One last simple procedure was required to remove my port. So on Thursday November 14th, just before noon, I returned to the Hospital from where my journey began. Feeling neither anxious nor worried, I took a seat in the Admitting area and waited for my turn to be registered.
Perhaps because it's a procedure that's done in Radiology, the registration clerk had a difficult time finding the classification for my surgery. For the record, this particular institution charts the procedure under 'CT', even though a Cat Scanner is not used for either the insertion or removal process. The registration is complete when the clerk wraps a plastic ID bracelet around my wrist. Paperwork in hand, I was instructed to proceed to the fifth floor, the day surgery floor for Hotel Dieu Hospital. I've made this journey many times over the past few years, each time it seems there's a slightly different emotion attached. For the early visits when I was being diagnosed there was anxiety and fear; now there was a feeling of calmness a satisfaction that asserts within me and states that I am no longer afraid of Cancer.
Stepping off the elevator, the dedicated volunteers assist in getting me oriented so that my admitting paperwork is dropped off at the correct nursing station. From there I am directed to a small waiting room opposite the same elevators from which I had just exited. The waiting process begins.
Time goes by slowly in a Hospital waiting room. It goes slower when their public wifi isn't working. Still I had a backpack full of stuff to entertain me, but lets face it, I can't concentrate: the anticipation is building and I just can't sit still. I'm like a five year old with the attention span of, well, a five year old. I pace just outside the waiting room, too afraid to stray very far lest I miss my turn. My name is called, but it's just the initial preparation: I get to change into the formal attire of the Day Surgery floor: little booties for my feet and a standard-issue Hospital Gown. A robe is also provided. At least I get to keep my pants on. My significant others sister works as a nurse on that floor, and is noted for having a sadistic streak that's dryly referred to as 'humour'. I worry that my clothes will disappear. Fortunately that would not pass. Unfortunately there was something else waiting for me.
While lounging in my new sartorial splendour another nurse inquires at the waiting area for me. I identify myself and am pleasantly surprised: she was the same nurse who helped prepare me for colon surgery, on that cold morning of April 8th in 2010. She remembers my condition, she's happy I've come so far. It's hard to describe the feeling when you make someone happy, simply by being alive. She checks my arm band and tells me there's an additional band that I'm required to wear. I accept this as normal when she fastens the purple band on my other wrist. It is unadorned, no markings of any sort. Simply purple. I study the other patients in the waiting room, and none of them have any bands other than their ID. I wander down to the nursing station where I had dropped off my paperwork an hour beforehand (or was it two...it felt like a day by then..). My practical-joking nurse saw me and in mock-horror advised her coworkers to make sure I wasn't made angry. It wold seem that a purple band means "violent patient". Ha. Ha. Funny. Not. OK it WAS a little humourous and did lighten the mood somewhat.
I wait, somewhat impatiently. I pace some more. I wait some more. Eventually a bed was ready for me. For this procedure I would only receive a localized numbing around the port site, so no IV. I would remain awake during the entire process.
Day surgery transportation is a cross between a Formula 1 car race and a video game obstacle course. The Hospital layout routes you through the maze of corridors, around protruding obstacles until finally you are squeezed into an elevator. I admire the skill of the bed movers. They have a dexterity maneuvering their bulky charges around that verges on miraculous. I arrived at my destination relatively intact, and found I was in Radiology. Actually I was parked in Radiology. It's quiet, sounds are muted, light is indirect and I am in a bed with a warm blanket covering me. I could nap now. Naturally the timing is perfect, as I close my eyes the bed is moved into position for the surgical procedure. They are ready for me. My port is about to be removed.
My doctor explained that they would numb the port site with some injections just as Dentist does for a filling. Only they were removing my port (Does that make it an un-filling?) I would be in bed, head tilted away and in a few minutes, after some cutting, some tugging, some stitches and some bandages and ... I was Port Free.
I was Port Free. I remember being brought back to the fifth floor recovery room, the protocol in case something horrible happened, but of course nothing did. Juice and a cookie were provided, my reward for being such a good patient I suppose.
Such a simple thing, it would take weeks for me to realize how much of my life was devoted to the process of being ready to fight Cancer. I would later determine that I had carried my Port in me for 921 days.
My departure from the Hospital was subdued, the usual cautions about not showering while I still had stitches, any redness, pain, pus or fever, and a date when to return to get my stitches removed. As I walked down those front steps to the street, there was a feeling that the essence of my journey was not one of elation, no fanfare for 'beating' cancer, but the realization that life simply goes on.
Life goes on, and I go with it. And I do so Port free. I still have another year of bloodwork to look forward to, every three months. I have Colonoscopy sometime in 2014, and I have the usual health concerns of everyone who gets older in life. The moment of my Cancer is now past. It seems that my journey will continue, and I realize, somewhat bemusedly, that I've been on a journey all my life. Cancer was just a traveling companion for a little while.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Saturday, December 1, 2012
De-Ported - I
I see my Oncologist every six months. Every three months there's blood work. Once a month my IV Port gets flushed. November would see a change in this protocol. It began with a visit to my Oncologist.
November 5th and I'm back at the Cancer Centre for my six month follow-up with my Oncologist. New procedural changes for notifying the patient that their doctor is ready to see them were introduced since my last visit. In the past you would register at the front reception desk, be given paperwork and a pager, go upstairs and perform your ESAS survey, drop off the paperwork with the doctor's receptionist and wait for the pager to inform you that you will now be seen. This time no paperwork and no pager. You check in with the front reception, they email your doctor's reception person and after you do the ESAS survey, you wait in the lounge. A friendly voice informs you when it's your turn. Less stressful than having a pager go off unexpectedly in your lap. Maintaining the personal interaction rather than abstracting a visit with a technical process is a nice "soft" change.
I had barely sat down when my name was called, and I was ushered into the patient examining area by the smiling nurse. My weigh is recorded (186lbs) and some survey questions are asked by the nurse - if you have any concerns for the upcoming meeting with your oncologist, now would be a good time to mention them.
There was only one item I wished to discuss, but the exam preliminaries needed to be performed. For that I need to hop up onto the exam table and take deep breaths so my lungs can be heard via stethoscope. Next comes the reclining portion of the exam, where I lie down and look up at the ceiling. Prodding and poking of the abdomen occurs, and the region of greatest interest-in my case the liver-is examined. Other than confirming I'm still ticklish, there was nothing of note to report.
From the cancer doctor's perspective, the liver is the most likely place for cancer to reoccur. My general aches and pains are not really symptoms of the disease that has changed my life. Mostly these complaints are under the larger umbrella of the affliction know as "getting older". I do remind the doc about my primary concern of late: my IV Port.
"We'll take it out." she says. Simple statements like that are, upon later reflection, profound. It means I don't need further treatment. It means I don't hold my breath waiting in fear. It means I have a future.
However those feelings wouldn't manifest until the port was actually removed. While sitting on the exam table, I half-expected my doctor to call a nurse and yank it out of me then and there. Not quite the way it would happen, but I was assured at the end of my visit that a time would be scheduled "before Christmas" for its removal. I was already thinking "Best Christmas Present Ever" when my doctor observed as an afterthought that there were lots of good veins in my hands should we need to resume treatment. OK, I can live with that should it be necessary, but hey it's been nearly two years without any treament, lets just live life today and tomorrow and see what happens. I was also reminded to maintain the rigorous schedule of getting my blood work done every three months. Those tests remain as always, my first line of defense. They also serve as a reminder that better doesn't always mean cured, and cured doesn't always mean finished. LIfe goes on..
My exam now complete, I left the clinic knowing I would be called very soon to schedule the ports' removal. It was a nice sunny day. I was happy. Whether it's true or not, all my positive memories of the WRCC are linked to images of sunshine in my mind. Nothing wrong with being happy, even better when you are healthy. I sincerely believe that you can't have one without the other.
Events are drawing to a close. One more simple small procedure brings me that much closer to finishing my journey. More importantly, to finish on my terms: not merely survive Cancer, but to step our from under its shadow and live without fear.
November 5th and I'm back at the Cancer Centre for my six month follow-up with my Oncologist. New procedural changes for notifying the patient that their doctor is ready to see them were introduced since my last visit. In the past you would register at the front reception desk, be given paperwork and a pager, go upstairs and perform your ESAS survey, drop off the paperwork with the doctor's receptionist and wait for the pager to inform you that you will now be seen. This time no paperwork and no pager. You check in with the front reception, they email your doctor's reception person and after you do the ESAS survey, you wait in the lounge. A friendly voice informs you when it's your turn. Less stressful than having a pager go off unexpectedly in your lap. Maintaining the personal interaction rather than abstracting a visit with a technical process is a nice "soft" change.
I had barely sat down when my name was called, and I was ushered into the patient examining area by the smiling nurse. My weigh is recorded (186lbs) and some survey questions are asked by the nurse - if you have any concerns for the upcoming meeting with your oncologist, now would be a good time to mention them.
