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We are on the kernel of my favorite time of the year. Sweet corn is coming in to grocery stores and vegetable markets in the area. I love Silver Queen corn and it is only available for a brief moment in time in the early spring.
If you also like corn on the cob, have I got a great youtube video for you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YnBF6bv4Oe4
This old dude has changed the way we do corn in our home for all time. I just finished having dinner with our family and we prepared the corn after watching the video. It works perfectly.
Go get some corn tomorrow and fire up your microwave!
I have used this blog to chronicle, predominately, my life with cancer since I was diagnosed in May, 2009. There have been posts that didn’t refer to cancer, but as I look back, they were few. My story has been raw at times, spiritual at others, hopeful, desperate, angry, wistful and at others, downright sad.
Looking back on those early days, the information I got from my research said fairly emphatically that I wouldn’t be here now. My funeral would have been set, planned, executed and I’d be lying peacefully returning to the dust of a Seale, Ala. cemetery. These last almost three years have been life-affirming, instead of life-ending.
My story has been followed by thousands. People on at least five continents have accessed and read my blog posts. More important to me and to my family have been the local readers who have not only touched their mobile devices, keyboards or touch screens, but who have also reached out and touched me, hugged me, prayed for me, encouraged me, fed me, preached to me, cared for me and loved me.
I know I have pulled on your heart strings, made you laugh and made you cry. You’ve railed against fate with me. You’ve wondered, like we have wondered why it happened to me, all the while being glad it wasn’t you. Don’t lie — I know you know this is true.
You have looked at me with sadness in your eyes. Pity, even. How do you look at someone who has been given a death sentence?
Back in the early days, after cancer, I read longingly about that smaller percentage who could beat this tricky, deadly cancer. I have worn out my knees praying that I would be included in that percentage of death-defying survivors.
If I am to be, I’m on my way to paying the price of admission. Thirteen incisions, cinched up by many stitches and much surgical glue criss cross my torso, front and back. Countless sleepless nights with a vomit bucket within reach. A hospital bed, two different walkers, spare recliners moved from room to room trying to find a place I could be with my family and still be able to find a way to sit. Indescribable pain, hundreds of needle sticks, bags of fluids and radiation — oh my God, the radiation. Hundreds of hours of reading, studying this cancer and trying to hold up my responsibilities as part of my medical team. These are the tickets one has to punch to get into the show. I’m praying all the seats are not full when I get to the head of the line.
Update:
Dr. Mac Molnar met with us on Thursday of this week. He described the epic left lobe of my multi-noduled, benign, big ass thyroid goiter. It is gone, the path report was clear, my latest incision is healing well and my voice is beginning to get stronger. This is all good!
On this day, this beautiful Saturday, I torched my garden spot making ready for some tomato plants. I spent some time in my Ranger ATV looking at longleaf pines beginning to stretch their cactus-like arms toward the sky.
On this beautiful Saturday, I drove to the back part of our property out in the woods, turned off the vehicle, stripped buck naked, except for my socks, hat, sunglasses and boots and stretched my arms to the sky and thanked my God for healing me. For sustaining me through these dark days and nights and for giving me the first real seed of hope I’ve had in almost three years.
Here’s what I found out: I like praying naked in the woods and I’m going to do more of it. But first, I’ve got to get that drum circle started.
The last time I spent the night in a hospital with a condition that was NOT cancer was back in the 1980s. I sustained an injury to the tendon that controls my left pinky finger. I was at Julene and Andy Buice’s home. Andy had a motorcycle accident several years ago and lost his life — I lost a great friend. Their little house was across Cherokee Avenue from the Columbus Country Club and the driveway was a bridge that crossed over Weracoba Creek.
Even after all the partying we did at that house, not one of us ever ended up in the creek. I did have an accident there one night that ultimately sent me to the hospital for surgery. After visiting a hand specialist at Georgia Baptist Hospital to confer about my condition, we decided to have the surgery done here to reinsert the tendon that had been dislocated when I tripped over Julene and Andy’s sleeping black cat, who also just happened to be sleeping on a black rug. I stepped. The cat hissed and yelped. As I jumped out of the way, my left hand slid down the wall as I tried to gain control of my fall. My little finger hung on the moulding around the door frame and my 160 pounds kept going.
