November would begin mild and bright, gradually turning cold and bleak. During this month I would be scheduled for my usual Port Flush and B12 shot, as well as a follow up with my Surgeon. What was unscheduled were the passing of two people who's lives connected to mine by a common thread. They would both succumb to their particular cancers within two weeks of each other.
For a short while I participated in the role of caregiver, a role I found extremely difficult. From being on both sides of Patient and Caregiver role, I must confess I felt more in control as a Patient. As limited as my involvement was in the caregiver role, I felt overwhelmed by the impact of being helpless of the inevitable. I would appreciate the efforts of family and friends who were there to support not only the patient, but each other. In some ways those visits to see John during his final days were emotionally difficult, as I would relive my own experiences with my parents, and of course, my journey.
John was 76 when he passed, shortly after a bittersweet 55th anniversary quietly celebrated in his hospital room. In the evenings, long past traditional visiting hours, I would sometimes sit with him. By this time however it was doubtful he even recognized me, and was simply unable to communicate, trapped by the cancer slowly robbing him of the essence of who he was. Nevertheless I believed that there was still a connection, sometimes a flicker in his eyes, and a smile to one of my observations about life. I talked, he would listen, drifting in and out of the drug-induced sleep, pain stealing his will. I had to wonder, is that what fate has in store for me?
Of course all journey's end the same, how we get there is what's important. I was profoundly saddened when he passed, although I had months to prepare for it. And I was therefore unprepared when I heard news that another acquaintance had passed, suddenly, from his cancer.
I had known John for some eighteen years. Michael I had met some eighteen months before, while visiting Hospice. Both of us were undergoing various treatments for our Cancers. As part of the process we were enrolled into a 4 week course that endeavoured to take patients and their caregivers through the various stages of coping with Cancer. Through the sessions over the next month we formed if not a friendship, then a kindred sense of sharing. We were near enough in age to have some similar life experiences outside of cancer. Our 'significant others' had known each other from high school. We would run into each other, but the friendship never progressed due to the priorities of our treatment. There would be sporadic communication, and a well-intentioned desire to get together. Then the shock of reading of his passing in the obituaries.
I could say I barely knew him. I could say that I had been through a lot in the past month. I could say I didn't have to go pay my respects, that people would understand. I could say all that, but I couldn't do it. I would visit Michael for the last time, and thereby meet his children for likely the first and only time. I was moved by how much our visit meant to his wife.
November would finish with cold bitter rain that lasted for days, overflowing ditches, saturating the ground and flooding basements. Of course my basement got water, but eventually the water drains out, the basement becomes dry, and life goes on. More importantly, I still go with it. I will remember this November, not for the passing, but for the memory of those whose lives have forged the chains that link us together. For John and Michael may your journey's end bring peace to your spirit, and may your memory live on in honour and love.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Fifty Two
When I turned fifty I wasn't doing badly I thought. I remember riding my mountain bike up the big hill behind my house. In my thirties I could power my way to the top (with my 10-speed!). On my fiftieth birthday, I attempted to recapture that feeling, and I almost succeeded. I made it to the top of the hill and realized in that moment that 'over the hill' was no longer an abstract reference.
My fifty-first birthday would find me still recovering from surgery related to my cancer, and my bike-riding was limited. In time I would return to riding, and during those brief journey's I could dreams of being younger and full of energy once again. Winter quiesced my activities, those dark and cold nights disheartened me more than the cancer ever did. I would finish my chemo cycle in January of 2011, and recuperate. That spring would see me return to work, ostensibly one-hundred percent. I rode my bike to work that first day, I was "me" again. Time goes so fast when you work, summer turns into the Fall. My favourite time of the year. October in particular with the transformation of colours fading into dark November's bleak days of wan sunlight and chill wet weather. October remains my favourite month aside from the seasons' change because it is the month of my birth. I turned 52 in 2011.
Fifty Two means I've celebrated two birthdays since the diagnosis of my cancer. Fifty Two and who knows how many more, but you can't count what you don't have. And I refuse to be counted out just yet. So to celebrate my birthday I scheduled my annual physical. Usually a physical is some poking and prodding by the doctor, the obligatory urine sample and the fasting requirement for bloodwork. At the suggestions of friends and medical staff, I also asked for a Vitamin D study. Apparently we in the modern western world simply do not get enough natural Vitamin D through sunlight. The northern climes also tend to minimize our intake during the winter. Of course during the summer some of us are slathered in SPF 60+ sun block ("SPF COTTON" in my case) making the absorption of Vitamin D moot. Blood work and fasting are the easy parts, remember, I'm a male over the age of fifty, so that means....
.... Prostate Exam Time! Latex gloves! Lubricating Gels! Lying on your side, knees up to your chest in the fetal position. If i was recounting this to my male friends I would now pause for dramatic effect and say something like "...when I regained conciousness..". But truth is it's only mildly uncomfortable and does not last very long. I have no obvious prostate issue. (The subsequent PSA test would also put that concern at ease). It is however, part of the yearly physical.
Since I'm getting a full physical, I'm also getting a chest X ray and blood work. The chest X ray requires no preparation other than waiting to have your name called. You don't even need to say "cheese" when they take your picture. Bloodwork however is a time-related process directly tied to fasting.
Now skipping meals is not a new process for me. Fasting for blood work is not a problem usually. I just get so darn thirsty. I neither drink nor eat for the proscribed 14 hours. With careful planning I usually arrange to get my tests done the following morning, usually a Saturday, then follow that up with an incredibly satisfying breakfast. For some reason however it seemed that most of the city decided that they too would like to have their medical tests done the same time as me. I arrived at 9am, took ticket number 70. "fifty three" however was the next patient to register. No problem, 15 minutes away is another medical testing lab. Off I go, only to discover it's not open on Saturdays. No choice but to return. Here's what makes you just shake your head at the Canadian Medical system: I was gone for about 1/2 hour and my ticket which I still had with me was yet to be called. I had effectively kept my place in line. True it was an exceptionally busy day, but it was lunch I was having by the time I was processed. Now all I had to do was wait for the results.
That wait ended when my voice mail had a terse message from my doctor's office to see them regarding the results. My last physical was two years ago and when I went in to review the findings I ended up getting surgery and chemo for cancer treatment. Gee, now what else could they possible find? Blood sugar? Hypertension? Rabies?
Turns out it was mundane: My Vitamin D was low, not horribly so, but I now take a 1000IU supplement pill every day. My PSA is fine (yay). My cholesterol was high though but at 4.6 I hope to manage it by diet and exercise and trying to avoid taking more meds. I was advised to try the Dash diet as it was suitable for hypertension and overall reduction of cholesterol. Less meat, more veggies, fruit and fibre. Yup, more fibre, every colon cancer patient probably wishes they had eaten a lot more fibre in their earlier years.
Still I am aging, and I have some interesting things to look forward too: I have a kidney stone in my right kidney. Thinking about that process brings me into a panic and cold sweat, I did ONE KS and I Never Want To Experience Pain Like That EVER! But no cancer, the CT that I had done several weeks before showed only that pesky stone, but nothing worse. I can live with that.
I guess that's the real comment about my fifty second birthday: I can live.
My fifty-first birthday would find me still recovering from surgery related to my cancer, and my bike-riding was limited. In time I would return to riding, and during those brief journey's I could dreams of being younger and full of energy once again. Winter quiesced my activities, those dark and cold nights disheartened me more than the cancer ever did. I would finish my chemo cycle in January of 2011, and recuperate. That spring would see me return to work, ostensibly one-hundred percent. I rode my bike to work that first day, I was "me" again. Time goes so fast when you work, summer turns into the Fall. My favourite time of the year. October in particular with the transformation of colours fading into dark November's bleak days of wan sunlight and chill wet weather. October remains my favourite month aside from the seasons' change because it is the month of my birth. I turned 52 in 2011.
Fifty Two means I've celebrated two birthdays since the diagnosis of my cancer. Fifty Two and who knows how many more, but you can't count what you don't have. And I refuse to be counted out just yet. So to celebrate my birthday I scheduled my annual physical. Usually a physical is some poking and prodding by the doctor, the obligatory urine sample and the fasting requirement for bloodwork. At the suggestions of friends and medical staff, I also asked for a Vitamin D study. Apparently we in the modern western world simply do not get enough natural Vitamin D through sunlight. The northern climes also tend to minimize our intake during the winter. Of course during the summer some of us are slathered in SPF 60+ sun block ("SPF COTTON" in my case) making the absorption of Vitamin D moot. Blood work and fasting are the easy parts, remember, I'm a male over the age of fifty, so that means....
.... Prostate Exam Time! Latex gloves! Lubricating Gels! Lying on your side, knees up to your chest in the fetal position. If i was recounting this to my male friends I would now pause for dramatic effect and say something like "...when I regained conciousness..". But truth is it's only mildly uncomfortable and does not last very long. I have no obvious prostate issue. (The subsequent PSA test would also put that concern at ease). It is however, part of the yearly physical.
Since I'm getting a full physical, I'm also getting a chest X ray and blood work. The chest X ray requires no preparation other than waiting to have your name called. You don't even need to say "cheese" when they take your picture. Bloodwork however is a time-related process directly tied to fasting.
Now skipping meals is not a new process for me. Fasting for blood work is not a problem usually. I just get so darn thirsty. I neither drink nor eat for the proscribed 14 hours. With careful planning I usually arrange to get my tests done the following morning, usually a Saturday, then follow that up with an incredibly satisfying breakfast. For some reason however it seemed that most of the city decided that they too would like to have their medical tests done the same time as me. I arrived at 9am, took ticket number 70. "fifty three" however was the next patient to register. No problem, 15 minutes away is another medical testing lab. Off I go, only to discover it's not open on Saturdays. No choice but to return. Here's what makes you just shake your head at the Canadian Medical system: I was gone for about 1/2 hour and my ticket which I still had with me was yet to be called. I had effectively kept my place in line. True it was an exceptionally busy day, but it was lunch I was having by the time I was processed. Now all I had to do was wait for the results.
That wait ended when my voice mail had a terse message from my doctor's office to see them regarding the results. My last physical was two years ago and when I went in to review the findings I ended up getting surgery and chemo for cancer treatment. Gee, now what else could they possible find? Blood sugar? Hypertension? Rabies?
Turns out it was mundane: My Vitamin D was low, not horribly so, but I now take a 1000IU supplement pill every day. My PSA is fine (yay). My cholesterol was high though but at 4.6 I hope to manage it by diet and exercise and trying to avoid taking more meds. I was advised to try the Dash diet as it was suitable for hypertension and overall reduction of cholesterol. Less meat, more veggies, fruit and fibre. Yup, more fibre, every colon cancer patient probably wishes they had eaten a lot more fibre in their earlier years.
Still I am aging, and I have some interesting things to look forward too: I have a kidney stone in my right kidney. Thinking about that process brings me into a panic and cold sweat, I did ONE KS and I Never Want To Experience Pain Like That EVER! But no cancer, the CT that I had done several weeks before showed only that pesky stone, but nothing worse. I can live with that.
I guess that's the real comment about my fifty second birthday: I can live.
Friday, September 23, 2011
CT results: No news is Good news...
I had another CT scan this year, my second since I finished my chemo back in January of 2011. The actual test was on Sept. 8th, the day after my monthly, oh-so-routine Port Flush.
A Port Flush is simply a way to ensure that the IVPort embedded in my chest is still functional. It consists of a sterilizing swabbing of the port area, a saline rinse and pulling back some blood, which is then promptly returned. Basically this ensures that this plumbing will do what is necessary if chemo is again required. It's a 15 minute job if all goes well. Fifteen minutes later I had another needle pick to add to my growing collection. Six more and I get a free tattoo ... I am fortunate that I suffer no bruising. My only discomfort is when I peel the bandage off the next day....a hairy chest and sticky bandages do not mix well! If the Port Flush is the opening act, lets hope the main event is just as easy.
Some of my CT scans in the past have required that I drink 'Reddi Cat' a beverage that is supposed to enhance the CT process and has all the flavour of chalk. Fortunately this visit did not require that particular "treatment". The CT scan is not of itself invasive, but it does have a component where a contrast dye is introduced during the process. In order to do that at the appropriate time, you are prepared with an IV, in my case it was just near the crook of my left arm. More needle pricks, more bandages and more hair (actually: less) fun later. After the IV lock is installed, I am led to the CT room and asked to lay on the gantry that serves as my entry into the eye of the CT storm.
