Thursday, February 4, 2010

Scars Add Character

I had my port installed yesterday. The small contraption is a little bigger than a nickel in diameter and about half an inch tall. The port is placed under the skin about two inches under my right collar bone. A catheter runs under the skin from the port into a main vein just at the collar bone. You won't see the catheter at all, just the small lump of the port.

It was installed via a brief outpatient surgery under local anasthesia and 'conscious sedation', which is supposed to be just enough valium and pain killer to make you nap comfortably - although in my case, I was awake and chatting with the surgeon throughout the procedure, and promptly fell asleep on the gurney ride back to my room.

Once the incision heals in a few days, I'll start receiving a steady stream of chemo drugs via a special needle into the port - it won't hurt at all, and it will save me from regular IVs in the arm or hand.

Pre-bomb drop my dad had already made plans to be in skiing this week, so when Donovan came down with a fever the night before, Pop relieved Steve and stepped in to take me to the procedure. I've shared a lot of details about my tests and treatment of course, but I don't look or feel sick at all, so yesterday was the first real visual of what's happening here. Once they had me settled in my room, prep for surgery included taking some blood, an IV of antibiotics, frequent oxygen, blood pressure and temperature monitoring, 400 questions about my prior health history. It hit hard, and Pop was very quiet. As much as I'm prepared for this personally, I couldn't imagine if it was my baby they were poking and prodding.

The port will come out eventually, when treatment is all over and I've had enough clean PT scans to suggest remission. You've probably seen a port scar - a 2" straight line just under the collar bone. It's one of those unmistakable telltale scars, like that half moon a rifle scope marks in the eyebrow of a shooter to close to his weapon, or the burn scar across the inner calf of a woman foolish enough to wear shorts on a motorcycle. I was warned in advance about the kick back of a rifle, and my pipe burn from learning to ride a dirt bike at 13 has long since faded - but this scar I will wear with pride.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

And so it begins...

On January 19, 2010, I was diagnosed with colorectal cancer. I keep saying colorectal, but really it's rectal cancer. Butt cancer. Seriously? Puns and jokes are too easy, if you have a sense of humor about this...and I think you have to. For example, I don't think this is what Steve meant when he said he always liked that I have a little junk in the trunk...


At this point, I imagine some of you want specifics. The tumor is graded T3-N1, which translates to stage III. Treatment is three phases; about 6 weeks of concurrent radiation and chemo, followed by surgery and a few weeks of recovery, and then several more months of chemo. That should take us through about October. I am sure this is where the bad news ends though.


There has been no metastasis and I'm otherwise healthy and strong, so I've been given an excellent prognosis from a team of exceptional caregivers - this particular cancer is very treatable. We are lucky enough to have a tremendous pit crew of family, friends and colleagues who are already helping build a tide of good juju out in the universe, and to ease any day to day burden. I have terrific health insurance and other resources at my disposal. And most of all, I have Steve and Van offering their usual steady supply of laughs and love.


So, the next 9 months or so will be an enormous challenge - I expect I'll learn a lot about myself, my family and friends, and I'll certainly get an up close look at the healthcare industry. But, as I've told many of you, I've always believed in Mark Twain's quote, 'it's not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog that counts.' I've got plenty of fight in me, and I have never been as sure of anything as I am of being a cancer survivor.