Okay, so I’ve gained a little weight.
After that injury, my left pinky finger kind of flopped in the breeze. I couldn’t hold it tight against my other three fingers. This was such an unusual injury, three orthopaedic surgeons were in the OR with me. The surgery was successful and I spent one night in St. Francis Hospital. As I found out yesterday, being in the hospital is never a boat load of fun. But, being in the hospital with almost anything that is NOT cancer, can be quite fun if you look in just the right places.
Back in the 1980s when I had that finger injury my old friend, Larry Aglialoro, came by to see me and we were the only two people in the room. Larry and I probably have enough on each other to get in deep trouble and I will be taking those stories with me to the grave. I can tell this one, though. Ag was looking out the window and he said, “Mike, there are a bunch of nurses in that building over there.” I had just had a big ol’ IV narcotic pain killer pushed into my vein and true to it’s word, I was feeling no pain.
“Ag, help me get up out of this bed. Come on, I need you to help me get up on that ledge. I’m gonna moon ‘em,” I said. I rolled out of the bed, pushed my stand holding a bag of fluids over toward the window. We pushed a chair over to the ledge, Ag gave me a boost and I stood up on the ledge and pressed some ham on the window. I stayed up there long enough to make sure we made eye contact with them and I think one of the young women gave me two thumbs up. In fact, I’m sure of it. The memory of Ag, dressed in a suit and tie, hoisting my half naked, hospital gown clad self up onto that ledge still makes me laugh as I sit here some 35 years later.
I have been sheltering an embarrassing secret for the past couple of years. The sound of the word, goiter, doesn’t roll very easily across my tongue. When I think goiter, I see an Amazonian indian with his dark skin painted white. He has an enormous bow, strung with God knows what and the quiver of four-foot-long arrows are coated with curare. That is exactly was I see in my mind when I think of the word goiter. Hey buddy, is that a goiter on your neck, or are you just glad to see me!
In fact, I can’t believe I’m writing about it now. I used a collection of code words when I referred to it in my talks with Jill. My surgeon, Dr. Mac Molnar, said, “Mike, this is the biggest goiter I’ve ever seen! Probably weighed a couple of pounds. It was the left lobe that had grown down into your chest.”
I knew that I had begun to experience difficulties swallowing and it had become very difficult for me to speak loudly enough to be heard in a noisy room. After hearing how freakishly large this goiter was, I’m really excited for everything to be healed. I suspect that I’ll have a much better quality of life with it gone. It is a shame that they had to send it off to be biopsied. It would have made a great anchor for my fishing kayak.
We’re home from The Medical Center and will be able to sleep in our own bed tonight. All the staff at The Medical Center were fabulous. One hit, almost painless needle sticks and extremely attentive, kind care was delivered to us with smiles and cheerful attitudes. Everyone seemed to have a kick in their step.
Meanwhile, since I’ve now delivered my goiter and since I’ve written about it boldly and without fear, I am putting it behind me and looking forward to an easier life without the difficulties it caused. The past few weeks have been all about my pushing my fears to the front and talking openly about things that are embarrassing for me to talk about.
A few weeks ago we showed up at No Shame Theater with my djembe drum that Jill bought me for my birthday. At the end of that evening I brought shame on myself and my family. Turns out that for some there is shame at what is otherwise a “No Shame” zone. I reached back and started tickling Jill’s ankle with my fingers. I felt her jerk away and I went back in for another grope. Then a hand appeared on mine and snatched my hand out of the way. Yes, I was playing with a strange woman’s leg. Oh my God, our whole table erupted in laughter during a time when we really shouldn’t have been laughing. I’ll never be able to go there again.