The CT process has me on my back, feet towards the CT scanner and my arms stretched out over my head. I keep my eyes closed as the scan commences. I'm told to hold my breath during parts of the scan. The contrast is introduced at some point, and I feel my ears and back of my neck get really warm. The contrast is working. One other little side effect, the warmth affected me lower down so I thought I was going to soil myself. Fortunately this feeling subsided as quickly as it began, and my dignity remained intact. My scan now complete, I'm led back to the alcove where a tech removes my IV lock.
While the lock is being removed another employee shows up; she remembers me from when I worked in IT for this hospital some twenty years prior. I entered the Hospital as a patient undergoing a procedure. I leave the Hospital as a person, and I take with me the memory of smiles and happiness from former coworkers as they express their delight in my recovery.
So now it's been two weeks since my exam. I was anxious the first few days, but the old adage "No News Is Good News" seems to apply here. Barring anything extraordinary, I am not scheduled to see any of my doctors until the end of November. Back to "routine" once more. Maybe I'll arrive home from work some evening and there will be a message from the Oncologist wanting to discuss my results. Despite this possibility, I don't feel like a cancer patient any more. Life has gone on, and I'm still going with it.
A Port Flush is simply a way to ensure that the IVPort embedded in my chest is still functional. It consists of a sterilizing swabbing of the port area, a saline rinse and pulling back some blood, which is then promptly returned. Basically this ensures that this plumbing will do what is necessary if chemo is again required. It's a 15 minute job if all goes well. Fifteen minutes later I had another needle pick to add to my growing collection. Six more and I get a free tattoo ... I am fortunate that I suffer no bruising. My only discomfort is when I peel the bandage off the next day....a hairy chest and sticky bandages do not mix well! If the Port Flush is the opening act, lets hope the main event is just as easy.
Some of my CT scans in the past have required that I drink 'Reddi Cat' a beverage that is supposed to enhance the CT process and has all the flavour of chalk. Fortunately this visit did not require that particular "treatment". The CT scan is not of itself invasive, but it does have a component where a contrast dye is introduced during the process. In order to do that at the appropriate time, you are prepared with an IV, in my case it was just near the crook of my left arm. More needle pricks, more bandages and more hair (actually: less) fun later. After the IV lock is installed, I am led to the CT room and asked to lay on the gantry that serves as my entry into the eye of the CT storm.
The CT process has me on my back, feet towards the CT scanner and my arms stretched out over my head. I keep my eyes closed as the scan commences. I'm told to hold my breath during parts of the scan. The contrast is introduced at some point, and I feel my ears and back of my neck get really warm. The contrast is working. One other little side effect, the warmth affected me lower down so I thought I was going to soil myself. Fortunately this feeling subsided as quickly as it began, and my dignity remained intact. My scan now complete, I'm led back to the alcove where a tech removes my IV lock.
While the lock is being removed another employee shows up; she remembers me from when I worked in IT for this hospital some twenty years prior. I entered the Hospital as a patient undergoing a procedure. I leave the Hospital as a person, and I take with me the memory of smiles and happiness from former coworkers as they express their delight in my recovery.
So now it's been two weeks since my exam. I was anxious the first few days, but the old adage "No News Is Good News" seems to apply here. Barring anything extraordinary, I am not scheduled to see any of my doctors until the end of November. Back to "routine" once more. Maybe I'll arrive home from work some evening and there will be a message from the Oncologist wanting to discuss my results. Despite this possibility, I don't feel like a cancer patient any more. Life has gone on, and I'm still going with it.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Can you say "routine" for a visit with your Oncologist?
Every three months I have to do two things. The first is let a tech stick a needle into my veins and draw out a litre or two of blood. The second is to have a follow-up visit with either my Surgeon or Oncologist. This month it was with the oncologist, and would be my first visit to see her since I had finished treatment earlier in the year.
So Monday, August 15th I take all of 15 minutes to let a tech take my blood. It's a nice day and frankly I'm in no rush to return to work so I decide to take the bus back. Turns out an envelope with a 'suspicious powder' shows up in the mail drop-box of our local Utility office. Police block off the main roads, firefighters and the hazmat teams converge on this potential threat. Although nothing ever came of it, my bus was delayed, re-routed by way of Omaha I think and I took an hour longer to return to work. Got there just in time for lunch.
So this Event-that-was-not-and-event foreshadowed my visit two days later to see my Oncologist. I was nervous, sure, as blood will tell the tale, I just don't want it telling any tall tales at this point in my life. The old familiarity quickly re-asserted itself after I picked up my paperwork. The ladies at reception greeting me by name, after not seeing me for months. I walked up to the second floor, confident and not unduly concerned, and sat in front of the computer. There's an assessment form each patient enters into a computer whenever they receive treatment or visit their doctor at the Cancer Centre. A scale of 0 to 10 is used to assess various aspects of your physical and emotional health, with zero being 'not a problem' to ten being 'worst.problem.ever'. Even under treatment I tended to score my self-assessment low, not because of false modesty, I truly believed and felt OK for the most part. Today I would indicate a positive score only on the anxiety aspect of the visit (I am visiting a chemo doctor after six months after all).
Now the form is filled and printed, my notification pager firmly attached to my belt, all I have to do is wait to be called in. And pee, apparently my anxiety score should be rated +1 higher than indicated, or maybe it was the coffee, sure it was the coffee.... Fortunately the pager does not go off while I am preoccupied, and a short time later I'm in the exam room.
It's a curious thing, you are given an appointment card stating a time to meet with your doctor months in advance. You arrive before the appointed time, and wait. Your appointment time eventually comes along, sometimes you are still waiting. You eventually receive the summons and are ushered into the exam room, where you wait for the Doctor to show up. I hate waiting. I have palm pilots with activities, MP3/video players, wifi connections but no, I decided to fidget and pace the little exam room. Sit down and readjust my position. Take off my jacket. Readjust my jacket. Pick my jacket off the floor...oops say wasn't there coffee in that cup a second ago, and why is the floor brown? OK, here's a new way to pass the time: spill coffee on the floor of the exam room! Paper towels to mop up (that was a small coffee?!) more paper towels to wash the floor, say doesn't this part of the floor look shiner than the part beside it...hmmm it's a hospital what could *possibly* be on the floor of hospital in an exam room. So much for my distraction. Fortunately my doctor walks in before I decided to get a mop and floor polisher to further entertain my boredom.
Up on the exam table now, the the paper protector shields me from whatever horrible creepy crawlies inhabit the vinyl covering of the exam table. I guess this is how fish feel when they are about to be wrapped up...or gutted. Still the exam proceeds along familiar lines (and I do mean 'familiar'!). Everything checks out. The doctor is really pleased, she qualifies the 5 years 25% statistic with a comment that filled me with optimism: she had a 'good feeling' about me and my recovery.
My visit with the Oncologist has been routine to the point of being mundane. I have no worries. I do however have a CT exam scheduled for September 8th, another Port Flush for September7th, and in a couple of days, another follow-up visit with the surgeon who did my Liver resection last year. All of this is 'routine', I guess the lessons about 'my new normal' are firmly entrenched. Embrace and accept the change, it's going to happen anyway!
The good news continued: I got my first new desktop PC in close to six years: an i5-2500K with 16GB of RAM. It's awesome. It runs Linux, that's awesome to the power of awesome. Time to put it to good work and write more in my blog! I'm sure everyone wants to hear about the fun one can have while undergoing a Cat Scan!
So Monday, August 15th I take all of 15 minutes to let a tech take my blood. It's a nice day and frankly I'm in no rush to return to work so I decide to take the bus back. Turns out an envelope with a 'suspicious powder' shows up in the mail drop-box of our local Utility office. Police block off the main roads, firefighters and the hazmat teams converge on this potential threat. Although nothing ever came of it, my bus was delayed, re-routed by way of Omaha I think and I took an hour longer to return to work. Got there just in time for lunch.
So this Event-that-was-not-and-event foreshadowed my visit two days later to see my Oncologist. I was nervous, sure, as blood will tell the tale, I just don't want it telling any tall tales at this point in my life. The old familiarity quickly re-asserted itself after I picked up my paperwork. The ladies at reception greeting me by name, after not seeing me for months. I walked up to the second floor, confident and not unduly concerned, and sat in front of the computer. There's an assessment form each patient enters into a computer whenever they receive treatment or visit their doctor at the Cancer Centre. A scale of 0 to 10 is used to assess various aspects of your physical and emotional health, with zero being 'not a problem' to ten being 'worst.problem.ever'. Even under treatment I tended to score my self-assessment low, not because of false modesty, I truly believed and felt OK for the most part. Today I would indicate a positive score only on the anxiety aspect of the visit (I am visiting a chemo doctor after six months after all).
Now the form is filled and printed, my notification pager firmly attached to my belt, all I have to do is wait to be called in. And pee, apparently my anxiety score should be rated +1 higher than indicated, or maybe it was the coffee, sure it was the coffee.... Fortunately the pager does not go off while I am preoccupied, and a short time later I'm in the exam room.
It's a curious thing, you are given an appointment card stating a time to meet with your doctor months in advance. You arrive before the appointed time, and wait. Your appointment time eventually comes along, sometimes you are still waiting. You eventually receive the summons and are ushered into the exam room, where you wait for the Doctor to show up. I hate waiting. I have palm pilots with activities, MP3/video players, wifi connections but no, I decided to fidget and pace the little exam room. Sit down and readjust my position. Take off my jacket. Readjust my jacket. Pick my jacket off the floor...oops say wasn't there coffee in that cup a second ago, and why is the floor brown? OK, here's a new way to pass the time: spill coffee on the floor of the exam room! Paper towels to mop up (that was a small coffee?!) more paper towels to wash the floor, say doesn't this part of the floor look shiner than the part beside it...hmmm it's a hospital what could *possibly* be on the floor of hospital in an exam room. So much for my distraction. Fortunately my doctor walks in before I decided to get a mop and floor polisher to further entertain my boredom.
Up on the exam table now, the the paper protector shields me from whatever horrible creepy crawlies inhabit the vinyl covering of the exam table. I guess this is how fish feel when they are about to be wrapped up...or gutted. Still the exam proceeds along familiar lines (and I do mean 'familiar'!). Everything checks out. The doctor is really pleased, she qualifies the 5 years 25% statistic with a comment that filled me with optimism: she had a 'good feeling' about me and my recovery.
My visit with the Oncologist has been routine to the point of being mundane. I have no worries. I do however have a CT exam scheduled for September 8th, another Port Flush for September7th, and in a couple of days, another follow-up visit with the surgeon who did my Liver resection last year. All of this is 'routine', I guess the lessons about 'my new normal' are firmly entrenched. Embrace and accept the change, it's going to happen anyway!
The good news continued: I got my first new desktop PC in close to six years: an i5-2500K with 16GB of RAM. It's awesome. It runs Linux, that's awesome to the power of awesome. Time to put it to good work and write more in my blog! I'm sure everyone wants to hear about the fun one can have while undergoing a Cat Scan!
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Reflections I
It''s game seven of the 2011 Stanley Cup Final and the Vancouver Canucks are down 4-zip with only a few minutes left. Tonight however I was playing chess, getting humbled yet again. Win or lose, the great thing about my life is that I can still do what I want, mostly. There are a few items however that distract me from filling my days with things that are interesting only to me,work and medical visits being those little things that tend to prioritize my goals in life.
For me it's been two months since I returned to full-time employment. In the IT/computer world this means strange hours, stress and deadlines. My doctor visits have mostly been "routine", whether it's a visit to my surgeon for a follow-up appointment, or a visit to a clinic for blood work or Port Flush. Since I'm no longer on chemo, the Port Flush hasn't failed to produce a blood return. That is until this past week where my monthly flush failed Then it was off to the Cancer Centre, where if they can't get it working, then the big guns come in: "Liquid Plumbr" for Ports, or something of that ilk. This visit would be my first return as a patient to the Cancer Centre in almost six months, and I started to think about my previous visits...
My appointment was for 1030 that morning, but because of logistics for my ride, I was there about 45 minutes early. I was pleasantly surprised when the receptionists greeted me by name. Perhaps it's these little qualities that make coming into the WRCC less stressful. From the moment you walk in the door you are greeted by a smile and kind words. You know there are people who genuinely care not only about the quality of treatment you receive, but that it's done with grace and dignity. You are never a patient, you are a person. Important stuff, that.
