Not-so Live from the Chemo Room 27

Loyal readers the world over have been asking, "did you get your results yet?" Yes, and I will share them in a sec. But I was waiting because now that I've mentioned my new column three times in row here on this blog, I thought I'd wait until they had worked out their technical difficulties so I could link to "What to Expect When You're Metastasizing" over on ihadcancer.com. Alas, it wasn't to be this week. It seems the non-profit gets its Web Design love as a pro-bono project of the media company that employs IHC's founder. The name of said firm? Squeaky Wheel Media. Oh, the irony.

So, what was is it you'd asked about? Oh, right, the scan results. You know, it's been an anxiety-filled week around our house. School started, and our twins are in different classes for the first time, plus it's in a new school. We spent most of the summer with one of them on edge. The Big Day finally arrived, and it went off with relative ease - only mild nerves and butterflies. Day Two did involve a trip to the nurse's station and Marcie getting four calls before noon, but we made it through and the remainder of the week has gone well. Having never shared a womb, I can't imagine how hard it can be for the two of them when faced with the reality that while they'll always have each other, they may not have each other right there next to them. So any anxiety over my results was overshadowed, as it should be!

I should also take a moment to comment on Lance Armstrong, who last night released a carefully worded announcement that he would drop his right to appeal the US Anti Doping Agency's case against him. I've been a big fan of Lance for many years. I raised money for Livestrong a couple years ago when I ran the Pittsburgh Half Marathon, and I've been know to pass out yellow bracelets to friends and family. Whatever he did or didn't do over seven Tour de France wins, only Lance (and possibly that French guy he always took with him to the bathroom) knows the truth. What he's done since then with his foundation continues to deserve our support and admiration. So what's the bottom line? If Barry Bonds wants to be remembered for something, he should start raising money to eradicate hunger. Livestrong will be likely be around doing great work long after the cyclists of Lance's generation have peed into their last specimen cup.

The scan results you say, what are they? 

Nothing new in the pelvis, he abdomen is clear, nothing on the liver, nothing in the neck. The lung spots have not grown and there are no new ones observed. It's good news, friends. 

Much love to some new members of the club - you know who are. 

Live from the CT Scan Prep Room

Yes, it's that time again. Today's CT scan will tell us how effective that round of stereotactic radiation was at eliminating the spots in my lungs. "Spots" as if we're talking about red wine stains on carpet. They're tumors. And hopefully by next week we'll learn that they are dead.

Today we're scanning neck, chest, abdomen, and pelvis - which gets me a little closer to knowing what's going on (or hopefully not going on) from head to toe. Still seeking a good answer to the question "how do you know I don't have cancer in my toes?" but I guess that's a mystery I can live with.

I mentioned in my last post the column I was writing for the I Had Cancer website. Well the first one should be online next Monday. I'm calling the column What To Expect When You're Metastasizing, and it will be a sort of How-To guide for dealing with cancer, from diagnosis to various treatments, relationships, etc. Some of the subjects are similar to those covered in my book, but the perspective is a little different, as are the punchlines.

Stay tuned for scan results (next week) and more!

Live From the Chemo Room 26

Olympic Edition

I'm thinking of asking my chemo roommates if they want to do a little Opening Ceremonies style Parade of Maladies around the place. We could each carry a little sign saying what type of cancer we have, and the nurses could be the announcers and say pithy things like:

"The Prostate Cancer team is making its way onto the track now. Prostate is one of the most popular cancers among men over 50. It's often characterized by reduced flow and pain when urinating, but you'd never know it by the smiles on those faces!"

"Oh, I can tell by the roar of the crowd that the team from Breast Cancer has entered the arena - look at those pink outfits - stunning! This is the largest delegation at this year's games - 349 women and this one man. This team dominates in the pool, can you guess which stroke is their best one?"


"Here comes the Colon Cancer team. Oops, there goes one of them running to the porta-potties. And there goes another one. Now the whole team is headed to the loo, as they call it here in London. I just love the British! Bangers and mash anyone?"

---

It's a somewhat slow day here. Dr. Z has the day off so a lot of patients that might otherwise be here aren't. Twana is in charge, and she tells me we'll schedule my scan in a few weeks to see how those lung spots fared against the radiation.

