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.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
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.
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| 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.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
I will Remember November
November would begin mild and bright, gradually turning cold and bleak. During this month I would be scheduled for my usual Port Flush and B12 shot, as well as a follow up with my Surgeon. What was unscheduled were the passing of two people who's lives connected to mine by a common thread. They would both succumb to their particular cancers within two weeks of each other.
For a short while I participated in the role of caregiver, a role I found extremely difficult. From being on both sides of Patient and Caregiver role, I must confess I felt more in control as a Patient. As limited as my involvement was in the caregiver role, I felt overwhelmed by the impact of being helpless of the inevitable. I would appreciate the efforts of family and friends who were there to support not only the patient, but each other. In some ways those visits to see John during his final days were emotionally difficult, as I would relive my own experiences with my parents, and of course, my journey.
John was 76 when he passed, shortly after a bittersweet 55th anniversary quietly celebrated in his hospital room. In the evenings, long past traditional visiting hours, I would sometimes sit with him. By this time however it was doubtful he even recognized me, and was simply unable to communicate, trapped by the cancer slowly robbing him of the essence of who he was. Nevertheless I believed that there was still a connection, sometimes a flicker in his eyes, and a smile to one of my observations about life. I talked, he would listen, drifting in and out of the drug-induced sleep, pain stealing his will. I had to wonder, is that what fate has in store for me?
Of course all journey's end the same, how we get there is what's important. I was profoundly saddened when he passed, although I had months to prepare for it. And I was therefore unprepared when I heard news that another acquaintance had passed, suddenly, from his cancer.
I had known John for some eighteen years. Michael I had met some eighteen months before, while visiting Hospice. Both of us were undergoing various treatments for our Cancers. As part of the process we were enrolled into a 4 week course that endeavoured to take patients and their caregivers through the various stages of coping with Cancer. Through the sessions over the next month we formed if not a friendship, then a kindred sense of sharing. We were near enough in age to have some similar life experiences outside of cancer. Our 'significant others' had known each other from high school. We would run into each other, but the friendship never progressed due to the priorities of our treatment. There would be sporadic communication, and a well-intentioned desire to get together. Then the shock of reading of his passing in the obituaries.
I could say I barely knew him. I could say that I had been through a lot in the past month. I could say I didn't have to go pay my respects, that people would understand. I could say all that, but I couldn't do it. I would visit Michael for the last time, and thereby meet his children for likely the first and only time. I was moved by how much our visit meant to his wife.
November would finish with cold bitter rain that lasted for days, overflowing ditches, saturating the ground and flooding basements. Of course my basement got water, but eventually the water drains out, the basement becomes dry, and life goes on. More importantly, I still go with it. I will remember this November, not for the passing, but for the memory of those whose lives have forged the chains that link us together. For John and Michael may your journey's end bring peace to your spirit, and may your memory live on in honour and love.
For a short while I participated in the role of caregiver, a role I found extremely difficult. From being on both sides of Patient and Caregiver role, I must confess I felt more in control as a Patient. As limited as my involvement was in the caregiver role, I felt overwhelmed by the impact of being helpless of the inevitable. I would appreciate the efforts of family and friends who were there to support not only the patient, but each other. In some ways those visits to see John during his final days were emotionally difficult, as I would relive my own experiences with my parents, and of course, my journey.
John was 76 when he passed, shortly after a bittersweet 55th anniversary quietly celebrated in his hospital room. In the evenings, long past traditional visiting hours, I would sometimes sit with him. By this time however it was doubtful he even recognized me, and was simply unable to communicate, trapped by the cancer slowly robbing him of the essence of who he was. Nevertheless I believed that there was still a connection, sometimes a flicker in his eyes, and a smile to one of my observations about life. I talked, he would listen, drifting in and out of the drug-induced sleep, pain stealing his will. I had to wonder, is that what fate has in store for me?
Of course all journey's end the same, how we get there is what's important. I was profoundly saddened when he passed, although I had months to prepare for it. And I was therefore unprepared when I heard news that another acquaintance had passed, suddenly, from his cancer.
I had known John for some eighteen years. Michael I had met some eighteen months before, while visiting Hospice. Both of us were undergoing various treatments for our Cancers. As part of the process we were enrolled into a 4 week course that endeavoured to take patients and their caregivers through the various stages of coping with Cancer. Through the sessions over the next month we formed if not a friendship, then a kindred sense of sharing. We were near enough in age to have some similar life experiences outside of cancer. Our 'significant others' had known each other from high school. We would run into each other, but the friendship never progressed due to the priorities of our treatment. There would be sporadic communication, and a well-intentioned desire to get together. Then the shock of reading of his passing in the obituaries.
I could say I barely knew him. I could say that I had been through a lot in the past month. I could say I didn't have to go pay my respects, that people would understand. I could say all that, but I couldn't do it. I would visit Michael for the last time, and thereby meet his children for likely the first and only time. I was moved by how much our visit meant to his wife.
November would finish with cold bitter rain that lasted for days, overflowing ditches, saturating the ground and flooding basements. Of course my basement got water, but eventually the water drains out, the basement becomes dry, and life goes on. More importantly, I still go with it. I will remember this November, not for the passing, but for the memory of those whose lives have forged the chains that link us together. For John and Michael may your journey's end bring peace to your spirit, and may your memory live on in honour and love.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Fifty Two
When I turned fifty I wasn't doing badly I thought. I remember riding my mountain bike up the big hill behind my house. In my thirties I could power my way to the top (with my 10-speed!). On my fiftieth birthday, I attempted to recapture that feeling, and I almost succeeded. I made it to the top of the hill and realized in that moment that 'over the hill' was no longer an abstract reference.
My fifty-first birthday would find me still recovering from surgery related to my cancer, and my bike-riding was limited. In time I would return to riding, and during those brief journey's I could dreams of being younger and full of energy once again. Winter quiesced my activities, those dark and cold nights disheartened me more than the cancer ever did. I would finish my chemo cycle in January of 2011, and recuperate. That spring would see me return to work, ostensibly one-hundred percent. I rode my bike to work that first day, I was "me" again. Time goes so fast when you work, summer turns into the Fall. My favourite time of the year. October in particular with the transformation of colours fading into dark November's bleak days of wan sunlight and chill wet weather. October remains my favourite month aside from the seasons' change because it is the month of my birth. I turned 52 in 2011.
Fifty Two means I've celebrated two birthdays since the diagnosis of my cancer. Fifty Two and who knows how many more, but you can't count what you don't have. And I refuse to be counted out just yet. So to celebrate my birthday I scheduled my annual physical. Usually a physical is some poking and prodding by the doctor, the obligatory urine sample and the fasting requirement for bloodwork. At the suggestions of friends and medical staff, I also asked for a Vitamin D study. Apparently we in the modern western world simply do not get enough natural Vitamin D through sunlight. The northern climes also tend to minimize our intake during the winter. Of course during the summer some of us are slathered in SPF 60+ sun block ("SPF COTTON" in my case) making the absorption of Vitamin D moot. Blood work and fasting are the easy parts, remember, I'm a male over the age of fifty, so that means....
.... Prostate Exam Time! Latex gloves! Lubricating Gels! Lying on your side, knees up to your chest in the fetal position. If i was recounting this to my male friends I would now pause for dramatic effect and say something like "...when I regained conciousness..". But truth is it's only mildly uncomfortable and does not last very long. I have no obvious prostate issue. (The subsequent PSA test would also put that concern at ease). It is however, part of the yearly physical.
Since I'm getting a full physical, I'm also getting a chest X ray and blood work. The chest X ray requires no preparation other than waiting to have your name called. You don't even need to say "cheese" when they take your picture. Bloodwork however is a time-related process directly tied to fasting.
Now skipping meals is not a new process for me. Fasting for blood work is not a problem usually. I just get so darn thirsty. I neither drink nor eat for the proscribed 14 hours. With careful planning I usually arrange to get my tests done the following morning, usually a Saturday, then follow that up with an incredibly satisfying breakfast. For some reason however it seemed that most of the city decided that they too would like to have their medical tests done the same time as me. I arrived at 9am, took ticket number 70. "fifty three" however was the next patient to register. No problem, 15 minutes away is another medical testing lab. Off I go, only to discover it's not open on Saturdays. No choice but to return. Here's what makes you just shake your head at the Canadian Medical system: I was gone for about 1/2 hour and my ticket which I still had with me was yet to be called. I had effectively kept my place in line. True it was an exceptionally busy day, but it was lunch I was having by the time I was processed. Now all I had to do was wait for the results.
