What’s Your Prediction For the Fight?

WARNING: the following was written under the influence of sleep deprivation and pain, and contains frequent use of RANDOM MOVIE REFERENCES, IRREVERENT TAKES ON SERIOUS TOPICS, a few instances of SEMI-FOUL LANGUAGE, and INCESSANT WHINING.

Allow me to begin by just saying, “HOLY MOLY!” As in, “What the F***?!” As in, “What in the wide, wide, world of sports is a goin’ on here?!” Why the litany of exclamatory exclamations, you ask? Well, because it’s 2:15 a.m., and once again I’m sitting here on the edge of the couch in our sunroom, rocking back and forth, waiting for the Tramadol and the Advil I ate about thirty minutes ago to kick in. Once the pills shave down the sharper edges just a bit, I’ll pick up the guitar and work on the song I’ve been trying to write. I’ll fumble with the chords a bit, hum/moan off-key, or maybe watch a few more YouTube videos like “Song Structure 101 for Losers.” (FYI: yes, I love music; no, I can’t really play the guitar or any other instrument; no, I can’t really sing; and no, I certainly have no idea how to write a song). Eventually, I’ll give up and retire to the office to do a bit of work-work, tinker with another screenplay I’ve been writing, or scamper back down the rabbit hole of research related to staying alive as long as possible with Stage IV thymoma. With any luck, the pain will subside enough by 4:30 or 5 that I’ll be able to find a position on the couch (after ten minutes of arranging a series of pillows to hold my various body parts in a bizarre, “dead bug” like position) and fall back asleep for an hour or so.

This has been the pattern for a solid five or six weeks now. Go to bed at 10 or 11, watch my iPad a bit, fall asleep, wake up an hour or two later feeling like Anakin Skywalker after Obi-Wan Kenobi dumped his ass in the crater of lava, get up, go downstairs, make coffee, and begin the above routine … Honestly, it’s not as miserable as it sounds. It is a bit awkward when I come downstairs and the older kids are still up (especially if they have friends over: “Hey man, why is your dad up making coffee at 1:45 in the morning?”), but aside from the eye-crossing pain, I’ve somehow come to enjoy the peaceful, quiet, middle-of-the-nights where I’m free to pursue whatever creative endeavor strikes my fancy.

Over the years, I’ve been known in our house to make the following impossibly stupid statement: “It’s just pain.” I’ve said this in response to situations where someone is in pain, but they are “going to be okay.” As in, yes, you have the flu and that’s painful, but it’s “normal.” Or yes, your knee hurts, but that’s “normal” after surgery. Looking back, how I have never been punched in the face by any of the recipients of this sage analysis, I have no idea. In fact, allow me to pause here for a moment and punch myself in the face for having ever said those words. As for my own history with pain … well, I’ve heard people say I have a high pain tolerance (by all means, feel free to cackle out loud here). I guess it’s true that I’m probably pretty good at enduring pain if I’m in the middle of doing something. I’m probably okay at pushing through pain at the tail-end of a marathon, or climbing a mountain, or twelve hours into some kind of manual labor home-improvement project I’m obsessed with. But unrelenting, 8 or 9 outta 10 pain that you can’t ever quite get a handle on? Well, in this case, it turns out I am not very tough. I know this, not just because I’m presently moaning loud enough to scare the crap out of the dogs, but because tough people don’t talk about their pain. Tough people don’t write blog posts about their pain. Tough people can take their mind off their pain. Tough people don’t sit in the dark ruminating on captivating cinematic examples of pain. Right now, for example, I’m thinking of Leo DiCaprio when he gets torn apart (over and over again) by the grizzly bear in The Revenant, Tom Hanks when he knocks his own rotten tooth out with the ice skate blade in Cast Away, and everybody’s favorite charter boat captain, Quint (played by Robert Shaw), when he slides down the deck and gets chomped by Jaws. In short, I am presently not taking my mind off the pain.

Where is the pain coming from? Geez, how do I answer that? … I had scans done again the week of Christmas, and apparently Santa gave my behavior the past year a mediocre-at-best grade. The tumors in my lungs are holding pretty stable. Some of the “floaters” in my chest are stable, others have grown a bit. But the cancer in my bones and liver is “progressing,” meaning the tumors are growing some and/or there are a few new ones. I then had an MRI done on my spine last week and, how do I put this … I guess you’d say it looks like a shooting-range target (insert any one of a thousand movie scenes where our hero fires off a full clip then hits the button to bring the target in – in this case, our guy or gal is not a crack shot – there are holes all over the friggin’ place). It also shows I have pretty good compression fractures in both my T12 and L2 vertebrae, which is kinda cool in the sense that now I can go around saying I have a broken back. Note: research shows 25% of all women over the age of 50 are likely walking around right now with at least one such compression fracture. That is astounding. You don’t see them writing blog posts about it, do you? Then again, I suppose that makes sense – when I stop to think about it, most of the toughest people I know are women over 50 (wife, check; mom, check; sisters, check). Last but not least (and the biggest issue), it shows the tumor in L2 has left the bone, is kinda running amok, and has moved into my spinal canal and is pressing all my nerves off to one side (as a rule, nerves don’t really like that). Anyway, it’s not hard to look at my overall scorecard and pull a Clubber Lang (when he’s being interviewed before his fight with Rocky). Reporter to Clubber: “What’s your prediction for the fight?” Clubber pauses, stares down the camera, and spits, “Prediction? … Pain.” Apparently, cancer hurts. Apparently, I’m supposed to be in pain.