---

I'm very excited that my friends at www.ihadcancer.com have asked me to be a regular contributor to their site. I'll be writing a column that talks about the various procedures we go through. Some of it may sound familiar to you faithful readers, but it will be a little less focussed on my personal experiences. Still humorous, or at least intended to be. You can be the judge. Watch for it in the next few weeks.

The View From Inside The Microwave

Well, not quite a microwave, but this is my radiation machine. And now that I've completed my second (hopefully not) annual Summer of Stereotactic Love, I thought I'd help you visualize what happens in this lead-lined room.  You enter through what looks like a normal sliding door, until you realize the door is actually a cinder-block wall. I'm guessing the motor to slide that thing could easily power my mini-van.

Then you see this contraption. The black table is where I lay in the mold I've mentioned before (not pictured). On the wall behind is a four-armed rotating beast of a machine that does all the dirty work. The big arm at the 12 o'clock position is what actually "shoots" the radiation into me. The 3 o'clock arm is a scanner, which is used to make sure I'm aligned perfectly after they shifted me around on the table. Remember the tattoos I received? They use those to align me visually, then the scan to get it precise within a mm or two.

The two flat paddles at 6 and 9 o'clock are just for receiving whatever comes through from the ones opposite them - like the plates in an old x-ray machine.

The cool part is when they raise the table so I'm aligned with the center of that circle on the wall, then slide the table toward the wall. Now all four arms rotate around me. I guess they could try rotating the table, but then you'd feel like a roast on a spit.

The whole process of scanning, radiating, scanning for lung #2 and zapping lung #2 takes about 30 minutes. During that time I have to lie as motionless as possible with my hand clasped on top of my head. Somehow the software accounts for my breathing throughout the process, but I try to keep it on the shallow end just in case. The mold helps me say still, and my feet are strapped together. Still, it's hard not to squirm a little, especially once my hands and arms go to sleep. So I'm always happy to hear the giant door slide open and to see the techs telling me it's time to relax.

I gave the office two copies of my book when I checked in this morning. By the time I was checking out they had already devised a schedule for who would get to read it first, second, etc. I love it when people seem excited about reading my stuff - whether here on the blog, the book, or elsewhere. I just hope they're still fans once they've actually read it!

Read On!

This isn't the only great place to go when you want to consume cancer-related content.

I came across this blog recently. Nadia is a young woman who has been facing ovarian cancer since April. Her ups and downs emotionally and physically ring very familiar to me, and her writing is top notch.

Speaking of young adults, I love stupid cancer, or more appropriately, I love the organization behind www.stupidcancer.com. They have a great collection of blogs you can find here, and much much more  in terms of support for the unique challenges of young adults with cancer.

And if you want to know what happens when good writers get cancer (who wouldn't?) check out the great work of Brian Mansfield from USA Today. Brian covers Nashville for the paper and has a great soundtrack going via his blog entries.

One more spot to check out. The creative juices are always flowing at www.ihadcancer.com . They use social media tools (Pintrest anyone?) to connect cancer survivors, fighters, and supporters in many different, often fun, ways. Check out their blog for Hope, Health, and Happiness tips.

Live From the Chemo Room 25

It's my 25th post from the Chemo Room. I think that's silver for those of you considering gifts.

Before we get to the race report, I have to share this with you. I learned today that there are different degrees of fear. There's trepidation, then good old fashioned fear, followed by phobia, and then there's what I saw in Dr Z's office. The first stop here at the Cancerporium (after the waiting room) is a room with two nurses stations where they take your vitals, and, often, draw blood. Frequent flyers with ports get stuck with a needle directly into the device that you barely feel, but lots of patients here still give blood the old fashioned way. And nurse Sally had herself the most needle averse Member of the Club I could ever imagine. The poor woman was literally hysterical, laughing uncontrollably while asserting that she wanted to go home, and stomping her feet. Then she let out this gem:

Sally: "Come on now, you've pushed out a baby, this little old needle isn't that bad is it?"
MOTC: "Pushing out babies was easy, I'd rather do that then get stuck with that needle"
Me (from across the room): "Damn! That's serious!"
Sally: "For real, this needle's got this tiny little point, that baby had a head and shoulders."
MOTC: "I don't care, I'll take childbirth any day!"

