Hey Mickey

Well this post could only be about one of two things. One of them is Toni Basil's groundbreaking and inspirational song from 1982 (actually a remake of Racey's 1979 original, per Wikipedia). The other isn't.

No, the other is Walt's World. And it's where we're headed for days 17 - 21 of the current chemo cycle. That's the good news. The bad? There are literally a million kids in Atlanta alone that have Spring Break that week, so I'm thinking the parks are going to be a wee bit more crowded than they were during our last visit... in January 2005.

Of course, back then Dumbo was a must-ride, overpriced pancakes with characters were a must-eat and all things Mountain (Splash, Thunder, and Space) were verboten. Now that we're all grown up and stuff, the Mountains are calling, and we'd rather eat the free breakfast at the hotel than pour syrup with Chip (or was it Dale?)

I'm also excited to see the Rice's on the way down. Neil and Donna are avid readers of this blog and long-time close friends who've always happened to live far away, even when Neil and I were partners in the same business and worked in the same office. Their home in Palm Coast was mine away from home for about a year while Neil and I shared a second chapter of our careers together. It seems like only yesterday Marcie and I were marveling at how well behaved little Ben and Tyler were (now both well over 6 feet, but still well behaved) and asking Donna for a bottle of whatever parenting magic she had. Turns out it was an '82 Silver Oak Cabernet. Go figure!

We've been told Mickey has some special love for folks who might get tired easily (me), need to minimize sun expose (moi again) or otherwise need extra attention (me, Me, ME!). Seriously, they do have different categories of help, and it doesn't always mean they whisk you to the front of the line, but a shady waiting spot is well worth the Scarlet Letter they make you wear. Only kidding of course, they make you wear color coded Mickey ears - red for "on chemo", green for "agoraphobic, " etc. Still kidding.

Wish us luck surviving the trip - not meaning health-wise, more money and stress-wise. I think my meditation practice may come in handy when I need to visualize a calm oasis in the midst of the post-Illuminations escape from Epcot.

Only 8 days till we get to say "Hey Mickey" in person. I hope Toni's not too busy guest-judging on So You Think You Can Dance to respond. By the way, for those of us old enough to remember the very earliest days of MTV, Ms. Basil turns sixty-eight this year. SIXTY-FREAKING-EIGHT. How old does that make you feel? And another BTW, that makes her 5 years older than Steven Tyler, whose 63rd birthday we celebrated today. And on that falsetto note, it's about time I headed off the see the Dream Weaver myself.

Sold!

Last night was Cliff Valley School's Annual Auction, an event Marcie and I have been involved with for 10 years. When we started projecting chemo dates vs. life events, this one didn't look too good. Only 2 days after an infusion, and I was scheduled to be a co-auctioneer with Head of School, Michael Edwards, and the incredibly dedicated Former Parent, and 10-time auctioneer Jim Roberts. Apparently Jim remains a parent, but his kids are now schooled elsewhere. I'd warned my amigos they might have to pull it off without me this year.

"A Night on the Reef" was the theme, and even though my ocean steward friend Steve might have preferred the 250 attendees spend the night learning "about," the reef or wading "near" it, rather than "on" the reef, it was well done, decorated, and scored. As the silent auction ended and patrons settled in for dinner, the ping of a submarine over the speakers told them something was up. Jim , Michael and I "swam" in from the back to the Jaws theme in full on diving gear: flippers, masks, (thanks Danny G!) and even a diving bell helmet for Michael.

The auction was a huge success, and I shared a wonderful moment with the Harrison family on stage as we drew the winner of a 50/50 raffle in which half the proceeds went to the winner and half to the Mark Harrison Scholarship Fund. Mark was a dear friend and a passionate supporter of Cliff Valley whom we lost suddenly less than two years ago. He owned a radio advertising agency, and he twisted the arm of every media outlet in town for auction donations for many years. I told the story of visiting the WSB studios last Fall with A&J's 4th grade class. As we were filing out of White Columns, a few WSB employees passed us in the hall. One woman notice the kids wearing Cliff Valley T-Shirts, and exclaimed "Cliff Valley? That's Mark Harrison's School!" Indeed.