The pain itself is actually kinda fascinating. Sometimes it’s an all-body thing – like an attack – think the body aches you get when you have the flu, times 10. Other times it’s back-specific – like the kind of back pain where you can’t lay down, you can’t stand, and you can’t sit (unfortunately, I can’t levitate.) Then there’s the good old radiating pain (allow me to officially apologize to anyone who’s ever told me they have sciatica – I’m quite sure I wasn’t sympathetic enough). Good God. Left hip and left thigh. Feels like Neil Peart is hammering out a drum solo there with a sledgehammer. To confuse matters further, I do also have a tumor in my left femur … is that the sledgehammer? Regardless, Neil, please go easy.

Oddly enough, during this whole couple-months-long pain odyssey, I did manage to break my 5-week cumulative mileage record on the bike (what kind of weirdo tracks these things?). I know, I know, this feat most certainly represents my application into the I.D. 10-T club – an application I’m quite sure will be accepted. Why am I riding the bike all those miles if I’m in so much pain? I don’t know, what can I say? In my defense, the actual act of cycling does make my back feel better temporarily, although I’m not sure I can say that for my femur.

Anyway, enough about me? How are you doing? Ha! Just kidding … this is conveniently a one-way street, where I get to bitch and moan all by myself. Actually, I have thought about making a call list of people I can ring in the middle of the night. Like maybe on a set schedule. The idea is I would just call, wake you up, and tell you that my back hurts, or my leg, or my ass, or all of me. Just to share, you know. Of course, it occurred to me that this wouldn’t be as rewarding for you as it would be for me. So hey, I apologize for writing nearly 2,000 words here dedicated to my personal pain experience, but at least I have the decency not to pick up the phone right now …

To wrap things up, you may be wondering what we’re doing about all these issues – the latest scans, the progression, the fractures, the pain, etc. Fear not, we do have a plan … I have been to a spine surgeon – he thinks the fractures are stable for now, but we can look at surgery (think plugging holes with cement, I kid you not) down the road if needed. On Monday, I’ll begin 10 straight days of radiation from my T12 vertebrae (lower mid-back) all the way down through my pelvis and hip joints (tumors there too), with a separate dose each day to my left femur. The radiation will hopefully neutralize the bone tumors in these areas, keep me from breaking more stuff, and relieve some of the pain. I will also be starting a med to further help mitigate the risk of future fractures, as well as switching to a new, tougher, two-drug chemo regimen. The idea with the chemo is to get more aggressive and knock back the progression, especially in the liver. I hope to be able to get through four 3-week cycles of this new regimen … I’m guessing just enough to lose my hair again. Then, finally, sometime this spring, I will likely be joining a clinical trial out of Georgetown to try out a drug that’s never been used on thymoma but shows promise. Considering all this, it’s safe to say things are about to get a little saucy around here. I admit, I’m feeling a bit “weathered” at the moment: sleep deprivation and pain are a toxic combo, and the 60 weeks of chemo (over the past 3 years) and radiation I’ve already had has added up. But I’m encouraged, and I’m ready as I can be to take it all on. I know if I can just tap into some of the toughness the 50+ year-old women in my life possess, I’ll be fine …

In closing, to any and all of you who are in pain, may God bring you comfort. I mean that. And, even though I just wasted ten minutes of your life complaining about how I feel, don’t worry about me … never forget, I’m a writer, and writer’s love to exaggerate, especially in the middle of the night. Also, let it be known that all of my doctors have agreed that we have a “long-term” outlook on treatment because I have a “long ways to go.” They basically said “if you was old and sick and on your way out, we’d just radiate your ass and give you more meds so you felt a little better on your farewell tour – no, we tryin’ to fix you up brother, so you can continue being a playaaaaaa.” Well, that’s not exactly how they said it, but you get the point.

Finally, I’d like to ask for your prayers and support for a good friend, Isabel Garcia, who’s followed our journey from the beginning, and is a frequent, loving commenter here. Isabel has recently begun her own cancer journey, and she and her husband, Ef, and daughters, Brendy and Andrea, could use our love and support. The Graber clan’s got your back Garcias.

Okay, thanks once again for all the prayers and support! Now, the time has come to grab a dozen pillows and try to assume the “dead-bug” sleeping position.

Until next time, night-night, and peace out!