September 9th and I'm ready for my latest CT scan. I've got my cell phone turned off because that's what the sign in every Hospital waiting area requires. However my wi-fi enabled Android player is on. And my wi-fi enabled eReader is looking for hot spots. Fortunately for the Hospital, I didn't bring my Netbook or Tablet!
Back in May I did the first of two visits required by my post-cancer protocol. During the prior visit I was basically poked and prodded by my Oncologist. For the upcoming visit, I would need something more "medical-ly" ("medical-ish"?): a CT scan. CT exams have the remarkable ability to peer inside a human body by blasting it with radiation. The downside of course is that they blast you with radiation. Apparently Protocol required I get Yet Another CT Scan.
A letter from the Cancer Centre arrives, with details indicating the date and time of my CT. I'm instructed to have blood work before the CT, outside of my normal quarterly procedures. I would also have to purchase the whimsically-named "Redi Cat" contrast drink. Foremost was a requirement that I call the Cancer Clinic and report that I had received and read the letter. Which I did and a question arose: Did I really need to drink the Redi Cat. I was pretty sure I didn't last time (or was it the time before? I can't remember -hint: RECORD EVERYTHING!) The person on the other end of the call made some inquiries on my behalf, and they decided I didn't need to drink liquid chalk after all.
I avoided the busy Clinic day that would surely occur on the Tuesday following a Labour Day weekend, and my cleverness to go mid-week for blood work was rewarded with a 15 minute in-and-out process. All good, everything clicking along like clockwork so far. My CT was on the following Monday. I am not worried about CT exams, veteran that I am, it's just that if you keep looking I suppose you will eventually find something. I'm not keen on surprises anymore.
I am not supposed to eat or drink four hours prior to the exam. So you change your morning routine, you skip breakfast, you skip that morning cup of coffee. You also need to be at the hospital at least 30 minutes prior to the start time of the procedure. Although a CT occurs in Diagnostic Imaging, the first place you go to is Admitting. In Admitting a pleasant lady asks me for my OHIP card, my address, and why I'm in the Hospital today. My responses earn me a smile and a piece of paper. I then walk over to Diagnostic Imaging, where I hand this paper to another smiling lady. In return the smiling Diagnostic Imaging lady hands me a pager. This device will flash it's lights when the technicians are ready for me.
I can't get comfortable sitting, so I stand up and pace about. I'm always cold in the Hospital. I am hungry and really thirsty. As if reading my mind, a clerk asks if I've brought my Redi Cat drink. I'm sure the clerk has seen bewildered and uncomprehending looks on patients faces before. But she's never seen my look of bewilderment. It appears that I misunderstood the requirements: I needed to drink the RediCat. Technically I was supposed to drink some before I arrived, and then drink the rest just prior to the exam. I was mildly reproached that the Hospital runs the examinations, not the Cancer Clinic. Since I hadn't followed the proper preparation the scan couldn't be done at the scheduled time, but I was presented with two options.
The first option would require rescheduling the exam (and buy the RediCat in advance). The second option would require I drink an elixir kept in the Vault of Terrible Tasting Concoctions just for people like me. I chose to drink the Terrible Tasting Concoction. After that I would be required to wait another full hour before they could examine me.
The drink wasn't that bad, and helped to reduce my thirst a bit. I only had another hour to wait, but it would be a miserable hour. I was cold and kept standing up and moving around. I couldn't get comfortable. My attention span is measured in microseconds, so lugging 8 pounds of electronic gadgets with me wasn't my best idea. Eventually all annoying things come to an end and my pager went off, displaying the room location I needed to be at: Room Zero.
Room Zero is the preparation room where an IV is inserted. While the CT shoots radiation through you a contrast material is pushed into you via the IV during various parts of the CT scan. This contrast material interacts with the contents of the Terrible Tasting Concoction I drank earlier and when hit with radiation produces a Warhol-esque picture of your insides. I would microscopically glow in the dark. From the inside.
Earlier in the week I had blood work. That day I also received my montly B12 shot. The IV I was about to receive would be the third puncture in the Injection Triad. It's not the needles, it's not the blood, it's not what they pump into my system, it's the tape that bugs me most. Tape is used in hospitals to securely fasten IV's to patient's arms so the needle's don't spurt out at critical times. Like in the middle of a CT. Therefore the tape needs to be strong and adhere well to skin. Which means peeling it off will remove all the hairs between the tape and the skin. And probably some of the skin as well. It will also leave gummy gray residue for days that neatly outline where your bandage once resided. But it's only tape.
The exam is routine by now. I remove anything metallic from my pockets. Since the exam is my midsection I simply have to lower my pants. A light cover is provided for my modesty. Which is pointless given that a CT looks though everything. I still take the blanket. The technician has me lie down on the table feet towards the entry tunnel of the CT device. My IV port is connected, ready to receive the contrast injection. My arms are flat back. I'm completely streteched out, looking upwards. The table begins to move towards the entry. I always close my eyes during this exam...
A voice comes over the intercom telling me to take a breath and hold it. The table moves out of the ring and I'm instructed to breathe normally. The contrast injection is next, the voice makes the same breathe-and-hold request. I can feel the warmth of the liquid as it's infused. I'm warm around my ears, my neck and my lower butt. Fortunately it's not what you might think and after another pass through the ring my exam is over. The IV is removed, and that industrial Hospital tape covers the site. I get to pull my pants up and go home.
After these exams I'm always wound-up, thinking that every phone call might be from the Cancer Clinic, saying they found something. As days turn into weeks with no such call, I finally return to normal. Or at least my version of normal.
I won't know my results until I meet with my oncologist in October. It's only a few weeks away. The vague worries I periodically experience are probably the same for every Cancer patient after a test. But I feel OK right now. And that's good enough to live with.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Soggy weather
July was not really interesting, either as a month or medically in my life. For most of July It rained or was hot, and frequently it was both. But medically it was boring.