I was equally touched last night by the number of people who came up to Marcie and/or me to remark about how good I looked. Now this happened quite often in years past, naturally, but this year seemed to have a deeper meaning.  The truth is I felt great last night, had a great time, and was reminded how much I appreciate  being a part of that very caring and supportive community.

Live from the o'Chemo Room 4

Call it the luck o' the not-so-Irish. Dr. Z says the PET results are good, really good. Actually he said "great!" Both the size of the lesion and activity level of the cancer cells are way down, meaning I'm responding really well to the chemo. He says we don't often see results this good this quickly. Probably 3 or 4 more rounds just to be sure we've gotten it all.

Now if only we had this much luck with insurance, although given a choice I'll take beating cancer over hassle free insurance any day. The cost Czars at Aetna have decided that the oral chemo drug I take, the one they have allowed me to get at a retail pharmacy twice this year, now must be ordered through their mail order specialty pharmacy. Of course they tell us this yesterday, and I'm supposed to start that drug today. A day or two delay isn't a big deal clinically, but it annoys me and adds to my 14 days of being "on" chemo.

They've also apparently had a rash of people loading up on anti-nausea meds, because I can't get my Zofran refill until Saturday. Luckily I have 3 of those babies stashed away so I won't spend tomorrow feeling like I'm on the SS Minnow. I was going to try my hand at crystal meth making with it, but now I have to buy Sudafed like everyone else.

Oh, and starting at noon, that TV is mine. Let the Madness begin!

UPDATE - The number we were talking about this morning is called the SUV (Standardized Uptake Value), and it's a ratio that measures the rate at which that radioactive stuff they injected into me in  The Box on Monday is absorbed by the lesion. Lower numbers mean less cancer, basically, Mine dropped by about 75%. 

Vegas called, your odds of beating this thing just got way, way better.

Live from the Pet Scan Prep Room

I've been critical of Emory in past posts, so let me give them credit. Sara, my nuclear medicine tech, is very nice and she actually told me I would be alone in my box for an hour and 15 minutes.

Yes, I said in my box. Because they use radioactive materials, the prep rooms have thick doors, and I assume walls - a containment vessel of sorts. The room 8  x 10 (I counted the ceiling tiles) and with cabinets and various things hanging from the walls, feels much smaller. They ask you if you are claustrophobic during prep for these scans, Pet, CT, etc. I always thought it was the machine they were worried about - don't want people freaking out in The Tube - but now I'm wondering if it's the Prep Room. Prison cells still have bars so you can see out, don't they?

Only about 50 minutes till scan time. Tic tock...

UPDATE - Scan done, now we wait. In the mean time, I challenge anyone to a "how long can you hold your hands above your head" contest. My record is 25 minutes. Bring it!

Big Week

Tomorrow is PET scan day. I received a call on Friday, surprisingly not a robo-call, from Emory Hospital confirming my appointment and going through the usual precautions: nothing to eat after midnight, drink only water before the scan, no exercising starting Sunday. WTH? (see, this is a family blog or I might have used a different WT_ ). I'm no nuclear medicine tech, but how is my Pet scan going to "know" if I did 50 push-ups while watching the Man U game on Fox Soccer Channel? (I didn't). Is my chemo regimen going to be altered if I ride my bike the the Purim Carnival? (I didn't). Are they going to think I have cancer in my hamstrings if I run 2.6 miles including going to the Nature Preserve, once around the trail, and back home the long way again? (no comment).

We, Marcie and I, have somehow equated the fact that I'm feeling pretty good to the fact that chemo must be working. I'm not sure there's really a correlation there, but the only sign I had cancer, the back pain, is long gone. So if I don't feel like I have cancer, I must not have (much) cancer anymore, right? Just go with it.

