Happy Cancerversary To Me!

It's been two years since this chapter in my life started. Two years since the pain in my back and legs lead to that WTF? moment. Two years since I laid face down on the table while a needle was inserted in my pelvis with jackhammer-like dexterity. Two years since we waited, and waited, and waited for the results. Two years since we heard the news we didn't want to hear.

In December of 2010, if you had an iPhone you could only use it on AT&T. Your iPad was first generation. The average price of gas was $2.93. Damn, I love Wikipedia!

In the the time that has passed, I've had 34 infusions, 10 sessions of radiation therapy, 10 more stereotactic radiation sessions, and umpteen other visits to Dr Z and a handful of other docs.

I've also lived my life.

I've celebrated my kids' birthdays 4 times (3 kids, two are twins, you can do the math).
I've celebrated anniversaries #18 and 19 with Marcie.
I've run 1055.2 miles, including 3 half-marathons, 2 Peachtree Road Races (one with Adam), and a couple of Father's Day runs, 1 with each son.
I've raised the Torah at my son's Bar Mitzvah.
I've been to Peru, Brazil, Costa Rica, Austria, and the Czech Republic, and I spent a day in Paris.
I've been to Disney World.
I've taken each of the kids to at least one UGA Football Game, and I travelled on the team plane to see the Falcons play in Chicago.
I've written a book, but you knew that already.

I've learned to appreciate the time I have with my family. I love when we're all together, even if we're spread out across the living room and kitchen, with the TV on, a couple of laptops open.

I've gotten better about not sweating the small stuff.

While I'm still a long way from being the person I want to be, I'm closer than I was two years ago, cancer notwithstanding.

Happy New Year to you, and Happy Cancerversary to me!

Live From the Chemo Room 34

Greetings from Dr. Z's fabulous new office in Johns Creek. The practice moved from inside the hospital to a building across the street. The space is much bigger, with more windows, more chemo chairs, and most importantly, a coffee/hot chocolate machine in the chemo lounge. This is apparently meant to help keep the spouses, friends, and caregivers awake during the endless loop of court shows and soap operas that will soon be showing on the >60 inch TV.

There's a room where they mix the chemo drugs, which was hidden from view in the old office. Here, it's directly behind the nurses' desk, visible through two glass-doored cubes that, for lack of a better description, look like airlocks on a spaceship. I don't know how toxic that stuff on the other side of the wall is, but if it requires airlocks, I'm not sure I want it to be infused into my bloodstream.

I like the new digs, but I'd be lying if I told you I'm enjoying them. I'd really prefer not to be here, especially this week, when I have plenty going on at work. But I did get a good reminder from Bill, the bloodsucker (a.k.a. the nurse who did my labs today) of why I'm here. He's 13 years removed from treatment for leukemia and cancer-free.

Thank You Sir, Can I Have Another?

... 3 rounds of chemo, that is.

Yes, sans paddle and gothic robe, Dr. Z told me last weekend that he's happy with the scan results, which showed no growth in the lung spots, but that he wants to do 3 more rounds to make sure we've got this latest episode under control.

Was I happy? Yes, for about ten seconds, after he said he liked the scan results, but before the part about more chemo. But, like Kevin Bacon in the clip I've included for your viewing pleasure, what could I do? I'm committed to the fight, so let's get it done.

Speaking of committed, or people who should be, I hear Hugo Chavez goes to Cuba for his cancer treatments. How messed up must Venezuelan medicine be if the leader of that country has to travel to an island where the cars are all from the 1950's to seek advanced cures? Maybe he's just there for the nightlife. I hear the Copacabana is hopping!

Round 5 starts tomorrow, so wi-fi willing and the creek don't rise, I'll have another post then.

Give Me A Break!

A break. That's just what the doctor ordered. Literally.

I've been on a little hiatus from my chemo treatments recently. Timing couldn't have been better as I was starting to feel pretty beat-up after four rounds. But then along came an upper respiratory infection just to make sure I wasn't having too much fun! So far, I'll take the cough over the chemo. 

It's been a couple of weeks since I last ran, and as those who know me well can attest, that means I'm probably not being my usual charming self. She-whose-patience-knows-no-end has earned yet another medal for putting up with me, as have the-three-offspring-of-she-whose-patience-knows-no-end.  

I'll have a scan this week and then Dr Z and I will talk about what's next. I'm expecting a return to some chemo, but hoping I can plead down to something less than what I'd been on the last couple of months. I'll report the results here, stay tuned!

I wanted to send a special shout out to fellow Members of the Club, Jerry and Bob, who are dealing with some heavy duty stuff themselves these days. These are two of the funniest folks I know, not surprising when you learn that one is a CPA and the other an actuary. Bean counters rock!

Live from the chemo room 33

If cancer was easy, they'd call it your mother!

That's paraphrasing my favorite sign from the half-marathon I recently ran, substituting the original's "running a marathon" with "cancer." How exactly calling our mothers sluts is motivating, I'm not sure, but I did have a smile on for the next half mile after seeing that one.


No cancer isn't easy. There have been days during this current round of chemo when I've wondered why I started a treatment that definitely makes me feel worse than the disease. The answer is obvious, but that doesn't make it easy.

What does help make things easier is the support of good friends and family. My last chemo session included visits from Alexis and Elizabeth, two close friends. Today's visitor was my father-in-law Donny. Some of you will recall my stories about Donny from the book. He told me today that the chemo lounge here is much nicer than the one back home in Maryland. But not everything here is better. He still hasn't ordered a crab cake in Georgia. I can't blame him for that one.