The thyroidectomy went very well. I didn’t lose my voice, although I am very hoarse and will likely be for a few days. My calcium levels are spot on, which means Dr. Molnar did a good job preserving parathyroid tissue. I was mostly blissfully out of pain and got visits from two of my sons who live in town. I am 59 years old. My sweet parents were at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. yesterday. Ann and John Venable have never missed a single thing in my life. All those Little League games, football games, school plays, concerts, speeches — they have been right there. They are the sweetest parents that I can imagine anyone having. They have given me a good name, wonderful guidance, unconditional love and encouragement to reach for the stars. Jill and I both have great parents and we are so fortunate to have them close by and solidly in our lives.
I hid the goiter from them too. I was afraid they might shun me if they knew about it. There, now I’ve said the G word out loud. I never want utter that word again.
A direct quote from a direct mail piece from Alabama Power Co. “Are you on the right rate plan? Alabama Power offers you rate plans depending on your household needs. You can choose from the Family Dwelling Rate that is based on your usage, with the price varying by season, or choose between two new options: Time Advantage-Energy and Time Advantage-Demand. The new Time Advantage Rates are based on the time of day, season and how much electricity you use at one time. They offer economy pricing periods when total electricity usage it at its lowest — evenings, nights and weekends — and when the Time Advantage price is 30-35 percent lower than Alabama Power’s standard residential rate. These economy pricing periods total about 90 percent of the hours in a year. The Time Advantage Rate may work best if you can shift electricity use to these lower-cost times. Switching rates may help you save up to 12 percent annually on your power bill.”
So these cheaper rates comprise 90 percent of the hours in a year, but if I choose one of these ”better” rates, I might be able to save 12 percent annually?
Does this offer make a lick of sense? Not to me. I’ve got to see some numbers before I’ll jump into making a decision like this one.
If you read my blog, you have heard my declarations of how damn good it is to be able to get great cancer treatment here at home. You’ve heard me say how much I appreciate the John B. Amos Cancer Center, all the people who work there, and most specially Dr. Andy Pippas and his right hand, Cindy Ivey.
Here’s another story that illustrates just how incredible the care I’ve received here has played out: You all know how important the MRI scan that I received on Tuesday was. It has been five months since my third back surgery (the one Dr. Marc Goldman did that stopped the chronic pain and essentially kept me out of a wheel chair), and about 7 months since Dr. Mike Gorum and Dr. John Cabelka (and a host of other physicists, technicians and support staff) attempted to kill the renal cell cancer tumor in my spine. This MRI was huge! This is probably the most anxious I’ve been, because a good report would mean I might have a chance at significant, disease-free survival. On the flip, a bad report would signal the beginning of some negatively life changing other procedures or nasty drug side effects and a likely significant shortening of my potential life span.
This is how much I love the care I’m receiving here at the hands of medical professionals who also happen to be my friends. Mike Gorum has a vested interest in my life. He has performed (along with Dr. Mac Molnar) a huge spinal operation on me that culminated in the rebuilding of the vertebral body at L-2. He has watched me suffer with crippling pain and slowly begin to regain my strength and vitality.
Mike was finished with his work on Tuesday, fairly early in the day after a very early start, but he came back to the hospital to be in the room in which the technicians were administering my MRI. He literally watched the scans while they were happening. He sent me a text, “MRI clean.” That evening, Mike and his wife, Tammy, met me at Ride On Bikes and they rode with me for my first bike ride in over a year. I tried to tell them how much it meant to me to have such care and concern at a time when I may have most needed it in my life.
That is what getting treatment at home looks like. These medical professionals are our friends. They live here. They rear their children here. We see them around town at plays, restaurants and music events. If you are asked to support local medical charities, please dig deep. We need a medical school here, we need a new women’s and children’s center like the one being planned at Columbus Regional Healthcare System, we need expanded facilities at St. Francis hospital.
We have taken advantage of seeking second and third opinions (with the urging and blessings of Dr. Pippas), but if at all possible I want to be here for treatments.