That wait ended when my voice mail had a terse message from my doctor's office to see them regarding the results. My last physical was two years ago and when I went in to review the findings I ended up getting surgery and chemo for cancer treatment. Gee, now what else could they possible find? Blood sugar? Hypertension? Rabies?
Turns out it was mundane: My Vitamin D was low, not horribly so, but I now take a 1000IU supplement pill every day. My PSA is fine (yay). My cholesterol was high though but at 4.6 I hope to manage it by diet and exercise and trying to avoid taking more meds. I was advised to try the Dash diet as it was suitable for hypertension and overall reduction of cholesterol. Less meat, more veggies, fruit and fibre. Yup, more fibre, every colon cancer patient probably wishes they had eaten a lot more fibre in their earlier years.
Still I am aging, and I have some interesting things to look forward too: I have a kidney stone in my right kidney. Thinking about that process brings me into a panic and cold sweat, I did ONE KS and I Never Want To Experience Pain Like That EVER! But no cancer, the CT that I had done several weeks before showed only that pesky stone, but nothing worse. I can live with that.
I guess that's the real comment about my fifty second birthday: I can live.
My fifty-first birthday would find me still recovering from surgery related to my cancer, and my bike-riding was limited. In time I would return to riding, and during those brief journey's I could dreams of being younger and full of energy once again. Winter quiesced my activities, those dark and cold nights disheartened me more than the cancer ever did. I would finish my chemo cycle in January of 2011, and recuperate. That spring would see me return to work, ostensibly one-hundred percent. I rode my bike to work that first day, I was "me" again. Time goes so fast when you work, summer turns into the Fall. My favourite time of the year. October in particular with the transformation of colours fading into dark November's bleak days of wan sunlight and chill wet weather. October remains my favourite month aside from the seasons' change because it is the month of my birth. I turned 52 in 2011.
Fifty Two means I've celebrated two birthdays since the diagnosis of my cancer. Fifty Two and who knows how many more, but you can't count what you don't have. And I refuse to be counted out just yet. So to celebrate my birthday I scheduled my annual physical. Usually a physical is some poking and prodding by the doctor, the obligatory urine sample and the fasting requirement for bloodwork. At the suggestions of friends and medical staff, I also asked for a Vitamin D study. Apparently we in the modern western world simply do not get enough natural Vitamin D through sunlight. The northern climes also tend to minimize our intake during the winter. Of course during the summer some of us are slathered in SPF 60+ sun block ("SPF COTTON" in my case) making the absorption of Vitamin D moot. Blood work and fasting are the easy parts, remember, I'm a male over the age of fifty, so that means....
.... Prostate Exam Time! Latex gloves! Lubricating Gels! Lying on your side, knees up to your chest in the fetal position. If i was recounting this to my male friends I would now pause for dramatic effect and say something like "...when I regained conciousness..". But truth is it's only mildly uncomfortable and does not last very long. I have no obvious prostate issue. (The subsequent PSA test would also put that concern at ease). It is however, part of the yearly physical.
Since I'm getting a full physical, I'm also getting a chest X ray and blood work. The chest X ray requires no preparation other than waiting to have your name called. You don't even need to say "cheese" when they take your picture. Bloodwork however is a time-related process directly tied to fasting.
Now skipping meals is not a new process for me. Fasting for blood work is not a problem usually. I just get so darn thirsty. I neither drink nor eat for the proscribed 14 hours. With careful planning I usually arrange to get my tests done the following morning, usually a Saturday, then follow that up with an incredibly satisfying breakfast. For some reason however it seemed that most of the city decided that they too would like to have their medical tests done the same time as me. I arrived at 9am, took ticket number 70. "fifty three" however was the next patient to register. No problem, 15 minutes away is another medical testing lab. Off I go, only to discover it's not open on Saturdays. No choice but to return. Here's what makes you just shake your head at the Canadian Medical system: I was gone for about 1/2 hour and my ticket which I still had with me was yet to be called. I had effectively kept my place in line. True it was an exceptionally busy day, but it was lunch I was having by the time I was processed. Now all I had to do was wait for the results.
That wait ended when my voice mail had a terse message from my doctor's office to see them regarding the results. My last physical was two years ago and when I went in to review the findings I ended up getting surgery and chemo for cancer treatment. Gee, now what else could they possible find? Blood sugar? Hypertension? Rabies?
Turns out it was mundane: My Vitamin D was low, not horribly so, but I now take a 1000IU supplement pill every day. My PSA is fine (yay). My cholesterol was high though but at 4.6 I hope to manage it by diet and exercise and trying to avoid taking more meds. I was advised to try the Dash diet as it was suitable for hypertension and overall reduction of cholesterol. Less meat, more veggies, fruit and fibre. Yup, more fibre, every colon cancer patient probably wishes they had eaten a lot more fibre in their earlier years.
Still I am aging, and I have some interesting things to look forward too: I have a kidney stone in my right kidney. Thinking about that process brings me into a panic and cold sweat, I did ONE KS and I Never Want To Experience Pain Like That EVER! But no cancer, the CT that I had done several weeks before showed only that pesky stone, but nothing worse. I can live with that.
I guess that's the real comment about my fifty second birthday: I can live.
Friday, September 23, 2011
CT results: No news is Good news...
I had another CT scan this year, my second since I finished my chemo back in January of 2011. The actual test was on Sept. 8th, the day after my monthly, oh-so-routine Port Flush.
A Port Flush is simply a way to ensure that the IVPort embedded in my chest is still functional. It consists of a sterilizing swabbing of the port area, a saline rinse and pulling back some blood, which is then promptly returned. Basically this ensures that this plumbing will do what is necessary if chemo is again required. It's a 15 minute job if all goes well. Fifteen minutes later I had another needle pick to add to my growing collection. Six more and I get a free tattoo ... I am fortunate that I suffer no bruising. My only discomfort is when I peel the bandage off the next day....a hairy chest and sticky bandages do not mix well! If the Port Flush is the opening act, lets hope the main event is just as easy.
Some of my CT scans in the past have required that I drink 'Reddi Cat' a beverage that is supposed to enhance the CT process and has all the flavour of chalk. Fortunately this visit did not require that particular "treatment". The CT scan is not of itself invasive, but it does have a component where a contrast dye is introduced during the process. In order to do that at the appropriate time, you are prepared with an IV, in my case it was just near the crook of my left arm. More needle pricks, more bandages and more hair (actually: less) fun later. After the IV lock is installed, I am led to the CT room and asked to lay on the gantry that serves as my entry into the eye of the CT storm.
The CT process has me on my back, feet towards the CT scanner and my arms stretched out over my head. I keep my eyes closed as the scan commences. I'm told to hold my breath during parts of the scan. The contrast is introduced at some point, and I feel my ears and back of my neck get really warm. The contrast is working. One other little side effect, the warmth affected me lower down so I thought I was going to soil myself. Fortunately this feeling subsided as quickly as it began, and my dignity remained intact. My scan now complete, I'm led back to the alcove where a tech removes my IV lock.
While the lock is being removed another employee shows up; she remembers me from when I worked in IT for this hospital some twenty years prior. I entered the Hospital as a patient undergoing a procedure. I leave the Hospital as a person, and I take with me the memory of smiles and happiness from former coworkers as they express their delight in my recovery.
So now it's been two weeks since my exam. I was anxious the first few days, but the old adage "No News Is Good News" seems to apply here. Barring anything extraordinary, I am not scheduled to see any of my doctors until the end of November. Back to "routine" once more. Maybe I'll arrive home from work some evening and there will be a message from the Oncologist wanting to discuss my results. Despite this possibility, I don't feel like a cancer patient any more. Life has gone on, and I'm still going with it.