Dr. Z. told me today we'll get scans in the next couple of weeks and then talk about what's next. He's hoping we see progress and if so, he'll be deciding on what my maintenance routine will be going forward. That may mean the new oral drug, but also may involve staying one on of the infusion drugs I've been taking for the last couple of months. We'll know more in about 3 weeks.

Until then, I'm rocking the bald head, and the worst acne I've had since 1983. Guess you could say I'm not as easy on the eyes as I used to be!

This is how you LIVE with Cancer

L-R: Danny, Dave, me, Luis

It wasn't about the time, which was lousy, or the medal, which will go in the pile with a dozen others from past races. And the t-shirt is a shade of green I won't likely wear again.

This weekend was about living.

It was about reliving old memories and good times with my 3 best friends from high school. It was about enjoying a beautiful weekend in a picturesque city with perfect weather. And yes, it was about running a half-marathon 10 days after my latest chemo treatment.

Let me be clear. I'm not posting this because I want people to congratulate me on the race. My message is much simpler. Cancer doesn't define me. I define me. I am a husband, father, runner, friend... There's no room on my personal business card for "cancer patient."

I know not everyone dealing with cancer is able to run a half marathon. And believe me there are days when I can't run at all. But everyone with cancer has something they did before they were diagnosed, something they think cancer can take away from them. Something that used to be a part of how they defined themselves. And something that doesn't have to go away.

I run more slowly than I ever have in my life. I feel worse than I ever did after races. So what? I'm still a runner. And a husband, father, and friend (and maybe even a little better at those 3 than I was before cancer came along).

Thanks Danny, David, and Luis for the weekend. Thanks Ghila for the awesome shirts. Thanks Marcie and our kids for all the encouragement. Thanks to you friends for reading this, and, I hope, carrying the message with you.

Live From the Chemo Room 31

Long day ahead today We added a new medicine that takes 2 hours to infuse, so my total chair time will be in the 7 - 8 hour range today. Sheesh!

Marcie brought me lunch and hung out for a while, along with Danny G. Danny is my healthy eating hero - gluten-free and paleo. He brought me some awesome snacks from Trader Joe's to help nudge me more in that same direction.

I thought I'd use this post to share my thoughts on Lance Armstrong and Livestrong. The short version is pretty simple, Lance cheated and his foundation does lots of good. Hate the founder, not his charity.

But, it can be more complicated for some people. I've even heard of big donors to Livestrong asking for their money back because their support was based on Lance who is now know to be a liar. But that's kinda lame, IMHO. If Jerry Lewis turns out to be a child molester, should I get my money back from all those Labor Day telethons I supported?

Of course not. Which person with cancer should not receive referral to helpful resources now that Lance is a convicted doper? Who no longer deserves a free guidebook to navigating through a cancer diagnosis and treatment? The mission of the foundation is clearly being met. Livestrong is among the most efficient charities in financial terms, with over 80 cents of every dollar of donated funds being used directly in it program services (as opposed to G&A expenses).

I have benefitted from the work at Livestrong. They introduced me to Imerman Angles and their website lead me to my colorectal cancer support group. I continue to support the organization. My Twitter profile picture includes the iconic Livestrong wristband.  My daughter even has the word livestrong in her e-mail address. As you may have already read I delivered a Livestrong Guidebook to my friend Jerry this past weekend.

I'm deeply disappointed in Lance Armstrong  but not for doping. He continues to profess his innocence while not formally pursuing any appeal of the latest findings. I think he's lying, and like it or not, some people won't support the charity he helped to start because of his lies. I think he would do a world of good to admit to whatever he's done, and to apologize, so that donors don't stop supporting the great work of Livestrong.

There, I'm off my soapbox and settling back into my lounger.

It's not for me, it's for my friend

So, I um, have this friend. And he recently got some news about having cancer, so, you know, I was wondering, if you could, you know, help my, um, friend out.

My running friends are just starting to hear that one of the really good guys in our midst recently learned he has cancer. He has a bunch of tests lined up next week that will help determine what the road ahead looks like. I've already talked to him and he's got a great attitude, exactly what I expect from the guy who I first met in a van during a 200 mile relay race in Oregon. "We're in it to WIN IT!" I recall this seemingly mild-mannered runner exclaim as we rumbled down the road towards Seaside.

So if you're one of this guy's friends, let me coach you a bit on how to handle it next time you see him. Avoid eye contact, pretend there's nothing wrong, and take advantage of his diminished energy level to finally beat him in a race.

Wait, that's all wrong. Let's try again.

It's OK to say "I heard, and that sucks." It's also OK to say "I'm sorry to hear about your cancer diagnosis" or similar words. In fact it's OK to say just about anything, although you do risk making onto his list of stupidest things people said to me when they heard I had cancer. What's important is to be supportive, as so many of you have been to me over the years since my first go round.

Support means lots of things. Encouraging words, slightly inappropriate eCards, a donation to a charity, a meal. For a runner, it might mean slowing down a bit on a long run a few months from now so he can keep up. Although knowing this guy as I do, that may not be an issue at all.

See you out there on the road, my friend!

Live From The Chemo Room 30

Game on!

I'm starting my new chemo routine today. It's a 3 drug cocktail, one of which my insurance company has not approved. So instead of a tequila sunrise, I've just got orange juice and grenadine, mixologically speaking.

The best part of today has been hanging out with two of my high school buddies. Luis and Dave, and Luis' wife, Mary. We took over a corner of the chemo lounge and were leafing through the high school yearbooks that Luis brought. My nurses were particularly impressed with my 8th grade basketball action shot, even though you couldn't even tell I was wearing short-shorts in that one.

The worst part was right after they left, when I had a sudden rush of cramping, nausea, and sweating. There's a drug for that, and now that I've had it, I feel much better. And a little sleepy.

Make that a lot sleepy.