I’ll get off my soap box now and tell you what I just read in my MRI report. My spine is in perfect alignment, held in place with two titanium plates and four screws, for which my insurance paid $43,000, if you can believe that! There is no evidence of metastatic disease! There are no soft tissue abnormalities present near my spine! In short, it appears the stereotactic radiosurgery that they didn’t get right at Emory, was administered perfectly here. The tumor in my spine appears to be dead and new bone is growing, thanks in part to the monthly injections of Xgeva, (http://www.xgeva.com/WT.mc_id=GooglePaidSearchBrandXgevaURL&WT.srch=1) a drug that should strengthen my bones and make it more difficult for the establishment of another renal cell metastasis.
Here is a snapshot of the history with Renal Cell Carcinoma:
Mike Venable
59 years of age
• June 11, 2009 radical left nephrectomy + 12 lymph nodes (1 positive for RCC)
• August, 2009 ASSURE clinical trial (Sutent/Nexavar/Placebo) Ultimately completed trial.
• September, 2010 discovered 2 cm tumor in spine at L-2 and unblinded from trial (Placebo arm, thank God, but I knew that all along)
• October 21, 2010 Biopsy of spine determined the lesion is a metastatic RCC.
• December 2, 2010 Stereotactic Radiosurgery (SRS) at Emory Atlanta (went for for CT simulation on 11/17/2010)
• March, 2010: oncologist says that I’m NED.
• August, 2011: Oncologist says the tumor at L-2 wasn’t completely killed and it is growing again.
• August 19, 2011: Lumbar fusion surgery and fixation with pedicle screws and fusion with bone morphogenic protein at L 1-3.
• Three weeks post surgery, developed severe #10 back pain. Treated with time-release morphine and dilaudid for breakthrough pain.
• Awake at 4:30 a.m. on Saturday, October 8, 2011 and squatted down to remove power plug from wall socket. Complete loss of strength on right side caused me to fall over to my right.
Got to bed and called my neurosurgeon early Saturday morning. He instructed me to get to emergency department immediately. His partner, Dr. Marc Goldman met me and we went immediately to surgery, where he performed a lumbar laminectomy (bilateral inferior L1, complete bilateral L2 and bilateral superior L3). Pain was immediately gone and according to physical therapist, strength can be regained in legs with therapy, which I’m doing now.
• On Monday, October 10, I was moved by ambulance to the John B. Amos Cancer Center, where I was simulated for stereotactic radiosurgery to attempt to kill the tumor in my back. Got food poisoning from bad hotdog on Monday evening, so we delayed SRS until Thursday, October 20. 16-greys of radiation in a single one-hour treatment.
• Scans in December, 2011 show NED. Got second opinion on December 30, 2011 from Dr. Janice Dutcher at Roosevelt Hospital in New York City, NY. She advised to stay course, but would administer HDIL-2, if we wanted to try it.
• Got third opinion from Dr. Dan George at Duke University Hospital on January 11, 2012. He recommended to stay the course and said he was “guardedly optimistic” about my long-term disease-free survival.
• Scans in March, 2012 show NED.
Thank you for all your continued prayers for me and my family. I am a walking, breathing, living example of the power of prayer, good medical treatment and great attitude. Sorry for the length of this post, but I know you want to know about my latest scans.
Peace…
Today is the first day of spring, 2012. As the pollen falls and bursting buds imbue the world with color and fragrance, I’m contemplating my future. This is day two of my latest round of scans, the windows into my body and the prognosticators of my chances for survival.
One hour in a clacking, thumping, thrumming MRI machine. One hour, in between bags of fluids force fed into my vein, and then the wait. I think Dr. Mike Gorum, one of my neurosurgeon spinal structural engineers, is as anxious as I am to see this round of scans. If Mike and John Cabelka have killed this tumor, I have a great chance to live with this cancer diagnosis. If the tumor is still growing, my chances for a good quality of life for the remainder of my life are slim.
The scans today are going to tell that tale. I want to see the end of that tale. If my life was a book, I’d flip over to the end to see how the next few months are going to play out. I plan on this first day of this spring being the first day of my life’s spring. The good news that I’ll get today, or some day soon, will be the bellwether of just how far into the future I’m going to be allowed to get.