So I walked through those doors once more, relatively unworried, it was a simple Port Flush after all. Sure, the emotions that went through me as I walked up the stairs were contrasting and strong, my past experience had not yet been tempered by nostalgia. After all, my very first treatment here had caused me to bring up my breakfast in spectacular fashion. And after that session I was drained both physically and emotionally. But that was over a year ago, now I'm healthier, stronger and hopefully in a better state of mind.
Waiting for treatment in a large physical complex means that there are opportunities to wander around. To make sure the patient doesn't miss their appointment, they are given a pager, similar to what one receives when waiting for a table at a restaurant. ("Party of 1, your chair is ready. Can we start you off with a chemo cocktail?") Perhaps not quite Chez Cancer, but the service is great and tipping is not required! Since you are wearing a pager it means it will go off when you least expect it, or, rather, when it's most annoying. In my case I had just gotten my laptop up and running and was about to do some emails when I received my summons. Everything shut down and secured into my backpack, then off I trudged to the chemo suite. There I was greeted by the nurse who gave me my first-ever treatment (and her first name and mine are the same...can't forget her!) Having done this process a few thousand times before, she decided to try the 'manual override' Port flush procedure one more time. Unlike Star Trek, where Manual Override never seems to work, this process was quite painless (unless you hate needles. then you'd hate this one, it's about an inch long and they plunge it right into the skin covering your port). really it's no big deal anymore however, and I find that the whole 'Port Protocol' MUCH easier to deal with than the IV lock that goes on your hand.
So nurse Terry (as opposed to Patient Terry) performs the medical magic that comprises the Port Flush:
-sterilize the area surrounding the port
-tell me to breathe out when she's about to plunge the needle into me
-flushes the port
....and draws back blood! Yay, the return works! No need to spend an hour in the chair tethered to yet another IV. Less than five minutes was all it took. My return bus ride back to work would be much longer. There's also one other item that ends the Port Flush protocol: the adhesive bandage over the port. OK, word to the wise: (guys this means you): shave -gently- the area around your port, unless you wish to have the joy of yanking clumps of chest hair out when the bandage is removed.
In another month I'll have another Port Flush, I'm confident it will be routine. How long the Port will remain in me I do not know, for now it's part of my life. It's my new normal, my routine, my reminder of the past, and future support if I need it. I hope I'll never need to use it again, For me there is still hope, unfortunately it's too late for the Canucks, they lost game seven. Better luck next year guys!
For me it's been two months since I returned to full-time employment. In the IT/computer world this means strange hours, stress and deadlines. My doctor visits have mostly been "routine", whether it's a visit to my surgeon for a follow-up appointment, or a visit to a clinic for blood work or Port Flush. Since I'm no longer on chemo, the Port Flush hasn't failed to produce a blood return. That is until this past week where my monthly flush failed Then it was off to the Cancer Centre, where if they can't get it working, then the big guns come in: "Liquid Plumbr" for Ports, or something of that ilk. This visit would be my first return as a patient to the Cancer Centre in almost six months, and I started to think about my previous visits...
My appointment was for 1030 that morning, but because of logistics for my ride, I was there about 45 minutes early. I was pleasantly surprised when the receptionists greeted me by name. Perhaps it's these little qualities that make coming into the WRCC less stressful. From the moment you walk in the door you are greeted by a smile and kind words. You know there are people who genuinely care not only about the quality of treatment you receive, but that it's done with grace and dignity. You are never a patient, you are a person. Important stuff, that.
So I walked through those doors once more, relatively unworried, it was a simple Port Flush after all. Sure, the emotions that went through me as I walked up the stairs were contrasting and strong, my past experience had not yet been tempered by nostalgia. After all, my very first treatment here had caused me to bring up my breakfast in spectacular fashion. And after that session I was drained both physically and emotionally. But that was over a year ago, now I'm healthier, stronger and hopefully in a better state of mind.
Waiting for treatment in a large physical complex means that there are opportunities to wander around. To make sure the patient doesn't miss their appointment, they are given a pager, similar to what one receives when waiting for a table at a restaurant. ("Party of 1, your chair is ready. Can we start you off with a chemo cocktail?") Perhaps not quite Chez Cancer, but the service is great and tipping is not required! Since you are wearing a pager it means it will go off when you least expect it, or, rather, when it's most annoying. In my case I had just gotten my laptop up and running and was about to do some emails when I received my summons. Everything shut down and secured into my backpack, then off I trudged to the chemo suite. There I was greeted by the nurse who gave me my first-ever treatment (and her first name and mine are the same...can't forget her!) Having done this process a few thousand times before, she decided to try the 'manual override' Port flush procedure one more time. Unlike Star Trek, where Manual Override never seems to work, this process was quite painless (unless you hate needles. then you'd hate this one, it's about an inch long and they plunge it right into the skin covering your port). really it's no big deal anymore however, and I find that the whole 'Port Protocol' MUCH easier to deal with than the IV lock that goes on your hand.
So nurse Terry (as opposed to Patient Terry) performs the medical magic that comprises the Port Flush:
-sterilize the area surrounding the port
-tell me to breathe out when she's about to plunge the needle into me
-flushes the port
....and draws back blood! Yay, the return works! No need to spend an hour in the chair tethered to yet another IV. Less than five minutes was all it took. My return bus ride back to work would be much longer. There's also one other item that ends the Port Flush protocol: the adhesive bandage over the port. OK, word to the wise: (guys this means you): shave -gently- the area around your port, unless you wish to have the joy of yanking clumps of chest hair out when the bandage is removed.
In another month I'll have another Port Flush, I'm confident it will be routine. How long the Port will remain in me I do not know, for now it's part of my life. It's my new normal, my routine, my reminder of the past, and future support if I need it. I hope I'll never need to use it again, For me there is still hope, unfortunately it's too late for the Canucks, they lost game seven. Better luck next year guys!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Take two Cheese Sandwiches and call me in the morning.
OK I admit I have a passion for the comfort food of my youth, the quintessential Grilled Cheese Sandwich. Made the old fashioned way: Kraft singles on White Bread, smothered in butter and fried up on the stove. A big ol' blob of Heinz ketchup on the side, and you have described the zenith of my culinary arts. The cousin of the GCS, the humble CS was often a staple for my lunch. Alas for responsible eating; awareness of the 'badness' of white bread, and the scorn heaped upon the maligned single-slice. Carbs and artery-hardening fats, that's all a Cheese Sandwich is. It's all it's meant to be. It has no place in our everyday diet. Well, almost no place...
This Monday, April 18th 2011 marks my second Colonoscopy procedure. It's a big deal to be sure, lots of concerns of what might be found, given my prior history. Of course the focus is always about the preparation. You see the preparation ("Prep", for those who are so cool they only used abbreviated words) begins some three days in advance. It's designed to rid the body of pretty much anything that might be hanging around and interfering with the actual procedure. And it begins with switching to a soft-food diet.
Day One of the prep for me began Friday the 15th. A soft food diet has no fibre, is easily chewed and breaks down quickly as it's digested. A soft food diet is also known as 'The Bland Diet'. That's where the humble Cheese Sandwich comes in. I figure that a single slice of cheese on two pieces of white bread (meaning: no fibre, melt-in-your mouth bread, the kind we all grew up with; the kind we can't have anymore!) constitutes "soft" foods in my book. No lettuce. No Mayo, no salt or pepper. That was my lunch. A banana (ok, a MUSHY banana) and a vanilla yogurt rounded off the midday meal. Also I could have Black coffee (because I drink it that way normally), and about 42 litres of water. Well, maybe not 42 litres, but it was a lot of water. My breakfast was the same, except it was two slices of bread toasted and no cheese.
I usually have a fibre-type cereal for breakfast in the morning with berries and fruit, or throw granola and flax seed onto my Special K. Today it was two pieces of toast and another mushy banana to get me through til lunch. So how do I top the splendid repast I had prepared for my lunch? Mashed potatoes and scrambled eggs for supper. No salt, pepper or anything else. Another damn mushy banana for dessert. Another vanilla yogurt. Chug another glass of water. Chug yet another glass of water. Pee for an hour, I'm so waterlogged today. I'm also reasonably full, no desire to snack, no munchy attacks, no feelings of being gastronomically denied. By Sunday I'll be recalling today's menu with fond memories that will have me salivating.
Saturday begins the prep in earnest. Only "full" fluids, meaning: cream soups, yogurt, water, tea,coffee, no fibre/fruit/solids of any kind. No bread, the CS is once more relegated to the furthest recesses of my dietary imprisonment. Ensure -the dietary supplement drink- I still have some from this past summer, still as good as it ever was. (Which explains why I still have some from this past summer). Oh, and I need to drink lots of water. And I can eat Jello. I have not had Jello Since late September of 2010. At that time I was recovering from my Liver surgery, so I had Jello for breakfast. I had Jello for lunch. I had Jello for supper. Believe me, there's not always room for Jello. But now my choice of 'full fluids' are either Jello or a Milkshake. But it can't be anything other than vanilla, no fruit, no red, no blue, no red+blue=purple. Chocolate is right out too I think. Saturday is when my food volume drops, when my energy level drops. Gives me a good excuse to not do much ("Sorry, can't do housework, saving my strength to eat Jello tonight..") Actually keeping busy is a great way to not think about food. I wasn't starving, I felt reasonably full, and I was occupied doing whatever hobby-type activity I enjoyed (ok watching TV..). Halfway through the 'prep weekend' and I was cruising. Tomorrow would see the start of the formal preparation process however.
Sunday is the 'clear liquid diet' portion of the three-day preparation. It consists of having Jello and coffee for breakfast. Sometime just before noon I had some weak watery chicken broth. I was drinking water as well. At noon I began the consumption of the prep solution itself, a fairly innocuously named drink called Colyte. Four litres of this drink is consumed over the next 4 - 6 hours, and will produce the desired effect. As I have undergone this particular process three times now I have some insights to consider for future sessions:
1. keep drinking water, even though drinking this stuff makes you feel full
2. Colyte supposedly has a mild, fruity flavour. If I knew what kind of tree bore this fruit I would set fire to the whole orchard. I found that after I drank a glass of the prep solution, a sip of black coffee helped counteract the aftertaste of the Colyte.
3. If you carefully follow the instructions on the label, you will be drinking one glass every 20 minutes. You will be incredibly bloated long before relief is felt. You may be nauseaus, so just stop and literally 'catch your breath'. You start at noon, you can drink it all night and be OK for the next morning.
4. Don't stray far from the bathroom, unless you have plans to practice sprinting all day long.
By six pm I had finished the 4L jug. Most of me was empty long before 10pm, but as the weatherman says, "occasional isolated storms" are inevitable. I had not drank anything other than my coffee, water and the Colyte since noon. I was cold and tired. I was really cold actually, and that was the worst feeling; surprisingly I wasn't hungry. My weight Monday morning was 174.2 lbs. I had lost some 5 pounds since Saturday. I went to bed around midnight, but sleep was not a comfort. I was awake hours before the alarm went off at 630 that Monday morning.
Snow and cold greeted me as I left my house the day of my Colonoscopy. The damp chill air robbed my tired body of strength. Wearing a winter jacket, wearing gloves, wearing a fleece sweater and the car heater cranked up brought no relief, I was miserably cold on that ride to yet another hospital. This time I went to a smaller facility in the county. What it lacked in size it more than made up for in friendliness and professionalism. In a short time I was once again receiving instructions on what clothing to remove, how to tie up my hospital-issued gown. I was permitted to wear my socks, my cold feet more than just a metaphor. Up until now everything was routine; veteran that I was there was nothing new for me to experience. Until the nurse asked me to roll over on my side.
Now I had expected to receive the IV that would be used to administer the drugs that would deliver me to the realm of Morpheus, so this request to roll onto my left side was a novelty. Here's where my previous Colonoscopy procedure diverged: the purpose of me rolling onto my side was to facilitate "The Enema". Oh my gosh I'm wide awake and Very Aware Of Something Cold being firmly inserted into No Man's land. OK, to be honest it was weird and mildly uncomfortable, but as always, I survived. Further surprises awaited however, as the enema took effect and caused me to dash towards the nearest washroom. I think I know how the phrase 'Greased Lightning' came into existence. Fortunately my earlier prep had pretty much cleaned me out and I didn't need to ask for additional reading material to pass the time...