I would do the quarterly blood work for my post-cancer protocol. There would be no follow-up phone calls indicating a problem. I would see my family doctor to get my Crestor prescription refilled. Aside from 14 hours of fasting, there was no issues with that blood work either. And I would get an x-ray of my left hand, because I was complaining of soreness.
It's probably arthritis. It's probably nothing. It's probably the fact that I'm over 50 and hyper aware of my aches and pains. The cancer may be gone. It's probably gone, but the doubts remain. So now every little ache leaves me wondering if it's something dreadful working it's way back into my life. Am I to be forever scared?
So July passes to August, my tests are all negative, and I'm scheduled for more tests: a CT scan in September. Then a meeting with the Oncologist in October. My monthly calendar arranged by medical reviews. I promise myself to watch my diet and exercise 'more often'. My entire exercise regimen consists of walking or bike riding. My 'gut feeling' is that my health is best served monitoring my caloric intake first before trying to sweat it off.
I don't have any fun medical things planned for August. The last bits of my Cancer Protocol seem to be winding down. The more boring medically, the better life is. Pretty soon there won't be anything left to write about, and my blogging "daze" will draw to a close. Then I can spend all my time doing much more useful things, like complaining about what soggy weather we're having.
I would do the quarterly blood work for my post-cancer protocol. There would be no follow-up phone calls indicating a problem. I would see my family doctor to get my Crestor prescription refilled. Aside from 14 hours of fasting, there was no issues with that blood work either. And I would get an x-ray of my left hand, because I was complaining of soreness.
It's probably arthritis. It's probably nothing. It's probably the fact that I'm over 50 and hyper aware of my aches and pains. The cancer may be gone. It's probably gone, but the doubts remain. So now every little ache leaves me wondering if it's something dreadful working it's way back into my life. Am I to be forever scared?
So July passes to August, my tests are all negative, and I'm scheduled for more tests: a CT scan in September. Then a meeting with the Oncologist in October. My monthly calendar arranged by medical reviews. I promise myself to watch my diet and exercise 'more often'. My entire exercise regimen consists of walking or bike riding. My 'gut feeling' is that my health is best served monitoring my caloric intake first before trying to sweat it off.
I don't have any fun medical things planned for August. The last bits of my Cancer Protocol seem to be winding down. The more boring medically, the better life is. Pretty soon there won't be anything left to write about, and my blogging "daze" will draw to a close. Then I can spend all my time doing much more useful things, like complaining about what soggy weather we're having.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Every walk is important
Idyllic spring weather for me consists of days that are not too warm, skies that don't threaten rain, and evenings with a view of the moon and stars. On June 21st I shared just such a day with hundreds of others during the 2013 edition of the Canadian Cancer Society's Relay for Life.
Relay for Life is an annual event held in numerous locations across Canada. Their goal is to raise money for Cancer research. Their ideal is to erase Cancer as a disease. Throughout this twelve-hour event, they honour those who made it through their ordeal, and reflect on the ones who have passed. Their creed is summarized as:
I can truly say, "Been there, walked that, got the (survivor) shirt."
Perhaps the most intensely moving experience of the this twelve hour evening event is the Luminary Ceremony. At its core it is a simple thing, a white bag that wouldn't look out of place if it contained sandwiches and an apple. Within this flameproof bag however is a small votive candle. Upon these bags are written the names of those we need to remember. The names of those that may be going through their journey. The names of those that made a difference when your life changed forever. There are thousands of these little white bags, some, plain and unadorned (like mine), others cheerfully decorated. Some bearing photographs or prayers. Some are works of art. They are all paper shrines with emotional bonds stronger than forged steel.
As dusk approaches, prayers are said for those who have passed, and we observe our moment of silence. I think of family could not be here this night. Of coworkers and friends who were abruptly taken away by cancer. Twinge of guilt for not being among their number. Twilight no more, night is about us. A moon close enough to be called full is rising. The Luminary candles are lit, while the piper stirs within us that haunting sadness whenever "Amazing Grace" is played. A ribbon of light encircles the field. I walk around the track to find the two Luminaries reserved for my parents yet unlit.
I cannot get to the luminaries reserved for my parents. A woman sitting perfectly still blocks access to them. I cannot see her face, nor determine her age. I presume that her luminaries are adjacent to the ones for my parents. Another woman approaches, dressed in the same uniform as her seated teammate. She kneels beside her friend, maybe sharing in grief, maybe consoling her, I do not know. There is no sound of crying, but the shoulder-wracking sobbing is unmistakable for it's anguish . At that moment I'm profoundly saddened for her loss. Self conscious now that I'm wearing a bright yellow shirt boldly proclaiming "Survivor". Not wishing to intrude on this intense event, I quietly move away. I do not wish to meet her eyes if she should look up. How would I answer the unspoken question of why one survived, and one did not?
I continue my walk that evening with conflicting emotions. I'm proud for meeting my life's toughest challenge, but humbled by a stranger's grief. There would be no cathartic release for me this evening, no feeling of joy at 'beating' cancer. The walk did not release me from Cancer's hold, any more than it could erase other painful memories in my life. Although my expectations of closure were not fulfilled, I did not leave disappointed.
I guess what I learned from this event was that in order to celebrate my life I don't need any grand gestures. Whenever I want to explore life, I just need to open up my front door. And go for a walk.
Relay for Life is an annual event held in numerous locations across Canada. Their goal is to raise money for Cancer research. Their ideal is to erase Cancer as a disease. Throughout this twelve-hour event, they honour those who made it through their ordeal, and reflect on the ones who have passed. Their creed is summarized as:
CELEBRATE - you are a survivor!
