Live from (20 miles from) the Chemo Room

No chemo today. I know, I was disappointed too. I shaved my upper right chest for nothing.

But I did get my PET scan results. Turns out I have a Slow Disease. Not the kind that makes you look like this guy...

but the kind that means your cancer grows very slowly, which is a good thing. This is one time when you'd prefer to be compared to Cruiser from Stripes vs. say, Usain Bolt.

Turns out a couple spots in my lungs need some attention. They are not life threatening or even cough-causing at this point, but they are big enough that we can see they've picked up a mm or two in the last couple of months so it's time to kick some cancer butt!

We're going to decide on the weapon of choice in the next week. I'm hoping for stereotactic radiation because they have the hottest nurses it has the least side effects, but minor traditional surgery and chemo are also options.

Stay tuned, and you'll find out soon how I decided to, as Captain Stillman said, "Have that removed."

Live from the PET Scan Prep Room

The new PET Scan machine is here! They say it is faster and I guess I'll know soon enough.

The "vanilla creme smoothie" still sucks, but the new prep room is nice, with its faux woodtone linoleum below and watchful security camera above. Just like home. Although I must say the hum of the scanner is more soothing in here somehow.

My tech is new, or I should say new to me. Delicia has been at Emory since 1993. She knows my man Vince, naturally, and also knows all about my book. She even copied the page about Vince and sent it to the department head. I should probably sue her for violating my copyright, but since she's the one with the radioactive slurry and the needles, I'll probably let it go.

Stay tuned until Friday for the results...

(not so) Live from the Chemo Room 22

Right up front I should say that all signs point to no brain-eating worms picked up in Costa Rica. Phew! Thanks for all your prayers, cards, and that one pink shower cap somebody sent in.

I was in the Chemo Room on Monday, but as it was my first day back I had a number of calls to catch up on and before you could say "You want the Xgeva in your arm or your ass?" I was done. So my usual "Live" post was delayed. But fear not, devoted readers, I'm here with all the latest news.

Well, if there were any news, that is.

Really, we're just 'tween scans at the moment. Dr. Z think we might be able to get away with staying off the Xeloda (Oral chemo) for a while now, but the scans will tell us whether that's a good idea or not. The next one will be a PET in about 2 weeks. For now, the foot/hand symptoms are mostly better, but a run or a long day of standing during a trade show seem to set them off again - go figure.

I'm sporting a new stupidcancer.org t-shirt these days. Young adult cancer survivors should check out the website and grab some swag to support this very cool group.

And the worms ate into his brain

Roger Waters & Co. included that strange line into Hey You from the album and motion picture The Wall. Now I'm told I need to watch out for those worms next week. 

I'm going to Costa Rica with A&J's class trip, and apparently, some sort of insect there carries these little worms that can burrow into one's skin. Left alone, I supposed they could grow into something one can actually feel crawling around in there. 

I've been to Costa Rica once before and as far as I know, I was not invaded by these worms. Then again, I have had this strange tingly feeling in the back of my head for the last 3 years... I'm sure it's nothing, right?

And you thought cancer was a bitch...

Live From the Chemo Room 21

I just flew in from Europe and boy are my arms tired feet and hands raw! Looks like that little side effect is back, possibly aggravated by the long flight. Last night I was doing a forefoot strike on my left foot to avoid the heel blister and a heel-strike on the right to avoid the blisters on the balls of my foot. It's only a big deal because it keeps me from running.

Funny line from Dana, one of the chemo nurses - a patient asked if the flowers in a vase here in the chemo room are real. "No," Dana said, "we used to use real flowers but then we weren't very good at changing them out when they died, and we decided that wasn't really a good message for in here."

Good call, Dana. Note to self: send cancer patients silk flowers.
Or chocolate.
Or a nice gift card.

Live From the Chemo Room 20

Well, the scan results are in... nothing changed in the lung, which is a good thing. But we're going to stay on the oral chemo for a while just to make sure. See ya' in six weeks.

The nurses know my routine by now so they are aware I'm typing this while we're chatting. I really like the gang here, and not just because one of them might walk up any second now and try to sneak a peak at my blog in progress. 

I saw my old friend Laura today too. Bonus!

Have a good weekend everyone!

Have you had a CT scan before?

That was the question the tech asked me this morning as I skip-walked with her back to the scan prep area. I like to skip-walk because it makes me feel like a kid.

"Yes," I told the obviously-not-Vince tech, "I've had every kind of scan you've got," which is probably true unless they do some sort of trans-vaginal ultrasounds down in the former bomb shelter that is the Radiology department.

Next came a few words you never want to hear. "This is Heather, she's a nursing student who is observing today." Observing would be fine, but we all know what's coming, right?

"Heather, we need to draw labs, would you like to TRY it?". Uh-oh, this is going to leave a mark. "It's just the pin prick kind, Mr. Beskind, it won't hurt a bit." I agree it shouldn't hurt, but I extend my non-writing hand just in case.

Heather responds by grabbing my writing hand, and preparing my middle finger for pricking as if she were getting the last few drops out of the teet of her favorite bovine. She grabs one of the spring-loaded finger prick thingies and SNAP - misfires before it touches my finger.

Attempt # 2, finger contact along the edge of my engorged digit and SNAP. A glancing blow. The tiniest drop of blood ever tries to bubble its way out. "I don't know what's wrong with me today," says Heather with a slight quiver in her voice. Neither do I, Heather, but I'm beginning to care.

Third time's the charm. SNAP! A direct hit allows the release of a man-sized dollop of vein juice. Heather smears it on some sort of reader and hands it back to she-who-is-actually-getting-paid-to-be-here. They depart momentarily, then return with an IV kit.

Hell to the no, as the kids might say. Heather's not continuing her training on my arm, even if I do have  veins the size of small rivers.

Fortunately. the tech and I agree on this point, and the IV insertion goes without incident, as does the rest of the scan. I'll be at Dr. Z's tomorrow and will report any news right here. Stay tuned!