There was only one item I wished to discuss, but the exam preliminaries needed to be performed. For that I need to hop up onto the exam table and take deep breaths so my lungs can be heard via stethoscope. Next comes the reclining portion of the exam, where I lie down and look up at the ceiling. Prodding and poking of the abdomen occurs, and the region of greatest interest-in my case the liver-is examined. Other than confirming I'm still ticklish, there was nothing of note to report.
From the cancer doctor's perspective, the liver is the most likely place for cancer to reoccur. My general aches and pains are not really symptoms of the disease that has changed my life. Mostly these complaints are under the larger umbrella of the affliction know as "getting older". I do remind the doc about my primary concern of late: my IV Port.
"We'll take it out." she says. Simple statements like that are, upon later reflection, profound. It means I don't need further treatment. It means I don't hold my breath waiting in fear. It means I have a future.
However those feelings wouldn't manifest until the port was actually removed. While sitting on the exam table, I half-expected my doctor to call a nurse and yank it out of me then and there. Not quite the way it would happen, but I was assured at the end of my visit that a time would be scheduled "before Christmas" for its removal. I was already thinking "Best Christmas Present Ever" when my doctor observed as an afterthought that there were lots of good veins in my hands should we need to resume treatment. OK, I can live with that should it be necessary, but hey it's been nearly two years without any treament, lets just live life today and tomorrow and see what happens. I was also reminded to maintain the rigorous schedule of getting my blood work done every three months. Those tests remain as always, my first line of defense. They also serve as a reminder that better doesn't always mean cured, and cured doesn't always mean finished. LIfe goes on..
My exam now complete, I left the clinic knowing I would be called very soon to schedule the ports' removal. It was a nice sunny day. I was happy. Whether it's true or not, all my positive memories of the WRCC are linked to images of sunshine in my mind. Nothing wrong with being happy, even better when you are healthy. I sincerely believe that you can't have one without the other.
Events are drawing to a close. One more simple small procedure brings me that much closer to finishing my journey. More importantly, to finish on my terms: not merely survive Cancer, but to step our from under its shadow and live without fear.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Fifty three and counting
October was a month that went by with nothing much medically relevant other than the routine and boring Port Flush and B12 shots. That port is only there "just in case", but it's been a year and 10 months since my last chemo treatment. I stick with the blood work regimen: every three months I visit the Cancer Centre where they draw blood and check my CEA numbers. I've been lucky, no sign of anything worrisome.
October was fairly boring, I was lazy mostly and if it wasn't for raking leaves I could probably say I did nothing at all. I do have a mature maple in my back yard. My neighbor has a mature Oak in his front yard. Guess where they like to mix it up?
My trusty mower ("Mr. Mulchy") and I spent a pleasant afternoon enjoying the October sunshine.
I would feel that pride of homeownership after doing 'all the yard work' -even cleaning the gutters. November would see all that undone of course, but there are days where it doesn't matter what you do outside, you just enjoy it because you can! This sunny October day made me tired and happy and glad to be alive.
Leaves were not the only thing I did in October. Nope, this is the month that marked a return to my electronics hobby, specifically making Binary Clocks.
Binary Clocks (or in my case Binary Coded Decimal, or BCD clocks) embody all that is geeky with me and my hobby. For one thing it's a clock, and we all know there can never be enough clocks (nor time...). For another, it's got LEDS! My original "chemo clocks" were based around a single numitron tube and four LEDs that displayed the time in a sequential fashion. BCD clocks show the entire time, but in Binary Code, which is great if you grew up counting only in two's.
The BCD clock thing is something I've wanted to do for a while, indeed almost the day my last chemo finished in January of 2011 I started working on this idea. But I wasn't quite there yet, and it sat unfinished for over a year and a half. With my return to work, projects and things I used to divert myself from reality faded into the background. I had a lot to catch up on apparently. So I didn't do much with my electronics hobby, till October.
I made up for lost time. In one two-week period I think I made something like eight PCB's (some still waiting to be soldered up!). I experimented with some different designs, and while these were all adapted from the internet, they had my own particular (or peculiar) stamp about their construction.
 |
| Whole lotta BCD PCB's |
 | |
| 12 hour BCD clock on a Tim Horton's Card |
The GREEN led clock shows 10:00,
the YELLOW led clock shows 10:01.
People do this concept all the time. They do it better, cheaper, faster, slicker and much more artistically. But this one is special, because I did it all -my code, my design, my artwork (pcb) my time and efforts. Good or bad, it's all me.
Finally I completed my last chemo-inspired project. There's only one more thing that ties me yet to my cancer journey and that's my Port. When that is removed I'll be more than an arms length away from Cancer. I'll have the memories and not the reminder every time that I put on a shirt.
October would remain the idyllic Fall it was always meant to be. Before Halloween's chilly arrival however I would receive a phone call from my Oncologist. My six-month follow-up was scheduled for November 5th. The same day as my monthly Port flush. Be it an interesting coincidence, or fortunate timing, my Port would be the focus of my discussions that day.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Fall Walk
Fall walking is the best. There is an excitement from the collision of cool morning air and bright sunshine. Dew-coated leaves glitter with brilliant colours. Fall gives Summer it's well-deserved rest. Fall is my favourite time of year. In Summer and Spring I ride my bike. In the Fall, I like to walk.
Lately I've been walking with a friend who is keen on marathons. Formerly a runner, he has taken to walking the half-marathon. Of late he has coerced me to be his walking partner (which I took in stride...). An hour or so during the week we would wander around the parks and quieter side streets around my neighborhood. Recently I had the opportunity to walk in a formal event, the Run for Heroes, to support caregivers of Alzheimers patients.
I've seen the effects of Alzheimers and honestly believe that there are worse things than Cancer. Alzheimers robs a person of their identity and their dignity. It places an enormous burden upon caregivers and family. Alzheimers removes that essence of humanity from the shell of our body.
The Run for Heroes is now in its second year. Its organizer has deep and personal connections to how Alzheimers affects the quality of life. From this adversity came the inspiration for the run, to honour those involved with the care of Alzheimer's patients. Not only has he organized a much-coveted Boston Marathon Qualifying course, but has made the mantra of the runners to be "Run for your Hero" -someone in life who inspires everyday courage in the face of astronomical odds. I figured it was time to do things in life beyond my own needs.
So in the cool pre-dawn of Sunday, September 23rd, I found myself with nearly 1,900 others, ready to begin a new journey. I've never seen so many people as eager to get started to do something as grueling as a marthon in all my life. The race began at 7:30am, the starting gun sounding like a canon. Actually the starting gun was a canon, a replica of the canon's used in Fort Malden during the War of 1812. Fittingly, the British at Fort Malden in the town of Amherstburg played a pivotal part in the war of 1812. Our Detroit neighbors were, for a brief time, British citizens!
So I picked as symbolic a first race to enter as I could - I canvassed for donations for the Run for Heroe's for the Alzheimer's society which was being held during the bicentennial anniversary of a pivotal point in North American history. I was pretty blase about the walk itself, initially, after all, I can walk 21Km no problem, right?
Walking the distance was never in doubt-now. But while I walked I thought about how I got to this point. I occurred to me, that on that same date - September 23rd, 2010, I was waking up in the ICU of Hotel DIeu Hospital. The day before saw me undergoing a Liver resection to remove a lobe that had visible tumours on it. Waking up in ICU meant I had survived the biggest surgery of my life. Memories of that morning came to me as I walked my half-marathon: my nurse getting me out of my bed, me crashing back as my blood pressure dropped, then: getting up again - my goal to walk five steps to the Nursing station, then five steps back to my bed. With the help and literal support of my nurse, I made that walk, barely. My recovery literally started with a ten-step program...
Two years later, I have stamina and strength and I'm walking with nineteen-hundred other people who are there for their own reasons and share a common cause. Proud as I am to survive my ordeal, I couldn't do it alone. I needed a lot of help and support. Now it's my turn, in my own small way, to return the favour as best as I can. I don't need to do it all, just what I can.
So I would finish my half-marathon in the modest time of two hours and fourty four minutes, a decent walking pace for 21Km. More importantly I had raised some pledges to be donated to the local Alzheimer's society. I had fun, and I felt good for doing it. Like all things worth doing in life, you have to embrace the moment and do what you can to make it happen.
September would finish with almost winter-like chill and overcast skies. But that Sunday morning, I walked in sunshine and warmth and my future is bright. I not only walked for the Alzheimer's Heroes, but for everyone who was there for me - and there were a lot of you! - you guys will always be my Heroes!
Lately I've been walking with a friend who is keen on marathons. Formerly a runner, he has taken to walking the half-marathon. Of late he has coerced me to be his walking partner (which I took in stride...). An hour or so during the week we would wander around the parks and quieter side streets around my neighborhood. Recently I had the opportunity to walk in a formal event, the Run for Heroes, to support caregivers of Alzheimers patients.