REMEMBER - in honour of the ones we've lost
FIGHT BACK! - and help other so they don't have to suffer
REMEMBER - in honour of the ones we've lost
FIGHT BACK! - and help other so they don't have to suffer
Early in my post-cancer period I had visited the Relay For Life as a spectator. During those occasions it was to remember the passing of my parents. Naively I had assumed that I needed to be "five years cancer free" to be considered a survivor. Nothing so formal is required: being alive and fighting Cancer makes you a survivor as far as I'm concerned. But I wanted something definitive to tell the world --and myself-- that I was done with Cancer. What I hoped to get was door-slamming, "In your face, Cancer!" closure. So I signed up to do the Relay for Life Survivor Walk.
The process begins with registering on the Canadian Cancer Society's website. As a survivor, you are not required to pay an entry fee, and your yellow T-shirt says "Survivor" on it. I'm not particularly fond of yellow, and the primary colours of my wardrobe are White, Black, Blue and Gray. In particularly flamboyant moments I've been known to for the 'daring' earth tones of Beige and Green. On this day however I am resplendent in Daffodil Yellow:
The process begins with registering on the Canadian Cancer Society's website. As a survivor, you are not required to pay an entry fee, and your yellow T-shirt says "Survivor" on it. I'm not particularly fond of yellow, and the primary colours of my wardrobe are White, Black, Blue and Gray. In particularly flamboyant moments I've been known to for the 'daring' earth tones of Beige and Green. On this day however I am resplendent in Daffodil Yellow:
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| Windsor/Lasalle Relay for Life, June 21, 2013 |
In the weeks leading up to this particular event I would casually mention that I would be walking the Survivor Lap, as the inaugural lap is called. What surprised me was the enthusiastic offers of people willing to pledge. I did not wish to solicit sponsorship at this time, as I had distinctly mixed feelings about my motives for this event. It is difficult to articulate, but suffice to say this was something personal between me and Cancer.
On the event day itself I was eager to get going, to be among other survivors to hear what they had to say, to share this intensely personal experience with others who just know what you've gone through. Upon arriving at the Relay site, we received VIP treatment: preferred parking for Survivors, so we didn't need to walk the approximately 17,000km from parking lot to the venue.
On the event day itself I was eager to get going, to be among other survivors to hear what they had to say, to share this intensely personal experience with others who just know what you've gone through. Upon arriving at the Relay site, we received VIP treatment: preferred parking for Survivors, so we didn't need to walk the approximately 17,000km from parking lot to the venue.
More pleasant surprises, the registration had a novelty 'hand tracing' banner. All survivors were encouraged to trace their hand, as a sort of group High-Five I suppose. During the event it would precede the walkers, carried forward by willing volunteers. Speaking of Volunteers if you've got some spare time and are looking for a cause, I'm sure the CCS would be interested in hearing from you.
Supper was in that fine Summer tradition of hot dogs, hamburgers (or veggie burger in my case), pasta and salad, coffee and dessert. Cheerful volunteers served us in picnic-buffet style. I had lost my ticket entitling me to a free dessert shortly after registration. But I suspect the un-missable "Survivor" caption on my shirt got me a yummy treat anyways: cupcakes that were tasty works of art.
To my way of thinking, the Relay For Life bears a similarity to a Wedding reception. Both have lots of guests. Both feature enthusiastic participants. Both have lots of food and entertainment. And finally, both have lots of after-dinner speeches. As I was in the group that was to kick things off, we were semi-sequestered far from the stage where numerous officials, politicians, community leaders, fund raisers, and CCS representatives talked at length about why we were all here. Though I missed most of what was said, my observation of the audience tells me they liked what they heard. Speeches completed, the Knights of Columbus would be the honour guard as the walk commenced.
By tradition, the youngest survivors lead the walk. They may be kids, but thanks to events such as the Relay For Life, they are kids with a future. Flanked by the K of C honour guard, we proceed with that inaugural lap. I'm aware of how proud I feel to be here. I'm startled out of my introspection when I suddenly realize that everyone wants to high-five the survivors as we walk by. Little kids reaching way up, eager to do their share to help us Survivors. I'm happy to oblige and make sure I slow down to gently tap small palms. Victory assured, I keep walking.
I walk fast. I suspect that to some observers I might have appeared somewhat over-eager. Initially the walk started out solely as Survivors. Halfway through the Care Givers were permitted to join in. As my first Survivor Walk drew to a close, I tried to figure out how I felt, if I had a better understanding of what I had gone through three years ago. But it was just a walk, shared with some nice people. My hoped-for closure did not manifest itself. There wasn't any over-the-top emotional spillover. I think I've had enough cancer-related emotional drama for a lifetime.
Yet I can't deny it wasn't uplifting to participate in the Survivor lap. I had set out three years ago with a plan to get through treatment and return to work. I reached my objectives and was satisfied. I thought perhaps the Survivor walk might invoke a feeling of sadness for a life so changed. But no tears from me at this time. Later that evening however, I would be emotionally ambushed during the Luminary Ceremony.
Perhaps the most intensely moving experience of the this twelve hour evening event is the Luminary Ceremony. At its core it is a simple thing, a white bag that wouldn't look out of place if it contained sandwiches and an apple. Within this flameproof bag however is a small votive candle. Upon these bags are written the names of those we need to remember. The names of those that may be going through their journey. The names of those that made a difference when your life changed forever. There are thousands of these little white bags, some, plain and unadorned (like mine), others cheerfully decorated. Some bearing photographs or prayers. Some are works of art. They are all paper shrines with emotional bonds stronger than forged steel.
As dusk approaches, prayers are said for those who have passed, and we observe our moment of silence. I think of family could not be here this night. Of coworkers and friends who were abruptly taken away by cancer. Twinge of guilt for not being among their number. Twilight no more, night is about us. A moon close enough to be called full is rising. The Luminary candles are lit, while the piper stirs within us that haunting sadness whenever "Amazing Grace" is played. A ribbon of light encircles the field. I walk around the track to find the two Luminaries reserved for my parents yet unlit.
