Taking One for the Team (and for myself)

It's been a while since I live-blogged from the chemo room here in Johns Creek. I just thought it was a good time to catch everyone up on the latest. You may be wondering why I'm here when at last report I was headed for a nice long break from chemo. Well, that's where the title of this post comes in. 

I had been enjoying the break, I must say. And as a practical matter, my chemo always has to involve a Wednesday visit to Dr Z's. Either I start on Monday and have my take home pump removed on Wednesday or I start on Wednesday and d/c the pump on Friday. So with Christmas and New Year's days falling on Wednesday this year, it would have been January 6th before I could have had another treatment. 

Faithful readers will recall that the last couple of times I've had lengthy breaks, things didn't go too well. I ended up feeling crappy from cancer, as opposed to crappy from side effects. But the crappy from cancer is obviously a more serious matter. I had been conveniently ignoring this little fact while making my plans to go chemo-free from Thanksgiving until week 2 of January. 

It was the team, meaning my family, that reminded me. Our oldest confided in Marcie that he was worried I would get really sick again if I was off chemo that long. She shared his concern, and shared it with me. I began to wonder, was I being selfish by foregoing treatment voluntarily? Maybe not, after all even Dr. Z had admitted he'd pushed me about as far as he could without some kind of break after November. And lest we forget, I'm still dealing with the dreaded osteonecrosis in my jaw, the pain from which has subsided, leaving only the dead tooth and bone scheduled to be surgically removed December 30th. 

The truth is, for many of us chronic cancer patients, knowing when to treat and when to rest is at best difficult, and at worst, a Sophie's choice. Stay on treatment too long and you stop being able to do the things you want and need to do - being truly present with your family, working, enjoying time with friends. Take too long a break and your disease could progress to the point that a) the treatment needed is harsher, or  b) you no longer have viable treatment options. 

It didn't take me long to work out the decision this time. Adam and Marcie were right. Six weeks off would have been too long. So I'm here today, 3 weeks after my last treatment, then will have another 3 weeks until my next one. That's the best plan I could come up with - for my family and for me. 

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As we all look forward to time off from work and school, it is my hope that each of us is able to have some moments when we reflect on and perhaps connect with those most dear to us. 

Happy Holidays to all, and thank you for supporting me through another year of life's challenges. 

(Not Even Close To) Live From the Chemo Room 35

So, I'm thirteen days late in posting this. Gimme a break. Haven't you heard of writer's block?

Infusion 35 was the day after Christmas, or as I like to call it Family Jewvie Day. You see, for those who don't know, we Jews have nothing to do on Christmas Day, so we go to the movies. All of us. This year my family saw Life of Pi, which is like Titanic, only in this one the Leo DeCaprio character is an Indian teen and he survives, along with a lion. So maybe it's not really like Titanic, except for the sinking boat part.

My oldest has been asking if he could join me for chemo one time. He's very intrigued by how things work. So I brought him along and he spent the morning in the chair next to me, until Marcie came to deliver lunch and to rescue him from what had probably become boredom by then. He's very observent, not in the religious way, but in the noticing way. Over dinner that night, he had lots of questions about the procedures he had seen. 

He was gone by the time my favorite part of the day occurred. There were four of us who were all getting pumps, or, if you prefer, a chemo-Takhomasak.  One of the techs appeared with four shoebox-sized gifts for us. "You'll never need this," he said, "but Northside (Hospital) is making us give them to all our pump patients." In the box, labelled Chemotherapy Spill Kit, is basically a haz-mat suit, including gloves and booties, and some rags. The irony was just starting to hit me when one of my fellow chemo loungers said, "Let me get this straight. Getting this shit on my skin is apparently very bad, but dumping it straight into my heart is OK."

Brilliant!

The Northside reference may have been an omen. Dr. Z and his partners sold their practice to one of Atlanta's largest hospital entities as of the end of the year. New ways of doing things, including how they bill for chemo sessions, are now in place. I can't wait to see what this means to my wallet. 

More on that tomorrow in Episode 36. Stay tuned!

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.

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!

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.

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.

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?"

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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.

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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.

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!

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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.

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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.

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.

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...

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!

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.

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.

Live From the Chemo Room #16

J'ever notice how when you have a short appointment it's on a day when the Dr.'s office is really crowded and running late? I hate that.

That was my Andy Rooney tribute, but it does describe my morning so far.

I'm looking forward to giving a hard time to the chemo nurse from last time. I switched one of my meds from an infusion to a shot, and she managed to give me a two inch bruise on the back of my arm. I thought the bruising was a side effect of my other drug, but Dr. Z says it was bad technique. It will be light hearted, of course, but I will milk it a bit.

I met a new patient today who is starting on Oxaliplatin, the drug that caused all my lovely side effects. I was able to share some tips about warming your drinking water, etc. He is on his second round of pancreatic cancer treatment. His wife and son are here with him. Son's about my age. They all have the right attitude.

I hope all of you have a wonderful holiday season. Give your family extra hugs this year. I know I will.