A Port Flush is simply a way to ensure that the IVPort embedded in my chest is still functional. It consists of a sterilizing swabbing of the port area, a saline rinse and pulling back some blood, which is then promptly returned. Basically this ensures that this plumbing will do what is necessary if chemo is again required. It's a 15 minute job if all goes well. Fifteen minutes later I had another needle pick to add to my growing collection. Six more and I get a free tattoo ... I am fortunate that I suffer no bruising. My only discomfort is when I peel the bandage off the next day....a hairy chest and sticky bandages do not mix well! If the Port Flush is the opening act, lets hope the main event is just as easy.
Some of my CT scans in the past have required that I drink 'Reddi Cat' a beverage that is supposed to enhance the CT process and has all the flavour of chalk. Fortunately this visit did not require that particular "treatment". The CT scan is not of itself invasive, but it does have a component where a contrast dye is introduced during the process. In order to do that at the appropriate time, you are prepared with an IV, in my case it was just near the crook of my left arm. More needle pricks, more bandages and more hair (actually: less) fun later. After the IV lock is installed, I am led to the CT room and asked to lay on the gantry that serves as my entry into the eye of the CT storm.
The CT process has me on my back, feet towards the CT scanner and my arms stretched out over my head. I keep my eyes closed as the scan commences. I'm told to hold my breath during parts of the scan. The contrast is introduced at some point, and I feel my ears and back of my neck get really warm. The contrast is working. One other little side effect, the warmth affected me lower down so I thought I was going to soil myself. Fortunately this feeling subsided as quickly as it began, and my dignity remained intact. My scan now complete, I'm led back to the alcove where a tech removes my IV lock.
While the lock is being removed another employee shows up; she remembers me from when I worked in IT for this hospital some twenty years prior. I entered the Hospital as a patient undergoing a procedure. I leave the Hospital as a person, and I take with me the memory of smiles and happiness from former coworkers as they express their delight in my recovery.
So now it's been two weeks since my exam. I was anxious the first few days, but the old adage "No News Is Good News" seems to apply here. Barring anything extraordinary, I am not scheduled to see any of my doctors until the end of November. Back to "routine" once more. Maybe I'll arrive home from work some evening and there will be a message from the Oncologist wanting to discuss my results. Despite this possibility, I don't feel like a cancer patient any more. Life has gone on, and I'm still going with it.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Can you say "routine" for a visit with your Oncologist?
Every three months I have to do two things. The first is let a tech stick a needle into my veins and draw out a litre or two of blood. The second is to have a follow-up visit with either my Surgeon or Oncologist. This month it was with the oncologist, and would be my first visit to see her since I had finished treatment earlier in the year.
So Monday, August 15th I take all of 15 minutes to let a tech take my blood. It's a nice day and frankly I'm in no rush to return to work so I decide to take the bus back. Turns out an envelope with a 'suspicious powder' shows up in the mail drop-box of our local Utility office. Police block off the main roads, firefighters and the hazmat teams converge on this potential threat. Although nothing ever came of it, my bus was delayed, re-routed by way of Omaha I think and I took an hour longer to return to work. Got there just in time for lunch.
So this Event-that-was-not-and-event foreshadowed my visit two days later to see my Oncologist. I was nervous, sure, as blood will tell the tale, I just don't want it telling any tall tales at this point in my life. The old familiarity quickly re-asserted itself after I picked up my paperwork. The ladies at reception greeting me by name, after not seeing me for months. I walked up to the second floor, confident and not unduly concerned, and sat in front of the computer. There's an assessment form each patient enters into a computer whenever they receive treatment or visit their doctor at the Cancer Centre. A scale of 0 to 10 is used to assess various aspects of your physical and emotional health, with zero being 'not a problem' to ten being 'worst.problem.ever'. Even under treatment I tended to score my self-assessment low, not because of false modesty, I truly believed and felt OK for the most part. Today I would indicate a positive score only on the anxiety aspect of the visit (I am visiting a chemo doctor after six months after all).
Now the form is filled and printed, my notification pager firmly attached to my belt, all I have to do is wait to be called in. And pee, apparently my anxiety score should be rated +1 higher than indicated, or maybe it was the coffee, sure it was the coffee.... Fortunately the pager does not go off while I am preoccupied, and a short time later I'm in the exam room.
It's a curious thing, you are given an appointment card stating a time to meet with your doctor months in advance. You arrive before the appointed time, and wait. Your appointment time eventually comes along, sometimes you are still waiting. You eventually receive the summons and are ushered into the exam room, where you wait for the Doctor to show up. I hate waiting. I have palm pilots with activities, MP3/video players, wifi connections but no, I decided to fidget and pace the little exam room. Sit down and readjust my position. Take off my jacket. Readjust my jacket. Pick my jacket off the floor...oops say wasn't there coffee in that cup a second ago, and why is the floor brown? OK, here's a new way to pass the time: spill coffee on the floor of the exam room! Paper towels to mop up (that was a small coffee?!) more paper towels to wash the floor, say doesn't this part of the floor look shiner than the part beside it...hmmm it's a hospital what could *possibly* be on the floor of hospital in an exam room. So much for my distraction. Fortunately my doctor walks in before I decided to get a mop and floor polisher to further entertain my boredom.
Up on the exam table now, the the paper protector shields me from whatever horrible creepy crawlies inhabit the vinyl covering of the exam table. I guess this is how fish feel when they are about to be wrapped up...or gutted. Still the exam proceeds along familiar lines (and I do mean 'familiar'!). Everything checks out. The doctor is really pleased, she qualifies the 5 years 25% statistic with a comment that filled me with optimism: she had a 'good feeling' about me and my recovery.
My visit with the Oncologist has been routine to the point of being mundane. I have no worries. I do however have a CT exam scheduled for September 8th, another Port Flush for September7th, and in a couple of days, another follow-up visit with the surgeon who did my Liver resection last year. All of this is 'routine', I guess the lessons about 'my new normal' are firmly entrenched. Embrace and accept the change, it's going to happen anyway!
The good news continued: I got my first new desktop PC in close to six years: an i5-2500K with 16GB of RAM. It's awesome. It runs Linux, that's awesome to the power of awesome. Time to put it to good work and write more in my blog! I'm sure everyone wants to hear about the fun one can have while undergoing a Cat Scan!
So Monday, August 15th I take all of 15 minutes to let a tech take my blood. It's a nice day and frankly I'm in no rush to return to work so I decide to take the bus back. Turns out an envelope with a 'suspicious powder' shows up in the mail drop-box of our local Utility office. Police block off the main roads, firefighters and the hazmat teams converge on this potential threat. Although nothing ever came of it, my bus was delayed, re-routed by way of Omaha I think and I took an hour longer to return to work. Got there just in time for lunch.
So this Event-that-was-not-and-event foreshadowed my visit two days later to see my Oncologist. I was nervous, sure, as blood will tell the tale, I just don't want it telling any tall tales at this point in my life. The old familiarity quickly re-asserted itself after I picked up my paperwork. The ladies at reception greeting me by name, after not seeing me for months. I walked up to the second floor, confident and not unduly concerned, and sat in front of the computer. There's an assessment form each patient enters into a computer whenever they receive treatment or visit their doctor at the Cancer Centre. A scale of 0 to 10 is used to assess various aspects of your physical and emotional health, with zero being 'not a problem' to ten being 'worst.problem.ever'. Even under treatment I tended to score my self-assessment low, not because of false modesty, I truly believed and felt OK for the most part. Today I would indicate a positive score only on the anxiety aspect of the visit (I am visiting a chemo doctor after six months after all).
Now the form is filled and printed, my notification pager firmly attached to my belt, all I have to do is wait to be called in. And pee, apparently my anxiety score should be rated +1 higher than indicated, or maybe it was the coffee, sure it was the coffee.... Fortunately the pager does not go off while I am preoccupied, and a short time later I'm in the exam room.
It's a curious thing, you are given an appointment card stating a time to meet with your doctor months in advance. You arrive before the appointed time, and wait. Your appointment time eventually comes along, sometimes you are still waiting. You eventually receive the summons and are ushered into the exam room, where you wait for the Doctor to show up. I hate waiting. I have palm pilots with activities, MP3/video players, wifi connections but no, I decided to fidget and pace the little exam room. Sit down and readjust my position. Take off my jacket. Readjust my jacket. Pick my jacket off the floor...oops say wasn't there coffee in that cup a second ago, and why is the floor brown? OK, here's a new way to pass the time: spill coffee on the floor of the exam room! Paper towels to mop up (that was a small coffee?!) more paper towels to wash the floor, say doesn't this part of the floor look shiner than the part beside it...hmmm it's a hospital what could *possibly* be on the floor of hospital in an exam room. So much for my distraction. Fortunately my doctor walks in before I decided to get a mop and floor polisher to further entertain my boredom.