Back once more in bed and I was now deemed "really really cleaned out". Now comes the IV insertion. In the past this has been the most uncomfortable part of the procedure (I'm a wimp). This time my dehydrated, cold state proved to be a challenge. First one hand was tried. Then another. Then the first again. I have pretty good veins for such things usually, but they were not cooperating. I do not know why, but I suddenly felt flushed and light-headed. I began to think that if my procedure started this way, what other terrible things could happen. Had I been standing I would have fainted. Seeing my distress the nurses used warm blankets to comfort me. One blanket was wrapped around my arm, ostensibly to make the IV insertion easier. The lights over my bed were dimmed, and I closed my eyes and rested. A few minutes later my nurse was able to insert the IV, the warm blanket had helped I guess. My panic attack was over. I rested as fluid was put through my newly-inserted IV to rehydrate me. My bed was moved to the staging area for my procedure, I had now been in the hospital for a little over two hours, most of that time trying not to think of what was coming next. I was wheeled into the procedure room, and greeted by my doctor and the anaesthesiologist. My IV was hooked up and the nice anaesthesioligist went over my list of allergies (just seasonal, no latex, no hypothermia issues, I'm pretty easy to sedate apparently). She mentioned I would drift in and out... I drifted out...and when I drifted back in I was back in the recovery room. The procedure had lasted some twenty minutes, but it was an hour before I was once again cognizant of reality. It would be another hour of light rest and the removal of the IV before a very tired and very relieved Terry would head home. My Colonoscopy procedure found no problems. One weekend of my time, some fasting, a little prep and a small procedure were all I needed to allay the fears that my condition had worsened.
The rest of my day was spent not eating as one might suppose, but resting. I would not have anything more substantial than soup later that evening (another piece of advice: don't go on an eating binge at first...it took you a couple of days to taper down, take some time to resume your normal diet). Oh, and you'll be full of air from the procedure, so you'll feel somewhat bloated...
At the end of the day I was happy with my results, how could I not? I was worried that there would be new signs of cancer, that my disease had returned. Perhaps it may one day, but today was not that day. I can live my life again, as always, one day at a time.
This Monday, April 18th 2011 marks my second Colonoscopy procedure. It's a big deal to be sure, lots of concerns of what might be found, given my prior history. Of course the focus is always about the preparation. You see the preparation ("Prep", for those who are so cool they only used abbreviated words) begins some three days in advance. It's designed to rid the body of pretty much anything that might be hanging around and interfering with the actual procedure. And it begins with switching to a soft-food diet.
Day One of the prep for me began Friday the 15th. A soft food diet has no fibre, is easily chewed and breaks down quickly as it's digested. A soft food diet is also known as 'The Bland Diet'. That's where the humble Cheese Sandwich comes in. I figure that a single slice of cheese on two pieces of white bread (meaning: no fibre, melt-in-your mouth bread, the kind we all grew up with; the kind we can't have anymore!) constitutes "soft" foods in my book. No lettuce. No Mayo, no salt or pepper. That was my lunch. A banana (ok, a MUSHY banana) and a vanilla yogurt rounded off the midday meal. Also I could have Black coffee (because I drink it that way normally), and about 42 litres of water. Well, maybe not 42 litres, but it was a lot of water. My breakfast was the same, except it was two slices of bread toasted and no cheese.
I usually have a fibre-type cereal for breakfast in the morning with berries and fruit, or throw granola and flax seed onto my Special K. Today it was two pieces of toast and another mushy banana to get me through til lunch. So how do I top the splendid repast I had prepared for my lunch? Mashed potatoes and scrambled eggs for supper. No salt, pepper or anything else. Another damn mushy banana for dessert. Another vanilla yogurt. Chug another glass of water. Chug yet another glass of water. Pee for an hour, I'm so waterlogged today. I'm also reasonably full, no desire to snack, no munchy attacks, no feelings of being gastronomically denied. By Sunday I'll be recalling today's menu with fond memories that will have me salivating.
Saturday begins the prep in earnest. Only "full" fluids, meaning: cream soups, yogurt, water, tea,coffee, no fibre/fruit/solids of any kind. No bread, the CS is once more relegated to the furthest recesses of my dietary imprisonment. Ensure -the dietary supplement drink- I still have some from this past summer, still as good as it ever was. (Which explains why I still have some from this past summer). Oh, and I need to drink lots of water. And I can eat Jello. I have not had Jello Since late September of 2010. At that time I was recovering from my Liver surgery, so I had Jello for breakfast. I had Jello for lunch. I had Jello for supper. Believe me, there's not always room for Jello. But now my choice of 'full fluids' are either Jello or a Milkshake. But it can't be anything other than vanilla, no fruit, no red, no blue, no red+blue=purple. Chocolate is right out too I think. Saturday is when my food volume drops, when my energy level drops. Gives me a good excuse to not do much ("Sorry, can't do housework, saving my strength to eat Jello tonight..") Actually keeping busy is a great way to not think about food. I wasn't starving, I felt reasonably full, and I was occupied doing whatever hobby-type activity I enjoyed (ok watching TV..). Halfway through the 'prep weekend' and I was cruising. Tomorrow would see the start of the formal preparation process however.
Sunday is the 'clear liquid diet' portion of the three-day preparation. It consists of having Jello and coffee for breakfast. Sometime just before noon I had some weak watery chicken broth. I was drinking water as well. At noon I began the consumption of the prep solution itself, a fairly innocuously named drink called Colyte. Four litres of this drink is consumed over the next 4 - 6 hours, and will produce the desired effect. As I have undergone this particular process three times now I have some insights to consider for future sessions:
1. keep drinking water, even though drinking this stuff makes you feel full
2. Colyte supposedly has a mild, fruity flavour. If I knew what kind of tree bore this fruit I would set fire to the whole orchard. I found that after I drank a glass of the prep solution, a sip of black coffee helped counteract the aftertaste of the Colyte.
3. If you carefully follow the instructions on the label, you will be drinking one glass every 20 minutes. You will be incredibly bloated long before relief is felt. You may be nauseaus, so just stop and literally 'catch your breath'. You start at noon, you can drink it all night and be OK for the next morning.
4. Don't stray far from the bathroom, unless you have plans to practice sprinting all day long.
By six pm I had finished the 4L jug. Most of me was empty long before 10pm, but as the weatherman says, "occasional isolated storms" are inevitable. I had not drank anything other than my coffee, water and the Colyte since noon. I was cold and tired. I was really cold actually, and that was the worst feeling; surprisingly I wasn't hungry. My weight Monday morning was 174.2 lbs. I had lost some 5 pounds since Saturday. I went to bed around midnight, but sleep was not a comfort. I was awake hours before the alarm went off at 630 that Monday morning.
Snow and cold greeted me as I left my house the day of my Colonoscopy. The damp chill air robbed my tired body of strength. Wearing a winter jacket, wearing gloves, wearing a fleece sweater and the car heater cranked up brought no relief, I was miserably cold on that ride to yet another hospital. This time I went to a smaller facility in the county. What it lacked in size it more than made up for in friendliness and professionalism. In a short time I was once again receiving instructions on what clothing to remove, how to tie up my hospital-issued gown. I was permitted to wear my socks, my cold feet more than just a metaphor. Up until now everything was routine; veteran that I was there was nothing new for me to experience. Until the nurse asked me to roll over on my side.
Now I had expected to receive the IV that would be used to administer the drugs that would deliver me to the realm of Morpheus, so this request to roll onto my left side was a novelty. Here's where my previous Colonoscopy procedure diverged: the purpose of me rolling onto my side was to facilitate "The Enema". Oh my gosh I'm wide awake and Very Aware Of Something Cold being firmly inserted into No Man's land. OK, to be honest it was weird and mildly uncomfortable, but as always, I survived. Further surprises awaited however, as the enema took effect and caused me to dash towards the nearest washroom. I think I know how the phrase 'Greased Lightning' came into existence. Fortunately my earlier prep had pretty much cleaned me out and I didn't need to ask for additional reading material to pass the time...
Back once more in bed and I was now deemed "really really cleaned out". Now comes the IV insertion. In the past this has been the most uncomfortable part of the procedure (I'm a wimp). This time my dehydrated, cold state proved to be a challenge. First one hand was tried. Then another. Then the first again. I have pretty good veins for such things usually, but they were not cooperating. I do not know why, but I suddenly felt flushed and light-headed. I began to think that if my procedure started this way, what other terrible things could happen. Had I been standing I would have fainted. Seeing my distress the nurses used warm blankets to comfort me. One blanket was wrapped around my arm, ostensibly to make the IV insertion easier. The lights over my bed were dimmed, and I closed my eyes and rested. A few minutes later my nurse was able to insert the IV, the warm blanket had helped I guess. My panic attack was over. I rested as fluid was put through my newly-inserted IV to rehydrate me. My bed was moved to the staging area for my procedure, I had now been in the hospital for a little over two hours, most of that time trying not to think of what was coming next. I was wheeled into the procedure room, and greeted by my doctor and the anaesthesiologist. My IV was hooked up and the nice anaesthesioligist went over my list of allergies (just seasonal, no latex, no hypothermia issues, I'm pretty easy to sedate apparently). She mentioned I would drift in and out... I drifted out...and when I drifted back in I was back in the recovery room. The procedure had lasted some twenty minutes, but it was an hour before I was once again cognizant of reality. It would be another hour of light rest and the removal of the IV before a very tired and very relieved Terry would head home. My Colonoscopy procedure found no problems. One weekend of my time, some fasting, a little prep and a small procedure were all I needed to allay the fears that my condition had worsened.
The rest of my day was spent not eating as one might suppose, but resting. I would not have anything more substantial than soup later that evening (another piece of advice: don't go on an eating binge at first...it took you a couple of days to taper down, take some time to resume your normal diet). Oh, and you'll be full of air from the procedure, so you'll feel somewhat bloated...
At the end of the day I was happy with my results, how could I not? I was worried that there would be new signs of cancer, that my disease had returned. Perhaps it may one day, but today was not that day. I can live my life again, as always, one day at a time.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho ....
Two weeks ago I took the first step in resuming my former life by returning to work. On March 31st 2010, I was diagnosed with Cancer. On March 21st 2011 I was once more seated at my desk. There were no epiphanies, no cosmic revelations, just another day, the way life is mostly. In honour of my return there were several boxes of sugar-and-doughy goodness (thanks Doug!); as well a friend had brought home-made cupcakes (thanks Pam!). That was the good part. The bad part was I couldn't eat any of it! I had resolved to stop eating sugary desserts and snacks (cookies, doughnuts, cupcakes, cakes, pies, danishes, ice cream...sigh) It seemed like such a good idea after Shrove Tuesday, aka Panzki Day. I want to keep my weight around the 180lb level. Indeed after a few days the cravings for sweets was gone, just need to break the late-night snacking habit.
Mundane minutia of my noshing endeavours aside, my first day back at work was not too stressful. I managed to successfully change my email Out-Of-Office notification (at one point I had it set so I would return in the year 2104...). I even remembered most of my passwords, no small feat when you consider that I have a LOT of passwords working as an IT System Administrator. With all that frenetic activity you would think a nap would be required when I got home. It was, and I did. Well tomorrow I could sleep in. Small luxuries should not be ignored, else they lose their wonder and enjoyment.
In the weeks since my treatment ended, I wondered how I would fare when I returned to the workplace. I was cautioned to watch my stress level, make sure that I did not overdo things. My abridged schedule saw me at work three days a week: Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I get to sleep in the other two days. Only no one told me of the nasty little drawback of this plan: By being off every alternate day, my resumption of work always feels like a Monday. Too cruel, having three Monday mornings a week!
Work is 'the same but different'. My coworkers are happy to see me, and while I am pleased at what my returning signifies, I feel daunted by the challenge of all that awaits me. The brain is foggy, and I am dismayed at the loss of knowledge I once had. There is the feeling that I am starting over, and in a sense I am in a new job. The so-called "new normal" was once more in effect; having to change the familiarity of one pattern of living with another.
I guess one thing I learned from my ordeal is that beating Cancer is not the defining moment of my life. I can look back at what I have accomplished with some pride and a feeling of smug satisfaction; I did good, but if I look forward, I can do better.
Finally my involvement with the medical community will go on for some time. There will be blood tests every three months for three years. I still have my Port inside me, so there's the monthly Port Flush to look forward to. And in two weeks I am looking forward to my next colonscopy! Well not really, but this time I am not afraid, and living life without fear is not a bad thing.