I've seen the effects of Alzheimers and honestly believe that there are worse things than Cancer. Alzheimers robs a person of their identity and their dignity. It places an enormous burden upon caregivers and family. Alzheimers removes that essence of humanity from the shell of our body.
The Run for Heroes is now in its second year. Its organizer has deep and personal connections to how Alzheimers affects the quality of life. From this adversity came the inspiration for the run, to honour those involved with the care of Alzheimer's patients. Not only has he organized a much-coveted Boston Marathon Qualifying course, but has made the mantra of the runners to be "Run for your Hero" -someone in life who inspires everyday courage in the face of astronomical odds. I figured it was time to do things in life beyond my own needs.
So in the cool pre-dawn of Sunday, September 23rd, I found myself with nearly 1,900 others, ready to begin a new journey. I've never seen so many people as eager to get started to do something as grueling as a marthon in all my life. The race began at 7:30am, the starting gun sounding like a canon. Actually the starting gun was a canon, a replica of the canon's used in Fort Malden during the War of 1812. Fittingly, the British at Fort Malden in the town of Amherstburg played a pivotal part in the war of 1812. Our Detroit neighbors were, for a brief time, British citizens!
So I picked as symbolic a first race to enter as I could - I canvassed for donations for the Run for Heroe's for the Alzheimer's society which was being held during the bicentennial anniversary of a pivotal point in North American history. I was pretty blase about the walk itself, initially, after all, I can walk 21Km no problem, right?
Walking the distance was never in doubt-now. But while I walked I thought about how I got to this point. I occurred to me, that on that same date - September 23rd, 2010, I was waking up in the ICU of Hotel DIeu Hospital. The day before saw me undergoing a Liver resection to remove a lobe that had visible tumours on it. Waking up in ICU meant I had survived the biggest surgery of my life. Memories of that morning came to me as I walked my half-marathon: my nurse getting me out of my bed, me crashing back as my blood pressure dropped, then: getting up again - my goal to walk five steps to the Nursing station, then five steps back to my bed. With the help and literal support of my nurse, I made that walk, barely. My recovery literally started with a ten-step program...
Two years later, I have stamina and strength and I'm walking with nineteen-hundred other people who are there for their own reasons and share a common cause. Proud as I am to survive my ordeal, I couldn't do it alone. I needed a lot of help and support. Now it's my turn, in my own small way, to return the favour as best as I can. I don't need to do it all, just what I can.
So I would finish my half-marathon in the modest time of two hours and fourty four minutes, a decent walking pace for 21Km. More importantly I had raised some pledges to be donated to the local Alzheimer's society. I had fun, and I felt good for doing it. Like all things worth doing in life, you have to embrace the moment and do what you can to make it happen.
September would finish with almost winter-like chill and overcast skies. But that Sunday morning, I walked in sunshine and warmth and my future is bright. I not only walked for the Alzheimer's Heroes, but for everyone who was there for me - and there were a lot of you! - you guys will always be my Heroes!
Friday, August 31, 2012
Hot Summer Daze
In June of 2012 I had my first-ever Bone Scan. A few days later I was informed that a follow-up CT scan was booked for me. There was a concern that I had something called Paget's Disease of the Bone. This was unexpected. As I read up on it I could see some similarities to my general complaints about a sore hip and some pain when standing for extended periods. A CT scan would be performed on my neck and skull to check for evidence of this disease. I was concerned, but not worried.
Another CT. I've lost track of how many I've actually received since 2010, but it's close to five or six. I have to wonder if all these CT's have any cumulative effect. Only time will tell.
Despite my misgivings regarding the number of CT's I've had, the results were essentially good news: No evidence of Paget's was found. This probably means I have some arthritis setting in. Eventually I'll have to get a rocking chair. And start wearing suspenders. Perhaps I'll predict the weather based upon my particular aches, and maybe criticizing politicians will become my full-time occupation.
So I'm getting older, that's fine. I don't have Cancer, even better. It's difficult to find that balance between complacency and overreaction. Every time I get a twinge in my stomach or pain in my back there's that briefest twinge of "uh oh...". Fortunately I can relax a bit, no point in always being scared. Right now I'm more interested in being cool -the ambient-temperature kind, 'cuz we all know IT guys are Fonz-cool by default. Whoah.
Even though I am cool , July was extremely hot and humid, not very conducive for exercise and activity. Despite not finding evidence of strange and weird diseases, I can't get complacent. Activity, any activity which gets the body moving and pushes the cardio up a bit is generally good. Ex-cancer patients who want to remain that way should be highly motivated in this regard. Which is why I started to walk and bike ride with a little more conviction.
I walk moderately-fast. The walk around the park behind my house has me covering 3km in about 23 minutes, not bad for a casual walker. I'm not consistent in my walking times or goals, I simply walk to feel better. Of course I still ride my bike when I can, but I just don't seem to find the time to do the 40km a night that I once did. Finding that balance between what we want to do and what we have to do is probably the closest I'll get to finding the Meaning of Life.
So far my life has been good, all things considering. I'm learning to not worry too much about all the things that can go wrong with the human body (a lot), and I'm trying to do the things that I want to do. The medically relevant portion of my life is routine and just something I do. I always seem to meet nice people when I go for tests or treatments, that's surely a good thing!
Surprisingly summer has flown by. August is nearly spent (I started this particular blog entry in July...). This month I had the hum-drum boring old Port Flush and my quarterly blood test for the all-important CEA numbers. My last count have my numbers less than 0.5, which is very very good. One more year of this and I can get my Port removed. Soon I'll see my oncologist and surgeon for six-month checkups instead of every three months. When I look in the mirror I no longer see the sick, scared patient I once was. I see a person who can accept who he is. Also there are a few silver threads amongst the gold...a few more gray hairs here and there.
The blog is winding down, and save for the monthly port flush and B12 shots, there won't be much else Cancer-related to write about (I HOPE!). I guess I can start thinking of formally closing my blog when the Port is removed, the final procedure that literally severs my link with Chemo. On that day I hope I can appreciate the profound effect how some small wayward cells that can only be seen with a microscope have altered my life forever. On that day I hope I will realize that life is not simply what we endure, it's the journey through which we realize our true humanity.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Bones
June was a hot month of ridiculous humidity, no rain and hazy days. Steamy heat aside, I still had a number of medically-related appointments scheduled during the month. In between medical visits, I managed to arrange for some therapeutic chess and some emotional perspective regarding what Cancer means to me.
Back in May I had gone for blood work to have my cholesterol levels checked, per a routine request from my family doctor. My appointment was on June 5th, and I took the opportunity to cluster together some of my other medical visits: the Port Flush and the B12 shot, the core of my monthly regimen. So early that morning I headed off to the clinic where I expected to get my usual needle-into-the-chest, followed by sucking-blood-out and pushing-it-back-in routine.
My port's been in me for two years now and a monthly flush is boring. I've detailed all the things that have happened from no blood return to blood return (OK, there are only two things that occur in a Port flush..) But this time there was a novelty: a recall was issued for my particular kit. Now the kit I usually receive does not have any drugs, just bandages and sterile flush syringes and bits and pieces of medical fluff. There was no explanation why the kit was being recalled. I suppose that my imagination could contrive some sort of scenario where my kit was mixed up with one that creates a strain of Super Mutant Zombies...."mmmmmm Brains...."
A time was set to pick up the old kit and give me the new. But a week after receiving the replacement kit, another one showed up! I was confused. The delivery agent was also confused but still gave me the second kit. Later on I would get a call from the clinic folks again asking me when they could deliver another kit...I was being overwhelmed with Port flush kits! It gets odder still: my replacement kit was only one component: a Heparin syringe. Now Heparin was something I received while in the hospital but it's never been part of my monthly Port flush kit. But I carried all this along with me for my scheduled visit to get flushed.
As expected, when my nurse examined the p.f. kit she was doubtful I needed the included Heparin. After consulting the doctor's notes for my case she confirmed that the newly-added item could be ignored. The port was flushed and I was rewarded with a good blood return. My port still works, sitting there against the day I may need to call upon it again. With one item off my list for that day, it was off to my next appointment and a B12 shot.
My B12 is taken monthly, via injection. I bring my little vial of B12 with me to the doctor's office, and a nurse gives me the injection. This kind of B12 is administered via syringe into the muscle (or in my case where muscle should be on my upper arm) so I try to wear short sleeves or easily-rolled-up shirts. After the shot a little bandage is applied to cover the miniscule hole from the needle and I'm done until next month. With this months obligation fulfilled, I was set to meet with the family doc to discuss cholesterol numbers. There was also an additional item that I wanted to discuss with him.