Up on the exam table now, the the paper protector shields me from whatever horrible creepy crawlies inhabit the vinyl covering of the exam table. I guess this is how fish feel when they are about to be wrapped up...or gutted. Still the exam proceeds along familiar lines (and I do mean 'familiar'!). Everything checks out. The doctor is really pleased, she qualifies the 5 years 25% statistic with a comment that filled me with optimism: she had a 'good feeling' about me and my recovery.
My visit with the Oncologist has been routine to the point of being mundane. I have no worries. I do however have a CT exam scheduled for September 8th, another Port Flush for September7th, and in a couple of days, another follow-up visit with the surgeon who did my Liver resection last year. All of this is 'routine', I guess the lessons about 'my new normal' are firmly entrenched. Embrace and accept the change, it's going to happen anyway!
The good news continued: I got my first new desktop PC in close to six years: an i5-2500K with 16GB of RAM. It's awesome. It runs Linux, that's awesome to the power of awesome. Time to put it to good work and write more in my blog! I'm sure everyone wants to hear about the fun one can have while undergoing a Cat Scan!
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Reflections I
It''s game seven of the 2011 Stanley Cup Final and the Vancouver Canucks are down 4-zip with only a few minutes left. Tonight however I was playing chess, getting humbled yet again. Win or lose, the great thing about my life is that I can still do what I want, mostly. There are a few items however that distract me from filling my days with things that are interesting only to me,work and medical visits being those little things that tend to prioritize my goals in life.
For me it's been two months since I returned to full-time employment. In the IT/computer world this means strange hours, stress and deadlines. My doctor visits have mostly been "routine", whether it's a visit to my surgeon for a follow-up appointment, or a visit to a clinic for blood work or Port Flush. Since I'm no longer on chemo, the Port Flush hasn't failed to produce a blood return. That is until this past week where my monthly flush failed Then it was off to the Cancer Centre, where if they can't get it working, then the big guns come in: "Liquid Plumbr" for Ports, or something of that ilk. This visit would be my first return as a patient to the Cancer Centre in almost six months, and I started to think about my previous visits...
My appointment was for 1030 that morning, but because of logistics for my ride, I was there about 45 minutes early. I was pleasantly surprised when the receptionists greeted me by name. Perhaps it's these little qualities that make coming into the WRCC less stressful. From the moment you walk in the door you are greeted by a smile and kind words. You know there are people who genuinely care not only about the quality of treatment you receive, but that it's done with grace and dignity. You are never a patient, you are a person. Important stuff, that.
So I walked through those doors once more, relatively unworried, it was a simple Port Flush after all. Sure, the emotions that went through me as I walked up the stairs were contrasting and strong, my past experience had not yet been tempered by nostalgia. After all, my very first treatment here had caused me to bring up my breakfast in spectacular fashion. And after that session I was drained both physically and emotionally. But that was over a year ago, now I'm healthier, stronger and hopefully in a better state of mind.
Waiting for treatment in a large physical complex means that there are opportunities to wander around. To make sure the patient doesn't miss their appointment, they are given a pager, similar to what one receives when waiting for a table at a restaurant. ("Party of 1, your chair is ready. Can we start you off with a chemo cocktail?") Perhaps not quite Chez Cancer, but the service is great and tipping is not required! Since you are wearing a pager it means it will go off when you least expect it, or, rather, when it's most annoying. In my case I had just gotten my laptop up and running and was about to do some emails when I received my summons. Everything shut down and secured into my backpack, then off I trudged to the chemo suite. There I was greeted by the nurse who gave me my first-ever treatment (and her first name and mine are the same...can't forget her!) Having done this process a few thousand times before, she decided to try the 'manual override' Port flush procedure one more time. Unlike Star Trek, where Manual Override never seems to work, this process was quite painless (unless you hate needles. then you'd hate this one, it's about an inch long and they plunge it right into the skin covering your port). really it's no big deal anymore however, and I find that the whole 'Port Protocol' MUCH easier to deal with than the IV lock that goes on your hand.
So nurse Terry (as opposed to Patient Terry) performs the medical magic that comprises the Port Flush:
-sterilize the area surrounding the port
-tell me to breathe out when she's about to plunge the needle into me
-flushes the port
....and draws back blood! Yay, the return works! No need to spend an hour in the chair tethered to yet another IV. Less than five minutes was all it took. My return bus ride back to work would be much longer. There's also one other item that ends the Port Flush protocol: the adhesive bandage over the port. OK, word to the wise: (guys this means you): shave -gently- the area around your port, unless you wish to have the joy of yanking clumps of chest hair out when the bandage is removed.
In another month I'll have another Port Flush, I'm confident it will be routine. How long the Port will remain in me I do not know, for now it's part of my life. It's my new normal, my routine, my reminder of the past, and future support if I need it. I hope I'll never need to use it again, For me there is still hope, unfortunately it's too late for the Canucks, they lost game seven. Better luck next year guys!
For me it's been two months since I returned to full-time employment. In the IT/computer world this means strange hours, stress and deadlines. My doctor visits have mostly been "routine", whether it's a visit to my surgeon for a follow-up appointment, or a visit to a clinic for blood work or Port Flush. Since I'm no longer on chemo, the Port Flush hasn't failed to produce a blood return. That is until this past week where my monthly flush failed Then it was off to the Cancer Centre, where if they can't get it working, then the big guns come in: "Liquid Plumbr" for Ports, or something of that ilk. This visit would be my first return as a patient to the Cancer Centre in almost six months, and I started to think about my previous visits...
My appointment was for 1030 that morning, but because of logistics for my ride, I was there about 45 minutes early. I was pleasantly surprised when the receptionists greeted me by name. Perhaps it's these little qualities that make coming into the WRCC less stressful. From the moment you walk in the door you are greeted by a smile and kind words. You know there are people who genuinely care not only about the quality of treatment you receive, but that it's done with grace and dignity. You are never a patient, you are a person. Important stuff, that.
So I walked through those doors once more, relatively unworried, it was a simple Port Flush after all. Sure, the emotions that went through me as I walked up the stairs were contrasting and strong, my past experience had not yet been tempered by nostalgia. After all, my very first treatment here had caused me to bring up my breakfast in spectacular fashion. And after that session I was drained both physically and emotionally. But that was over a year ago, now I'm healthier, stronger and hopefully in a better state of mind.
Waiting for treatment in a large physical complex means that there are opportunities to wander around. To make sure the patient doesn't miss their appointment, they are given a pager, similar to what one receives when waiting for a table at a restaurant. ("Party of 1, your chair is ready. Can we start you off with a chemo cocktail?") Perhaps not quite Chez Cancer, but the service is great and tipping is not required! Since you are wearing a pager it means it will go off when you least expect it, or, rather, when it's most annoying. In my case I had just gotten my laptop up and running and was about to do some emails when I received my summons. Everything shut down and secured into my backpack, then off I trudged to the chemo suite. There I was greeted by the nurse who gave me my first-ever treatment (and her first name and mine are the same...can't forget her!) Having done this process a few thousand times before, she decided to try the 'manual override' Port flush procedure one more time. Unlike Star Trek, where Manual Override never seems to work, this process was quite painless (unless you hate needles. then you'd hate this one, it's about an inch long and they plunge it right into the skin covering your port). really it's no big deal anymore however, and I find that the whole 'Port Protocol' MUCH easier to deal with than the IV lock that goes on your hand.
So nurse Terry (as opposed to Patient Terry) performs the medical magic that comprises the Port Flush:
-sterilize the area surrounding the port
-tell me to breathe out when she's about to plunge the needle into me
-flushes the port
....and draws back blood! Yay, the return works! No need to spend an hour in the chair tethered to yet another IV. Less than five minutes was all it took. My return bus ride back to work would be much longer. There's also one other item that ends the Port Flush protocol: the adhesive bandage over the port. OK, word to the wise: (guys this means you): shave -gently- the area around your port, unless you wish to have the joy of yanking clumps of chest hair out when the bandage is removed.