Nite-nite.

(Not So) Live from the Chemo Room 29

The astute among you have already asked me, "so where's the post you promised on Friday?" I'd like to say I can chalk it up to a case of post-Braves Blues, or even worse, a post-Dawgs Depression, both of which were cured by Falcons Fever, but that wasn't the case. Actually, you dear readers had to wait in line while Marcie and I talked to the kids and our folks first.

What we told our families is that the latest scans show some tiny spots that are starting to show activity. Dr. Z says we don't need to be in a huge hurry, but I don't want to play "wait and see" with this. So, I'm going to be starting a new round of chemo this week, the kind where you spend a good 6 or 7 hours at the Doctor's office getting pumped full of Draino.This will be a little different that the last time because this new routine also earns me a little pump that I'll take home and play with for 48 hours, like my own personal Tamagotchi. 

The good news is this new routine, called Folfiri + Erbitux, will probably be a little easier on me than the original one was, at least in the ways that matter, like fatigue and nausea. The downside is that I'll probably lose my hair and develop an acne-like rash that would look right at home on a 14 year old. I know, so sexy, right?

I really don't give a sh&% about my hair, but we were hoping to avoid that for the kids sake. "Daddy's tired" is a card I can pull every now and then, but every time they see me, it will be a reminder that I'm not all the way better yet. I'd rather they not have to deal with that. As the kids might say, "That's not fair!"

Here's a little preview, compliments of a cool app I added to my phone.

Live From the PET Scan Prep Room

This one goes to 11

I have to believe that's what the guy in the waiting room here in Radiology was told about his phone, because he's watching a video at such a high volume, we can all hear it - all 50 of us. I'm seriously hoping this is not a home sex tape. I'm about to donate a set of headphones to the cause.

Today's scan is is a PET, which is designed to measure the activity level in cells, as opposed to the size of a tumor. They tell you not to exercise the day before or day of the scan, as the process of muscle recovery apparently looks like cancer on the scan. So, I kinda forgot that part and went to the gym with Adam yesterday. I can just imagine the meeting with Dr. Z on Friday.

"Well, the good news is your lungs are fine. The bad news is you now have raging cancer of the biceps and triceps."

Today's Prep team is lead by Adam, a young guy with a good sense of humor. One example: Adam, who is white, introduced me to another member of the team, a much taller and blacker guy, saying, "this is my twin brother, Eric."

They then proceeded to guess what my glucose level would be. Eric nailed it (93) and I told him he was wasting his talents in medicine. He should be in Vegas, or at least hanging out in some convenience store playing the lottery.

I've just downed another delicious vanilla contrast smoothie, and I have radioactive glucose coarsing through my veins, so it's time to get this party started. I'll post again on Friday once I talk to Dr. Z about the results.

Live From the Chemo Room 28

Technically, not from the Chemo Room this time, just from Dr. Z's office. Routine follow-up. No news, just scheduling the next scan and getting a shot of my bone booster.

BTW, it finally happened. My former business partner and childhood friend is the mayor of this newish city where Dr. Z's office is located. We'd had a falling out years ago, one of those business and friendships don't usually mix well stories. It's been many years since I'd seen Mike, but he was coming out of the bakery this morning as I was headed in to pick up a couple of the World's Best Store-Made Challahs. We chatted. He'd not heard I was going through treatment again. I'd heard he was divorced, so I knew not to ask about his wife.

It was all very civil, and also a little strange.

Logo, circa 1998

Twenty years ago I left a promising career in a big public accounting firm to join Mike's little startup. Our lives were completely intertwined. We were in each other's weddings, knew each other's families, came into the office together on weekends to catch up on billings, etc. We grew the company, and learned what we were each good at. Mike was a relationship guy, I was more technical. We brought in a third partner, Neil, who was our sales guy. We opened an office in another city, then merged with another similar firm with two offices out west, adding two more partners. We had over 60 employees in the late 90's. Then the post-Y2K dip hit, and the differences between the partners became obvious. After a lot of 4 to 1 votes, we all realized it was time for the "1" to move on.

Mike was hurt by our decision, and predictably, that lead to our personal relationship declining. Then came same legal issues, and that was pretty much the end. He went on to start another firm doing similar work a couple years later, and a few of our former employees joined him after my remaining partners and I sold off the business. That was in 2005, 6 months after my first brush with cancer.

So now we come full circle.

It's been a while since I'd thought about Mike, and all the other folks from Lighthouse Group. Neil and I remain friends, but we've not been as close as I'd like. I saw my partner Tom a couple years ago when he came through town, but I haven't talked to Jerry in forever, although his wife Maria is the most reliable sender of birthday cards I've ever known. I hear something about one or two former employees from time to time, but not often enough. Looking back, we had a great team, we had a lot of fun, made tons of mistakes, and, I'd like to think, learned a great deal about how to be a better business person.

Maybe even a better person.

Freemium

Writing in the modern world is vastly different than it was only a few years ago. Becoming a writer used to mean sending manuscript after manuscript to agents and publishers and running to the mailbox each day to count the rejection letters. Nowadays, any idiot with a laptop can self publish anything from a collection of lame love poems sent to their high school sweethearts to a how-to guide for taking care of people with cancer (ahem). Once you finish your masterpiece, you upload it to a website, click here and there, and now millions of users with Kindles and Nooks and iPads can completely ignore it. You don't even get the rejection letters anymore!

So, yes, I'm a published author, or more accurately, a self-published author. And I'm thrilled every month when I get a couple of direct deposits that usually total $10 to $20, representing my cut from the sales of electronic and paper editions of my book. I've probably sold around 100 copies in the year or so since I published Welcome to the Club! Surviving Cancer, One Laugh at a Time. I've given away a few dozen more copies to fellow Members of the Club, family, my doctors and nurses, etc. That always feels good. But the CPA in me can't help but notice, this is no way to make a living.

