all the ammo we have.
With that being said, I’m going to start chemotherapy again later this month. For those who’ve been following along from the beginning, you may remember that last time they gave me a three-drug regimen (including the notorious “Red Devil”) over 8-hour infusions. This time I’ll be getting a single drug (30-60 minutes), every three weeks. If it works, and I can tolerate it, I will stay on it for many months or even years (off and on). Chemo didn’t do much for me last time (except damage my heart), but we don’t need a decisive victory this go round. Let me put it this way: I am writing this from the beach. I already biked once this morning, and I’m going to bike again later today (trying to break 100 miles this week—ain’t gonna get there). But first I’m going to go challenge Tegan to a Go Fish throw-down, and then have a drink by the pool. In other words, I’m living a good life—if we can’t kick cancer outta me completely, we can more than live with a status-quo stalemate. As for the rib, I have to admit it’s pretty damn annoying. I’m planning on getting 3-5 rounds of radiation on it later this month—hopefully that will ease some of the pain and allow it to heal a bit, although that would mean I wouldn’t be able to get out of weed-whacking anymore …
Let me say one thing before I go. I don’t like the word hate. It just doesn’t feel right, you know? It’s always been too extreme for my tastes. But I hate cancer. I hate it. I’m not sure I know a single person that has not been affected by cancer in one way or another. We recently found out that Christie’s oldest sister, Connie, has been diagnosed with breast cancer—I now humbly ask that you include her and her family in your prayers. And we lost my cousin/brother, Jim Pendergast, to cancer on June 8th, just four days after my last post, where I asked you to pray for him and his family. I’ve already said a lot about what Jim meant to me. Among many other things, he was an inspiring warrior and a great comfort to have fighting alongside me in the trenches. I miss him, but he continues to inspire me. For honestly, I think the best way to “win” this war is to live and love, with spirit, in the moment, and Jim was as good as it gets at that. Thanks again, brother, for the example you set.
Okay, time for that Go Fish game, drink, and bike ride. Barring anything major, I promise lighter fare next time out! Until then, as always, thanks for the prayers and support. Peace out!