I cannot get to the luminaries reserved for my parents. A woman sitting perfectly still blocks access to them. I cannot see her face, nor determine her age. I presume that her luminaries are adjacent to the ones for my parents. Another woman approaches, dressed in the same uniform as her seated teammate. She kneels beside her friend, maybe sharing in grief, maybe consoling her, I do not know. There is no sound of crying, but the shoulder-wracking sobbing is unmistakable for it's anguish . At that moment I'm profoundly saddened for her loss. Self conscious now that I'm wearing a bright yellow shirt boldly proclaiming "Survivor". Not wishing to intrude on this intense event, I quietly move away. I do not wish to meet her eyes if she should look up. How would I answer the unspoken question of why one survived, and one did not?
I continue my walk that evening with conflicting emotions. I'm proud for meeting my life's toughest challenge, but humbled by a stranger's grief. There would be no cathartic release for me this evening, no feeling of joy at 'beating' cancer. The walk did not release me from Cancer's hold, any more than it could erase other painful memories in my life. Although my expectations of closure were not fulfilled, I did not leave disappointed.
I guess what I learned from this event was that in order to celebrate my life I don't need any grand gestures. Whenever I want to explore life, I just need to open up my front door. And go for a walk.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Protocol visit 1/2
It's now May 2013, two years 'cancer free', and my post-cancer protocol has me visiting my Oncologist twice a year. I'm somewhat anxious as I step once more into the Windsor Regional Cancer Centre. Although I'm no longer receiving treatment, there's a twinge of anxiety when I sit down in front of a terminal to enter my health survey. First challenge: remembering my password. Once logged-in I answer queries about my health in a mechanical, perfunctory fashion. All the answers are scored on a scale from One to Ten. Most of my answers are on the low-end of the scale. I'm telling the computer that basically everything is OK. I hope I'm right, because shortly my name will be called and I'll be brought to the exam room.
First there's a matter of stepping on a scale. I divest myself of cell phone, wallet, keys, eReader, android device, pens and pencils, loose change. I didn't bring my back pack with me this visit, 'cuz I didn't want to bring too much stuff... I briefly consider removing my shoes, after all, I want to be accurate with my weight right? I weigh-in at 186 pounds, not too bad. It takes me a while to get all that junk back into my pockets, and then I'm shuttled to the exam room. As the doctor walks in I realize that an exam requires that I be lying down on the table, which means I have to empty out my pockets. Again.
My nice Oncologist lady sees the eReader I'm removing from my pocket. A Kobo-Mini, very nice compact little device. We chat for a couple of minutes, she smiles at my enthusiasm for electronics gadgets -boys and their toys. Now the toys go back out of my pockets and onto the chair. I get on the exam table.
Although my primary cancer was in the Colon, it had spread to the liver by the time I was diagnosed. Surgery and chemotherapy and a lot of support helped me recover. My Oncologist is performing a follow-up check on my liver looking for whatever symptoms mean bad things might be happening. Apparently the process of meticulous abdominal probing involves tickling the patient. As the exam continue I am required do take deep breaths. She's apparently satisfied that my lungs do what they should be doing. And we're done.
Once more I shovel all that hardware back into my pockets. My Oncologist is pleased that things are going well, and she reminds me to keep going for the quarterly blood work. I'm to be scheduled for yet another CT in September. Note to self: ask the doctor how many CT's are too many?
Overall I'm relieved; you can't help but feel happy walking out of a Cancer institution with no strings attached. Or an I.V. tube. It's the little things that make a difference.
A day after my recent visit with the Oncologist, I get a phone call: my CT appointment has been scheduled for September. I'll go for my blood work sometime in July. However before any of that happens I register for the Relay For Life : I've decided to join in on the Survivor Walk this year.
So this June I'll join with other survivors, walking the inaugural lap of the all-night Relay. I'll walk to show that having Cancer is simply part of the journey through life. I'll walk and remember where I've been and how far I have yet to go. And I'll get there, one step at a time.
First there's a matter of stepping on a scale. I divest myself of cell phone, wallet, keys, eReader, android device, pens and pencils, loose change. I didn't bring my back pack with me this visit, 'cuz I didn't want to bring too much stuff... I briefly consider removing my shoes, after all, I want to be accurate with my weight right? I weigh-in at 186 pounds, not too bad. It takes me a while to get all that junk back into my pockets, and then I'm shuttled to the exam room. As the doctor walks in I realize that an exam requires that I be lying down on the table, which means I have to empty out my pockets. Again.
My nice Oncologist lady sees the eReader I'm removing from my pocket. A Kobo-Mini, very nice compact little device. We chat for a couple of minutes, she smiles at my enthusiasm for electronics gadgets -boys and their toys. Now the toys go back out of my pockets and onto the chair. I get on the exam table.
Although my primary cancer was in the Colon, it had spread to the liver by the time I was diagnosed. Surgery and chemotherapy and a lot of support helped me recover. My Oncologist is performing a follow-up check on my liver looking for whatever symptoms mean bad things might be happening. Apparently the process of meticulous abdominal probing involves tickling the patient. As the exam continue I am required do take deep breaths. She's apparently satisfied that my lungs do what they should be doing. And we're done.
Once more I shovel all that hardware back into my pockets. My Oncologist is pleased that things are going well, and she reminds me to keep going for the quarterly blood work. I'm to be scheduled for yet another CT in September. Note to self: ask the doctor how many CT's are too many?
Overall I'm relieved; you can't help but feel happy walking out of a Cancer institution with no strings attached. Or an I.V. tube. It's the little things that make a difference.