In another month I'll have another Port Flush, I'm confident it will be routine. How long the Port will remain in me I do not know, for now it's part of my life. It's my new normal, my routine, my reminder of the past, and future support if I need it. I hope I'll never need to use it again, For me there is still hope, unfortunately it's too late for the Canucks, they lost game seven. Better luck next year guys!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Take two Cheese Sandwiches and call me in the morning.
OK I admit I have a passion for the comfort food of my youth, the quintessential Grilled Cheese Sandwich. Made the old fashioned way: Kraft singles on White Bread, smothered in butter and fried up on the stove. A big ol' blob of Heinz ketchup on the side, and you have described the zenith of my culinary arts. The cousin of the GCS, the humble CS was often a staple for my lunch. Alas for responsible eating; awareness of the 'badness' of white bread, and the scorn heaped upon the maligned single-slice. Carbs and artery-hardening fats, that's all a Cheese Sandwich is. It's all it's meant to be. It has no place in our everyday diet. Well, almost no place...
This Monday, April 18th 2011 marks my second Colonoscopy procedure. It's a big deal to be sure, lots of concerns of what might be found, given my prior history. Of course the focus is always about the preparation. You see the preparation ("Prep", for those who are so cool they only used abbreviated words) begins some three days in advance. It's designed to rid the body of pretty much anything that might be hanging around and interfering with the actual procedure. And it begins with switching to a soft-food diet.
Day One of the prep for me began Friday the 15th. A soft food diet has no fibre, is easily chewed and breaks down quickly as it's digested. A soft food diet is also known as 'The Bland Diet'. That's where the humble Cheese Sandwich comes in. I figure that a single slice of cheese on two pieces of white bread (meaning: no fibre, melt-in-your mouth bread, the kind we all grew up with; the kind we can't have anymore!) constitutes "soft" foods in my book. No lettuce. No Mayo, no salt or pepper. That was my lunch. A banana (ok, a MUSHY banana) and a vanilla yogurt rounded off the midday meal. Also I could have Black coffee (because I drink it that way normally), and about 42 litres of water. Well, maybe not 42 litres, but it was a lot of water. My breakfast was the same, except it was two slices of bread toasted and no cheese.
I usually have a fibre-type cereal for breakfast in the morning with berries and fruit, or throw granola and flax seed onto my Special K. Today it was two pieces of toast and another mushy banana to get me through til lunch. So how do I top the splendid repast I had prepared for my lunch? Mashed potatoes and scrambled eggs for supper. No salt, pepper or anything else. Another damn mushy banana for dessert. Another vanilla yogurt. Chug another glass of water. Chug yet another glass of water. Pee for an hour, I'm so waterlogged today. I'm also reasonably full, no desire to snack, no munchy attacks, no feelings of being gastronomically denied. By Sunday I'll be recalling today's menu with fond memories that will have me salivating.
Saturday begins the prep in earnest. Only "full" fluids, meaning: cream soups, yogurt, water, tea,coffee, no fibre/fruit/solids of any kind. No bread, the CS is once more relegated to the furthest recesses of my dietary imprisonment. Ensure -the dietary supplement drink- I still have some from this past summer, still as good as it ever was. (Which explains why I still have some from this past summer). Oh, and I need to drink lots of water. And I can eat Jello. I have not had Jello Since late September of 2010. At that time I was recovering from my Liver surgery, so I had Jello for breakfast. I had Jello for lunch. I had Jello for supper. Believe me, there's not always room for Jello. But now my choice of 'full fluids' are either Jello or a Milkshake. But it can't be anything other than vanilla, no fruit, no red, no blue, no red+blue=purple. Chocolate is right out too I think. Saturday is when my food volume drops, when my energy level drops. Gives me a good excuse to not do much ("Sorry, can't do housework, saving my strength to eat Jello tonight..") Actually keeping busy is a great way to not think about food. I wasn't starving, I felt reasonably full, and I was occupied doing whatever hobby-type activity I enjoyed (ok watching TV..). Halfway through the 'prep weekend' and I was cruising. Tomorrow would see the start of the formal preparation process however.
Sunday is the 'clear liquid diet' portion of the three-day preparation. It consists of having Jello and coffee for breakfast. Sometime just before noon I had some weak watery chicken broth. I was drinking water as well. At noon I began the consumption of the prep solution itself, a fairly innocuously named drink called Colyte. Four litres of this drink is consumed over the next 4 - 6 hours, and will produce the desired effect. As I have undergone this particular process three times now I have some insights to consider for future sessions:
1. keep drinking water, even though drinking this stuff makes you feel full
2. Colyte supposedly has a mild, fruity flavour. If I knew what kind of tree bore this fruit I would set fire to the whole orchard. I found that after I drank a glass of the prep solution, a sip of black coffee helped counteract the aftertaste of the Colyte.
3. If you carefully follow the instructions on the label, you will be drinking one glass every 20 minutes. You will be incredibly bloated long before relief is felt. You may be nauseaus, so just stop and literally 'catch your breath'. You start at noon, you can drink it all night and be OK for the next morning.
4. Don't stray far from the bathroom, unless you have plans to practice sprinting all day long.
By six pm I had finished the 4L jug. Most of me was empty long before 10pm, but as the weatherman says, "occasional isolated storms" are inevitable. I had not drank anything other than my coffee, water and the Colyte since noon. I was cold and tired. I was really cold actually, and that was the worst feeling; surprisingly I wasn't hungry. My weight Monday morning was 174.2 lbs. I had lost some 5 pounds since Saturday. I went to bed around midnight, but sleep was not a comfort. I was awake hours before the alarm went off at 630 that Monday morning.
Snow and cold greeted me as I left my house the day of my Colonoscopy. The damp chill air robbed my tired body of strength. Wearing a winter jacket, wearing gloves, wearing a fleece sweater and the car heater cranked up brought no relief, I was miserably cold on that ride to yet another hospital. This time I went to a smaller facility in the county. What it lacked in size it more than made up for in friendliness and professionalism. In a short time I was once again receiving instructions on what clothing to remove, how to tie up my hospital-issued gown. I was permitted to wear my socks, my cold feet more than just a metaphor. Up until now everything was routine; veteran that I was there was nothing new for me to experience. Until the nurse asked me to roll over on my side.
Now I had expected to receive the IV that would be used to administer the drugs that would deliver me to the realm of Morpheus, so this request to roll onto my left side was a novelty. Here's where my previous Colonoscopy procedure diverged: the purpose of me rolling onto my side was to facilitate "The Enema". Oh my gosh I'm wide awake and Very Aware Of Something Cold being firmly inserted into No Man's land. OK, to be honest it was weird and mildly uncomfortable, but as always, I survived. Further surprises awaited however, as the enema took effect and caused me to dash towards the nearest washroom. I think I know how the phrase 'Greased Lightning' came into existence. Fortunately my earlier prep had pretty much cleaned me out and I didn't need to ask for additional reading material to pass the time...
Back once more in bed and I was now deemed "really really cleaned out". Now comes the IV insertion. In the past this has been the most uncomfortable part of the procedure (I'm a wimp). This time my dehydrated, cold state proved to be a challenge. First one hand was tried. Then another. Then the first again. I have pretty good veins for such things usually, but they were not cooperating. I do not know why, but I suddenly felt flushed and light-headed. I began to think that if my procedure started this way, what other terrible things could happen. Had I been standing I would have fainted. Seeing my distress the nurses used warm blankets to comfort me. One blanket was wrapped around my arm, ostensibly to make the IV insertion easier. The lights over my bed were dimmed, and I closed my eyes and rested. A few minutes later my nurse was able to insert the IV, the warm blanket had helped I guess. My panic attack was over. I rested as fluid was put through my newly-inserted IV to rehydrate me. My bed was moved to the staging area for my procedure, I had now been in the hospital for a little over two hours, most of that time trying not to think of what was coming next. I was wheeled into the procedure room, and greeted by my doctor and the anaesthesiologist. My IV was hooked up and the nice anaesthesioligist went over my list of allergies (just seasonal, no latex, no hypothermia issues, I'm pretty easy to sedate apparently). She mentioned I would drift in and out... I drifted out...and when I drifted back in I was back in the recovery room. The procedure had lasted some twenty minutes, but it was an hour before I was once again cognizant of reality. It would be another hour of light rest and the removal of the IV before a very tired and very relieved Terry would head home. My Colonoscopy procedure found no problems. One weekend of my time, some fasting, a little prep and a small procedure were all I needed to allay the fears that my condition had worsened.