For some time I've been complaining about some lower back pain. And a sore left hip. And my right pinky finger is achy too. Plus my tailbone feels painful after sitting and trying to stand up. In short I can't always find a way to comfortably sit or stand for prolonged periods; but walking and bike riding, even extended sessions, were OK. My fear of course is that new unexplained pains herald the return of Cancer. I wanted to let my doctor know what I was feeling, I wanted reassurance that I was going to be OK.
So I was poked and prodded, and asked to stand and twist (no hula hoop gyrations required). I was asked about my sleeping, if I had any sweating at night or difficulty breathing. Maybe I had early onset arthritis "I'm only 52 I'm too young for arthritis" I thought. I would be scheduled for a bone scan later that month.
A Bone Scan is a new procedure for me, it's a Nuclear Medicine procedure, which requires an injection of a radioactive solution. Fortunately there was no special preparation required for this procedure, so I could eat and drink normally. The process itself was in two parts, the first was the initial 'snapshot' and the injection. I would then return in a few hours and have a full body bone scan. I was also advised to drink lots of fluids during the day and avoid crossing the border. For those who live near the US-Canada border, the highly-sensitive radiation detectors at these crossing will pinpoint the radioactive markers circulating in your blood. Hijinks and hilarity are sure to ensue if that happens. Fortunately I never left the hospital during my wait.
This bone scan is a lengthy process, and you are required to lie flat on your back, not move, and oh yes, your arms and legs are bound by velcro straps. The table doesn't move, but a sliding camera goes under, around and over you. Your legs and arms shouldn't dangle, so you're in quasi-mummy mode. Except the velcro fasteners for the band supporting my arms began to slip. Every few minutes I could hear the distinctive sound as the velcro's bonds lost a little more cohesion. It became really interesting when whatever mechanism moving the camera caught on the band and I could feel the tension building against my arms. Fortunately the tension lessoned and the camera completed its scan without further impediment.
At one point the process was stopped while the technician placed a lead apron over my abdomen. My arms were then freed of their restraints and placed on top of this apron. Scanning was just for the arms and wrists and hands I guess.
A final scan was taken that went around and over me. It felt like I was in a reverse roller-coaster, where the car stays still and the track changes orientation. Weird experiences, but I can say that about all my Hospital visits this past couple of years.
In terms of procedures I think I would have been happier if the table were slightly wider so my arms could rest naturally flat without the velcro, or maybe a contoured ledge would make the patient feel better. Perhaps someone who makes these things will read my blog and ask for my input...
My medical procedures in June were not the only reminder of my experiences with Cancer. An awareness and fund-raising event known across the country as The Relay For Life was held for the Windsor/Lasalle area. While I have yet to formally participate, I've attended these ceremonies to remind myself that I am not the only one affected, not the only one who has to deal with sorrows this disease brings to people's lives. Most moving for me is the Luminary ceremony, as it honours everyone who has been touched by Cancer's shadow.
At its heart the Luminary ceremony is more than a memorium for those whose lives have passed or been affected by Cancer. It's about keeping the light of Hope shining, holding the shadow of Cancer at bay. Metaphor becomes reality when just after dusk the Luminary candles are lit by the efforts of dozens of volunteers. A single flickering point of light seems fragile and insubstantial on its own. But an array of thousands of such points, arranged in a continuous ribbon circling the large outdoor track brings a tightness to my chest. I am sad and proud at the same time.
The Relay walk will continue through the evening to morning. I will walk only for a short time however, as this event is not yet my event. I will pause my walk occasionally to read the messages written on the Luminaries. The phrase "In Memory of ...", is repeated in endless variations. I stop at the Luminaries I did for my parents. For me I can deal with my own Cancer. But why does it take the ones you love? It is enough for one evening, I go home, tired, proud, sad and contemplative. Next year I will do this again.
One thing I want to do is participate in the Survivor's Victory Lap. This is the start of the Relay For Life events for the night, and as implied, the first lap is walked by those who were determined to beat Cancer. Traditional wisdom supposes that a Cancer Survivor is one who is Cancer free for five years. Yup, I'll be doing that walk in 2015, for my 55th birthday. No problem.
Back in May I had gone for blood work to have my cholesterol levels checked, per a routine request from my family doctor. My appointment was on June 5th, and I took the opportunity to cluster together some of my other medical visits: the Port Flush and the B12 shot, the core of my monthly regimen. So early that morning I headed off to the clinic where I expected to get my usual needle-into-the-chest, followed by sucking-blood-out and pushing-it-back-in routine.
My port's been in me for two years now and a monthly flush is boring. I've detailed all the things that have happened from no blood return to blood return (OK, there are only two things that occur in a Port flush..) But this time there was a novelty: a recall was issued for my particular kit. Now the kit I usually receive does not have any drugs, just bandages and sterile flush syringes and bits and pieces of medical fluff. There was no explanation why the kit was being recalled. I suppose that my imagination could contrive some sort of scenario where my kit was mixed up with one that creates a strain of Super Mutant Zombies...."mmmmmm Brains...."
A time was set to pick up the old kit and give me the new. But a week after receiving the replacement kit, another one showed up! I was confused. The delivery agent was also confused but still gave me the second kit. Later on I would get a call from the clinic folks again asking me when they could deliver another kit...I was being overwhelmed with Port flush kits! It gets odder still: my replacement kit was only one component: a Heparin syringe. Now Heparin was something I received while in the hospital but it's never been part of my monthly Port flush kit. But I carried all this along with me for my scheduled visit to get flushed.
As expected, when my nurse examined the p.f. kit she was doubtful I needed the included Heparin. After consulting the doctor's notes for my case she confirmed that the newly-added item could be ignored. The port was flushed and I was rewarded with a good blood return. My port still works, sitting there against the day I may need to call upon it again. With one item off my list for that day, it was off to my next appointment and a B12 shot.
My B12 is taken monthly, via injection. I bring my little vial of B12 with me to the doctor's office, and a nurse gives me the injection. This kind of B12 is administered via syringe into the muscle (or in my case where muscle should be on my upper arm) so I try to wear short sleeves or easily-rolled-up shirts. After the shot a little bandage is applied to cover the miniscule hole from the needle and I'm done until next month. With this months obligation fulfilled, I was set to meet with the family doc to discuss cholesterol numbers. There was also an additional item that I wanted to discuss with him.
For some time I've been complaining about some lower back pain. And a sore left hip. And my right pinky finger is achy too. Plus my tailbone feels painful after sitting and trying to stand up. In short I can't always find a way to comfortably sit or stand for prolonged periods; but walking and bike riding, even extended sessions, were OK. My fear of course is that new unexplained pains herald the return of Cancer. I wanted to let my doctor know what I was feeling, I wanted reassurance that I was going to be OK.
So I was poked and prodded, and asked to stand and twist (no hula hoop gyrations required). I was asked about my sleeping, if I had any sweating at night or difficulty breathing. Maybe I had early onset arthritis "I'm only 52 I'm too young for arthritis" I thought. I would be scheduled for a bone scan later that month.
A Bone Scan is a new procedure for me, it's a Nuclear Medicine procedure, which requires an injection of a radioactive solution. Fortunately there was no special preparation required for this procedure, so I could eat and drink normally. The process itself was in two parts, the first was the initial 'snapshot' and the injection. I would then return in a few hours and have a full body bone scan. I was also advised to drink lots of fluids during the day and avoid crossing the border. For those who live near the US-Canada border, the highly-sensitive radiation detectors at these crossing will pinpoint the radioactive markers circulating in your blood. Hijinks and hilarity are sure to ensue if that happens. Fortunately I never left the hospital during my wait.
This bone scan is a lengthy process, and you are required to lie flat on your back, not move, and oh yes, your arms and legs are bound by velcro straps. The table doesn't move, but a sliding camera goes under, around and over you. Your legs and arms shouldn't dangle, so you're in quasi-mummy mode. Except the velcro fasteners for the band supporting my arms began to slip. Every few minutes I could hear the distinctive sound as the velcro's bonds lost a little more cohesion. It became really interesting when whatever mechanism moving the camera caught on the band and I could feel the tension building against my arms. Fortunately the tension lessoned and the camera completed its scan without further impediment.
At one point the process was stopped while the technician placed a lead apron over my abdomen. My arms were then freed of their restraints and placed on top of this apron. Scanning was just for the arms and wrists and hands I guess.
A final scan was taken that went around and over me. It felt like I was in a reverse roller-coaster, where the car stays still and the track changes orientation. Weird experiences, but I can say that about all my Hospital visits this past couple of years.
In terms of procedures I think I would have been happier if the table were slightly wider so my arms could rest naturally flat without the velcro, or maybe a contoured ledge would make the patient feel better. Perhaps someone who makes these things will read my blog and ask for my input...
My medical procedures in June were not the only reminder of my experiences with Cancer. An awareness and fund-raising event known across the country as The Relay For Life was held for the Windsor/Lasalle area. While I have yet to formally participate, I've attended these ceremonies to remind myself that I am not the only one affected, not the only one who has to deal with sorrows this disease brings to people's lives. Most moving for me is the Luminary ceremony, as it honours everyone who has been touched by Cancer's shadow.