In the technology sector, when you have a good idea that you just want people to be aware of, you often turn to a freemium model. Give away a basic version of your software, your iPhone app, etc. that has decent functionality, then, like any good crack dealer, get a few of those users hooked so they're willing to start paying for the full version. Want to read PDF's on any device?  Download the free Adobe Reader. Want to create PDF's? Insert your credit card here please.

As an author, I've thought about how the freemium model would apply to me. Amazon lets me allow people to download a chapter of the book for free on the hopes that people would then want to pay for the rest of the book. I've had exactly 2 people download the sample chapter, and I think one of those two was me testing out the feature. Then I noticed they also give me the option to make the whole book free for up to 5 days each calendar quarter. So I tried it out last Friday.

The results blew me away. Based on two Tweets and a couple of Facebook posts during the day, with a couple of Re-Tweets and shares by some of you, people downloaded 213 copies of my book for free. In one day, I gave away twice as many copies as I'd sold in a year. Since then, I've sold two copies, so it's not as though those 200+ readers became my evangelists.

The question to me is what to do with this data. How, if at all, does the freemium model apply to self-published books? It's easy to do this with eBooks, but what about the printed book, which had accounted for about 3/4 of my total book sales? I'd love to get your thoughts, dear readers.

And if you missed out on the free day, don't worry. We'll do it again soon

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?

Lessons from the Centenarians Club - Baltimore Chapter

After 104 years, you've probably learned a thing or two.

Fortunately, Marcie's grandmother Mary, is still of perfectly sound mind, incredible spirit, and impressive body. So even at her age, she was able to fully, thoroughly enjoy having her 2 children, 4 of her  grandchildren, and 5 of her great grandchildren with her for last weekend's festivities. She attended services at her synagogue on Saturday, as she does every Saturday, made her way to the pulpit for a speaking part in the service (called an "aliyah") , received good wishes from her fellow congregants at a reception after services, and travelled to a restaurant for a late lunch with the family. Her helper Doris (yes, Grandma lives in her own apartment still) quipped that the two of them would have to work extra hard at the gym after all that food.

The gym? Grandma goes to the gym 2 or 3 times per week. Having bought the lifetime membership 5 or 6 years ago, I guess she wants to get her money's worth.

Sunday morning brought brunch at Marcie's Aunt and Uncle's house. Grandma posed for pictures, refusing to hold her cane until she was sure the cameras were off. When it was time for my family to head to the airport, we were given a large tote bag, filled with treats Grandma had baked and frozen for us - mandel bread, raisin horns, cookies, mandlen (soup nuts), and chocolate-covered peanut butter balls. Luckily, that gene apparently passed through the paternal side of Marcie's family, because she too is quite the baker. We're hoping the longevity gene works the same way.

Later that day, Aunt Ilene and Uncle Elliot took Grandma out to a Mediterranean restaurant for dinner,  followed by a stroll around Baltimore's Inner Harbour.  I'm guessing she was the only walker whose age exceeded the high temperature that day.

So what are the lessons?

Be active - I met Grandma when she was a spry 82 year old. She continued to drive for the next dozen or so years, walked the mall in the mornings into her late 90's, and continues, to this day, to cook and bake for herself and her family. And the gym - did I mention the gym?

Enjoy your family - Marcie hasn't had much of a relationship with her biological father as an adult, but she stayed close to Grandma. Friday nights at Grandma's are among the memories of her childhood that Marcie cherishes most. And not just because of the homemade gefilte fish! Grandma was truly moved to see everyone this weekend, just as we were to see her. Ilene and Elliot deserve a huge thanks for helping us get there and for hosting.

Be happy - Easy to say, but in these 20 plus years that I've known her, I never once heard Grandma complain about an ache here or a pain there. Think about how many people you know in their 70's, 60's or even 50's spend most of their free time discussing maladies, doctor visits and the like. Hell, look at me - I'm 46 and I've written 24 columns on chemo treatments alone! I'm sure Grandma has her issues, but you'd never know it from talking with her.

Most people I know when asked if they'd want to live to 104 would say "no," because their view of someone that age involves nursing homes, soft foods, and the sunken look that comes from knowing you've outlived most of your generation and half of the next one. Take a look in Grandma's eyes, and you tell me. Is she not one of the happiest, healthiest, and most content-looking people of any age you've ever seen?

Happy Birthday Mary Shofer, with love and admiration, from the Beskinds.

UPDATE - It's official, Willard Scott says so!

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Live From the Chemo Room 24: Pre-Father's Day Edition

Father's Day.

It's an interesting concept. A day that used to involve buying dad a new tie, or so the cliche went. But most dad's don't wear ties anymore, so now we take dad to Outback or some other manly place for brunch or dinner as way of saying "thanks for being a dad, dad."

But for me, Father's Day is a reminder to put things in perspective. No matter how well or how crappy work is going, no matter how fancy a vacation you have planned for the summer or how concerned you are about paying the bills, no matter how much or how little you and your wife can enjoy a quiet moment here and there, if you are a father, there's nothing more important than the relationship you have with your kids. 

My dad traveled often for work, and when he was around, the stress of his job and who knows what else kept him from seeming happy much of the time. I'm afraid I'm like him in that way. I'm writing this in the hopes that by admitting to that publicly, I'll somehow force myself to be better with my kids - to be more present, more involved, and more outwardly happy with them. They are great kids, they want me to do stuff with them, and I want to be there for them, physically, and otherwise. 

I hope your Father's Day is a good one. This father is going to do a better job on the everyday.