Wow, that's fear!

---

There are some things you just don't want to hear from your doctor. I heard one of them today. "This has never happened before," was the opening line from one of the technicians at the radiation oncologist's office. He continued, "but the mold we made that holds you in place for your procedures has deflated." Upon hearing this story, Marcie, for reasons unknown, put together the "never happened before" and "deflated" parts and said to me, "don't they have Viagra for that?" Thanks, babe.

I thought those molds were solid, but apparently they're not. So now I have to go back for another fitting next week and we'll push back the last 3 treatments by a few days. It's not a big deal, medically speaking, just a hassle for me given that the office is 20 miles from my home.

---

Speaking of 25th anniversaries, I think this may have been my 25th Peachtree Road Race. Close enough for a segue anyway. The weather wasn't as bad as I feared, and I ran comfortably, finishing the run in 52:30. I think I'll shoot for running faster than my age from now on - meaning I'll need to trim a minute per mile from my time next year. But I'm happy with how it went. Marcie and the kids were there to cheer me on around the 5 mile mark, and I ran a couple of miles with my friend Elizabeth and Katie from the neighborhood.

We did all our usual 4th of July things as a family, the barbecue in the afternoon, watching fireworks across the city from atop the mountain in Vinings. Doing the usual things can feel pretty special sometimes.

The Annual Pre-Peachtree Post

Many of you know that I've participated in Atlanta's signature running event, the Peachtree Road Race more than 20 times now. It's the way me and 60,000 of my closest friends like to start our 4th of July celebration.

We're less than a week away now, from what I know will be a slow time for me, but I'm ready to run with this sign attached just in case somebody else thinks I'm running too slowly:

But for this post I want to focus on the first time I ran the Peachtree. It was back in 1980, and other than the Dolphin way-too-shorts,  and the requisite cheesy mustache as only a recently pubescent 14 year old can pull off, I looked pretty much the same as I do now. Also unchanged is the big goal of all but a handful of runners - those who might actually win the thing - namely, the Peachtree T-Shirt. A prized possession, this heavyweight cotton trophy was only available to those who beat the dreaded T-Shirt clock. That meant running the 6.2 mile hot and hilly course in 55 minutes or less, with one big ole asterisk.   Since the timing technology wasn't much to speak of, the only fair way to judge time was to start the T-shirt clock when the last person crossed the starting line. In other words, in a race of 25,000 participants, you really had a good 70 or 80 minutes to earn yourself a shirt. 

I ran that day with a couple of my best friends from the neighborhood, Brian S and Brian L. There was at least one other kid in our group, but since neither he nor his dad figures prominently into the story, I've forgotten who it was. If memory serves, we spent the night at the Brian S's house, and Mr. S was going to pick us up after the race. We'd arranged to meet at a particular large tree in Piedmont Park. Everyone knew the plan, or so we thought. 

The Farmer's Almanac website tells me the racetime temps must have been in the low 70's, about average for early July in Atlanta. I'm sure it was humid too. I remember being near Brian and Brian at the start, but I have no idea how long we ran together. I do know I finished alone, some 60 minutes later. I went through the water sprays, retrieved my t-shirt (left), and headed for the aforementioned tree. Mr S soon showed up, along with his Brian. That's when the fun began. 

Brian L was nowhere to be found. After a while, one's imagination kicks in. We'd seen stories in past Peachtree races about runners overcome with hear exhaustion, laid out on stretchers, being cared for by the medical team. Could that be where Brian was? As the minutes dragged on, concern grew. 

Finally, after a good 30 or 40 minutes, somebody in our party spotted Brian, wandering a bit aimlessly on the meadow. Mr. S asked him his whereabouts and when he failed to produce a suitable answer, the senior S declared, "Brian, why are you so damn GOOFY?" And from that moment on, for at least the next 10 years, everyone, I mean everyone, called Brian "Goofy." Poor guy!

I understand it's a bit of a sore point now that he's a successful real estate guy, so please, don't yell it out across a crowded room should you run into Brian L, OK?

For any of you planning to run the 2012 Peachtree, keep an eye out for my sign above. And if you're seeing it as I pass by you on Heartbreak Hill, just remember I had chemo and radiation treatment that week. What's your excuse?