A day after my recent visit with the Oncologist, I get a phone call: my CT appointment has been scheduled for September. I'll go for my blood work sometime in July. However before any of that happens I register for the Relay For Life : I've decided to join in on the Survivor Walk this year.
So this June I'll join with other survivors, walking the inaugural lap of the all-night Relay. I'll walk to show that having Cancer is simply part of the journey through life. I'll walk and remember where I've been and how far I have yet to go. And I'll get there, one step at a time.
Friday, May 10, 2013
The Month of Yellow Flowers
This April 2013 marks the 75th anniversary of the Canadian Cancer Society. April is also the month to wear a Daffodil, the yellow flower used to show support for those whose lives have been touched by Cancer. Even though I've been through the whole "Cancer ruined my day" thing, I never had direct experience with the CCS until recently.
During the prior month of March I wrote about the joys of getting tested for Colon Cancer at the request of the CCS. Given my history, how could I refuse? A complete surprise however was the subsequent invitation by the CCS permitting me to be present for the announcement of a new research program targeting Brain Cancer. Intrigued by the prospect of meeting people actively involved in Cancer research, I quickly accepted their kind invitation.
So on a cold but wonderfully bright and sunny spring day, I arrive early and wander around the Biology building of the University of Windsor. The UoW is my old 'alma mater' as a "mater" of fact. While strolling around the building I run into a group of suit-and-tie types, closely shadowed by folks with formidable-sized cameras being aimed in the direction of the suits. Believing that I've found the promised Tour portion of the program to which I've been invited, I nonchalantly join in and proceed along with the group as they visit various labs, showing the machines that will hopefully coerce more secrets on how Cancer works. I meet the Doctor who will be the recipient of the CCS grant and she patiently explains to me how the process is intended to work. Details may be found here. Suffice to say that diagnosing a cancer in the brain as a Brain Cancer -and it's subsequent therapeutic treatment -is difficult. A cancer can be in the brain as a result of a primary at some other area. Unfortunately it seems that if you treat for the wrong primary, the results won't be good. Thus the vital need for research of this nature.
During my conversation with the recipient of the CCS research grant, it slowly dawns on me that something is not quite what it ought to be. It appears that this is an official tour for the CCS CEO and staff members. I've unwittingly invited myself in. I'm bemused, but that feeling turns to one of embarrassment as I'm called upon to pose in a group photo and I quickly realize I'm suffering from a minor fashion faux-pas. It wasn't the lack of a tie, or lack of a sports jacket, or even that my dress shoes were more casual and less shiny than my counterparts. No it was when I realized that I was not wearing my Daffodil pin. Here I was, the veteran (and scarred, I can prove it!) Cancer survivor, amongst the very people who provide researches with the funds to help guys like me. And I'm not wearing their eye-catching and very distinct logo!
No one seemed to mind, and at the promised (and tasty) luncheon there were numerous pins thoughtfully provided for people like me to show support for, well, people like me I suppose.
The luncheon flew by as I chatted with various folks about their stories, sharing that intangible camaraderie that only those that 'go through it' seem to have. I gratefully thanked the CCS and summarily returned to work, glad to have a peek at what kinds of things are required to do nitty-gritty bio-medical research. I'm so glad I'm in I.T. But my Yellow Flower story did not end there.
A few days later a package arrives by courier for me. Inside is a token of thanks from the Canadian Cancer Society:
April would remain cold and wet and unseasonable for this clime, but I needn't worry. My Daffodil Garden is full of happy Yellow Flowers reminding me that Hope is always near.
During the prior month of March I wrote about the joys of getting tested for Colon Cancer at the request of the CCS. Given my history, how could I refuse? A complete surprise however was the subsequent invitation by the CCS permitting me to be present for the announcement of a new research program targeting Brain Cancer. Intrigued by the prospect of meeting people actively involved in Cancer research, I quickly accepted their kind invitation.
So on a cold but wonderfully bright and sunny spring day, I arrive early and wander around the Biology building of the University of Windsor. The UoW is my old 'alma mater' as a "mater" of fact. While strolling around the building I run into a group of suit-and-tie types, closely shadowed by folks with formidable-sized cameras being aimed in the direction of the suits. Believing that I've found the promised Tour portion of the program to which I've been invited, I nonchalantly join in and proceed along with the group as they visit various labs, showing the machines that will hopefully coerce more secrets on how Cancer works. I meet the Doctor who will be the recipient of the CCS grant and she patiently explains to me how the process is intended to work. Details may be found here. Suffice to say that diagnosing a cancer in the brain as a Brain Cancer -and it's subsequent therapeutic treatment -is difficult. A cancer can be in the brain as a result of a primary at some other area. Unfortunately it seems that if you treat for the wrong primary, the results won't be good. Thus the vital need for research of this nature.
During my conversation with the recipient of the CCS research grant, it slowly dawns on me that something is not quite what it ought to be. It appears that this is an official tour for the CCS CEO and staff members. I've unwittingly invited myself in. I'm bemused, but that feeling turns to one of embarrassment as I'm called upon to pose in a group photo and I quickly realize I'm suffering from a minor fashion faux-pas. It wasn't the lack of a tie, or lack of a sports jacket, or even that my dress shoes were more casual and less shiny than my counterparts. No it was when I realized that I was not wearing my Daffodil pin. Here I was, the veteran (and scarred, I can prove it!) Cancer survivor, amongst the very people who provide researches with the funds to help guys like me. And I'm not wearing their eye-catching and very distinct logo!
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| Hey bud, where's your yellow flower? |
The luncheon flew by as I chatted with various folks about their stories, sharing that intangible camaraderie that only those that 'go through it' seem to have. I gratefully thanked the CCS and summarily returned to work, glad to have a peek at what kinds of things are required to do nitty-gritty bio-medical research. I'm so glad I'm in I.T. But my Yellow Flower story did not end there.