At its heart the Luminary ceremony is more than a memorium for those whose lives have passed or been affected by Cancer. It's about keeping the light of Hope shining, holding the shadow of Cancer at bay. Metaphor becomes reality when just after dusk the Luminary candles are lit by the efforts of dozens of volunteers. A single flickering point of light seems fragile and insubstantial on its own. But an array of thousands of such points, arranged in a continuous ribbon circling the large outdoor track brings a tightness to my chest. I am sad and proud at the same time.
The Relay walk will continue through the evening to morning. I will walk only for a short time however, as this event is not yet my event. I will pause my walk occasionally to read the messages written on the Luminaries. The phrase "In Memory of ...", is repeated in endless variations. I stop at the Luminaries I did for my parents. For me I can deal with my own Cancer. But why does it take the ones you love? It is enough for one evening, I go home, tired, proud, sad and contemplative. Next year I will do this again.
One thing I want to do is participate in the Survivor's Victory Lap. This is the start of the Relay For Life events for the night, and as implied, the first lap is walked by those who were determined to beat Cancer. Traditional wisdom supposes that a Cancer Survivor is one who is Cancer free for five years. Yup, I'll be doing that walk in 2015, for my 55th birthday. No problem.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tracks in the sand
On Friday, May 14, 2010 I received my first chemotherapy treatment. Two years to the day sees me in a routine follow-up with my Oncologist. A couple of months prior to this visit I had a CT scan. Today I would hear that the CT was clean, no evidence of liver problems, no evidence of my cancer.
When I first learned of my illness I told my manager that he should find a new System Administrator. I simply did not believe I would make it through treatment and be able to return to work. That's when my boss (and friend) told me his story, how he too was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. This survivor of ten years gave me the benefits of his experiences. Although I can barely recall the details of our conversation that day, the essence came through and is with me still: I choose my path. I make the decisions for my treatment. I control my life.
It's now two years (and counting!) since this whole thing began and I find that I have to struggle to recall events. Time does heal even the most profoundly moving events. I rely more upon my journals and this blog to confirm that these events did indeed happen to me. My 'souvenirs' of surgery are faint, and these faded scars on my abdomen seem to point to a greater passage of time. Surely it was longer than two years ago they seem to say. My journey's markers are disappearing, like footprints on a sandy beach.
Results matter, and I'm better and I can dream of looking at a future that is marked by a calendar and not a clock. I still try to find that part of the day where I can focus on what it is to be me (hah!) and mostly I find I'm just a boring guy. I don't need to know where I've been, just that I can keep going.
The epilog of my visit was that that my Oncologist is happy with my progress. She only needs to see me once every six months now! The blood tests will still be every three months, and yes I will likely be getting a Colonoscopy next year. File all these under routine, and mark them "BORING". Boring I can live with.
When I first learned of my illness I told my manager that he should find a new System Administrator. I simply did not believe I would make it through treatment and be able to return to work. That's when my boss (and friend) told me his story, how he too was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. This survivor of ten years gave me the benefits of his experiences. Although I can barely recall the details of our conversation that day, the essence came through and is with me still: I choose my path. I make the decisions for my treatment. I control my life.
It's now two years (and counting!) since this whole thing began and I find that I have to struggle to recall events. Time does heal even the most profoundly moving events. I rely more upon my journals and this blog to confirm that these events did indeed happen to me. My 'souvenirs' of surgery are faint, and these faded scars on my abdomen seem to point to a greater passage of time. Surely it was longer than two years ago they seem to say. My journey's markers are disappearing, like footprints on a sandy beach.
Results matter, and I'm better and I can dream of looking at a future that is marked by a calendar and not a clock. I still try to find that part of the day where I can focus on what it is to be me (hah!) and mostly I find I'm just a boring guy. I don't need to know where I've been, just that I can keep going.
The epilog of my visit was that that my Oncologist is happy with my progress. She only needs to see me once every six months now! The blood tests will still be every three months, and yes I will likely be getting a Colonoscopy next year. File all these under routine, and mark them "BORING". Boring I can live with.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
The Return of the Spring
By the time the first week of May rolls around this part of the world we've usually experienced a fair amount of sunshine accompanied by the gradual climb of the thermometer. Not to mention the humidity. This year Spring first snuck in for a few weeks in early March. Then it went on a meteorological bender that alternated between rain, cold, freezing frost, overcast skies, or an amalgam of these elements. Nowhere was the combination of sun plus warmth in evidence. That is until the first week of May, when we had a record-breaking day on the 3rd. The return of the Sun brought along with it the Return of the Spring.
I haven't felt much like writing in my blog, which is in some ways fortunate. My inspirational muse was the outright attack of my body against itself, with rebel cells conspiring to annihilate various organs within me. A really unpleasant thing to have happen. So I wrote about the process, which is now seemingly far away in my dim memories. After treatment concluded in early 2011, I wrote sparingly, detailing those events with direct relevance to my journey. The hard-core medical aspects are finished, hopefully forever. The readjustment to my former pre-cancer diagnosis is mostly complete. Now I have to learn how to live life without a medical safety net. In other words, I have to live like everyone else.
I still have links to my treatment, via the monthly Port Flush. During my last Port Flush in April there was no blood return. Perhaps this was a Chemo April Fool's joke. A successful port flush requires this blood return aspect, as chemo cannot be delivered properly without it. Since I'm currently not under chemo at this time it's not a big concern, and generally we let it go til the following month. Thus today's ( May 5th ) process reaffirmed that my port was working OK: I got a good blood return! With the Port working normally and all things being equal, I can hope for a time very soon to have this little item removed. That's my near-term goal, to have the last vestige of my cancer treatment fully gone.
This latest Port Flush was performed by one of the professional, yet personable nurses at the clinic where I'm treated. It is interesting to observe that in my relatively short parade through the medical process that I can see the 'old school' approach is still very much in use. To wit: my pulse was taken as part of the procedure in the old fashioned way: fingertips lightly on my wrist, the steady gaze of her eyes focused on the second-hand of her watch. No shortcuts, no assumptions, but always professional. The thermometer was digital and went under my tongue, fortunately. Again I was in mind that the practice of medicine with the patient as a person was in effect. I was not simply the input source for technology, with the output a number. Although if it has LED's I'm all for it, whatever it is!
So with this month's port flush successful I'll have good news for my visit with my oncologist in less than two weeks. Should the CT I had almost two months ago be as mundane as I suspect, then I expect that the Port that's lived in me for the last two years will be scheduled for removal. One less reminder of what I had to endure, but also one less symbol of what I have accomplished. I think though, that the best symbol for all that I've accomplished is what I see when I look in a mirror.
The plan I had in effect when I first got sick still continues. This path I am following has led me with great precision through the Cancer labyrinth. We'll see what my Oncologist has in store for me some ten days from now.
I haven't felt much like writing in my blog, which is in some ways fortunate. My inspirational muse was the outright attack of my body against itself, with rebel cells conspiring to annihilate various organs within me. A really unpleasant thing to have happen. So I wrote about the process, which is now seemingly far away in my dim memories. After treatment concluded in early 2011, I wrote sparingly, detailing those events with direct relevance to my journey. The hard-core medical aspects are finished, hopefully forever. The readjustment to my former pre-cancer diagnosis is mostly complete. Now I have to learn how to live life without a medical safety net. In other words, I have to live like everyone else.
I still have links to my treatment, via the monthly Port Flush. During my last Port Flush in April there was no blood return. Perhaps this was a Chemo April Fool's joke. A successful port flush requires this blood return aspect, as chemo cannot be delivered properly without it. Since I'm currently not under chemo at this time it's not a big concern, and generally we let it go til the following month. Thus today's ( May 5th ) process reaffirmed that my port was working OK: I got a good blood return! With the Port working normally and all things being equal, I can hope for a time very soon to have this little item removed. That's my near-term goal, to have the last vestige of my cancer treatment fully gone.
This latest Port Flush was performed by one of the professional, yet personable nurses at the clinic where I'm treated. It is interesting to observe that in my relatively short parade through the medical process that I can see the 'old school' approach is still very much in use. To wit: my pulse was taken as part of the procedure in the old fashioned way: fingertips lightly on my wrist, the steady gaze of her eyes focused on the second-hand of her watch. No shortcuts, no assumptions, but always professional. The thermometer was digital and went under my tongue, fortunately. Again I was in mind that the practice of medicine with the patient as a person was in effect. I was not simply the input source for technology, with the output a number. Although if it has LED's I'm all for it, whatever it is!
So with this month's port flush successful I'll have good news for my visit with my oncologist in less than two weeks. Should the CT I had almost two months ago be as mundane as I suspect, then I expect that the Port that's lived in me for the last two years will be scheduled for removal. One less reminder of what I had to endure, but also one less symbol of what I have accomplished. I think though, that the best symbol for all that I've accomplished is what I see when I look in a mirror.
