Week Two of Treatment

I wrapped up my second week of treatment yesterday. This last week really wasn't bad, although it seems like a bit of a cheat week as I didn't have to do too much - Mom was here and in her usual Energizer Bunny way she cooked, cleaned and shopped enough to get us through the week and prep us for the next couple.

All in all though, I think I've been lucky as side effects go, at least so far; fatigue of course, a touch of nausea periodically, and the last two days some abdominal pain that is not insignificant, but still a mild response.

On Monday, the chemo pump will be removed. Though I'll still have daily radiation, I'm looking forward to the two-week break from chemo. With the pump on showers are not allowed, unless you wrap your upper body in saran wrap and stand with your back to the water, and then what's the point? So I've been taking baths, using great care not to get the pump and the bandages securing the needle in at the port wet. While I might have previously enjoyed a bubble bath once or twice a year in our antique clawfoot, daily before work is just not that enjoyable - and bending over to wash your hair upside down even less so. Then again, I still have a full head of hair to wash!

Stopping to Smell the Roses

I have been thinking quite a bit about how I can learn from this experience, and what good I can extract from it. While I'm sure this will lead to many epiphanies along the way, the first is an instant and intense appreciation for the life I have - the people, the experiences, the love, joy and sense of deep, deep satisfaction. I certainly wasn't oblivious to this before, but perhaps I didn't appreciate it quite as much as I should have?

In discussing with a friend, Tasha, she shared that she and her family keep a journal, each day writing down something that made them happy and something that they hope for in the future - then she sent me a journal, with a pen, thereby robbing me of any excuse. Not surprisingly, I found the greatest joy in very simple pleasures that might be easily overlooked in the chaos of the average day.

Here are just a few of the things that I have noted the last few weeks.

Things that made me happy;

• Listening to Steve and Van playing the guitar together
  
• Skiing with Steve, my Dad and friends at Vail on a blue bird day, with a chaser of beers and pizza on the deck at Vendetta's
  
• Ramon, Bella and Van having tickle fights
  
• Being awoken from a really delicious nap on a Saturday afternoon by a tiny 'Hi Mama' from the edge of the bed
  
• Brooke's braised short ribs and Beth's midnight madness pie - yes, I may be the only patient in the history of cancer to put weight on during treatment, but I figure now is not the time to deprive myself
  
• Van started asking for family hugs - over and over
  
• My sister-in-law Karen sent me an amazing box of books including old titles that bring a flood of memories from Mrs. Krinsky's high school English class, and new titles that will expand my horizons
  
• Holding little Lila for the first time and breathing in that aroma of hope and promise that newborns naturally exude
  
• Seeing Scott (a rough, gruff, 230 lb. Gulf War veteran) take time out from watching football with the boys to gently brush his little girl Riley's hair into a ponytail
  
• Van and Yenny (his Grandpa) having pillow fights, just as Pop did with us every night when we were kids
  
• My mom coming to visit.
  

Things that I hope for in the future;

• Despite the great distance between New York and Colorado, Van will come to know Keira, Jimmy and those that follow more as brothers and sisters than as cousins
  
• A long trip to Vancouver and the surrounding areas during a big snow year - doesn't it look gorgeous?
  
• A year from now, I will reach a point where no doctor will need to write on my body with sharpie markers again - or at least until I am a very, very old woman
  
• I will be able to pay forward the many great kindnesses that are being shown to my family and to me every day by friends, family, colleagues and in some cases, absolute strangers.
  

One Down...

Treatment started Monday. Radiation bright and early at 7:45. For those of you that have seen me early in the morning, you know this is not my shining hour, but it seems inappropriate and risky to be rude to people working to cure you of cancer, so I muster as much courtesy as I can.

For the moment, radiation is easy. I just lay there while the techs line me up just so, and the machine and its ray of light does the rest. I can't see them as I'm face down on the table, but on occasion their 'adjustments' feel more like the three of them are just standing around and poking me. I might be less paranoid if I had pants on.

Following radiation, I went to chemo. After a brief visit with my oncologist, he walked me up to the 3rd floor to begin my first round of chemo infusion. My oncology nurse promptly introduced herself as a 7-yr survivor of rectal cancer - a good omen I think, and certainly a reminder that cure rates are high and life goes on.

So, after several hours of tests, port prep and instruction, I left hooked up to a pump about the size of a walkman, full of the 5-FU chemo. I get to wear this 24x7 for the next week, with a refill scheduled for next Monday. The pump comes with some heavy warnings; don't get anything wet, keep a spare battery handy, check your 'dose given' reading periodically to make sure it is working, and the most concerning - should the tube be damaged and start to leak, double bag it and seal it, as the drug can cause a chemical burn. I asked what the odds are of damage and was told that the most frequent issue is cats chewing through the tubes...I'm willing to bet that while Mr. Jingles is gnawing away, the Jerry Springer show is on in the background.

Despite all of the poking, the needles, the waiver forms outlining possible side effects, what I felt most yesterday was relief. From this point on, the tumor will only get smaller and weaker, destroyed cell by cell, until it ceases to exist and I am cancer free.

Locks of Love

In April of 2007, a colleague at Avnet, Chuck, was diagnosed with a particularly rare cancer. At the time, I had two other friends, Greg and Dave, in cancer treatment as well. Only weeks away from Van's due date, the contrast of our life changing events weighed heavy on me.

In a show of solidarity, several of Chuck's pals shaved their heads with him as he began to undergo an intense regimen of biochemotherapy - an even more poisonous version than your run of the mill chemotherapy. Bald not being my best look and my hair being one of my better assets, I went the other way - I started growing it out with the intent of donating.

It has taken me 22 months to grow the minimum 10 inch ponytail, and on Friday I finally made my donation. During that time, some friends have won and others lost their battles, while still others continue to fight or have been diagnosed - I dedicate my donation to all of them.

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.

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.