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.

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.