The plan I had in effect when I first got sick still continues. This path I am following has led me with great precision through the Cancer labyrinth. We'll see what my Oncologist has in store for me some ten days from now.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Waiting
The volatile March weather had it all - humid days where temperatures soared to 25C, storms with hail and lightning and of course, torrential rains. The onset of warm weather and sunny days convinced mother nature to turn everything green overnight, but the cool evenings abruptly reversed her gains. The weather was interesting but my usual foray into the medical world was fairly uneventful.
This month in addition to the regular routine of B12 shot and Port flush was the CT scan of my liver. I've been feeling more-or-less OK, just not sleeping well (returning to work does have it's drawbacks..) and some unsettled stomach issues, also likely due to that working full-time experience. By now though a CT scan is routine. My new normal is to wait. I wait before the test, I wait during the test, and of course, I wait some more for the results. The last part is the most difficult, because the way our medical system works is that bad news is reported quickly, and good news isn't. They make you wait...
Early morning of March the 20th I arrive at the Hospital's registration desk, where I pick a number, just like at a deli counter. I sit patiently, waiting to be called. Upon being summoned I'm quickly registered, confirming that I have had nothing to eat or drink for at least 3 hours prior to the exam. I'm handed another paper to bring to the Imaging departments registration desk. In the Imaging department I exchange my paper for a pager, similar to the ones you now get while waiting at restaurants. This one will give me the room I'm to go to when called. More waiting. The flow of patients continues and although I have numerous electronic distractions I can't focus. I fidget and I pace. Finally the pager goes off and tells me where to wander to next. I find my room down the hall and am invited to sit, a nurse will now put an IV into my arm for the upcoming CT procedure.
With this CT exam a contrast dye is introduced during the procedure. This necessitates an injection site in my right arm. An IV is carefully inserted and made fast. I am asked to sit in the alcove across from the CT room. I wait some more. I don't know why I'm wound up this morning; I haven't had any coffee, my last 3 CT's were great, I've been back to work for a year. Why am I worrying so? My name is being called, and the friendly technician leads me into the CT exam room. It's low light is soothing in comparison to the harsh industrial lighting of the general Hospital environment.
Lying on my back, arms above my head, a thin hospital sheet covers me from the waist down. Generally I remove all my accessories from my pockets before this process, it's not a requirement, just what I do. I'm asked to undo my belt and lower my pants down "a bit". I smile in the memory of having these CT's wearing little more than the standard hospital gown; my modesty is long gone in this institution.
Waiting during the exam, I'm asked to breathe in, hold, breathe normally. The process repeats a few times. The technician advises she's going to introduce the contrast fluid. During the flush my ears and back of my neck feel warm. Some patients report a feeling like they wet themselves. I can relate. More breathing instructions.
Finally my waiting is over. The exam is complete, my technician gently removes the IV and I'm done. I'm advised to drink lots and lots of water that day, to flush the contrast dye out of my system. My exam probably took no more than 10 minutes, it just seemed like an eternity. I emerge from the hospital into bright sunshine, spring is tantalizingly close. I can't wait for it to arrive.
This month in addition to the regular routine of B12 shot and Port flush was the CT scan of my liver. I've been feeling more-or-less OK, just not sleeping well (returning to work does have it's drawbacks..) and some unsettled stomach issues, also likely due to that working full-time experience. By now though a CT scan is routine. My new normal is to wait. I wait before the test, I wait during the test, and of course, I wait some more for the results. The last part is the most difficult, because the way our medical system works is that bad news is reported quickly, and good news isn't. They make you wait...
Early morning of March the 20th I arrive at the Hospital's registration desk, where I pick a number, just like at a deli counter. I sit patiently, waiting to be called. Upon being summoned I'm quickly registered, confirming that I have had nothing to eat or drink for at least 3 hours prior to the exam. I'm handed another paper to bring to the Imaging departments registration desk. In the Imaging department I exchange my paper for a pager, similar to the ones you now get while waiting at restaurants. This one will give me the room I'm to go to when called. More waiting. The flow of patients continues and although I have numerous electronic distractions I can't focus. I fidget and I pace. Finally the pager goes off and tells me where to wander to next. I find my room down the hall and am invited to sit, a nurse will now put an IV into my arm for the upcoming CT procedure.
With this CT exam a contrast dye is introduced during the procedure. This necessitates an injection site in my right arm. An IV is carefully inserted and made fast. I am asked to sit in the alcove across from the CT room. I wait some more. I don't know why I'm wound up this morning; I haven't had any coffee, my last 3 CT's were great, I've been back to work for a year. Why am I worrying so? My name is being called, and the friendly technician leads me into the CT exam room. It's low light is soothing in comparison to the harsh industrial lighting of the general Hospital environment.
Lying on my back, arms above my head, a thin hospital sheet covers me from the waist down. Generally I remove all my accessories from my pockets before this process, it's not a requirement, just what I do. I'm asked to undo my belt and lower my pants down "a bit". I smile in the memory of having these CT's wearing little more than the standard hospital gown; my modesty is long gone in this institution.
Waiting during the exam, I'm asked to breathe in, hold, breathe normally. The process repeats a few times. The technician advises she's going to introduce the contrast fluid. During the flush my ears and back of my neck feel warm. Some patients report a feeling like they wet themselves. I can relate. More breathing instructions.
Finally my waiting is over. The exam is complete, my technician gently removes the IV and I'm done. I'm advised to drink lots and lots of water that day, to flush the contrast dye out of my system. My exam probably took no more than 10 minutes, it just seemed like an eternity. I emerge from the hospital into bright sunshine, spring is tantalizingly close. I can't wait for it to arrive.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
The Volunteer Experience
Preface: When I was diagnosed with Cancer I was off work and had spare time to do things I had neglected for years. Playing chess for fun was one of them. Like any organized event, having help (even free and bewildered help in some cases...) can make the event a better experience for everyone. This is my account of my biggest Volunteer Experience in over twenty years.
The Volunteer Experience
Two years ago I found myself revisiting a favourite but long-neglected pastime, that of playing Chess. I wandered down to a local Saturday tournament to check out what had changed in the Chess scene since I last played some three decades earlier. While I did not play in this tournament, I had an opportunity to play a few ‘fun’ games against some of our local stars. So I played a National Master (I lost) and a young man who was four decades my junior. Lost that one too.
While at this venue I met some of the folks who arrange tournaments, and found that Windsor Windsor Brazil
My contribution to this process would be quite modest, but daunting nevertheless: I would be an Arbiter for the Chess Challenge of 2012. This year I would volunteer for the honour of overseeing tables of kids bent on destroying their opponent. Plus I would have to deal with “Chess Parents”, teachers with their own ideas of how to pair the opponents and ‘n’ people with ‘n+1’ ways to interpret The Rules Of Chess. It would be fun. I hoped.
First off with nearly 80 schools and with no more than 8 kids per grade permitted for each school, things get very complicated very quickly. Fortunately the Tournament Director (TD) is quite experienced at running tournaments, and more importantly, in not letting his Volunteer Help hinder the process too much. The CC itself has close to 1500 kids registered over two days. I would be an Arbiter of one of the rooms assigned to the CC for Tuesday, February 28th.
However the 27th proved interesting: one school decided they did not want to play on their previously assigned-and-registered day, but preferred the Tuesday. A last minute change that had all the Arbiters burning the oil as schedules were changed, room assignments rebalanced and pairings assigned. Once again the TD had this covered. I had not even started and I was already overwhelmed!
Tuesday was a beautiful sunny, almost spring-like day. I arrived at and was soon put to work with the registration process. Busloads of kids began arriving, and I was slated to have 184 kids in my room. That’s 184 kids, plus parents, plus teachers, and fortunately, a Lot More Volunteers! I would be one of the four or so ‘official’ chess arbiters. There would also be a number of local High School students who would serve as the official scorekeepers for the various sections for each grade. Eventually everyone was assigned their official Name Tag which designated their Grade, Section and School, and each was paired for the first round. Ninety-two pairs of kids shook hands, and round one of eight began.
“The room was eerily quiet, 184 kids with their heads bent over a chess board, fiercely concentrating on subtle strategies, seeking to annihilate their opponent. “
I wish. In reality a Children’s Chess Challenge has a decibel level somewhat above a shout and below a jet engine revving for take off. In my room that day, there were184 personalities that range from ‘Chess is Cool’ to ‘Hey, a chess tournament, I can get a day out of school!’. Just to add some zest to this experience, the Arbitration portion of my volunteer role commenced almost from the time the first piece was moved.