My Baby Must've Smiled at Me

Oh, you Peter Allen fans know what's coming, don't you?

That's right - a little something from Burt Sugarman's Midnight Special. 

And while you enjoy it, I'll tell the rest of the folks what's going on. I was in Brazil last week for work, making stops in Brasilia, Belo Horizonte, Vitoria, and of course, Rio de Janeiro. The most surprising thing I learned on the trip was about that famous statue of Jesus that overlooks Rio from high above a mountain. 

The surprising part wasn't what the statue is made of, or how they managed to hoist it up to its lofty perch. No, I was stunned to learn that on a clear day, you can see the statue quite clearly from the 2nd floor men's bathroom at Rio's domestic airport. And not just from the common area of the bathroom, that would be interesting enough, to be sure, but this image was taken from the leftmost stall in said banheiro:

Upon my return, I did meet with the stereotactic radiation doc, this time it was the son of the original doctor I worked with last year. Kudos to anyone who just made a Son of Frankenstein leap in their head, but this guy's name is McCord, and I don't think he has a degree from the University of Ingolstadt. Anyway, Dr. McDoctor says we can do the radiation treatment again with little or no risk of complications, and since it was so effective the last time, he's expecting good results again.

OK doc, let's do this!

Now if only the treatment room didn't have those tesla coils buzzing and all those beakers full of boiling potions...

Weird Science

Anthony Michael Hall, before his critically-acclaimed SNL years, was famous for roles like the one he had in Weird Science. And Weird Science is where it looks like I'm headed for the next round of me vs. cancer.

The surgeon didn't think I was a good candidate for the scalpel - something about not wanting to ruin those massive P90X-infused pectoral muscles. So, pending a discussion with the radiation oncologist, we'll probably be using stereotactic radiation to fry those little spots in my lungs again. As you may recall, the last time this process was painless (other than the tattoo part) and side-effect-free, two qualities I truly admire in a treatment.

I've also restarted my oral chemo drug but in a lower dosage to try to minimize the  hand and foot sores that seem to go with Xeloda like peanut butter and, well, hand and foot sores.

But enough about me. Congrats to my friend Dawn whom you may have read about in my book. She's in New York this week for the photo shoot for the 2013 Colondar. No, I did not misspell that. It's a calendar filled with artfully done pictures of colon cancer survivors and their abdomens. Seriously. Check it out by clicking the link.

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!

The Straight Poop About Colonoscopies

March is Colon Cancer Awareness Month, and what better way to celebrate than to read this vivid account of what actually happens before, during and after a colonoscopy?

Warning - there will be discussion about bowel movements in this posting. If you don't like to read about bowel movements, you probably want even less to talk about them, which is precisely the reason why more preventable colon cancers aren't prevented. So suck it up and read on!


A little background first. I have colon cancer. I was diagnosed in January 2005, at 38 years old, when one of two polyps found during a colonoscopy was determined to be malignant. Because the cancer was contained in the polyp, it was considered Stage 0. Had I not had the colonoscopy, it likely would have spread to other vital organs nearby. That's what happened to my mom at age 67. She fought cancer for two years before she died. I've had 5 colonoscopies, and have been the designated driver for a good 15 others between my wife and my dad.

So let's start with why one would even have a colonoscopy. Isn't that an "old-person's" test? Often it is. Doctors usually suggest having one around age 50.  But if you have a family history, it's usually a good idea to get checked at least a decade before your youngest relative was diagnosed. And if you have a significant change in bowel habits, bleeding, unexplained weight loss, or abdominal pain, your doctor might order a colonoscopy so they can see what's going on inside your large intestine (aka colon).

It's pretty common to be uncomfortable with the procedure. Anecdotally, it's right up there with the dreaded Digital Rectal Exam for prostate health on the least favorite procedures for men, and ladies, I'm sure there some stuff that goes on a the gynecologist's office that you detest or fear at least as much. Still, the problem with the colonoscopy is that the prep involves much more than dropping one's shorts/ hiking one's skirt while your doctor (hopefully) lubricates his/her (hopefully) gloved hand.

Colonoscopy prep involves being on a clear liquid diet for a day, and then topping it off with drinking a solution or downing a series of pills that will give you the worst case of diarrhea you've ever had - at least I hope it's the worst case for your sake. This is the rumbling, grumbling, "OMG how can there be anything left in me! Outta my way"explosive kind of diarrhea. And it's no fun. But it doesn't last that long. If you learn nothing else from this post, learn this: get some cream called Nupricanal from your local pharmacy. It's an over-the-counter med. You're going to wipe it on your very sore butt and find instant relief.

Here's my typical prep day:

6:30 Wake up, drink yellow Gatorade for breakfast. Nothing red or purple, as these colors can look like blood in the colon.
7:30 Go to work
9:30 Snack - lemon jello. Jello is liquid - don't ask.
12:00 Lunch - clear broth and a glass of yellow gatorade.
3:00 Snack - frozen lemonade
5:00 Go home
6:00 Start Prep by taking 4 horse-tranquilizer sized Osmo Prep (sodium phosphate) pills with 8 ounces of water
6:15 Repeat the pills and water every 15 minutes for an hour
7:00 Wonder what all the fuss is about
8:00 start a second round of Osmo Prep, this time 4 pills and 8 ounces of water every 15 minutes 3 times
8:17 realize what the fuss is about - Gotta Go!
Repeat trip to bathroom seven more times before 11:00. Apply Nupricanal each time. Wash hands thoroughly.
11:00 crawl into bed

Next day
5:00 Wake up
5:10 - One last time in the bathroom
5:40 - Nope, this is the last time
6:00  - Get driven to Dr's office
6:10 - Really? How can there be anything left?