The rest of my day was spent not eating as one might suppose, but resting. I would not have anything more substantial than soup later that evening (another piece of advice: don't go on an eating binge at first...it took you a couple of days to taper down, take some time to resume your normal diet). Oh, and you'll be full of air from the procedure, so you'll feel somewhat bloated...
At the end of the day I was happy with my results, how could I not? I was worried that there would be new signs of cancer, that my disease had returned. Perhaps it may one day, but today was not that day. I can live my life again, as always, one day at a time.
This Monday, April 18th 2011 marks my second Colonoscopy procedure. It's a big deal to be sure, lots of concerns of what might be found, given my prior history. Of course the focus is always about the preparation. You see the preparation ("Prep", for those who are so cool they only used abbreviated words) begins some three days in advance. It's designed to rid the body of pretty much anything that might be hanging around and interfering with the actual procedure. And it begins with switching to a soft-food diet.
Day One of the prep for me began Friday the 15th. A soft food diet has no fibre, is easily chewed and breaks down quickly as it's digested. A soft food diet is also known as 'The Bland Diet'. That's where the humble Cheese Sandwich comes in. I figure that a single slice of cheese on two pieces of white bread (meaning: no fibre, melt-in-your mouth bread, the kind we all grew up with; the kind we can't have anymore!) constitutes "soft" foods in my book. No lettuce. No Mayo, no salt or pepper. That was my lunch. A banana (ok, a MUSHY banana) and a vanilla yogurt rounded off the midday meal. Also I could have Black coffee (because I drink it that way normally), and about 42 litres of water. Well, maybe not 42 litres, but it was a lot of water. My breakfast was the same, except it was two slices of bread toasted and no cheese.
I usually have a fibre-type cereal for breakfast in the morning with berries and fruit, or throw granola and flax seed onto my Special K. Today it was two pieces of toast and another mushy banana to get me through til lunch. So how do I top the splendid repast I had prepared for my lunch? Mashed potatoes and scrambled eggs for supper. No salt, pepper or anything else. Another damn mushy banana for dessert. Another vanilla yogurt. Chug another glass of water. Chug yet another glass of water. Pee for an hour, I'm so waterlogged today. I'm also reasonably full, no desire to snack, no munchy attacks, no feelings of being gastronomically denied. By Sunday I'll be recalling today's menu with fond memories that will have me salivating.
Saturday begins the prep in earnest. Only "full" fluids, meaning: cream soups, yogurt, water, tea,coffee, no fibre/fruit/solids of any kind. No bread, the CS is once more relegated to the furthest recesses of my dietary imprisonment. Ensure -the dietary supplement drink- I still have some from this past summer, still as good as it ever was. (Which explains why I still have some from this past summer). Oh, and I need to drink lots of water. And I can eat Jello. I have not had Jello Since late September of 2010. At that time I was recovering from my Liver surgery, so I had Jello for breakfast. I had Jello for lunch. I had Jello for supper. Believe me, there's not always room for Jello. But now my choice of 'full fluids' are either Jello or a Milkshake. But it can't be anything other than vanilla, no fruit, no red, no blue, no red+blue=purple. Chocolate is right out too I think. Saturday is when my food volume drops, when my energy level drops. Gives me a good excuse to not do much ("Sorry, can't do housework, saving my strength to eat Jello tonight..") Actually keeping busy is a great way to not think about food. I wasn't starving, I felt reasonably full, and I was occupied doing whatever hobby-type activity I enjoyed (ok watching TV..). Halfway through the 'prep weekend' and I was cruising. Tomorrow would see the start of the formal preparation process however.
Sunday is the 'clear liquid diet' portion of the three-day preparation. It consists of having Jello and coffee for breakfast. Sometime just before noon I had some weak watery chicken broth. I was drinking water as well. At noon I began the consumption of the prep solution itself, a fairly innocuously named drink called Colyte. Four litres of this drink is consumed over the next 4 - 6 hours, and will produce the desired effect. As I have undergone this particular process three times now I have some insights to consider for future sessions:
1. keep drinking water, even though drinking this stuff makes you feel full
2. Colyte supposedly has a mild, fruity flavour. If I knew what kind of tree bore this fruit I would set fire to the whole orchard. I found that after I drank a glass of the prep solution, a sip of black coffee helped counteract the aftertaste of the Colyte.
3. If you carefully follow the instructions on the label, you will be drinking one glass every 20 minutes. You will be incredibly bloated long before relief is felt. You may be nauseaus, so just stop and literally 'catch your breath'. You start at noon, you can drink it all night and be OK for the next morning.
4. Don't stray far from the bathroom, unless you have plans to practice sprinting all day long.
By six pm I had finished the 4L jug. Most of me was empty long before 10pm, but as the weatherman says, "occasional isolated storms" are inevitable. I had not drank anything other than my coffee, water and the Colyte since noon. I was cold and tired. I was really cold actually, and that was the worst feeling; surprisingly I wasn't hungry. My weight Monday morning was 174.2 lbs. I had lost some 5 pounds since Saturday. I went to bed around midnight, but sleep was not a comfort. I was awake hours before the alarm went off at 630 that Monday morning.
Snow and cold greeted me as I left my house the day of my Colonoscopy. The damp chill air robbed my tired body of strength. Wearing a winter jacket, wearing gloves, wearing a fleece sweater and the car heater cranked up brought no relief, I was miserably cold on that ride to yet another hospital. This time I went to a smaller facility in the county. What it lacked in size it more than made up for in friendliness and professionalism. In a short time I was once again receiving instructions on what clothing to remove, how to tie up my hospital-issued gown. I was permitted to wear my socks, my cold feet more than just a metaphor. Up until now everything was routine; veteran that I was there was nothing new for me to experience. Until the nurse asked me to roll over on my side.
Now I had expected to receive the IV that would be used to administer the drugs that would deliver me to the realm of Morpheus, so this request to roll onto my left side was a novelty. Here's where my previous Colonoscopy procedure diverged: the purpose of me rolling onto my side was to facilitate "The Enema". Oh my gosh I'm wide awake and Very Aware Of Something Cold being firmly inserted into No Man's land. OK, to be honest it was weird and mildly uncomfortable, but as always, I survived. Further surprises awaited however, as the enema took effect and caused me to dash towards the nearest washroom. I think I know how the phrase 'Greased Lightning' came into existence. Fortunately my earlier prep had pretty much cleaned me out and I didn't need to ask for additional reading material to pass the time...
Back once more in bed and I was now deemed "really really cleaned out". Now comes the IV insertion. In the past this has been the most uncomfortable part of the procedure (I'm a wimp). This time my dehydrated, cold state proved to be a challenge. First one hand was tried. Then another. Then the first again. I have pretty good veins for such things usually, but they were not cooperating. I do not know why, but I suddenly felt flushed and light-headed. I began to think that if my procedure started this way, what other terrible things could happen. Had I been standing I would have fainted. Seeing my distress the nurses used warm blankets to comfort me. One blanket was wrapped around my arm, ostensibly to make the IV insertion easier. The lights over my bed were dimmed, and I closed my eyes and rested. A few minutes later my nurse was able to insert the IV, the warm blanket had helped I guess. My panic attack was over. I rested as fluid was put through my newly-inserted IV to rehydrate me. My bed was moved to the staging area for my procedure, I had now been in the hospital for a little over two hours, most of that time trying not to think of what was coming next. I was wheeled into the procedure room, and greeted by my doctor and the anaesthesiologist. My IV was hooked up and the nice anaesthesioligist went over my list of allergies (just seasonal, no latex, no hypothermia issues, I'm pretty easy to sedate apparently). She mentioned I would drift in and out... I drifted out...and when I drifted back in I was back in the recovery room. The procedure had lasted some twenty minutes, but it was an hour before I was once again cognizant of reality. It would be another hour of light rest and the removal of the IV before a very tired and very relieved Terry would head home. My Colonoscopy procedure found no problems. One weekend of my time, some fasting, a little prep and a small procedure were all I needed to allay the fears that my condition had worsened.