A few days later a package arrives by courier for me. Inside is a token of thanks from the Canadian Cancer Society:
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| My own Daffodil pin garden. No watering required! |
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Third Anniversary
Saturday March 30th, 2013 was the third anniversary of the day I learned I had Cancer. Three years later and I'm more or less back to my old life. The fears are gone (mostly) and I live normally, whatever that is at this particular time. However I did not spend my anniversary day in quiet contemplation of what I had overcome, nor in celebration of my apparently victory. Instead I helped a friend, and volunteered at a chess tournament for kids.
One of the odder results from my brush with a life-changing illness was not so much navel-gazing and introspection (plenty of that during my illness) but a re-connection with something I enjoyed: playing chess. During my recuperation I had played a bit and sometimes served as 'chess fodder' for small kids. I would help out with the occasional tournament, mostly in the "gopher-ing" and "shusher-ing" roles. I simply enjoyed the experience of helping out with something not about my illness.
So it was fitting that on this anniversary of 'the news' that I was involved with the playoffs of the Windsor Chess Challenge, a much more pleasant experience. It was all about the kids and their dreams.
As for me, my dreams are just to keep going on as I am, and who knows, maybe even play some chess.
One of the odder results from my brush with a life-changing illness was not so much navel-gazing and introspection (plenty of that during my illness) but a re-connection with something I enjoyed: playing chess. During my recuperation I had played a bit and sometimes served as 'chess fodder' for small kids. I would help out with the occasional tournament, mostly in the "gopher-ing" and "shusher-ing" roles. I simply enjoyed the experience of helping out with something not about my illness.
So it was fitting that on this anniversary of 'the news' that I was involved with the playoffs of the Windsor Chess Challenge, a much more pleasant experience. It was all about the kids and their dreams.
As for me, my dreams are just to keep going on as I am, and who knows, maybe even play some chess.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
March - The Blue Ribbon Month
Until recently I never associated March with anything tangible. To me it seemed that March was neither Winter's Ending nor Spring's Beginning. Then during one such indifferent March, events transpired that would forever link my life to this particular month. Just as Winter fades and Spring arrives, my old life would be replaced, and a new and uncertain one would begin. Because it was in March of 2010 when I found out I had Cancer.
My life did not alter significantly that October of 2009 when I turned 50. There were no epiphanies, no spiritual revelations. It was just another annual event. I never felt "my age". After Christmas that year however, it was a different story. I was constantly feeling tired, and losing weight. I assumed it was something that went along with getting older. I rationalized these changes by telling myself "it's that age thing", and that's just the way life is.
Normally I schedule my annual physical around the time of my birthday but in 2009 I didn't -too busy! Finally in February of 2010 I saw my family doctor. Up to this point in my life the annual physical went something like this:
I show up at the doctor's office, where my weight and blood pressure are taken by the nurse. Then I get to pee into a bottle (not as much fun as it sounds). Next the doctor examines me, has me get on the exam table and verifies that my prostate is intact. I leave the office clutching the form to get my blood checked at a local medical lab. If there's a problem, the lab will notify the ordering doctor, who, in turn, will notify the patient. I was 50 years old, and hadn't been feeling that great. It came as no surprise when my doctor wanted to see me to discuss the results of my blood tests.
"Are you a vegetarian?" is not what I thought he'd say when I returned for my follow-up visit. My tests had shown low iron. Extremely low iron. So low in fact that it would seem I was avoiding any food with a hint of iron, thus my doctor's question to me. I'm not a vegetarian, but to find out what was causing this result would require more testing. My next test would take place not in a lab, but in my own home.
This time when I left the doctor's office it was with an envelope for the Fecal Occult Blood Test . It's an easy test to perform, requiring about the same skills as say, making a peanut butter sandwich. (Don't blame me if you are hesitant to open up that new jar of PB after this!) The kit comes with a special foil pouch designed to be mailed. I performed the tests. I mailed the pouch. I got another call from my doctor...
Blood in your stool is never good. The FOBT test showed microscopic blood from my tests. It needed to be checked immediately. In order to find out where this blood is originating another test was required: the much feared and maligned Colonoscopy.
The prospect of a Colonoscopy divides people into two groups: those who are 'afraid', and those that are 'afraid, but not so much'. If you've never had a Colonoscopy, you are automatically in the 'afraid' category. However there is a way put you into the 'not so afraid' group: Get a Colonoscopy. After that you can truly say: "Been there. Done that. Got the Johnny Shirt".
As I would learn during my Colonoscopy there are roughly three aspects for this process:
And so it was that day in March, my very first Colonoscopy would show that I had a severely constricted colon. So constricted that the procedure could not be completed. So constricted that I would not be able to eat solid foods for weeks. A tumour was threatening to completely block the colon. Putting it all together: extremely low iron, blood in my stool, and a lemon-sized tumour in me. I had Colon Cancer. A biopsy and subsequent CT scans would confirm that it was Stage 4.
Skip ahead almost four years, and another March looms in front of me. This time I write not for myself, but to urge those who are 50 plus to visit your doctor and discuss how easy it is to get checked. Or you can be like me and ignore the following warning signs:
I was incredibly lucky. Despite how it may sound when read aloud, Colon Cancer is the Number Two cancer killer. However there is an astonishing 90% successful treatment rate upon early detection.
I dedicate this entry to those folks who are willing to 'March down and put their bottoms up' and get screened for Colon Cancer.
One more March connection for me: I was diagnosed in March of 2010, and was off work for nearly a year while I underwent treatments and procedures. It was fitting that in March of 2011 I returned to work and resumed my life, hopefully cancer free.