I’m not afraid. I feel like the bumper sticker I’ve seen on trucks driven by obvious rednecks: “I ain’t skeered!” I was talking to a cancer “sister” the other day, extolling the virtues of a small dose of an antidepressant — in my case, Celexa — as a vital part of living with cancer. Without noticeable side effects, my edges are rounded. I can walk straight toward this thing that is trying to kill me without fear or trepidation. People tell me I’m brave. They say I’m a shining example of how to live with cancer. I’m just being the only way I know how to be. I think Dr. Pippas’ urging me to take the Celexa has been so important in my overall comfort, despite my awareness that there are malevolent forces at work inside me.
The love of a good wife and good sons and the arms of my community enfold me as I watch the liquid drip into my arm and contemplate the walk down the hall to be slid into that tube of medical magic. Please pray for good news for us today. I have the feeling that this day is my life as a balanced apothecary scale. The right news today would slip enough weight into the “Good” side to tip me toward good life.
It is so good to feel like writing again. Thanks for going with me.
I’ve been sitting on this post for a few weeks until I could speak to Michael Holbrook, the owner of Columbus Travel Agency. I wanted to make sure that the things I was planning to say in this post about people who travel on cruise ships wasn’t going to cause him any grief. I finally got to talk to Michael at Rotary last week and he laughed at some of these stories, so I’m in the clear.
If you’ve read my Facebook page, you know that Jill and I have just returned from 8 glorious days on Water Island, USVI. Water Island has lots of homes, but no hotels, no bars, no restaurants and no grocery stores. In fact, no stores at all. Probably like St. John was 4o years ago. Water Island is a short 10 minute ferry ride from St. Thomas, its much bigger big sister island to the north.
What Water Island does have, though, is beautiful beaches. Our beach, Honeymoon Beach, was a three-minute ride in a golf cart from Casa Blanca, the home where we stayed. Honeymoon Beach is one of the pretties places I have ever seen. We would get down to the beach on most mornings and stake our claim of one of the thatched tiki huts. The hut would provide some relief from the sun and a great vantage point to watch the daily arrival and departure of the beach excursions from a couple of cruise ships.
Turns out Carnival Cruise Lines is a good name, because most of the people who arrived on our beach, usually from about 3 to 5 p.m. for dinner and play looked like carnival workers. I nicknamed them the Carnies. Most of the ones we talked to were from Canada, the upper midwest or some other very cold place. They were either copier paper white or lobster red. Almost all of them had ridiculous tattoos and many of them sported some type of spacer, stud or bar stuck in various places on their skin.
One afternoon we were in our place on our beach and the Kon Tiki, which looked like a floating mobile home, blasting AC/DC “Give it Up,” and covered with these Carnie freaks floated in and tied up. One member of the steaming pile of humanity that limped off the boat and gathered just to the east and south of us was one of the most unusual people I have ever seen.
It had short hair, sported a women’s swimsuit that was cut obscenely down to below its navel. There were no breasts to speak of, and on further inspection as my eyes made their way down (I really was trying to determine the sex of this creature) I was shocked to find an enormous package right where the package usually goes. I looked a little closer and honestly, I couldn’t tell if these were man-parts or a stuff sack full of stomach that had no other place to go. We watched it for about an hour and a half and as it lumbered back onto the floating trailer, we still couldn’t tell if its name should be Bubba or Barbara.
Another afternoon, a group of six flopped down with their food at a picnic table less than 10 feet from our little tiki paradise. I hadn’t looked at them yet, when we were serenaded by an apparent belching contest. As I snap hooked my head in their direction, I discovered it was the three women who were having a burp-off on Honeymoon Beach. I know their mothers would have been proud of them!
The only good thing about giving up the tranquility of our beach each day for an short time was that we got to know the guy who was in charge of the Carnies. Every day when they left, he gave us all the beer that they didn’t drink. It literally rained Coors Light as they were pulling out. That was pretty cool.