And then we can start the procedure. But before we talk about that, let me just say a couple words about prep. There are easily a dozen methods of bowel prep used. The goal is the same, clean that 4 ft tube called a colon as thoroughly as possible so the GI doc can get a good look at it from the inside. The biggest challenge with the prep is the volume of liquid you have to drink. My prep uses pills and while it does require me to down a full gallon of water, at least it's water (or Gatorade if you prefer). There are other preps out there on the market that are all liquid and that will claim to have a refreshing fruit flavor. There's even one called GoLightly - I am not shitting you, if you'll pardon the pun. That's like calling a jack hammer the Tap-Tap Machine.

The point is you can ask your doc ahead of time what kind of prep they are going to require you to use. If you are easily nauseated and your doc says it's GoLightly and that's final - I'd strongly consider finding another doc. Not every patient can tolerate the pills, so it may not be an option for you, but ask up front. You can even call and ask the nurse before you schedule an appointment.

So, back to Day Two of colonoscopy fun. I hope you asked for an early appointment, because the sooner we get this over with the happier you'll be. The worst part is behind you. Your job now is pretty simple. They call your name, take you into a pre-op area, get your vitals, and before you can say "what's in that tank over there" you're in la-la land. It varies from practice to practice, but chances are you're in the kind of "twilight sleep" that they put moms in back when I was born so they'd forget the whole labor thing and want to have a baby again.

A nurse and a tech will roll you on your side, tuck your knees up and expose your ass to all the people in the office building next door. Then the doc will come on, blocking their view and will stick a thin, flexible tube in what some people prefer to think of as a one-way opening. The doc will also blow some air in there because that helps him round the corners and see all that freshly cleaned colon wall using the camera at the end of the tube. It also makes for a lively scene in the recovery room - more on that in a sec.

If he finds a polyp, he'll probably remove it by lassoing it with a little wire and snipping it off. That area will be sore for a couple days and may bleed a little. He'll send the tissue off to the lab and in a couple days you'll know whether it's cancer or not. "Not" is the better answer.

The whole process takes about 10 or 15 minutes. Then you go to a recovery area where somebody who must love you a whole lot will be called in to wait with you until you fart. That air the doc blew in there has to go somewhere, right? That's a sign that the plumbing is working. Once you're stable enough to dress yourself, you can go home.

You probably won't remember whatever the doctor or nurse told you about the procedure, which is OK, because the person who waited for you to fart listened to that while pretending not to listen to the other 4 patients farting. After you nap off the remaining anesthesia you'll fart some more, eat solid food, and text your co-worker to say it wasn't that bad.

Congratulations, you're no longer a colonoscopy virgin!

Live from the Chemo Room 19

I'm sitting next to a couple, around my age, and hearing the wife being told about the anti-nausea routine. Take this one starting tomorrow, take this one if you need it. She has throat cancer. Her chemo drug is similar to my "bad one" plus she has radiation treatment starting next week.

I gave them my 2 cents worth - stay ahead of the nausea. Take the "if you need it" one before you need it.

I'm one of the chemo vets now. I'm like Payton Manning, tutoring a young Andrew Luck, only I get paid about $20 million less. You don't want to be pushy, but when you see a couple heading into the unknown, you want to help where you can.

SInce I flew back from Europe via New York, I did stop by MSK last week to see the Wizard. She agrees with the treatment plan, and thinks I'm doing well, despite the recent suspicious specks in my lung. I trust Dr. Z completely, but it still feels better to hear from another expert, particularly one who does nothing but colorectal cancer treatment, that you're on the right track.

Did you say you're a-peein?

A big ole jet airliner carried me far away to Europe this week. I needed to go to Czech Republic for work, and leaving a day early made the flights much cheaper, so I decided to reward myself with a stopover in Paris. Thanks to favorable winds, I had about 21 hours in the City of Lights. Luckily, the icy grip that had ensnared Europe for the last two weeks had just loosened, and I was greeted by a sunny day with temperatures around 45 F when I landed at Charles de Gaulle.

 

I got to my hotel around 2 PM, and quickly changed for my self-guided tour of the city. I decided to combine my need to do a longish run with my desire to see one of the world’s great cities for the first time. So following the advice of my boss’s wife, Marianna, I set out from towards the Sienne River. I saw all the big sights of Paris, the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Champs Elyse. I even stopped in a McDonald’s – not to eat of course, but to see if Pulp Fiction was right about the Big Mac. You decide…

It was nearly dinner time when I got back to the hotel, so I showered and ventured out. Speaking no French, I wanted to find a good, non-touristy restaurant, and to take my chances with the menu. I found a suitable place, and sat down at le table pour une. The first waiter said something in French, and picking up on my blank stare, called over another waiter who asked me in 3 different languages if I spoke each one. Fortunately, English was one of the choices.

He welcomed me and explained that “the specialty of the house is beef, we have many choices of only the finest French beef.” As impressive as it sounded, I don’t eat things that can’t fly, swim, or look like they should be able to. I told the waiter, “I’m sorry, but I don’t eat beef.” His reply was priceless.

“Then you must have the veal, it is simply the best!”

Unless “veal” is French for “fish” I was pretty sure that wouldn’t pass my swim or fly test, so I went for the duck leg. Good call – it was quite tasty.

From there, it was on to Prague, and then a two hour drive to our office in Zdar nad Sazavou, a quaint little town of 40,000 people on the Sazavou River (but you already knew that, didn’t you) in southeastern Czech.  The work went well, and I was able to do something I’d never done before in my life. No, drinking beer at lunch wasn’t it, as I had done that a few times already, and in Czech, everybody drinks beer at lunch. I think they even have little beer boxes they serve with lunch in “childergarten” but I could be wrong.