Mundane minutia of my noshing endeavours aside, my first day back at work was not too stressful. I managed to successfully change my email Out-Of-Office notification (at one point I had it set so I would return in the year 2104...). I even remembered most of my passwords, no small feat when you consider that I have a LOT of passwords working as an IT System Administrator. With all that frenetic activity you would think a nap would be required when I got home. It was, and I did. Well tomorrow I could sleep in. Small luxuries should not be ignored, else they lose their wonder and enjoyment.
In the weeks since my treatment ended, I wondered how I would fare when I returned to the workplace. I was cautioned to watch my stress level, make sure that I did not overdo things. My abridged schedule saw me at work three days a week: Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I get to sleep in the other two days. Only no one told me of the nasty little drawback of this plan: By being off every alternate day, my resumption of work always feels like a Monday. Too cruel, having three Monday mornings a week!
Work is 'the same but different'. My coworkers are happy to see me, and while I am pleased at what my returning signifies, I feel daunted by the challenge of all that awaits me. The brain is foggy, and I am dismayed at the loss of knowledge I once had. There is the feeling that I am starting over, and in a sense I am in a new job. The so-called "new normal" was once more in effect; having to change the familiarity of one pattern of living with another.
I guess one thing I learned from my ordeal is that beating Cancer is not the defining moment of my life. I can look back at what I have accomplished with some pride and a feeling of smug satisfaction; I did good, but if I look forward, I can do better.
Finally my involvement with the medical community will go on for some time. There will be blood tests every three months for three years. I still have my Port inside me, so there's the monthly Port Flush to look forward to. And in two weeks I am looking forward to my next colonscopy! Well not really, but this time I am not afraid, and living life without fear is not a bad thing.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
March -Colon Cancer Awareness Month
By now even those who casually read my scattered musings will have surmised that I had and been treated for Colon Cancer. I just finished treatment in January, and I will need to undergo "routine" tests every three months for the next three years. Should any of those tests return less-than-favourable results, I will go for more tests, some which might be construed as 'unpleasant'.
What is unpleasant is relative; my surgery was unpleasant compared to the process of undergoing a Colonoscopy. My chemotherapy was way more unpleasant (and far more frequent) than a Colonoscopy. That whole 'death by Cancer' prospect also seems way more unpleasant than a Colonoscopy. Frankly, I wish I would have had my Colonoscopy three years earlier; especially given my family history of cancer.
March is designated as Colon Cancer Awareness Month. That means lots of juvenile humour about Colonoscopy's. Butt (pun intended) to put this in perspective, the actual Colonscopy process requires three things from thevictim patient: Drink some stuff. Poop. Sleep. The first two steps mean you have to stay home and maybe watch tv. It's tough, but you can find a way to do it. The last step takes place in the hospital, where they give you DRUGS to sleep. Not so scary after all.
What is scary is the possibility of Cancer. What I think is even more scary of course is not knowing you have cancer til it's too late. If you have a family history of Colon cancer (or indeed any cancer), if you are "around" age 50, if you have experienced fatigue and unexplained weight loss, strange back or abdominal pains...get checked. Get checked even if you haven't any symptoms. It can save your life.
Finally for those of you still squeamish about the procedure, I invite you to read humourist Dave Barry's article about his experience with his first-ever Colonoscopy: Dave Barry's Colonoscopy
And yes, I have another Colonsocopy scheduled for mid-April, and after what I've gone through this past year, it's not so scary anymore.
What is unpleasant is relative; my surgery was unpleasant compared to the process of undergoing a Colonoscopy. My chemotherapy was way more unpleasant (and far more frequent) than a Colonoscopy. That whole 'death by Cancer' prospect also seems way more unpleasant than a Colonoscopy. Frankly, I wish I would have had my Colonoscopy three years earlier; especially given my family history of cancer.
March is designated as Colon Cancer Awareness Month. That means lots of juvenile humour about Colonoscopy's. Butt (pun intended) to put this in perspective, the actual Colonscopy process requires three things from the
What is scary is the possibility of Cancer. What I think is even more scary of course is not knowing you have cancer til it's too late. If you have a family history of Colon cancer (or indeed any cancer), if you are "around" age 50, if you have experienced fatigue and unexplained weight loss, strange back or abdominal pains...get checked. Get checked even if you haven't any symptoms. It can save your life.
Finally for those of you still squeamish about the procedure, I invite you to read humourist Dave Barry's article about his experience with his first-ever Colonoscopy: Dave Barry's Colonoscopy
And yes, I have another Colonsocopy scheduled for mid-April, and after what I've gone through this past year, it's not so scary anymore.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Turning the corner
February is spent, winter's icy hand has buried us in snow the likes we have not seen in more than a decade. The upside it gets me out of the house and shoveling, and that constitutes exercise. I don't mind Winter, it's the prolonged sameness that wearies me. Winter is snow. And more snow. And more monotonous snow. Even work is more exciting than Winter. Speaking of work..
My official return date will be March 21st, 2011, basically one week shy of a full year since I've been off. The plan is to return to work on a part-time basis four hours per day, with the resumption of full time hours by May 1st. I wonder if they'll let me keep my nap time hours between two and four PM?
Returning to work should signify my return to health; a resumption of normality. My family and friends (and yes, even my coworkers) are thrilled at this prospect. However I find that I do not share the same degree of elation as my friends. It requires a five-year clean bill-of-health to be declared 'cancer free', from that viewpoint I'm only 20 per cent completed. I've expended so much of my energy fighting this disease that it's hard to shift focus, to step down and re-orient myself to the larger world. Cancer was the centerpiece of my life for one year, and it defined who I was. Now I need to become myself once more, but perhaps a bit more appreciative of the gift of life and what it offers.
Life is getting better, the winter blahs are almost over, the days are brighter and the promise of spring, as always, is the promise of Hope.
My official return date will be March 21st, 2011, basically one week shy of a full year since I've been off. The plan is to return to work on a part-time basis four hours per day, with the resumption of full time hours by May 1st. I wonder if they'll let me keep my nap time hours between two and four PM?
Returning to work should signify my return to health; a resumption of normality. My family and friends (and yes, even my coworkers) are thrilled at this prospect. However I find that I do not share the same degree of elation as my friends. It requires a five-year clean bill-of-health to be declared 'cancer free', from that viewpoint I'm only 20 per cent completed. I've expended so much of my energy fighting this disease that it's hard to shift focus, to step down and re-orient myself to the larger world. Cancer was the centerpiece of my life for one year, and it defined who I was. Now I need to become myself once more, but perhaps a bit more appreciative of the gift of life and what it offers.
Life is getting better, the winter blahs are almost over, the days are brighter and the promise of spring, as always, is the promise of Hope.
Friday, February 18, 2011
One year later...
In January of 2010 I had a routine physical scheduled with my family doctor. As a matter of course I've had a yearly physical, complete with the usual tests for most of the past decade. Some of my results from the last set of tests were cause for concern, and in early February of 2010 I met with my family doctor to discuss my situation. Further tests would confirm that I had Cancer, thus beginning a personal journey that would test the limits of my physical and emotional strengths.
Cancer. A single word uttered by my surgeon was enough to force me to lie on an exam table, engulfed in a paralyzing fear. I couldn't think, I was in shock. Even though I had lost both parents to this disease, I found myself at the age of 50 to be completely overwhelmed and unable to focus. The heat I felt on the back of my neck signaled that I was critically near to passing out.
Cancer. A single word that invoked a primal fear. The fight-or-flight mechanism was useless; the threat was not some external predator, it was my own cells: it was me.
Cancer. A single word so loaded with negative connotations that it was almost a palpable thing. But it wasn't just a word, it was a disease, and I had it.
There is another single word that helps to balance out the negative effects of Cancer, and that word is Hope. Before any technical means are employed, before any judgments are passed, there must be hope. Without hope the journey is over before it starts. For a year I've kept that hope within me alive and my constant silent-but-always-present companion on my journey. My physicians gave me my initial hope, but I sustained and nurtured it as needed. Circumstances changed, challenges were presented and resolved, and hope remained with me through the course of my treatment.
My treatment ranged from blood tests to EEG's, from xrays to CT's, from day surgeries to major surgeries. Over the past year I would have a Colonoscopy, an IV Port insertion, a Liver embolization and two major surgeries: one for the removal of a tumour in my colon, and one for removal of tumours in my liver. Then there were the chemo sessions. A chemo session for me consisted of three parts:
-the pre-chemo bloodwork
-the chemo session proper
-the post-chemo disconnect/port flush
Individually the chemo sessions accounted for 36 separate visits to a medical facility over a 9 month period. My hospitalization for my two surgeries and three day-surgeries would total 18 days. Sprinkle in tests for the pre-admission portion of the surgeries plus visits to the various physicians, recovery times of 4-6 weeks after the major surgeries and suddenly a whole chunk of time has passed.
My latest CT took place on February 3rd, 2010. Two weeks later I would meet with my Oncologist to discuss the findings. On Thursday, February 17th my journey would end for now. Up to now my hopes were conditional on the CT not revealing any heretofore unknown problem. Up to now I was reasonably confident that the treatment over the past year was successful. My confidence, as well as my hopes were not diminished by the CT report: I was in the clear, no new tumours, no lurking alligators in the Cancer swamps. My Oncologist believed that I should be able to return to work.
This was not an unconditional release from the Cancer prison, I would still be required to honour the 'Chemo Parole'. This consists of blood tests every three months, over a period of three years. Further tests, using Ultrasound instead of a CT will be given. For the next several years my health and medical status will be closely watched. Finally, to bring my journey full circle, another Colonoscopy procedure needs to be performed. This time I have every confidence that things will be different, and that the results will be better too. If not, well, I have a lot of experience in dealing with bleak situations. And I have my secret weapon: Hope.
My old journey is over. My new journey begins, as I embark upon a five year adventure, one that should I remain Cancer-free, will truly allow me to say that I have won, that I have Beaten Cancer, that I am truly a survivor. Hope and a whole lot of great medical folks plus an amazing group of family, friends and coworkers have allowed me to succeed thus far.
Wish me luck folks, lets see how far my new journey takes me.
Cancer. A single word uttered by my surgeon was enough to force me to lie on an exam table, engulfed in a paralyzing fear. I couldn't think, I was in shock. Even though I had lost both parents to this disease, I found myself at the age of 50 to be completely overwhelmed and unable to focus. The heat I felt on the back of my neck signaled that I was critically near to passing out.
Cancer. A single word that invoked a primal fear. The fight-or-flight mechanism was useless; the threat was not some external predator, it was my own cells: it was me.
Cancer. A single word so loaded with negative connotations that it was almost a palpable thing. But it wasn't just a word, it was a disease, and I had it.
There is another single word that helps to balance out the negative effects of Cancer, and that word is Hope. Before any technical means are employed, before any judgments are passed, there must be hope. Without hope the journey is over before it starts. For a year I've kept that hope within me alive and my constant silent-but-always-present companion on my journey. My physicians gave me my initial hope, but I sustained and nurtured it as needed. Circumstances changed, challenges were presented and resolved, and hope remained with me through the course of my treatment.
My treatment ranged from blood tests to EEG's, from xrays to CT's, from day surgeries to major surgeries. Over the past year I would have a Colonoscopy, an IV Port insertion, a Liver embolization and two major surgeries: one for the removal of a tumour in my colon, and one for removal of tumours in my liver. Then there were the chemo sessions. A chemo session for me consisted of three parts:
-the pre-chemo bloodwork
-the chemo session proper
-the post-chemo disconnect/port flush
Individually the chemo sessions accounted for 36 separate visits to a medical facility over a 9 month period. My hospitalization for my two surgeries and three day-surgeries would total 18 days. Sprinkle in tests for the pre-admission portion of the surgeries plus visits to the various physicians, recovery times of 4-6 weeks after the major surgeries and suddenly a whole chunk of time has passed.
My latest CT took place on February 3rd, 2010. Two weeks later I would meet with my Oncologist to discuss the findings. On Thursday, February 17th my journey would end for now. Up to now my hopes were conditional on the CT not revealing any heretofore unknown problem. Up to now I was reasonably confident that the treatment over the past year was successful. My confidence, as well as my hopes were not diminished by the CT report: I was in the clear, no new tumours, no lurking alligators in the Cancer swamps. My Oncologist believed that I should be able to return to work.
This was not an unconditional release from the Cancer prison, I would still be required to honour the 'Chemo Parole'. This consists of blood tests every three months, over a period of three years. Further tests, using Ultrasound instead of a CT will be given. For the next several years my health and medical status will be closely watched. Finally, to bring my journey full circle, another Colonoscopy procedure needs to be performed. This time I have every confidence that things will be different, and that the results will be better too. If not, well, I have a lot of experience in dealing with bleak situations. And I have my secret weapon: Hope.