Just to further explain just how great Honeymoon Beach is, one afternoon a sexy go-fast boat beached just to the south of where we were encamped. A camera crew and a dozen or so heavily tattooed, pierced, but much better looking people hit the beach. They were filming MTV’s Real World, which, this season is coming to you hot off the beaches of the USVI. One of the kids had some quarter-sized glass spacers in his earlobes. Don’t you know those ears are going to be looking mighty good when he hits 60 — if he doesn’t die of some sexually transmitted disease before that.
What are these people thinking? My God, they are disgusting! I thought several times during the week, what must be going through their minds as they looked into the mirror in their cramped ($600, including airfare) room aboard the cruise ship du jour and said to themselves, “Man/woman/it, you are fine! I think I’ll wear this to the beach today.” This floating freak show was the source of so many laughs during the week. The only tears I shed during the week were tears of laughter. It sure felt good.
Thank you cruise ship freaks!
In my conversation with Michael Holbrook, I determined that there are some extremely high end, classy cruise vacations that can be had for a pretty penny. None of those ships came to our island.
 I’m in the infusion suite at the John B. Amos Cancer Center. Sirius Deep Tracks channel coming through my headphones, needle in my arm pumping fluids in advance of tomorrow’s MRI with contrast. I’m in my favorite spot in the southeastern corner of the room. I guess it is my writing spot, because when I’m here, in spite of all the carnage that is taking place around me, I’m immersed in music and inundated with words.
This MRI is one of the regularly scheduled ones. Nothing alarming going on in the chest/abdomen/pelvis zone that I know about. In the interim between my last stream of posts and today, I’ve had a thyroid biopsy and am scheduled to get the results next week. I’m holding onto hope that this is a benign situation. Nobody deserves to be pounced upon by two different cancers. But even if it is bad news, thyroid cancer is kindergarten compared to renal cell cancer. I’m truly not worried about it. Maybe it is the celexa. Maybe it is my battle-hardened badassness. Or, maybe I’m just stupid.
I have really gotten tough minded about cancer. I feel badly about my response to a longtime, good friend’s admission to me that he is facing early-diagnosed prostate cancer. I remember thinking, “that ain’t shit, brother!” But, thankfully, I tempered my response to something like, “Well, that’s a good one to get if you gotta have one,” or something like that. That was insensitive, at best, and really downright rude. ANY cancer is scary, unwanted and threatening to someone who just got the diagnosis. I intend to try to soften my crusty, cancer-scarred exterior when I’m talking to cancer newbies from this point forward. I should have provided a soft shoulder and a dose of hope for a good outcome. I’d like to put that one on rewind. The one I likely offended reads this blog. This serves as my apology to him and to his beautiful wife. The older I get, the more apologies I find I have to make. I hope I’m around long enough to irritate many more people. I find a sincere apology can go a long way toward mending fences and sustaining long-lasting frindships.
I’ll be writing about the upcoming MRI results and the feedback from Dr. Leichter about my thyroid situation. I’m looking for good news from both of those tests. I’m energized with spring in the air and the prospects of getting back on my bicycle and getting back onto the water in a kayak.
If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you know about my interest in drum circles. I have started a facebook page that I hope is going to help us draw a crowd for the launching of a drum circle in UpTown Columbus. Please take a look, like the page, and get ready to shake something, even it is just your backside. Here is the facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/CSGDrumCircle
We get stuff frequently from people trying to get magazine coverage for some product or service. Those requests are far-ranging and are usually products from out-of-town companies or concerns. The one I got today is just begging for a response from me. Just when I thought that every child-coddling, what-can-I-do-to-make-your-life-easier product had been invented and presented, I got this one today:
http://www.icehuggy.com/
I’d like to go on record as saying this is the single most worthless product I have seen lately. What kid lets a freeze pop hang around long enough to need to wrap it in its own little custom-made huggy? I haven’t posted lately and Jill and others are bugging me about it, so I’m sticking my toe back into the blog water. Plus, I just want to write about something other than cancer. By the way, on that subject, things are OK and there is really nothing new to tell right now.
If you should happen to spend any of your hard-earned money on this stupid freeze pop huggy, don’t let me see it. I’ll call you out.
