(Disclaimer: this one’s pretty much all update and full of cheesy metaphors … but, I must say, kinda important)
Titling these posts is typically either a lot of fun or a royal pain in the butt. This one … oh man, there were so many options … I coulda gone with FRIED FEMURS AND RICE, as I recently had both femurs radiated from top to bottom. Or maybe BAKED BRAINS & SKULL SCALLOPS, as I also just finished radiation to more tumors inside my skull pushing on my brain. Then, of course, there was HELLO BALDNESS, MY OLD FRIEND, I’VE COME TO TALK WITH YOU AGAIN, as the skull radiation is gonna make my hair fall out in big patches and I’ll have to shave it again. For a while I was stuck on simply THE POST-IT NOTE, because when you get CyberKnife radiation to your head they lock you down on a table in a Hannibal Lecter mask, and if it’s just loose enough for you to open your eyelids, you’ll see there’s a single Post-it note, with a crosshairs and dot hand-drawn in red magic marker, stuck on the ceiling directly above you … I have no idea why. Finally, there were the following options: THIRD & LONG, ALL IN SUCKA, and WALKIN’ THE PLANK.
Ahh, yes, THIRD & LONG … this is how I’ve been describing the latest development in my systemic treatment. It’s complicated as hell, given the endless pathology reports, biopsy stain testing, bloodwork, blah, blah, blah, but basically, we are going to try immunotherapy (along with another, totally separate, “targeted” drug), beginning tomorrow. So, why THIRD & LONG? Well, this kinda treatment for my kinda cancer is a high-risk, high-reward affair. It can be very toxic, but it can also work—sometimes both. You get the picture: it’s third down and long, and we’ve dialed up a play … I know I’m gonna get smashed, but if I can stay in the pocket long enough to get off the pass, we might get a big gain. In my case, I haven’t even been a candidate for immunotherapy because of how toxic it can be, but my diagnosis has recently changed from one type of thymic cancer (not so bad) to another (the worst kind) and, for reasons I won’t try to explain, this opens the door for immunotherapy. It could even be said that I’ve been misdiagnosed for the past five years, which is nuts considering all the testing I’ve had done. Does this upset me? Not really. Again, it’s a rare and complicated kinda cancer. Plus, my lovely wife has pointed out that if I’d been diagnosed with the worst kind five years ago, I’d have been written off by every tumor board in the country (a lot wrote me off, anyway), and I would have never been able to convince anyone to cut out the main tumor in my chest (which undoubtedly extended my life). Anyway, with regards to starting this new high-risk / high-reward treatment tomorrow, I coulda also gone with … ALL IN, SUCKA, as in we’re pushing all our chips into the center of the table … or WALKIN’ THE PLANK … yeah … there’s a bit of that feeling in the air (but I’m on a yacht in the Caribbean, and the water’s gorgeous, and I can swim, so we’re good!).
Wait, but then how’d you end up with HELLO CLEVELAND! you ask? Remember when our rock heroes, Nigel Tufnel and the boys, from Spinal Tap, got lost in the stadium tunnels backstage? Well, it turns out I gotta get a spinal tap myself here in the next few weeks. Recent MRIs show that the cancer has probably spread to my spinal cord and spinal fluid. Admittedly, cancer in the spinal cord is no joke. I mean, on the official, medical Diagnostic Jokey Scale, it’s rated “seriously, man, that shit ain’t funny.” But it’s not insurmountable. I can get proton radiation to my spinal cord from brain to the bottom … a slightly dicey affair as I’ve already had radiation to 19/24 vertebra, and thus my spinal cord has already gotten a bit of collateral damage. And then there’s how sick immunotherapy might make me—it may be tough to take radiation to my spinal cord if I’m really laid low by immunotherapy. On the flipside, cancer spreading to my spinal cord didn’t happen overnight … it’s probably been there, to some degree, for some time, and has no doubt caused a fair amount of pain … in the end, if proton therapy works, I may feel a helluva lot better.
Of course, the main question I get is “how do you feel … how are you doing?” Really, not so bad. It’s no surprise that my body hurts, but I have an actual oncology pain doctor now, and that’s helped. What’s her approach? Well, she started by mocking me for taking pediatric doses and then cutting them in half, and then she ordered me to take more pain meds, as prescribed, like a big boy. Lo and behold, this has helped. There are good days and bad days, but last week Graber and I, and his cousin (that’s you, Jack) drove up to Pittsburgh to see our truly awful Pirates play, I road my bike a couple of days, and worked on a lot of house projects, including re-setting a paver walkway. I was even going to go to the track today to time my mile, but, I must admit, I don’t think I’d be able to maintain even a jog at the moment—no worries, I’ll go out and time a bike ride instead. Mentally, I’m good … really just thankful each day for being blessed with a life that I love. I’ve learned to take great joy in things, big and small: my writing, my endless list of house projects to work on, work-work, etc. Most importantly, I love my wife and kids, who somehow also just happen to be my favorite five people in the world to hang out with … no man could ask for more than that.
As for tomorrow, gimme the ball. I’m ready. In an effort to absolutely hammer the cheesy football metaphor into dust: the play’s been called—time to trot out there and execute. If things break down, and I’m forced out of the pocket, I will scramble to daylight (even if I presently have the legs of a 108-year-old, and if someone were to actually tackle me, I’d turn into a 185-pound bag of bone dust). Thanks again for all the prayers … keep ‘em coming, if you don’t mind.
Until next time … peace out!