The rest of my day was spent not eating as one might suppose, but resting. I would not have anything more substantial than soup later that evening (another piece of advice: don't go on an eating binge at first...it took you a couple of days to taper down, take some time to resume your normal diet). Oh, and you'll be full of air from the procedure, so you'll feel somewhat bloated...
At the end of the day I was happy with my results, how could I not? I was worried that there would be new signs of cancer, that my disease had returned. Perhaps it may one day, but today was not that day. I can live my life again, as always, one day at a time.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho ....
Two weeks ago I took the first step in resuming my former life by returning to work. On March 31st 2010, I was diagnosed with Cancer. On March 21st 2011 I was once more seated at my desk. There were no epiphanies, no cosmic revelations, just another day, the way life is mostly. In honour of my return there were several boxes of sugar-and-doughy goodness (thanks Doug!); as well a friend had brought home-made cupcakes (thanks Pam!). That was the good part. The bad part was I couldn't eat any of it! I had resolved to stop eating sugary desserts and snacks (cookies, doughnuts, cupcakes, cakes, pies, danishes, ice cream...sigh) It seemed like such a good idea after Shrove Tuesday, aka Panzki Day. I want to keep my weight around the 180lb level. Indeed after a few days the cravings for sweets was gone, just need to break the late-night snacking habit.
Mundane minutia of my noshing endeavours aside, my first day back at work was not too stressful. I managed to successfully change my email Out-Of-Office notification (at one point I had it set so I would return in the year 2104...). I even remembered most of my passwords, no small feat when you consider that I have a LOT of passwords working as an IT System Administrator. With all that frenetic activity you would think a nap would be required when I got home. It was, and I did. Well tomorrow I could sleep in. Small luxuries should not be ignored, else they lose their wonder and enjoyment.
In the weeks since my treatment ended, I wondered how I would fare when I returned to the workplace. I was cautioned to watch my stress level, make sure that I did not overdo things. My abridged schedule saw me at work three days a week: Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I get to sleep in the other two days. Only no one told me of the nasty little drawback of this plan: By being off every alternate day, my resumption of work always feels like a Monday. Too cruel, having three Monday mornings a week!
Work is 'the same but different'. My coworkers are happy to see me, and while I am pleased at what my returning signifies, I feel daunted by the challenge of all that awaits me. The brain is foggy, and I am dismayed at the loss of knowledge I once had. There is the feeling that I am starting over, and in a sense I am in a new job. The so-called "new normal" was once more in effect; having to change the familiarity of one pattern of living with another.
I guess one thing I learned from my ordeal is that beating Cancer is not the defining moment of my life. I can look back at what I have accomplished with some pride and a feeling of smug satisfaction; I did good, but if I look forward, I can do better.
Finally my involvement with the medical community will go on for some time. There will be blood tests every three months for three years. I still have my Port inside me, so there's the monthly Port Flush to look forward to. And in two weeks I am looking forward to my next colonscopy! Well not really, but this time I am not afraid, and living life without fear is not a bad thing.
Mundane minutia of my noshing endeavours aside, my first day back at work was not too stressful. I managed to successfully change my email Out-Of-Office notification (at one point I had it set so I would return in the year 2104...). I even remembered most of my passwords, no small feat when you consider that I have a LOT of passwords working as an IT System Administrator. With all that frenetic activity you would think a nap would be required when I got home. It was, and I did. Well tomorrow I could sleep in. Small luxuries should not be ignored, else they lose their wonder and enjoyment.
In the weeks since my treatment ended, I wondered how I would fare when I returned to the workplace. I was cautioned to watch my stress level, make sure that I did not overdo things. My abridged schedule saw me at work three days a week: Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I get to sleep in the other two days. Only no one told me of the nasty little drawback of this plan: By being off every alternate day, my resumption of work always feels like a Monday. Too cruel, having three Monday mornings a week!
Work is 'the same but different'. My coworkers are happy to see me, and while I am pleased at what my returning signifies, I feel daunted by the challenge of all that awaits me. The brain is foggy, and I am dismayed at the loss of knowledge I once had. There is the feeling that I am starting over, and in a sense I am in a new job. The so-called "new normal" was once more in effect; having to change the familiarity of one pattern of living with another.
I guess one thing I learned from my ordeal is that beating Cancer is not the defining moment of my life. I can look back at what I have accomplished with some pride and a feeling of smug satisfaction; I did good, but if I look forward, I can do better.
Finally my involvement with the medical community will go on for some time. There will be blood tests every three months for three years. I still have my Port inside me, so there's the monthly Port Flush to look forward to. And in two weeks I am looking forward to my next colonscopy! Well not really, but this time I am not afraid, and living life without fear is not a bad thing.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
March -Colon Cancer Awareness Month
By now even those who casually read my scattered musings will have surmised that I had and been treated for Colon Cancer. I just finished treatment in January, and I will need to undergo "routine" tests every three months for the next three years. Should any of those tests return less-than-favourable results, I will go for more tests, some which might be construed as 'unpleasant'.
What is unpleasant is relative; my surgery was unpleasant compared to the process of undergoing a Colonoscopy. My chemotherapy was way more unpleasant (and far more frequent) than a Colonoscopy. That whole 'death by Cancer' prospect also seems way more unpleasant than a Colonoscopy. Frankly, I wish I would have had my Colonoscopy three years earlier; especially given my family history of cancer.
March is designated as Colon Cancer Awareness Month. That means lots of juvenile humour about Colonoscopy's. Butt (pun intended) to put this in perspective, the actual Colonscopy process requires three things from thevictim patient: Drink some stuff. Poop. Sleep. The first two steps mean you have to stay home and maybe watch tv. It's tough, but you can find a way to do it. The last step takes place in the hospital, where they give you DRUGS to sleep. Not so scary after all.
What is scary is the possibility of Cancer. What I think is even more scary of course is not knowing you have cancer til it's too late. If you have a family history of Colon cancer (or indeed any cancer), if you are "around" age 50, if you have experienced fatigue and unexplained weight loss, strange back or abdominal pains...get checked. Get checked even if you haven't any symptoms. It can save your life.
Finally for those of you still squeamish about the procedure, I invite you to read humourist Dave Barry's article about his experience with his first-ever Colonoscopy: Dave Barry's Colonoscopy
And yes, I have another Colonsocopy scheduled for mid-April, and after what I've gone through this past year, it's not so scary anymore.
What is unpleasant is relative; my surgery was unpleasant compared to the process of undergoing a Colonoscopy. My chemotherapy was way more unpleasant (and far more frequent) than a Colonoscopy. That whole 'death by Cancer' prospect also seems way more unpleasant than a Colonoscopy. Frankly, I wish I would have had my Colonoscopy three years earlier; especially given my family history of cancer.
March is designated as Colon Cancer Awareness Month. That means lots of juvenile humour about Colonoscopy's. Butt (pun intended) to put this in perspective, the actual Colonscopy process requires three things from the
What is scary is the possibility of Cancer. What I think is even more scary of course is not knowing you have cancer til it's too late. If you have a family history of Colon cancer (or indeed any cancer), if you are "around" age 50, if you have experienced fatigue and unexplained weight loss, strange back or abdominal pains...get checked. Get checked even if you haven't any symptoms. It can save your life.
Finally for those of you still squeamish about the procedure, I invite you to read humourist Dave Barry's article about his experience with his first-ever Colonoscopy: Dave Barry's Colonoscopy
And yes, I have another Colonsocopy scheduled for mid-April, and after what I've gone through this past year, it's not so scary anymore.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Turning the corner
February is spent, winter's icy hand has buried us in snow the likes we have not seen in more than a decade. The upside it gets me out of the house and shoveling, and that constitutes exercise. I don't mind Winter, it's the prolonged sameness that wearies me. Winter is snow. And more snow. And more monotonous snow. Even work is more exciting than Winter. Speaking of work..
My official return date will be March 21st, 2011, basically one week shy of a full year since I've been off. The plan is to return to work on a part-time basis four hours per day, with the resumption of full time hours by May 1st. I wonder if they'll let me keep my nap time hours between two and four PM?