I will.
Friday is the day Dr. Pippas does his administrative work. I don’t know how the man gets everything he has to do…done, even with a Friday to tie up loose ends. Since Friday is his paperwork/research day, I was hoping he’d be able to sandwich in a phone conversation with me about our trip to Durham, NC to see Dr. George.
He returned my call within minutes and I told him Jill and I had heard what nurse friend Sandy Gunnels called a “diametrically opposite” plan of action from the one I had heard from Dr. Janice Dutcher on our visit to see her in New York City. Renowned renal cell specialist, Dr. Dutcher says that HDIL-2 (high-dose interleukin 2) is our next-best course of treatment.
Renowned renal cell specialist Dr. George, at Duke University Hospital, says HDIL-2 is way down the list of things he’d recommend we do right now. Dr. George was emphatic: “HDIL-2 will not keep this cancer from returning if that is what it wants to do. If you don’t have disease anywhere other than your spine, and if it returns there, you have a better chance of controlling it with a TKI (tyrosine kinase inhibitor). Hands down,” said Dr. George.
Dr. George continued: “HDIL-2 could kill you. It could create a cardiac event. Those things are rare, but possible. What it will do is ravage your body, potentially causing organ damage and positively causing great suffering.” Basically, he doesn’t see any value right now in putting us through this toxic treatment.
As Jill and I sat there and as I realized where our conversation with Dr. George was going, I felt the air leaving my body. The palpable let down of a fight reflex when your attacker has either stood down or walked away. There was an immediate transformation in me from fighter to waiter, and not the kind of waiter that gets a tip for good service. The kind of waiter that sits at a bus stop on a graffiti-covered bench in the cold, waiting for the next mode of transformation (intentional use of wrong word) to move you toward a tangible cancer therapy.
I’m like the old bull in one of my favorite old jokes and the vulture on a great T-shirt: A young bull and an old bull were standing on a hillside looking over a valley pasture of grazing cows. Young bull says to the old bull, “Why don’t we run down the hill and screw one of those cows?” The old bull says, “Why don’t we walk down there and screw all of them.” The vulture on the T-shirt is standing on a limb, high up in a tree, looking extremely vulturish. The caption says, “Patience, my ass, I want to kill something!”
I want a plan. I want it to be as aggressive as I am. I don’t see myself being comfortable waiting. As I said in my last post, I’m locked in a perpetual state of advent.
The really good news is that Drs. Goldman, Gorum and Cabelka and a host of other physicists, pharmacists, physicians, nurses and techs have done great work for me. The tumor is my spine is gone. There is nothing visible anywhere in my body that makes my medical team concerned that my life is being threatened. I can hear you saying, “why don’t you just quit your bitching, go back to your life and be happy you don’t have to take these awful drugs!” The answer to that is, “I know this cancer WAY better than you do. I now how sneaky it can be and I know how quickly it can make you dead if it decides to light up and run.” This knowledge is what makes me restless.
I have talked to Dr. Pippas about a third opinion — a “tie-breaker.” We’re discussing that now and I told Dr. P that I think this next opinion should be made without me in the room. I want to send my records to another RCC specialist and have them weigh in without my large, vocal, demanding personality in the room. Jill thinks my running commentary could have skewed the conversations with Drs. Dutcher and George. She’s probably right. She usually is.
So, for a short time, we’re back to waiting. Dr. George will call me within two weeks and let us know if there is some type of new scan available that is super high-definition with kidney friendly contrast media. That would be great, if we could have some type of super-scan that will once and for all determine if there are any bits of cancer in other areas of soft tissue or anywhere else in my bones. If we have that scan and it comes back negative, I can relax and be OK with another wait.
I will NOT, by God, be standing here flat-footed, doing nothing and be taken down by this cancer. If this bitch wants me, it is going to have to come at me with a bloody mace in one hand, a butcher knife in the other and a mouth full of bloody teeth. If it gets me, I’ll be out of bullets, with no fingernails left. I won’t be sitting in this chair waiting to hear the tap on my front door. You can take that to the bank.
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