Just in case, and on a good note, we got some genetic test results last week that give us a plan B - a different form of chemotherapy that could also work on my type of cancer. Apparently, there are times when one wants to be Wild Type, and time when it's better to be Mutant. Sounds like a sci-fi double feature  to me. "Attack of the Mutant Genes" followed by "Wild Types Invade" both in 3D so they can charge you an extra 5 bucks to rent the glasses. What a freaking ripoff. Marcie took the littles to the Justin Beiber flick today and it was only showing in 3D. I'm pretty sure that little outing cost us more than dinner on Trivia Night at Napolean's. That, by the way, is 2 free mentions in a row for Napolean's (make it 3). Somebody make sure the Keenan's are reading this. Anyway,. I was the right type to be a good candidate for that other chemo drug, just in (no pun intended) case.

Wish me luck as I slide into the Cone of Silence. Don't think I can use my shoe-phone from in there to blog, so I'll update you in a few days once we talk results with Dr. Z.

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Ohhhhhmmmmm

As you've read in this blog, I've been doing well physically throughout the process. I checked in with Dr. Z and confirmed that my occasional struggles with heart rate and that general feeling of being "off" is my body's way of saying I'm pushing too hard. For a lot of his patients "exercise" is a walk, not a run or a round of Chest and Back. So all's well, physically.

Mentally/emotionally or whatever you call it, I've been more than a little off. I'm no stranger to depression and how it manifests itself in me - it's not just feeling blue. It's a shorter temper (not just at home, you should see me at the automated check out at Kroger when I'm in a funk), withdrawing myself from family stuff, less focus, and yes, an inability to find much joy in things that should make me happy. All of that has crept back into my world these last couple of months. Totally understandable, but totally unacceptable.

I'm letting Western Medicine take the lead on the physical stuff. Battle cancer with drugs, battle drug side effect with drugs, battle... well, you see the point. But I don't think that approach has all the answers, or even the better answers when it comes to "finding a good place." I've never tried meditation, yoga, tai chi, acupuncture, or any of the dozens of "alternative therapies" that many people claim help them through their fight with cancer. Many more people (like billions, mostly in the eastern hemisphere) use these practices every day to keep themselves well and to help their bodies ward off disease. It's not that I don't believe they can help, quite the contrary, I'm like most westerners, afraid, embarrassed really,  to find myself sitting in a dark corner of the house chanting Sanskrit with incense burning and New Age music softly playing in the background. That ain't me.

Or is it?

Last night I tried a meditation class at Vista Yoga. Locals, please click the link. Quick shout out to the owners Marty (husband) and Marti (wife), who have built a beautiful and amazingly popular studio in the back of the shopping center that houses our favorite dining/trivia spot, Napolean's (another shout out). They let me join in week 2 of a 4 week course and Marti even came by early to catch me up on what she'd covered the previous session. I was amazed at how quickly I got comfortable with the setting and was able to ignore the other 20+ people in the room. There's a lot of talk of energy lines and, yes, some sanskrit chanting, that I don't really "get" yet, but I do see how the practice of meditation call help me clear my mind for a few minutes and get my brain into a state that lets it function normally despite the stress and pressure of the real world. Good stuff happens when the brain can do its thing, including telling other organs to produce more of what the body needs in order to protect and heel.

It was only two hours, and I've not yet setup my space in the house to meditate. But I plan to do that tonight and to start my day tomorrow with a little sitting and breathing. As for chanting? We'll see...

No hay viaje a Perú para usted!

Our "Peruvian Coke Dealer" was involved in a "car accident" in "Venezuela," so the trip has been delayed. Sounds like he'll be OK, and apparently pain killers are not a problem.

So I'm disappointed that I won't be able to add "did business in South America" to my list of accomplishments-while-undergoing-chemotherapy, at least not yet. We should be able to reschedule the trip within a few weeks. Now I'll just have to keep setting new running goals and cranking out P90x workouts as I feel up to it. Yesterday I did a very flat 4 miles at the Big Creek Greenway in Alpharetta. It's a very pretty spot and well worth the schlep for my fellow in-towners looking for a scenic, but not at all challenging, venue to run or ride. The pace and distance were both my fastest this year, and my brand new Gel Kayanos are now mud-splashed thanks to a steady drizzle that left puddles along the path.

Tonight we head to the Highlight Factory to see your second-tier Eastern Conference Hawks take on 'Mello and the Knicks. Last time I saw the Knicks in Atlanta, I'm pretty sure Clyde Frazier was still playing. Yes, youngsters, the guy from the Just for Men commercials. Thanks to the Kidd Krew for the tix!