My old journey is over. My new journey begins, as I embark upon a five year adventure, one that should I remain Cancer-free, will truly allow me to say that I have won, that I have Beaten Cancer, that I am truly a survivor. Hope and a whole lot of great medical folks plus an amazing group of family, friends and coworkers have allowed me to succeed thus far.
Wish me luck folks, lets see how far my new journey takes me.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Winding down: CT scan and a Port Flush chaser
Over a period of ten months I've had Xrays, EEG's, bloodwork and CT scans. Recently I had my first CT scan post liver-surgery. Three weeks after my last chemo session, Thursday February 3rd to be exact. The scan was arranged by my Oncologist and I have high hopes that the results would favour my recovery. Unfortunately I would need to wait two more weeks to meet with my Oncologist to find out the results.
The CT procedure itself, while not common (I've now had four in my life dating back to 2006) was familiar. An IV was placed in my left arm, it's purpose to introduce a contrast-dye. The technician still remembered me from my days when I used to work in that particular hospital, many years prior. This tenuous continuity helped, comforting me in the belief that I was not a nameless unknown, but a person.
As the exam continued the technician would instruct me to 'Take a deep breath and hold it ---- breathe normally.' Several iterations of this process occurred, me doing deep breathing while the CT did its thing. Just call me "Mr. Scan Man" (with apologies to the Andrew Sisters). From start to finish the entire process felt like it was less than 15 minutes. My IV was removed, and I was free to go home. And think of what might be found...
I try not to think too much about the results, or what the future holds. I concentrate on the immediate aspects of life, which included a scheduled visit to the clinic for a routine IV Port flush the week after my CT scan.
Routine Port flush. A year ago I had never heard of a Port Flush. Now watching my blood flowing out of me through a tube, only to be pushed back in is now considered "routine". During the past year there were a few quirks with my port flush i.e. no blood return. My first port flush since my "final" chemo was problem-free. I will need to continue these routine visits on a monthly basis, as long as the Port remains within me. How long will that be depends of course on what my Oncologist tells me.
A week remains until my appointment with my Oncologist to discuss the results. A week to conjure up wildly optimistic predictions. A week to despair about wildly pessimistic predictions. A week remaining until I can resume living my life.
The CT procedure itself, while not common (I've now had four in my life dating back to 2006) was familiar. An IV was placed in my left arm, it's purpose to introduce a contrast-dye. The technician still remembered me from my days when I used to work in that particular hospital, many years prior. This tenuous continuity helped, comforting me in the belief that I was not a nameless unknown, but a person.
As the exam continued the technician would instruct me to 'Take a deep breath and hold it ---- breathe normally.' Several iterations of this process occurred, me doing deep breathing while the CT did its thing. Just call me "Mr. Scan Man" (with apologies to the Andrew Sisters). From start to finish the entire process felt like it was less than 15 minutes. My IV was removed, and I was free to go home. And think of what might be found...
I try not to think too much about the results, or what the future holds. I concentrate on the immediate aspects of life, which included a scheduled visit to the clinic for a routine IV Port flush the week after my CT scan.
Routine Port flush. A year ago I had never heard of a Port Flush. Now watching my blood flowing out of me through a tube, only to be pushed back in is now considered "routine". During the past year there were a few quirks with my port flush i.e. no blood return. My first port flush since my "final" chemo was problem-free. I will need to continue these routine visits on a monthly basis, as long as the Port remains within me. How long will that be depends of course on what my Oncologist tells me.
A week remains until my appointment with my Oncologist to discuss the results. A week to conjure up wildly optimistic predictions. A week to despair about wildly pessimistic predictions. A week remaining until I can resume living my life.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Kindess
Kindness is the realization of the humanity within each of us. Kindness is more than a selfless act or charity, it's an extraordinary act of faith - people who help people, with the sole merit of the act simply to make life better.
I've wanted to write about the extraordinary measures people are willing to go through when they find out I am ill. Attitudes change when the gravity of my situation is realized. Part of that is the drama of Cancer, the almost formalized seriousness that we believe we must have when first we hear someone has this disease. In my case I found out very quickly that support from family, friends, and coworkers was exemplified not only by an outpouring of sympathy, but by acts of kindness.
When I was first diagnosed and began informing those around me of my predicament I was amazed at the response. From the very beginning my close personal friends put their immediate concerns on hold to visit and support me. This pattern continued while I was in the Hospital - family and friends were there to make sure I was not alone. My recovery was helped by simple acts of kindness that made my life easier. Neighbors and friends who thoughtfully brought over gifts of food to ease the chores of simply living each day. Standing offers from friends and coworkers to provide transportation -any time, any place- gifts that are from the heart. Unable to do much physically while recovering from surgery a coworker took it upon himself to clean my gutters. He didn't ask permission, he did what he knew I could not.
Generous gifts, given to me to raise my spirits during my recovery: the MP3 player that I use on my daily walks, the music a reminder of friendship started while I was in University and still continues decades later. The Palm Pilot graciously donated by a fellow coworker when my ancient Palm began to fail. All my doctor appointments, my surgical visits, my meds, my chemo visits, my life-with-cancer is tracked by that device. Plus it can play chess, and best of all, MOVIES! These devices are more than just recreation and appointment calendars, they are a reminder of a time in my life when so many people helped me to continue my journey.
This past year I have seen many examples of kindness extended to me: from the neighbor who shovels out my snow-filled driveway when I can't do it due to chemo, to the neighbor who provides us with home-grown vegetables from his garden (well it's his son who has the green thumb!) All those who have traveled that incredibly boring stretch of highway known as the 401 to visit me. The phone calls from caring friends in countries far away. Emails of support, emails that link to gift certificates at Amazon, emails that let me reconnect with long-lost cousins. The generosity is not just for me, donations made on my behalf to the Cancer Centre extend that kindness to all Cancer patients.
I do not know if I can truly acknowledge all those who have come together to help me during this time. All I know is that so many wonderful people care about me that I am humbled, and eternally grateful. Your kindness has given me more than hope, it's given me reason to savor life.
I've wanted to write about the extraordinary measures people are willing to go through when they find out I am ill. Attitudes change when the gravity of my situation is realized. Part of that is the drama of Cancer, the almost formalized seriousness that we believe we must have when first we hear someone has this disease. In my case I found out very quickly that support from family, friends, and coworkers was exemplified not only by an outpouring of sympathy, but by acts of kindness.
When I was first diagnosed and began informing those around me of my predicament I was amazed at the response. From the very beginning my close personal friends put their immediate concerns on hold to visit and support me. This pattern continued while I was in the Hospital - family and friends were there to make sure I was not alone. My recovery was helped by simple acts of kindness that made my life easier. Neighbors and friends who thoughtfully brought over gifts of food to ease the chores of simply living each day. Standing offers from friends and coworkers to provide transportation -any time, any place- gifts that are from the heart. Unable to do much physically while recovering from surgery a coworker took it upon himself to clean my gutters. He didn't ask permission, he did what he knew I could not.
Generous gifts, given to me to raise my spirits during my recovery: the MP3 player that I use on my daily walks, the music a reminder of friendship started while I was in University and still continues decades later. The Palm Pilot graciously donated by a fellow coworker when my ancient Palm began to fail. All my doctor appointments, my surgical visits, my meds, my chemo visits, my life-with-cancer is tracked by that device. Plus it can play chess, and best of all, MOVIES! These devices are more than just recreation and appointment calendars, they are a reminder of a time in my life when so many people helped me to continue my journey.
This past year I have seen many examples of kindness extended to me: from the neighbor who shovels out my snow-filled driveway when I can't do it due to chemo, to the neighbor who provides us with home-grown vegetables from his garden (well it's his son who has the green thumb!) All those who have traveled that incredibly boring stretch of highway known as the 401 to visit me. The phone calls from caring friends in countries far away. Emails of support, emails that link to gift certificates at Amazon, emails that let me reconnect with long-lost cousins. The generosity is not just for me, donations made on my behalf to the Cancer Centre extend that kindness to all Cancer patients.
I do not know if I can truly acknowledge all those who have come together to help me during this time. All I know is that so many wonderful people care about me that I am humbled, and eternally grateful. Your kindness has given me more than hope, it's given me reason to savor life.
Monday, January 17, 2011
The Chemo Chronicles - Part XII
The best time to write a blog about Cancer is when you're not undergoing any treatment. When you write during the treatment, your heart and mood are locked into the current process. Life becomes How Can I Endure This Anymore? Writing becomes a challenge when coupled with the bleak winter weather, scant motivation to do anything physical and the always underlying worry if treatment is actually working.
If treatment is not working I'm going to have to register a complaint. Probably with myself as I'm the one who needs to make it work. I once wrote that I believe the technical means were at hand to defeat cancer and that I was the one to provide the resolve. In the past few months that resolve has if not exactly wavered, hasn't been the bedrock-solid foundation I need to build my hope upon.
January 11th, 2011 was the day my twelfth chemotherapy session. Prior to this last session my growing tiredness of the whole process was wearing me thin. I needed a break. Chemo #12 will be the last treatment for an unknown time. My Cancer plan calls for me to have a CT scan later in February. It's been a long haul of almost ten months, where my focus is on the Cancer Plan, the Cure and the resumption of life as I once knew it. I've completed my last chemotherapy treatment, and I feel uncertain of what the results will be, of what my life will become, of what path I need to follow.
For the two weeks prior to my 12th chemo I gradually resumed much of my normal activities. My appetite returned, my energy level increased as I resumed my daily walks. Motivation to complete two outstanding 'chemo clocks' prompted me to build my projects once more. I played a little chess, tried to study some programming, but mostly this period can be characterized by 'just tired of it all'. I watched a lot of movies and kept wondering what the 'last' chemo means to me. Am I done? Am I well? Will I regain my former life? And of course the question I always dread...will the Cancer return?
I know the answer to the last question, it's easy: If the Cancer returns I deal with it then. In the meantime, I just need to concentrate on the task at hand. For the present this means managing to get through the 12th chemo.
Chemo #12 started late at 11AM instead of the scheduled 1030 time. Once more I would be seated in chair #11. Once more I unbuttoned my shirt, unselfconsciously in a room full of strangers, so that my nurse could begin the chemo process. Once more I had a problem: the blood return failed. The blood return is an IVPort self-check, where the medical staff can observe if the Port is working correctly. As has often been the case for me of late, this turns out to be a hit-or-miss affair. The general strategy to resolve this problem is to cough, raise my arm on the side of port above my head, cough some more, and see what happens. When these strategies failed I was reclined in my chair til I was completely horizontal, and subsequent variations of this process were tried again.
Liquid Plumbr, chemo-style was the solution. A small tube of this magic liquid is linked to my port, and the inverted tube is then taped onto my shirt. This gives me some temporary freedom from the IV Pole! I can wander around for some 40 minutes, unhindered by my chemical tether. So I walk around the hospital getting some much-needed exercise, and more importantly, to walk off the frustrations I've had about this "last chemo".
Forty minutes later I'm back in the chair with the blood return fully functional. Now the the well-known process resumes: saline solution, followed by the chemo medicine proper. After the chemo drip will be my Avastin, followed by the 5FU flush, the precursor to the 5FU pump being attached to me one more time. During the waiting time I am restless, the internet is not working for the hospital and I am unable to connect up my email. I try to watch a movie, the classic "Inherit the Wind" with Spencer Tracy and Gene Kelly in a rare non-musical role. My shots to relieve my feelings of nausea are given, my body reacting exactly as it has the prior 11 times. I can do chemo in my sleep, if only I were able to sleep...still no internet and it's almost noon. I thank the food services staff for their offer of lunch, but I am too keyed up to eat. Still restless I stand, unable to pace however due to the constraints of my IV pole and my chemical tethers. I can't sit. I can't rest. I have no internet and I can no longer concentrate on my movie. I need to do something. At last I find that something: fixing the loose plates of the A/C outlets.
All the cover plates of the A/C outlets were loose, but not dangerously so. With the continual plugging and unplugging of IV Poles and personal electronics, this is bound to happen. Fortunately I have my Swiss-army-style knife with me, and the bottle-opener/flat screwdriver blade is perfect for the task at hand. Soon all the A/C cover plates within my limited range are securely fastened, and I feel like I've accomplished something useful. I don't think I've used a bottle opener in 30 years though, since the advent of the 'twist off' cap.