Returning to work should signify my return to health; a resumption of normality. My family and friends (and yes, even my coworkers) are thrilled at this prospect. However I find that I do not share the same degree of elation as my friends. It requires a five-year clean bill-of-health to be declared 'cancer free', from that viewpoint I'm only 20 per cent completed. I've expended so much of my energy fighting this disease that it's hard to shift focus, to step down and re-orient myself to the larger world. Cancer was the centerpiece of my life for one year, and it defined who I was. Now I need to become myself once more, but perhaps a bit more appreciative of the gift of life and what it offers.
Life is getting better, the winter blahs are almost over, the days are brighter and the promise of spring, as always, is the promise of Hope.
My official return date will be March 21st, 2011, basically one week shy of a full year since I've been off. The plan is to return to work on a part-time basis four hours per day, with the resumption of full time hours by May 1st. I wonder if they'll let me keep my nap time hours between two and four PM?
Returning to work should signify my return to health; a resumption of normality. My family and friends (and yes, even my coworkers) are thrilled at this prospect. However I find that I do not share the same degree of elation as my friends. It requires a five-year clean bill-of-health to be declared 'cancer free', from that viewpoint I'm only 20 per cent completed. I've expended so much of my energy fighting this disease that it's hard to shift focus, to step down and re-orient myself to the larger world. Cancer was the centerpiece of my life for one year, and it defined who I was. Now I need to become myself once more, but perhaps a bit more appreciative of the gift of life and what it offers.
Life is getting better, the winter blahs are almost over, the days are brighter and the promise of spring, as always, is the promise of Hope.
Friday, February 18, 2011
One year later...
In January of 2010 I had a routine physical scheduled with my family doctor. As a matter of course I've had a yearly physical, complete with the usual tests for most of the past decade. Some of my results from the last set of tests were cause for concern, and in early February of 2010 I met with my family doctor to discuss my situation. Further tests would confirm that I had Cancer, thus beginning a personal journey that would test the limits of my physical and emotional strengths.
Cancer. A single word uttered by my surgeon was enough to force me to lie on an exam table, engulfed in a paralyzing fear. I couldn't think, I was in shock. Even though I had lost both parents to this disease, I found myself at the age of 50 to be completely overwhelmed and unable to focus. The heat I felt on the back of my neck signaled that I was critically near to passing out.
Cancer. A single word that invoked a primal fear. The fight-or-flight mechanism was useless; the threat was not some external predator, it was my own cells: it was me.
Cancer. A single word so loaded with negative connotations that it was almost a palpable thing. But it wasn't just a word, it was a disease, and I had it.
There is another single word that helps to balance out the negative effects of Cancer, and that word is Hope. Before any technical means are employed, before any judgments are passed, there must be hope. Without hope the journey is over before it starts. For a year I've kept that hope within me alive and my constant silent-but-always-present companion on my journey. My physicians gave me my initial hope, but I sustained and nurtured it as needed. Circumstances changed, challenges were presented and resolved, and hope remained with me through the course of my treatment.
My treatment ranged from blood tests to EEG's, from xrays to CT's, from day surgeries to major surgeries. Over the past year I would have a Colonoscopy, an IV Port insertion, a Liver embolization and two major surgeries: one for the removal of a tumour in my colon, and one for removal of tumours in my liver. Then there were the chemo sessions. A chemo session for me consisted of three parts:
-the pre-chemo bloodwork
-the chemo session proper
-the post-chemo disconnect/port flush
Individually the chemo sessions accounted for 36 separate visits to a medical facility over a 9 month period. My hospitalization for my two surgeries and three day-surgeries would total 18 days. Sprinkle in tests for the pre-admission portion of the surgeries plus visits to the various physicians, recovery times of 4-6 weeks after the major surgeries and suddenly a whole chunk of time has passed.
My latest CT took place on February 3rd, 2010. Two weeks later I would meet with my Oncologist to discuss the findings. On Thursday, February 17th my journey would end for now. Up to now my hopes were conditional on the CT not revealing any heretofore unknown problem. Up to now I was reasonably confident that the treatment over the past year was successful. My confidence, as well as my hopes were not diminished by the CT report: I was in the clear, no new tumours, no lurking alligators in the Cancer swamps. My Oncologist believed that I should be able to return to work.
This was not an unconditional release from the Cancer prison, I would still be required to honour the 'Chemo Parole'. This consists of blood tests every three months, over a period of three years. Further tests, using Ultrasound instead of a CT will be given. For the next several years my health and medical status will be closely watched. Finally, to bring my journey full circle, another Colonoscopy procedure needs to be performed. This time I have every confidence that things will be different, and that the results will be better too. If not, well, I have a lot of experience in dealing with bleak situations. And I have my secret weapon: Hope.
My old journey is over. My new journey begins, as I embark upon a five year adventure, one that should I remain Cancer-free, will truly allow me to say that I have won, that I have Beaten Cancer, that I am truly a survivor. Hope and a whole lot of great medical folks plus an amazing group of family, friends and coworkers have allowed me to succeed thus far.
Wish me luck folks, lets see how far my new journey takes me.
Cancer. A single word uttered by my surgeon was enough to force me to lie on an exam table, engulfed in a paralyzing fear. I couldn't think, I was in shock. Even though I had lost both parents to this disease, I found myself at the age of 50 to be completely overwhelmed and unable to focus. The heat I felt on the back of my neck signaled that I was critically near to passing out.
Cancer. A single word that invoked a primal fear. The fight-or-flight mechanism was useless; the threat was not some external predator, it was my own cells: it was me.
Cancer. A single word so loaded with negative connotations that it was almost a palpable thing. But it wasn't just a word, it was a disease, and I had it.
There is another single word that helps to balance out the negative effects of Cancer, and that word is Hope. Before any technical means are employed, before any judgments are passed, there must be hope. Without hope the journey is over before it starts. For a year I've kept that hope within me alive and my constant silent-but-always-present companion on my journey. My physicians gave me my initial hope, but I sustained and nurtured it as needed. Circumstances changed, challenges were presented and resolved, and hope remained with me through the course of my treatment.
My treatment ranged from blood tests to EEG's, from xrays to CT's, from day surgeries to major surgeries. Over the past year I would have a Colonoscopy, an IV Port insertion, a Liver embolization and two major surgeries: one for the removal of a tumour in my colon, and one for removal of tumours in my liver. Then there were the chemo sessions. A chemo session for me consisted of three parts:
-the pre-chemo bloodwork
-the chemo session proper
-the post-chemo disconnect/port flush
Individually the chemo sessions accounted for 36 separate visits to a medical facility over a 9 month period. My hospitalization for my two surgeries and three day-surgeries would total 18 days. Sprinkle in tests for the pre-admission portion of the surgeries plus visits to the various physicians, recovery times of 4-6 weeks after the major surgeries and suddenly a whole chunk of time has passed.
My latest CT took place on February 3rd, 2010. Two weeks later I would meet with my Oncologist to discuss the findings. On Thursday, February 17th my journey would end for now. Up to now my hopes were conditional on the CT not revealing any heretofore unknown problem. Up to now I was reasonably confident that the treatment over the past year was successful. My confidence, as well as my hopes were not diminished by the CT report: I was in the clear, no new tumours, no lurking alligators in the Cancer swamps. My Oncologist believed that I should be able to return to work.
This was not an unconditional release from the Cancer prison, I would still be required to honour the 'Chemo Parole'. This consists of blood tests every three months, over a period of three years. Further tests, using Ultrasound instead of a CT will be given. For the next several years my health and medical status will be closely watched. Finally, to bring my journey full circle, another Colonoscopy procedure needs to be performed. This time I have every confidence that things will be different, and that the results will be better too. If not, well, I have a lot of experience in dealing with bleak situations. And I have my secret weapon: Hope.
My old journey is over. My new journey begins, as I embark upon a five year adventure, one that should I remain Cancer-free, will truly allow me to say that I have won, that I have Beaten Cancer, that I am truly a survivor. Hope and a whole lot of great medical folks plus an amazing group of family, friends and coworkers have allowed me to succeed thus far.
Wish me luck folks, lets see how far my new journey takes me.
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