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.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
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.
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