After an interminable time my chemo session was done for that day. Sometime around 3PM I get to go home. My 5FU bottle was secured to my port for hopefully the last time. I headed home, tired and worn out from the whole process.
With this second round of chemotherapy I have noticed that sleep the first night is difficult. I can't say why this is but the soreness of my chest is significant. The first night with the 5FU pump is my most difficult, I do not sleep deeply, I am constantly sore and unable to find a comfortable resting position. I am my most miserable during this time, and perhaps because it's the "last" chemo I feel more worn out rather than the elated feeling the accompanies one when a milestone has been reached. For the next several days I do nothing but rest, the couch and my bed are my best friends. I don't really sleep as not move. I get up for my meals but of course there's little appetite within me. The taste of water is unappealing, but juices help. I need to keep fluids in me but it really is a losing battle this time. I spend the second day in my PJ's not even bothering to do more than the basic obligations. I am really tired and I just want to do nothing. Just rest, that's all. I deserve that opportunity not do anything don't I?
When I started my chemo on Tuesday, the Thursday disconnect day for my 5FU pump seemed impossibly far away. The Wednesday was only distinguished by my choice of sleeping areas: couch or bed. When Thursday finally arrived I began to feel hopeful once more, the journey was taking me away from the damn chemo.
Thursday January 13th is worthy to remember, simply because I need to acknowledge my efforts in persevering through the whole chemo process. But I could not have done it without help. A great deal of help. I delivered boxes of chocolates to the medical staff who were there for me time and again. The clinic where they disconnect my 5FU pump. The reception desk at the Cancer Centre where I am greeted by name on my arrival. The lab where my blood was dutifully drawn every two weeks. Finally, for the nurses in the chemotherapy area. They are all terrific, professional, compassionate and caring people. Boxes of chocolates seem somehow too little for the thanks I want to express to these wonderful folks who bring so much compassion and care to my life.
Chemo #12 was completed. By the weekend I would be better, physically and emotionally. I would shovel snow Friday morning and regret it for the remainder of the day (echoes of the chemo still resonating in my chest..) but by Saturday shovelling snow was no problem. I would be walking Sunday without impairment, energized and alive, recovery completed from the chemo. I would build my last chemo clock. I had given away the prior eleven clocks to those persons who were significant in aiding my struggle with Cancer. I would keep chemo clock #12 for myself, as a remembrance to my time with Cancer, Chemo and Care. I would be happy with who I am, what I have accomplished, where I've been and most importantly, where my journey takes me next.
The chemo may be completed for now, but my interaction with the medical system continues. A CT scan awaits me, as do meetings with my Oncologist and Surgeon. I do not know my future, but then who does? For now I am happy, and alive. So far I have achieved all my goals and objectives. My 12th chemo is finished, but my journey continues. I wonder where it will take me next?
If treatment is not working I'm going to have to register a complaint. Probably with myself as I'm the one who needs to make it work. I once wrote that I believe the technical means were at hand to defeat cancer and that I was the one to provide the resolve. In the past few months that resolve has if not exactly wavered, hasn't been the bedrock-solid foundation I need to build my hope upon.
January 11th, 2011 was the day my twelfth chemotherapy session. Prior to this last session my growing tiredness of the whole process was wearing me thin. I needed a break. Chemo #12 will be the last treatment for an unknown time. My Cancer plan calls for me to have a CT scan later in February. It's been a long haul of almost ten months, where my focus is on the Cancer Plan, the Cure and the resumption of life as I once knew it. I've completed my last chemotherapy treatment, and I feel uncertain of what the results will be, of what my life will become, of what path I need to follow.
For the two weeks prior to my 12th chemo I gradually resumed much of my normal activities. My appetite returned, my energy level increased as I resumed my daily walks. Motivation to complete two outstanding 'chemo clocks' prompted me to build my projects once more. I played a little chess, tried to study some programming, but mostly this period can be characterized by 'just tired of it all'. I watched a lot of movies and kept wondering what the 'last' chemo means to me. Am I done? Am I well? Will I regain my former life? And of course the question I always dread...will the Cancer return?
I know the answer to the last question, it's easy: If the Cancer returns I deal with it then. In the meantime, I just need to concentrate on the task at hand. For the present this means managing to get through the 12th chemo.
Chemo #12 started late at 11AM instead of the scheduled 1030 time. Once more I would be seated in chair #11. Once more I unbuttoned my shirt, unselfconsciously in a room full of strangers, so that my nurse could begin the chemo process. Once more I had a problem: the blood return failed. The blood return is an IVPort self-check, where the medical staff can observe if the Port is working correctly. As has often been the case for me of late, this turns out to be a hit-or-miss affair. The general strategy to resolve this problem is to cough, raise my arm on the side of port above my head, cough some more, and see what happens. When these strategies failed I was reclined in my chair til I was completely horizontal, and subsequent variations of this process were tried again.
Liquid Plumbr, chemo-style was the solution. A small tube of this magic liquid is linked to my port, and the inverted tube is then taped onto my shirt. This gives me some temporary freedom from the IV Pole! I can wander around for some 40 minutes, unhindered by my chemical tether. So I walk around the hospital getting some much-needed exercise, and more importantly, to walk off the frustrations I've had about this "last chemo".
Forty minutes later I'm back in the chair with the blood return fully functional. Now the the well-known process resumes: saline solution, followed by the chemo medicine proper. After the chemo drip will be my Avastin, followed by the 5FU flush, the precursor to the 5FU pump being attached to me one more time. During the waiting time I am restless, the internet is not working for the hospital and I am unable to connect up my email. I try to watch a movie, the classic "Inherit the Wind" with Spencer Tracy and Gene Kelly in a rare non-musical role. My shots to relieve my feelings of nausea are given, my body reacting exactly as it has the prior 11 times. I can do chemo in my sleep, if only I were able to sleep...still no internet and it's almost noon. I thank the food services staff for their offer of lunch, but I am too keyed up to eat. Still restless I stand, unable to pace however due to the constraints of my IV pole and my chemical tethers. I can't sit. I can't rest. I have no internet and I can no longer concentrate on my movie. I need to do something. At last I find that something: fixing the loose plates of the A/C outlets.
All the cover plates of the A/C outlets were loose, but not dangerously so. With the continual plugging and unplugging of IV Poles and personal electronics, this is bound to happen. Fortunately I have my Swiss-army-style knife with me, and the bottle-opener/flat screwdriver blade is perfect for the task at hand. Soon all the A/C cover plates within my limited range are securely fastened, and I feel like I've accomplished something useful. I don't think I've used a bottle opener in 30 years though, since the advent of the 'twist off' cap.
After an interminable time my chemo session was done for that day. Sometime around 3PM I get to go home. My 5FU bottle was secured to my port for hopefully the last time. I headed home, tired and worn out from the whole process.
With this second round of chemotherapy I have noticed that sleep the first night is difficult. I can't say why this is but the soreness of my chest is significant. The first night with the 5FU pump is my most difficult, I do not sleep deeply, I am constantly sore and unable to find a comfortable resting position. I am my most miserable during this time, and perhaps because it's the "last" chemo I feel more worn out rather than the elated feeling the accompanies one when a milestone has been reached. For the next several days I do nothing but rest, the couch and my bed are my best friends. I don't really sleep as not move. I get up for my meals but of course there's little appetite within me. The taste of water is unappealing, but juices help. I need to keep fluids in me but it really is a losing battle this time. I spend the second day in my PJ's not even bothering to do more than the basic obligations. I am really tired and I just want to do nothing. Just rest, that's all. I deserve that opportunity not do anything don't I?
When I started my chemo on Tuesday, the Thursday disconnect day for my 5FU pump seemed impossibly far away. The Wednesday was only distinguished by my choice of sleeping areas: couch or bed. When Thursday finally arrived I began to feel hopeful once more, the journey was taking me away from the damn chemo.
Thursday January 13th is worthy to remember, simply because I need to acknowledge my efforts in persevering through the whole chemo process. But I could not have done it without help. A great deal of help. I delivered boxes of chocolates to the medical staff who were there for me time and again. The clinic where they disconnect my 5FU pump. The reception desk at the Cancer Centre where I am greeted by name on my arrival. The lab where my blood was dutifully drawn every two weeks. Finally, for the nurses in the chemotherapy area. They are all terrific, professional, compassionate and caring people. Boxes of chocolates seem somehow too little for the thanks I want to express to these wonderful folks who bring so much compassion and care to my life.
Chemo #12 was completed. By the weekend I would be better, physically and emotionally. I would shovel snow Friday morning and regret it for the remainder of the day (echoes of the chemo still resonating in my chest..) but by Saturday shovelling snow was no problem. I would be walking Sunday without impairment, energized and alive, recovery completed from the chemo. I would build my last chemo clock. I had given away the prior eleven clocks to those persons who were significant in aiding my struggle with Cancer. I would keep chemo clock #12 for myself, as a remembrance to my time with Cancer, Chemo and Care. I would be happy with who I am, what I have accomplished, where I've been and most importantly, where my journey takes me next.
The chemo may be completed for now, but my interaction with the medical system continues. A CT scan awaits me, as do meetings with my Oncologist and Surgeon. I do not know my future, but then who does? For now I am happy, and alive. So far I have achieved all my goals and objectives. My 12th chemo is finished, but my journey continues. I wonder where it will take me next?
Monday, January 3, 2011
The Chemo Chronicles - Part XI
Christmas and Chemotherapy are not my idea of a holiday tradition. My eleventh and hopefully second-last session took place a mere three days after Christmas. The days leading up to this session, like the days leading up to any Christmas were squeezed together with social visits, stealthy Christmas shopping and trying not get sick.
For part of December I felt the effects of a dry, sore throat. Not much coughing, but sneezing always produced bloody kleenex. The extremely dry conditions, the cold, the chemo, and my lack of desire to drink liquids played it's part in feeling so run-down. The cold December restricted my usual daily walks, my lifestyle now had the couch potato effect, and new aches began to appear. Physical ailments aside, the Christmas season brings its own emotional aches and pains.
Nineteen Ninety Eight, the last Christmas I spent with my mom. She was going through the final stages of pancreatic cancer, and her number one son went North for a rare family Christmas. Her journey would finish in February of the New Year. My journey began in February this past year, as the result of a routine physical. I will always remember that final visit with my mom, and relive it every time I hear the Ave Maria from "Going My Way". My Christmas tradition, to watch all the hokey old movies: "It's a Wonderful Life", "Going My Way". Simple classic stuff, nothing deep, just wishy-washy sentimentality. I miss you mom.
Life goes on and I go with it is one of my catchphrases, and it helps to realize that stuff gets done regardless. For instance I played my very first formal game of chess, complete with clock and recording the moves. Now this may seem a bit trivial, but it was unique to me. My very experienced opponent set up the time for one hour per side. Normally I play in a fashion that can be best described as "move then think", which is typically opposite to what the good players do. For this game I tried to be a good player. That illusion lasted a mere 14 moves, but I dutifully hung on til the 40th move or so before conceding the inevitable. I was surprised to find that almost two hours had literally flown by. I was more surprised at how tired I was: thinking is hard work.
Remembering is getting to be hard work for me, at least this past month. The visits from my close friends seem hard to reconstruct, I resort to my handwritten journals to see what I've done, who has visited and when it happened. I can't really blame the chemo effects for this however, it's purely the season and the emotions that go with it. Deep down I wonder if this is going to be the last Christmas.
Christmas day finally arrives, is celebrated, then departs again for another year. I'll see it when it comes 'round again next year is a promise I make to myself. My eleventh chemo is in three more days, my sore throat is finally gone, but I still have an aching right side. The lack of exercise exacerbates everything. This upcoming chemo has an additional challenge: blood work needs to be done prior, but the clinic is closed during the holidays. This leads to the Great Cab Ride of 2010.
Normally I have a ride that brings me to my chemo appointments, but as I was to go in early, I decided to let her sleep in and just take a cab. Not a big deal, I could bike to the clinic in 30 minutes as it's not that far away. However I had the Cab Driver Who Drove Very Very Slow. My ride at a sedate 40km an hour down a major traffic thoroughfare was an exercise in patience. The irony of 'hurry up and wait' is not lost. I finally arrive at the lab to find that the waiting room barely had anyone in it. All that rushing for nothing, and my bloodwork is done in less than 20 minutes. I have almost two hours before my session is scheduled to start, now what?