March is the officially designated Colon Cancer Awareness Month by the Canadian Cancer Society. I would like to thank the CCS for providing their support and dedication. And also for this cool logo:
For those who may be interested in the details of what I went through, from discovery through treatment, you may want to start at the beginning.
My life did not alter significantly that October of 2009 when I turned 50. There were no epiphanies, no spiritual revelations. It was just another annual event. I never felt "my age". After Christmas that year however, it was a different story. I was constantly feeling tired, and losing weight. I assumed it was something that went along with getting older. I rationalized these changes by telling myself "it's that age thing", and that's just the way life is.
Normally I schedule my annual physical around the time of my birthday but in 2009 I didn't -too busy! Finally in February of 2010 I saw my family doctor. Up to this point in my life the annual physical went something like this:
I show up at the doctor's office, where my weight and blood pressure are taken by the nurse. Then I get to pee into a bottle (not as much fun as it sounds). Next the doctor examines me, has me get on the exam table and verifies that my prostate is intact. I leave the office clutching the form to get my blood checked at a local medical lab. If there's a problem, the lab will notify the ordering doctor, who, in turn, will notify the patient. I was 50 years old, and hadn't been feeling that great. It came as no surprise when my doctor wanted to see me to discuss the results of my blood tests.
"Are you a vegetarian?" is not what I thought he'd say when I returned for my follow-up visit. My tests had shown low iron. Extremely low iron. So low in fact that it would seem I was avoiding any food with a hint of iron, thus my doctor's question to me. I'm not a vegetarian, but to find out what was causing this result would require more testing. My next test would take place not in a lab, but in my own home.
This time when I left the doctor's office it was with an envelope for the Fecal Occult Blood Test . It's an easy test to perform, requiring about the same skills as say, making a peanut butter sandwich. (Don't blame me if you are hesitant to open up that new jar of PB after this!) The kit comes with a special foil pouch designed to be mailed. I performed the tests. I mailed the pouch. I got another call from my doctor...
Blood in your stool is never good. The FOBT test showed microscopic blood from my tests. It needed to be checked immediately. In order to find out where this blood is originating another test was required: the much feared and maligned Colonoscopy.
The prospect of a Colonoscopy divides people into two groups: those who are 'afraid', and those that are 'afraid, but not so much'. If you've never had a Colonoscopy, you are automatically in the 'afraid' category. However there is a way put you into the 'not so afraid' group: Get a Colonoscopy. After that you can truly say: "Been there. Done that. Got the Johnny Shirt".
As I would learn during my Colonoscopy there are roughly three aspects for this process:
You get cleaned out,
They put you out,
Then go in, and look about.
And so it was that day in March, my very first Colonoscopy would show that I had a severely constricted colon. So constricted that the procedure could not be completed. So constricted that I would not be able to eat solid foods for weeks. A tumour was threatening to completely block the colon. Putting it all together: extremely low iron, blood in my stool, and a lemon-sized tumour in me. I had Colon Cancer. A biopsy and subsequent CT scans would confirm that it was Stage 4.
Skip ahead almost four years, and another March looms in front of me. This time I write not for myself, but to urge those who are 50 plus to visit your doctor and discuss how easy it is to get checked. Or you can be like me and ignore the following warning signs:
- both my parents had died from Cancer
- I experienced dramatic weight loss, fatigue and bowel movement changes
- I could sense that things were 'not quite right', and chose to ignore those feelings.
I was incredibly lucky. Despite how it may sound when read aloud, Colon Cancer is the Number Two cancer killer. However there is an astonishing 90% successful treatment rate upon early detection.
I dedicate this entry to those folks who are willing to 'March down and put their bottoms up' and get screened for Colon Cancer.
One more March connection for me: I was diagnosed in March of 2010, and was off work for nearly a year while I underwent treatments and procedures. It was fitting that in March of 2011 I returned to work and resumed my life, hopefully cancer free.
March is the officially designated Colon Cancer Awareness Month by the Canadian Cancer Society. I would like to thank the CCS for providing their support and dedication. And also for this cool logo:
 |
| Want to know more about Colorectal Cancer? |
For those who may be interested in the details of what I went through, from discovery through treatment, you may want to start at the beginning.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Beginning 2013
Happy New Year!
January 2013 decided that Winter Shall Be Experienced in Canada and my little city was no exception. I shoveled snow and glumly watched my heating bills rise all month. Still the season had its moments, like those still, quiet nights where snow doesn't fall so much as drift down, covering the world in a clean sheet of white. There's a sense of peacefulness as the falling snow sparkles drifting through the diffused glow of the streetlights.
I began my January with a visit to the Cancer Centre's clinic for blood work. Even thought I'm no longer receiving treatment (last chemo visit was January of 2011!) I still need to do this on a quarterly basis. So far the results of these tests show nothing adverse or unusual to write about. This blog is positively boring. I definitely want to keep it that way (although some might argue that you can't change what already is..)
Three years ago my energy was waning, my weight was dropping and I was being engulfed by Cancer. Now I am in the second month of my Cholesterol medication (Crestor) and attempting to correct the Winter Eating Everything Excesses mode we seem to go through. I can't afford to treat this as 'mundane' any more than I could the tumour that was growing inside me back then. To that end I've been attempting to get to sleep earlier (easy to do: I'm Tired), and while it's been too darn cold to walk, I still walk when I can. And then there's the exercise bike.
I like bike riding, so when it was suggested that perhaps a stationary exercise bike could be used in lieu of retrofitting skis to my existing bikes, I thought "why not?"
Exercise bikes come in all shapes, forms, sizes and capabilities. They all have one thing in common: their assembly instructions require a Masters degree in Mechanical Engineering and the patience of a Buddhist Monk. Perseverance, frequent consultation to the "instructions", deep breathing and less than 24 hours after unpacking the box an exercise bike was ready for a spin!