Re-masculated

e·mas·cu·late

 [v. ih-mas-kyuh-leyt; adj. ih-mas-kyuh-lit, -leyt] verb, -lat·ed,

–verb (used with object)

1. to deprive of strength or vigor; weaken.

–adjective

2. deprived of or lacking strength or vigor

re·mas·cu·late

 [v. re-mas-kyuh-leyt; adj. re-mas-kyuh-lit, -leyt] verb, -lat·ed,

–verb (used with object)

1.    A word I made up for reasons you’ll soon understand

It’s .7 miles from my house to the new Mary Scott Nature Park off Briarcliff Rd. Seven-tenths. From my driveway, it’s .1 downhill, .4 up a gentle hill and less than a quarter-mile of flat road to the park entrance, which now features a sign but still lacks a paved driveway and with nary a ramp in sight is sure to be the subject of an ADA lawsuit. But it is a beautiful space with a half-mile or so soft surface path cut through thick woods – an ideal retreat from the nearby traffic and, soon, the summer sun.

That was my goal today: to and from the park with a couple loops on the trail. But it didn’t turn out that way. Halfway up the short hill, I could feel my heart beating faster than it should at that point in a run, so I backed off the pace. Stopping for a moment at the one traffic light en route helped me drop below 150 bpm (I’m guessing, since I don’t wear a monitor).  By the way, driver of the white Odyssey, in case the message wasn’t clear, when you try to make that left turn onto Shallowford after the turn light has gone red, I’m going to walk more slowly through the crosswalk every time. Guaranteed.  Have a nice day.

Upon arriving at the park, I had to rethink the plan. My heart was now pounding out the staccato beat of a WWII gunner’s nest , and just for giggles, my hands were beginning to tingle like I’d been juggling jellyfish. Nothing to be alarmed about, these are pretty normal responses to exertion with chemo side effects. But there would be no 3 miler today. I felt emasculated.

I walked a minute or two and turned to head home, defeated. To my surprise, the flat part on the way back actually felt pretty good, and the stinging had subsided. Something told me to detour, taking the long way back through a couple of side streets instead of the now traffic-choked Briarcliff. So the back half of my brief run was better than and longer than the front. Re-masculated? Not quite yet.

I arrived at the house and my run became a walk – a cooldown after a ridiculously short jog that had been broken into 4 even shorter sections. As I turned back to the house, Josh came running out from the garage, yelling “Daddy” and grinning. He just wanted a hug and to see how my run was. “It was pretty good, Josh,” I said.

Re-masculated.

On the Seventh Day, He Ran (then he rested)

I have been feeling pretty good this week. World's Greatest Boss Val noticed the color had fully returned to my face this morning, and given the lighting in my office, that's saying something!

So I decided to try running after visiting my dad on his last night of rehab, the kind you go to when you're 82 and you've been in the hospital, not the Charlie Sheen kind. Besides, that kind never works, leaving the Wild Thing to cure himself. With his mind.

The route was challenging - Wesley Woods to Old Briarcliff, across the Emory intramural fields, up to Frat Row, over the new pedestrian bridge to the School of Public Health, then Clifton back to the start. I looped around WW enough to make it a 5k. Now I will admit to walking parts of a couple of the hills, but my pace sans walks was under 8:30/mile. That used to be a recovery pace on a long run. Now it's my fastest run of the year!

By the way, I found a way to cut big dollars from the Federal Budget while improving waistlines across the country. Locate all Federal buildings on a hillside as steep as the CDC's. Then require all workers to walk from the parking lot to the street once per day. I guarantee you healthcare costs and pants sizes will go down for those employees. There you go, Mr. President, the next trillion is up to you.

We then had a blast at Trivia night with Dara, Greg and his neighbors, and birthday girl Evelyn and hubby Paul. We scored third place thanks to E knowing the patron saint of dance and her eponymous affliction, not to mention Greg's Osc-session. Winning, as Charlie might say.

After that very full evening, it's time for bed, little mouse, little mouse. Darkness is falling all over the house.

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