No, it was skiing. In 45 years, I’d never found the motivation to squeeze my size 12’s into some 6 foot long planks and attempt to slide across or down the frozen tundra. As graceful as I am (sorry for those who just did a spit-take), I’d never tried it.  Our European GM, Jarda, is an accomplished cross-country skier, probably about the same level in that sport as I am in running. He provided me with all the proper gear and drove me to the edge of town at lunchtime on Tuesday where some well groomed and reasonably flat trails awaited. It took a while, and while I was no (insert name of famous cross-country skier here), I held my own. 

For a farewell dinner Jarda and our head of engineering, Ales, took me to a restaurant about 10 km outside of town, where the snow was piled about a meter high alongside the one-lane road we drive down to get to the restaurant. Jarda told me the chef had trained in some famous Parisian bistros, so I was looking forward to the meal. I was not disappointed. The wild duck breast appetizer tasted like what I remembered an excellent steak tasting like. The fish on risotto was outstanding, and dessert, well, judge for yourself.

That’s blueberry mousse, folks. Mmmm…

I’m writing this from the plane on the way to New York, where I’m stopping by to see the Wizard at Memorial Sloan Kettering. Then it’s off to Savannah for Adam’s all-state chorus concert, before finally returning to my own bed Saturday night.

It’s been a good week so far. I hope you can say the same. 

Ear's the Update

If you read the title in a Cockney accent, you're my kind of reader!

Mr ear was better, but not 100%, so I called Dr. Z's office yesterday. I'm now taking Super Special Ear Drops which contain 2 more antibiotics and a steroid. So by Saturday, my left ear should be swollen to a size that suggests an otoplasty is in order.

Switching topics - here's an interesting tale from today's lunchtime outing to Jiffy Lube. There were two other customers ahead of me, one of whom was a 6' 8" guy with a buzz cut, who I'd just seen giving a copy of a book to the check-in person at the shop.

Tall guy, it turns out, used to play basketball at Auburn with Charles Barkley. He's an evangelist and author named Mark Cahill. Mark noticed the other customer's Livestrong bracelet and asked him if he had anyone in his family dealing with cancer.  The guy has lost his mom to cancer and his sister is currently battling. Mark offered some words about G-d's plan, and handed the guy a book. Here's where it gets interesting.

It was time for Customer 1 to check out. Mark stepped in fromt and said "I've got this." He paid for the man's oil change! Then he grabbed 4 more copies of his book, put $20 bills in each one, and gave them to the manager to pass on to the rest of the Jiffy Lube employees.

He gave me a pamphlet called "The Most Important Question of All Time" and told me I could have a free book too if I went to his website at www.oneheartbeataway.org The whole thing was strange, and I was left wondering what this guy's deal is. Why the $20 tips to all the employees? Why the free oil change for customer 1, but not for me (not that I needed it, but why?).

I never said a word about my own cancer, my book, etc. I'm debating sending him a copy.

Beckett anyone?

Waiting For Godot was one of those plays I never understood.* Waiting For Szabo is what happens when they work you in on an already busy Monday at Dr. Z's.

Nagging earache is the malady of the day, infection the Dx, Z-pack the cure.

Good thing, because the friendly skies are calling. Flying with an ear infection is no fun. Flying 8 hours with an ear infection would turn me into that toddler in 13-F, the one who sits right behind you cooing until they shut the front door and then begins to scream because mommy doesn't believe in the old adage "slip a little red wine in their apple juice before takeoff."

Drink up kid, and stop kicking my seat!

* - I didn't get Cat on a Hot Tin Roof either. Not a single feline, just a bunch of people. But Starlight Express... now that's greatness!

Live from the Chemo Room 18

Saw Dr. Z. All's good so far. We won't scan again for about 5 weeks, so I don't expect to have much news on my progress until then.

I don't think I mentioned the fun news I received from my insurance company when I went to restart my Xeloda prescription (oral chemo). The copay for a 14 day supply went from $35 in 2011 to, wait for it, two-hundred-and-fifty dollars and no sense! (neither the amount nor the word "sense" is a typo).  The logic, if you can call it that, is that there is an equivalent drug available that is delivered via a pump you wear for 3 days at a time. From what I've read, the pump is a pain in the butt, and there can be more side effects than you get from the oral drug.

The good news, and please share this with anyone taking expensive drugs, is that the manufacturer, Genentech, offers a program through which they will pay 80% of the co-pay amount, up to $1500 a year. Apparently, it's a fairly common thing for drug companies to do. The CFO in me admires the wisdom of this offer. Let's say you're the VP of Sales for the drug company. You've got this product that's worth $5,000 per prescription to you. You buy lunch for the staff of every oncology practice in the country, send the docs to boondoggles in Vegas, and your drug really takes off. A couple years goes by and the CEO says he needs you to generate another $100 million or else. The feedback from the satiated oncology practices is that some patients' insurance plans have really high co-pays for your drug, so they are using an alternative. "Hmmm," you think to yourself "if I make my drug cheaper, I lose revenue, and as I recall, that's bad. Man this VP stuff is hard!" You go home to your stay-at-home spouse, whom you under-appreciate and underestimate regularly. You tell him/her about the expensive drug and he/she responds with, "duh, send the patient a coupon." While that's the dumbest thing you ever heard, you do casually mention it to a coworker while waiting in the latte line the next morning.

A week later, a memo comes out announcing the co-worker's promotion to VP of Sales, the launch of the new co-pay drug card program, and wishing you well in your pursuit of new endeavors. You missed the point - picking up $1,500 a year for the patient allows you to generate $130,000 a year in top-line revenue. Duh.