Being Canadian the answer is obvious: time for a Timmie's coffee. It's a big hospital and there are two kiosks serving the only chemical equivalent I would willingly take on a daily basis. I drink my coffee, I take my pre-chemo pills. I wait, there is still an hour and a half before my appointment. I walk the corridors of a hospital where I once worked some 20 years prior, my start in "real" UNIX systems administration began here. I have some good memories of this place, however I never thought I would return in this fashion. The walking is making me sweat, as I am still bundled in my heavy winter jacket and carrying my backpack. The corridors are long and well lit, with little traffic. I decide I need some real exercise. Gathering my belongings onto a chair fortuitously available to me, I begin my walking. My pace ramps up, this is the first time I've expended exercise energy in weeks and my cadence increases rapidly. I fumble in my pocket for my sony mp3 walkman. Skip the slow songs, skip the classicals, I want a fast tempo, I want to move, I want to get away, I want to live. I fly down the hallway, reach the end, turn, zoom back. Again and again, for over an hour. I'm bathed in sweat when the pager goes off, notifying me that fun is over and it's now time to take my treatment. The high I get from this exercise is miraculous, I have smile on my face, damned if I'm not just plain happy. The Christmas blahs, the needless worrying, the aches and pains are all gone! Just one more chemo after this...
Chair #11 is in the corner facing the Window, watching the December weather, undecided if it's going to be sunny or cloudy. The routine of chemo, once so intimidating is just one more thing I have to do to get better. The process is familiar, I pull my computer and notebook out of my backpack, arranged so that the cords do not interfere with the IV pole for later. Nesting instinct perhaps, I make this space my own for the next four hours. My routine is simply that: routine. Blood return, my usual problem, is fine. Bloodwork results are very good, my White Blood Count above average, Red a little low and the Hemoglobin, low but much improved over the past few weeks of B12 shots and Iron pill supplements. By the numbers I'm doing pretty good. My nurse checks my blood pressure: 119/75 after all that walking. I feel as good as I have in weeks, yet I know that in a few hours all this will be wiped away as the chemotherapy does its job: killing cancer.
Killing cancer. Killing me too. The little death of chemo that extends for three days while I wear the 5FU pump. In three days I will be resurrected. For now I endure what needs to be endured.
My session in the chair is almost done, but now I have a problem: the blood return is not working. Silly IVPort problems, I am now tethered for another half-hour as the "Liquid PlumbR" equivalent cleans out the port. Finally a good return and the 5FU pump can be attached to me. I get to go home, after being in the hospital some six hours today. I figure that after all this exercise and the extended session that I'd just crash.
Once again the chemo threw me a curve. In the past after the initial session in the chair I can think of doing nothing but going to sleep as soon as I get home. I rest but am not rested. Uncomfortable the entire day, never actually experiencing nausea, but never feel like I wouldn't be sick. The large foam cup was always within reach. The pressure on my chest was constant, and varied in intensity as I tried to find a comfortable position. I could not lie on my back or my side, as the feelings of nausea tended to increase. Only on my stomach did these feelings subside, but I cannot sleep on my stomach. That first night of chemo I watched the clock as it crawled to 530am. Sometimes all we can do is endure, I am so tired of chemo, I just want it to be over, I am just so tired...
I sleep maybe 3 hours, get up and force myself through the morning routine. Of late I lack much of my former discipline, I need to concentrate to take my morning pills, to take my temperature and weight. I watch a movie but I cannot remember what occurred. The day drifts in an out, chemo sucks this time, it really is not fun. By 1130 that night I have had enough of keeping the couch warm, and go to sleep. I only wake up a few times, but the crushing pressure on my chest has dissipated and I sleep more or less normally. Only one more day of wearing the pump before I can become myself again.
My final morning of chemo reveals that I am short of pills. A quick call to the Cancer Centre pharmacy and my refill order is placed. All the staff at the Cancer Centre are extremely helpful, my prescription will be ready by the afternoon. My only goal for the remainder of the morning is to get rid of the 5FU pump. The now familiar run to the clinic is so routine as to be boring. Few people waiting, I am in and out within half an hour. The pump is enveloped within two heavy plastic bags, the large CYTOTOXIC warning prominent. My eleventh chemo session is dutifully completed when I return the spent bottle to the Cancer Centre. Technically I have one more pill to take that night, but my freedom is restored once the bottle is off of me.
My second round of chemotherapy has proved to be more difficult than what I had experienced during the summer. Each session seems to add a different wrinkle, throwing off expectations and eroding some of my confidence. The challenge is to survive the continual erosion that the chemotherapy process has on body and mind. The journey I am on started a long time ago, sometimes the path is clear, sometimes lost in Terra Incognita. Somehow I always manage to find my way to the next destination. The final chemotherapy session is only two weeks away. All that remains afterwards is the CT scan. All my hopes are now pinned to results of that scan. My journey continues, but I wonder where my destination will be.
For part of December I felt the effects of a dry, sore throat. Not much coughing, but sneezing always produced bloody kleenex. The extremely dry conditions, the cold, the chemo, and my lack of desire to drink liquids played it's part in feeling so run-down. The cold December restricted my usual daily walks, my lifestyle now had the couch potato effect, and new aches began to appear. Physical ailments aside, the Christmas season brings its own emotional aches and pains.
Nineteen Ninety Eight, the last Christmas I spent with my mom. She was going through the final stages of pancreatic cancer, and her number one son went North for a rare family Christmas. Her journey would finish in February of the New Year. My journey began in February this past year, as the result of a routine physical. I will always remember that final visit with my mom, and relive it every time I hear the Ave Maria from "Going My Way". My Christmas tradition, to watch all the hokey old movies: "It's a Wonderful Life", "Going My Way". Simple classic stuff, nothing deep, just wishy-washy sentimentality. I miss you mom.
Life goes on and I go with it is one of my catchphrases, and it helps to realize that stuff gets done regardless. For instance I played my very first formal game of chess, complete with clock and recording the moves. Now this may seem a bit trivial, but it was unique to me. My very experienced opponent set up the time for one hour per side. Normally I play in a fashion that can be best described as "move then think", which is typically opposite to what the good players do. For this game I tried to be a good player. That illusion lasted a mere 14 moves, but I dutifully hung on til the 40th move or so before conceding the inevitable. I was surprised to find that almost two hours had literally flown by. I was more surprised at how tired I was: thinking is hard work.
Remembering is getting to be hard work for me, at least this past month. The visits from my close friends seem hard to reconstruct, I resort to my handwritten journals to see what I've done, who has visited and when it happened. I can't really blame the chemo effects for this however, it's purely the season and the emotions that go with it. Deep down I wonder if this is going to be the last Christmas.
Christmas day finally arrives, is celebrated, then departs again for another year. I'll see it when it comes 'round again next year is a promise I make to myself. My eleventh chemo is in three more days, my sore throat is finally gone, but I still have an aching right side. The lack of exercise exacerbates everything. This upcoming chemo has an additional challenge: blood work needs to be done prior, but the clinic is closed during the holidays. This leads to the Great Cab Ride of 2010.
Normally I have a ride that brings me to my chemo appointments, but as I was to go in early, I decided to let her sleep in and just take a cab. Not a big deal, I could bike to the clinic in 30 minutes as it's not that far away. However I had the Cab Driver Who Drove Very Very Slow. My ride at a sedate 40km an hour down a major traffic thoroughfare was an exercise in patience. The irony of 'hurry up and wait' is not lost. I finally arrive at the lab to find that the waiting room barely had anyone in it. All that rushing for nothing, and my bloodwork is done in less than 20 minutes. I have almost two hours before my session is scheduled to start, now what?
Being Canadian the answer is obvious: time for a Timmie's coffee. It's a big hospital and there are two kiosks serving the only chemical equivalent I would willingly take on a daily basis. I drink my coffee, I take my pre-chemo pills. I wait, there is still an hour and a half before my appointment. I walk the corridors of a hospital where I once worked some 20 years prior, my start in "real" UNIX systems administration began here. I have some good memories of this place, however I never thought I would return in this fashion. The walking is making me sweat, as I am still bundled in my heavy winter jacket and carrying my backpack. The corridors are long and well lit, with little traffic. I decide I need some real exercise. Gathering my belongings onto a chair fortuitously available to me, I begin my walking. My pace ramps up, this is the first time I've expended exercise energy in weeks and my cadence increases rapidly. I fumble in my pocket for my sony mp3 walkman. Skip the slow songs, skip the classicals, I want a fast tempo, I want to move, I want to get away, I want to live. I fly down the hallway, reach the end, turn, zoom back. Again and again, for over an hour. I'm bathed in sweat when the pager goes off, notifying me that fun is over and it's now time to take my treatment. The high I get from this exercise is miraculous, I have smile on my face, damned if I'm not just plain happy. The Christmas blahs, the needless worrying, the aches and pains are all gone! Just one more chemo after this...
Chair #11 is in the corner facing the Window, watching the December weather, undecided if it's going to be sunny or cloudy. The routine of chemo, once so intimidating is just one more thing I have to do to get better. The process is familiar, I pull my computer and notebook out of my backpack, arranged so that the cords do not interfere with the IV pole for later. Nesting instinct perhaps, I make this space my own for the next four hours. My routine is simply that: routine. Blood return, my usual problem, is fine. Bloodwork results are very good, my White Blood Count above average, Red a little low and the Hemoglobin, low but much improved over the past few weeks of B12 shots and Iron pill supplements. By the numbers I'm doing pretty good. My nurse checks my blood pressure: 119/75 after all that walking. I feel as good as I have in weeks, yet I know that in a few hours all this will be wiped away as the chemotherapy does its job: killing cancer.
Killing cancer. Killing me too. The little death of chemo that extends for three days while I wear the 5FU pump. In three days I will be resurrected. For now I endure what needs to be endured.
My session in the chair is almost done, but now I have a problem: the blood return is not working. Silly IVPort problems, I am now tethered for another half-hour as the "Liquid PlumbR" equivalent cleans out the port. Finally a good return and the 5FU pump can be attached to me. I get to go home, after being in the hospital some six hours today. I figure that after all this exercise and the extended session that I'd just crash.
Once again the chemo threw me a curve. In the past after the initial session in the chair I can think of doing nothing but going to sleep as soon as I get home. I rest but am not rested. Uncomfortable the entire day, never actually experiencing nausea, but never feel like I wouldn't be sick. The large foam cup was always within reach. The pressure on my chest was constant, and varied in intensity as I tried to find a comfortable position. I could not lie on my back or my side, as the feelings of nausea tended to increase. Only on my stomach did these feelings subside, but I cannot sleep on my stomach. That first night of chemo I watched the clock as it crawled to 530am. Sometimes all we can do is endure, I am so tired of chemo, I just want it to be over, I am just so tired...
I sleep maybe 3 hours, get up and force myself through the morning routine. Of late I lack much of my former discipline, I need to concentrate to take my morning pills, to take my temperature and weight. I watch a movie but I cannot remember what occurred. The day drifts in an out, chemo sucks this time, it really is not fun. By 1130 that night I have had enough of keeping the couch warm, and go to sleep. I only wake up a few times, but the crushing pressure on my chest has dissipated and I sleep more or less normally. Only one more day of wearing the pump before I can become myself again.
My final morning of chemo reveals that I am short of pills. A quick call to the Cancer Centre pharmacy and my refill order is placed. All the staff at the Cancer Centre are extremely helpful, my prescription will be ready by the afternoon. My only goal for the remainder of the morning is to get rid of the 5FU pump. The now familiar run to the clinic is so routine as to be boring. Few people waiting, I am in and out within half an hour. The pump is enveloped within two heavy plastic bags, the large CYTOTOXIC warning prominent. My eleventh chemo session is dutifully completed when I return the spent bottle to the Cancer Centre. Technically I have one more pill to take that night, but my freedom is restored once the bottle is off of me.
My second round of chemotherapy has proved to be more difficult than what I had experienced during the summer. Each session seems to add a different wrinkle, throwing off expectations and eroding some of my confidence. The challenge is to survive the continual erosion that the chemotherapy process has on body and mind. The journey I am on started a long time ago, sometimes the path is clear, sometimes lost in Terra Incognita. Somehow I always manage to find my way to the next destination. The final chemotherapy session is only two weeks away. All that remains afterwards is the CT scan. All my hopes are now pinned to results of that scan. My journey continues, but I wonder where my destination will be.
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