Touch move is the golden rule in ‘official’ chess tournaments. You touch it you move it: so long as there is at least one legal move. Saying “check” is a courtesy, not a requirement. Absolutely you CANNOT take your opponents king. No how no way, taking the king is NOT checkmate! So it went. The rules of chess were blasted, dematerialized, re-assembled into fanciful interpretations. My role was that of an Arbiter, not a referee. I was to rule only upon a dispute, i.e. only when someone (a player, not a parent or teacher) complained. I would spell out the rules of chess, how a piece could move. I could indicate the legal squares a piece could move to, but I could not suggest any particular move. Chess Arbitration is the only venue when you can truly say you deal with things en passant (I won’t explain it, Google it!). I dealt with kids who would pick up their pieces and thunderously bang them down on the board, dramatic as any 7 year old could be.
That’s when I made the discovery that my casual suggestion to the 7 year old God of Thunder/chess wizard to play pianissimo instead of forte would introduce me to the Chess Parent. Chess Parents are like Hockey Parents, just without skates. Every Chess Parent sees the essence of Bobby Fischer within their child…. Humour and coffee were my staples during the day. Eight rounds with a lunch break of Pizza and Pop for the kids. And I thought they were energetic in the morning…
The day went by in a blur. I ruled about illegal moves and etiquette of chess. I resolved the case where one young person kept saying ‘checkmate’ after each move (it wasn’t) and I felt for the kids who lost in six moves. I’m sure there were brilliances I did not see, though I saw many entertaining games. And most importantly, everyone seemed to have fun. Eight rounds, at roughly 25 minutes per round, …did I mention the day went by in a blur?
By four that afternoon the boards were packed away, medals awarded and the equipment stowed. I was exhausted. The TD said it didn’t go too badly, and he still had to do all the final score sheets to give to the schools. When I arrived at home I would crash and “nap” for four hours.
There were medals for the kids and pennants for every participant. Everyone seemed to get something from this event. What did I get? Beyond the simple satisfaction of helping out my friend the TD, I got to relieve the memories I had forgotten when I first learned about the enigmatic game of Chess. Even though my volunteer experience took me far outside my comfort zone (184 kids!), I was made to feel part of a community. Finally I can look back and say I truly had fun!
How to celebrate Leap Year
February has an extra day this year, resulting from 2012 being divisible by 4 and not 100. Even with 29 days, February is still the shortest month of the year. Short or not, I was busy with my medical follow-up procedures. Just because I am healthy and back to work doesn't mean the Cancer has quit and gone away.
I had, in order of appearance: a Port flush, bloodwork, a visit with my Oncologist and a visit with my Surgeon. My only cause for anxiety would take place on the 28th of February. On that day I was a volunteer. For a Chess Tournament. With lots of kids.
First however I started off the month with the routine of Port Flush and B12 shot. By now the port flush is second nature, I never even feel the needle and the blood returns have been working like clockwork. The port has remained unused for its original purpose of delivering chemo for well over a year. During this time I've returned to work, and resumed much of my old weight. (a good and bad thing..)
Bloodwork is a quarterly procedure, tied into my doctor visits. Every three months I visit the lab at the Cancer Centre, where they draw samples that look for the magic numbers that hopefully spot any potential return of cancer. So far my bloodwork has been just great, my CEA value is <0.5 (non smokers above 3 might be concerned). I will continue this process of getting my blood checked every three months for another two more years. Should I have five years of 'no cancer' I'll be considered a 'survivor' and 'cancer free'. I have a goal.
I usually do the blood test a few days in advance of my medical visits, so my doctors will have the results by the time I'm scheduled to visit them. This time was no different, and on February 23rd I was once more at the WRCC, filling in my ESAS report. The ESAS report is done on a touch-screen computer, and starts off with you swiping your Health Card (or in my case, typing the number in, as the card is so old and worn it won't swipe). A series of questions is presented, asking you to rate your response with a value form 0 (great, perfect) to 9 (horrible, worst). All my numbers were 0 (best) save the one about 'Anxious'. I scored it a 1, as I am seeing an Oncologist after all!
Just before the oncologist sees me however, a nurse takes my weight - I'm 188 pounds now - I've regained most of my pre-cancer weight. As mentioned before, that's both good and bad. Once the weight is taken, I'm led to the little room where the doctor will check me over. My Doctor arrives, and after I hop up on the paper-covered exam couch, the formal part of the check up begins.
My neck is checked, this is relatively new for me, as I had colon cancer! Turns out she's interested in the IVPort, and asks if I want to have the port removed soon. The exam continues in the familiar pattern, the abdomen and pelvic areas are checked, I'm ticklish but that's about it. My scars from the surgeries have faded. It's almost as if this experience has never happened. She glances at the paper with my test results, and the comments that my blood work is better than hers. I guess that's a good thing!
My exam concludes with the news that my Oncologist for the past two years will be handing my case to one of her associates. I will always be glad for the confidence and hope she brought to my journey. I'll never forget the first time we met to discuss my course of treatment: "We're going for a cure". No guarantees were made, but I had hope and I needed to hear that back when my prospects were bleak.
One day later I had my follow up with the Surgeon who did my Liver surgery. I was prepared for this visit: I brought my computer, MP3 player and an Android tablet. The wait for this extremely thorough doctor was on the order of two hours. A ten minute exam culminated with a decision to book another CT, just routine. So far I seem to be getting a CT every eight months or so. Perhaps I will see if they can reduce the frequency before I start resembling the luminescent hands of a 1960's clock.
By now my routine follow-ups are just that: routine. Gone are the trepidations and nervousness of the early days of my struggle. No more am I defined by what I could not control, but now what I do control. It's a pretty good feeling, being confident that there's another day to look forward to.
Finally the Longest Short Month of the last four years draws to a close, and I find myself in another adventure that fills me with Trepidations and Nervousness: the volunteer experience, that of being an amateur chess arbiter for a local chess tournament. On the horizon I have a CT exam for sometime in April, and if all goes well I can plan to have my IV Port removed. Closure to Cancer is fast approaching, I'm glad I'm doing it on my terms.
I had, in order of appearance: a Port flush, bloodwork, a visit with my Oncologist and a visit with my Surgeon. My only cause for anxiety would take place on the 28th of February. On that day I was a volunteer. For a Chess Tournament. With lots of kids.
First however I started off the month with the routine of Port Flush and B12 shot. By now the port flush is second nature, I never even feel the needle and the blood returns have been working like clockwork. The port has remained unused for its original purpose of delivering chemo for well over a year. During this time I've returned to work, and resumed much of my old weight. (a good and bad thing..)
Bloodwork is a quarterly procedure, tied into my doctor visits. Every three months I visit the lab at the Cancer Centre, where they draw samples that look for the magic numbers that hopefully spot any potential return of cancer. So far my bloodwork has been just great, my CEA value is <0.5 (non smokers above 3 might be concerned). I will continue this process of getting my blood checked every three months for another two more years. Should I have five years of 'no cancer' I'll be considered a 'survivor' and 'cancer free'. I have a goal.
I usually do the blood test a few days in advance of my medical visits, so my doctors will have the results by the time I'm scheduled to visit them. This time was no different, and on February 23rd I was once more at the WRCC, filling in my ESAS report. The ESAS report is done on a touch-screen computer, and starts off with you swiping your Health Card (or in my case, typing the number in, as the card is so old and worn it won't swipe). A series of questions is presented, asking you to rate your response with a value form 0 (great, perfect) to 9 (horrible, worst). All my numbers were 0 (best) save the one about 'Anxious'. I scored it a 1, as I am seeing an Oncologist after all!
Just before the oncologist sees me however, a nurse takes my weight - I'm 188 pounds now - I've regained most of my pre-cancer weight. As mentioned before, that's both good and bad. Once the weight is taken, I'm led to the little room where the doctor will check me over. My Doctor arrives, and after I hop up on the paper-covered exam couch, the formal part of the check up begins.
My neck is checked, this is relatively new for me, as I had colon cancer! Turns out she's interested in the IVPort, and asks if I want to have the port removed soon. The exam continues in the familiar pattern, the abdomen and pelvic areas are checked, I'm ticklish but that's about it. My scars from the surgeries have faded. It's almost as if this experience has never happened. She glances at the paper with my test results, and the comments that my blood work is better than hers. I guess that's a good thing!
My exam concludes with the news that my Oncologist for the past two years will be handing my case to one of her associates. I will always be glad for the confidence and hope she brought to my journey. I'll never forget the first time we met to discuss my course of treatment: "We're going for a cure". No guarantees were made, but I had hope and I needed to hear that back when my prospects were bleak.
One day later I had my follow up with the Surgeon who did my Liver surgery. I was prepared for this visit: I brought my computer, MP3 player and an Android tablet. The wait for this extremely thorough doctor was on the order of two hours. A ten minute exam culminated with a decision to book another CT, just routine. So far I seem to be getting a CT every eight months or so. Perhaps I will see if they can reduce the frequency before I start resembling the luminescent hands of a 1960's clock.