A Purposeful Run

It happened again.

Yesterday was another training run at Phidippides for the upcoming Georgia Marathon and Half-Marathon. When I was helping with registration, a woman came up to the table wearing a "Cancer Sucks" sweatshirt. I told her I liked it. The sweatshirt, not cancer.

There were 40 or 50 runners in our group and on the return portion of the out-and-back course, I saw her again. I turned and jogged with her for a few steps, learning that she was a survivor. "Seven months" she told me with well-deserved pride.

I greeted her at the end of the 8 mile run with a copy of my book. She was genuinely thrilled. I learned that this was her first run back after treatment, and while I don't necessarily recommend 8-milers for one's return to running, I was very happy she'd chosen that day and that event. I was inspired by her, and she said she was inspired by me. Sort of a Mutual Inspiration Society.

Towauna's friend took our picture, and I hope I'll get a copy of it to add to this post.

Keep running my friends, and keep Kickin Cancer's Butt!

Setbacks, Leaps Forward

It's a setback. That's all.

The news that some suspiciously cancerish spots have popped up in my lung is a setback. You have to expect them, you know. Nobody skates through a pretty serious case of metastatic colon cancer without them.

Setbacks happen.

They happened to Dawn, my hero who had liver metastases 9 years ago. They happened to my Imerman Angel buddy who battled through tough surgeries and nasty chemo for years before reclaiming his "normal" life.

They're happening to me.

I wasn't ready for setbacks. I was on a trajectory from illness to wellness. Next stop, marathon. Except there are potholes in the road, and I can't avoid them all.

But seeing the potholes is a leap forward. Knowing the setbacks can pop up at any time and being mentally prepared to deal with them is a leap forward. Being strong, physically, emotionally strong is a leap forward.

Leaping forward happens... for me.

Running/Cancer Karma

On the heels of yesterday's news comes some running/cancer karma of the good kind. As you may know, I'm a member of Team Phidippides, a socially competitive running team sponsored by my favorite running store here in Atlanta. I'd volunteered along with a few of my teammates to help lead a training group for the upcoming Georgia Marathon and Half Marathon in March. Today was our first official training run and I did 6 miles at a very decent pace.

After the run, people were hanging around enjoying breakfast and a seminar about Dead Butts. I've seen some really sick assholes in my day, but never a Dead Butt. I decided to grab one of my books from the car to give to Phidippides head honcho Susan. She was happy to have one and asked if I had a second one she could include in the raffle they were about to have for all the training run attendees. I did, so I handed it over, and began to wonder, who, besides me, is out here in 25 degree weather to do a run and wants to read my silly cancer book. 

Well, wouldn't you know, the raffle winner, Linda, had been treated for breast cancer last summer, and was actually hoping to win the book. We chatted for a while, and it felt really good to know that even as a new chapter in my journey begins, the chapters I wrote around the time Linda was beginning hers may now help her get through it all with an extra smile or two. 

Keep on running, Linda!

Live from the chemo room 17

Amid the snow flurries in NoFuCo this morning, I am reminded of how unpleasant it was to spend Winter  in Chemoland last year. That sensitivity to cold from Oxaliplatin was much harder to deal with when the temps were in the 20's and 30's as they are today. But it also reminded me what a nice break it was to have been off of chemo for all these months.

That break is coming to an end. Dr. Z told me that the CT portion of my scan (PET scans are actually PET/CT combo's, or at least mine are) revealed some tiny little spots in my lung that aren't lighting up as metastatic activity, but which do appear to have grown since the last scan. Are they cancer? We can't say for sure, but we're assuming it could be, so it's time to crank up the chemo again. For now, we're going with the oral drug Xeloda, one week on, one week off. We might add Oxaliplatin back later if this doesn't do the trick. Xeloda isn't that shitty a drug, but speaking of shitty, it can have some GI-related side effects.  (Sorry about that one, just trying to find my cancer-fighting writer's voice again...)

I'm not thrilled with the news, or possible news, but as I told Dr. Z, I feel physically and emotionally like I'm 100% recovered from the last round, and I'm ready to do whatever we have to in order to Kick Cancer's Butt Again.

One positive thing, I'll probably have an easier time coming up with content for this blog now!

Yesterday I had a chance to address the 6th graders at Cliff Valley School. I was talking about how living a healthy lifestyle, being a runner, eating well, etc. prepared me for two fights with cancer, both of which I "won." I may have to adjust my expectations of winning a bit, now that I'm learning that 6 months without chemo is, in fact, a win.

Live from the PET Scan Prep Room

Vince is back! He is an Alabama fan, so I'm looking forward to many LSU jokes. For example: poor LSU couldn't make it back to Baton Rouge after the game... Somebody had painted a 50 yard line on the highway.

I was originally scheduled to have my scan in the cardiac imaging unit, but Vince had an opening over here in cancer land, so they moved me here. Business is good in the PET industry, apparently, because they are building a new scanner at the main hospital now.

Bloody Good Start to 2012!

I was 9.5 miles into a 10.5 mile run today, thinking about how far I'd come in a year, about what a great year I could have in 2012, running-wise, when suddenly, the sidewalk monster grabbed me.

The result is a couple of bloody paws. And thanks to Avastin, the wonder drug with only one real side effect, it'll take a a good three or four months before these little beauties are ready for that audition for the cover of Hands Beautiful magazine.

But as we like to say in the Beskind household, sh&% happens. We're somewhat familiar with freak accidents in my house, so a pair of stinging manos aren't going to phase me.

I'm still looking forward to a great year, but I'll adjust my gaze to slightly more close range and downward next time I'm running on the cracked sidewalks on Oak Grove Road.

Happy New Year to all!

Add caption