By now my routine follow-ups are just that: routine. Gone are the trepidations and nervousness of the early days of my struggle. No more am I defined by what I could not control, but now what I do control. It's a pretty good feeling, being confident that there's another day to look forward to.
Finally the Longest Short Month of the last four years draws to a close, and I find myself in another adventure that fills me with Trepidations and Nervousness: the volunteer experience, that of being an amateur chess arbiter for a local chess tournament. On the horizon I have a CT exam for sometime in April, and if all goes well I can plan to have my IV Port removed. Closure to Cancer is fast approaching, I'm glad I'm doing it on my terms.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
A new years tradition
There's a tradition amongst the informal bicycle group to which I belong, of celebrating New Years Day with a bike ride. Now I've never joined in on these rides before, as they a) involve getting up early New Years Day, b) riding a bike in snow, c) or in slush, d) or in rain, e) or in cold, f) or possibly all of these at once. This year I thought I might go a little crazy and try a New Years Day ride. This would be a challenge for me, as I am at age 52, the youngest member of the group that would be riding! Despite the coolness of the fine rain that morning, I got on my GT mountain bike, adjusted my helmet, snugged up my jacket, and rode off to greet the first day of 2012.
I made it to the end of my driveway. Turns out my pedaling was simply free-wheeling and the gears were not engaging. Undaunted, my GT was replaced by my trusty road bike, the venerable Raleigh Super Grand Prix. So it was a cool damp morning when the RSGP and I joined up with five other brave souls as we enjoyed our official First Ride of the New Year.
But January 2012 wouldn't be just be crazy rain-drenched bike riding, no, there'd be fun medical things, like Port Flushes and visits to the eye doctor. The Port Flush was routine: I sit in a chair, I get the Port site swabbed with a sterilizing agent, and a rather formidable sized needle is plunged into the site. Blood comes out, blood goes back in. Routine. My Port flushes are scheduled monthly for the duration that I have the Port in me. The eye appointment however, was something that started off unplanned...
My vision sucks. Without glasses I'm blind. With glasses I'm not much better. My right eye was operated on (twice) as a kid for 'Lazy Eye'. Now it's more like 'catatonic eye', since it just sits there not doing anything for my vision. So I was mightily concerned a few months ago when I started noticing these strange streaks of light, a slow-moving jagged line of meandering light crossing across my field of vision. I was more than concerned, I was scared. Few things terrify me more than losing my vision. I have learned to deal with Cancer, but I really don't know what I would do if I lost my sight. So off I went to get it checked. One theory is that it's an indication of impending retinal detachment. Another theory is that it's just the eye readjusting normally due to age, the "jelly" of the eye shrinking a bit. Normal for me is a relative term in matters of my health these days. My doctor was thorough, and she made sure that my anxieties were addressed. My vision -such as it is- remains unchanged, and there appears to be no immediate concerns with the retina. I'll have another follow up in six months. If there are any problems between now and then I'll just deal with it. It is a sad reality however, that every ache, every pain, every discernible change in my general health always makes me wonder if I should be worried that the Cancer is back.
I barely remember the events of this first month of January, 2012. I had stopped writing in my personal hand-written journal some time ago, so I have to concentrate really hard to discern one day from another. Perhaps it's time to resume that means of recording the events in my life. There's a certain sense of self-realization through writing, made intimate by the hand-written word. Continuity of thought -from brain to arm to hand to pen to paper, flowing and uninterrupted. Whereas typing (for the touch typist in me at least) seems to require a slight disconnect as each letter is discovered on the keyboard, and the synthesis of word and thought takes place after the fact.
Regardless of the mechanics of writing, I'll continue to post as long as I'm on this journey. I have blood work and a visit with my oncologist in late February. I have another Port Flush and a follow up with my surgeon as well. I've met my medical goals, I've accomplished some of my work goals, now I have to accomplish my personal goals. I feel OK, just want to stay that way.
I made it to the end of my driveway. Turns out my pedaling was simply free-wheeling and the gears were not engaging. Undaunted, my GT was replaced by my trusty road bike, the venerable Raleigh Super Grand Prix. So it was a cool damp morning when the RSGP and I joined up with five other brave souls as we enjoyed our official First Ride of the New Year.
But January 2012 wouldn't be just be crazy rain-drenched bike riding, no, there'd be fun medical things, like Port Flushes and visits to the eye doctor. The Port Flush was routine: I sit in a chair, I get the Port site swabbed with a sterilizing agent, and a rather formidable sized needle is plunged into the site. Blood comes out, blood goes back in. Routine. My Port flushes are scheduled monthly for the duration that I have the Port in me. The eye appointment however, was something that started off unplanned...
My vision sucks. Without glasses I'm blind. With glasses I'm not much better. My right eye was operated on (twice) as a kid for 'Lazy Eye'. Now it's more like 'catatonic eye', since it just sits there not doing anything for my vision. So I was mightily concerned a few months ago when I started noticing these strange streaks of light, a slow-moving jagged line of meandering light crossing across my field of vision. I was more than concerned, I was scared. Few things terrify me more than losing my vision. I have learned to deal with Cancer, but I really don't know what I would do if I lost my sight. So off I went to get it checked. One theory is that it's an indication of impending retinal detachment. Another theory is that it's just the eye readjusting normally due to age, the "jelly" of the eye shrinking a bit. Normal for me is a relative term in matters of my health these days. My doctor was thorough, and she made sure that my anxieties were addressed. My vision -such as it is- remains unchanged, and there appears to be no immediate concerns with the retina. I'll have another follow up in six months. If there are any problems between now and then I'll just deal with it. It is a sad reality however, that every ache, every pain, every discernible change in my general health always makes me wonder if I should be worried that the Cancer is back.
I barely remember the events of this first month of January, 2012. I had stopped writing in my personal hand-written journal some time ago, so I have to concentrate really hard to discern one day from another. Perhaps it's time to resume that means of recording the events in my life. There's a certain sense of self-realization through writing, made intimate by the hand-written word. Continuity of thought -from brain to arm to hand to pen to paper, flowing and uninterrupted. Whereas typing (for the touch typist in me at least) seems to require a slight disconnect as each letter is discovered on the keyboard, and the synthesis of word and thought takes place after the fact.
Regardless of the mechanics of writing, I'll continue to post as long as I'm on this journey. I have blood work and a visit with my oncologist in late February. I have another Port Flush and a follow up with my surgeon as well. I've met my medical goals, I've accomplished some of my work goals, now I have to accomplish my personal goals. I feel OK, just want to stay that way.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Boxing Day Bike Ride
There was one minor mishap, after about an hour and a half of riding I was either too tired or too complacent or simply so distracted so that I ran my bike into (not over!) a curb. For my feat of daring acrobatics I earned several cuts and bruises, the new jeans I was wearing now have additional ventilation and my pride is nowhere to be seen. I was asked by a concerned passerby if I required assitance. Fortunately except for the aforementioned bruises and abrasions, my bike and I were able to continue.
These pictures were taken during my Boxing Day Ride. I always feel happy when I'm able to just go out on my own, untethered and free. Even a fall off a bike simply reaffirms that I am well and truly alive. It's the best Christmas present I could give myself this year.
 |
| Malden Park, Boxing day, 2011 |
December 2011 closed off with only two medically-relevant visit, the first being my regular and oh-so-routine Port Flush. Almost one year since the final chemo and I still retain my IV Port. Perhaps I cling to it as my charm to ward against the return of Cancer. It's as close to a body piercing as I am likely to get (or want!). My second visit, which I cleverly schedule the same time as my Port Flush, is to receive a B12 injection. B12 shots are basically a way to help my body's red-blood cell production. Along with my B12 shot I'm also supplementing some Vitamin D tablets, about 2x1000IU pills a day.
My first Christmas without chemo, the first where I can say I'm living my life for myself. Of course I wouldn't consider myself Cancer-free (yet), and I have other health issues, namely my cholesterol is creeping up, and so is my weight: at 187 pounds that's not bad for a 6' 1" guy. I just have to maintain the exercise and dietary discipline so that the body is simply better at handling the stresses I tend to throw at it. The best way I know to alleviate stress is through exercise. A bicycle ride is what I need.
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| Malden Park, Overflowing pond, Boxing Day, 2011 |
Turns out that Windsor had a Green Christmas. Not the energy saving kind, rather the sub-tropical bright sunshiny day reminiscent of spring rather than winter. Not a hint of moisture in the sky, the bright sunny days of this solstice begged for a bike ride. It's not too often I can ride comfortably at this time of year. At first I had some doubts as to my choice of holiday recreation, as there was a bit of chill in the wind, which caused my eyes to water while riding. However days like this are too good to pass up, so ride I did.
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| Windsor Riverfront, Boxing Day 2011 |
These pictures were taken during my Boxing Day Ride. I always feel happy when I'm able to just go out on my own, untethered and free. Even a fall off a bike simply reaffirms that I am well and truly alive. It's the best Christmas present I could give myself this year.
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