Exercise bikes are not as comfortable as my road bike. Or my mountain bike. Mostly because those are sized for me, and my riding position is not as upright as that forced upon me by the stationary bike. The ergonomics are not the same, but I ride it for about 25 minutes. The bike features an lcd console which shows distance travelled, speed, and heart rate. I don't need a panel to tell me I'm doing work, the sweat and tired leg muscles know that already. The bike is kind of cramped, but it serves to get me off the couch. Now maybe it they made a bike that was couch-shaped...
January would also see me trundling off to a local library to volunteer with chess tournaments for kids. Volunteering in things that I've never done before gets me out of my comfort zone. Winter is too easy to settle in mentally and physically. While I'm not a novice chess player, I had never really participated in the organizational aspects of *anything* unrelated to my workplace and career. Set up a Wide Area Network between remote offices, no problem. Assist in data migration from an acquisition, routine. Dealing with dozens of small children playing Chess makes me think fondly of the serenity associated with assembling Exercise bikes.
For the most part the kids tolerated me (actually they pretty much ignore me, except to report scores and wait for the medals to be handed out) and I didn't muck things up too badly. I suspect that as long as I only double the workload of the organizer I'll be asked to hang around for future tournaments.
So January passed with the tempests of the season roaring in. Tempests do not last forever, the cold days will warm up. Already the sun is seems to be hanging around a little longer, the promise of Spring will be here before I know it. My life is one of unfinished projects at work and personally. But no cancer. If I made New Years resolutions it would be to live my life without worrying about 'what if', and think more about 'what now'.
January 2013 decided that Winter Shall Be Experienced in Canada and my little city was no exception. I shoveled snow and glumly watched my heating bills rise all month. Still the season had its moments, like those still, quiet nights where snow doesn't fall so much as drift down, covering the world in a clean sheet of white. There's a sense of peacefulness as the falling snow sparkles drifting through the diffused glow of the streetlights.
I began my January with a visit to the Cancer Centre's clinic for blood work. Even thought I'm no longer receiving treatment (last chemo visit was January of 2011!) I still need to do this on a quarterly basis. So far the results of these tests show nothing adverse or unusual to write about. This blog is positively boring. I definitely want to keep it that way (although some might argue that you can't change what already is..)
Three years ago my energy was waning, my weight was dropping and I was being engulfed by Cancer. Now I am in the second month of my Cholesterol medication (Crestor) and attempting to correct the Winter Eating Everything Excesses mode we seem to go through. I can't afford to treat this as 'mundane' any more than I could the tumour that was growing inside me back then. To that end I've been attempting to get to sleep earlier (easy to do: I'm Tired), and while it's been too darn cold to walk, I still walk when I can. And then there's the exercise bike.
I like bike riding, so when it was suggested that perhaps a stationary exercise bike could be used in lieu of retrofitting skis to my existing bikes, I thought "why not?"
Exercise bikes come in all shapes, forms, sizes and capabilities. They all have one thing in common: their assembly instructions require a Masters degree in Mechanical Engineering and the patience of a Buddhist Monk. Perseverance, frequent consultation to the "instructions", deep breathing and less than 24 hours after unpacking the box an exercise bike was ready for a spin!
Exercise bikes are not as comfortable as my road bike. Or my mountain bike. Mostly because those are sized for me, and my riding position is not as upright as that forced upon me by the stationary bike. The ergonomics are not the same, but I ride it for about 25 minutes. The bike features an lcd console which shows distance travelled, speed, and heart rate. I don't need a panel to tell me I'm doing work, the sweat and tired leg muscles know that already. The bike is kind of cramped, but it serves to get me off the couch. Now maybe it they made a bike that was couch-shaped...
January would also see me trundling off to a local library to volunteer with chess tournaments for kids. Volunteering in things that I've never done before gets me out of my comfort zone. Winter is too easy to settle in mentally and physically. While I'm not a novice chess player, I had never really participated in the organizational aspects of *anything* unrelated to my workplace and career. Set up a Wide Area Network between remote offices, no problem. Assist in data migration from an acquisition, routine. Dealing with dozens of small children playing Chess makes me think fondly of the serenity associated with assembling Exercise bikes.
For the most part the kids tolerated me (actually they pretty much ignore me, except to report scores and wait for the medals to be handed out) and I didn't muck things up too badly. I suspect that as long as I only double the workload of the organizer I'll be asked to hang around for future tournaments.
So January passed with the tempests of the season roaring in. Tempests do not last forever, the cold days will warm up. Already the sun is seems to be hanging around a little longer, the promise of Spring will be here before I know it. My life is one of unfinished projects at work and personally. But no cancer. If I made New Years resolutions it would be to live my life without worrying about 'what if', and think more about 'what now'.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
De-Ported - II
One last simple procedure was required to remove my port. So on Thursday November 14th, just before noon, I returned to the Hospital from where my journey began. Feeling neither anxious nor worried, I took a seat in the Admitting area and waited for my turn to be registered.
Perhaps because it's a procedure that's done in Radiology, the registration clerk had a difficult time finding the classification for my surgery. For the record, this particular institution charts the procedure under 'CT', even though a Cat Scanner is not used for either the insertion or removal process. The registration is complete when the clerk wraps a plastic ID bracelet around my wrist. Paperwork in hand, I was instructed to proceed to the fifth floor, the day surgery floor for Hotel Dieu Hospital. I've made this journey many times over the past few years, each time it seems there's a slightly different emotion attached. For the early visits when I was being diagnosed there was anxiety and fear; now there was a feeling of calmness a satisfaction that asserts within me and states that I am no longer afraid of Cancer.
Stepping off the elevator, the dedicated volunteers assist in getting me oriented so that my admitting paperwork is dropped off at the correct nursing station. From there I am directed to a small waiting room opposite the same elevators from which I had just exited. The waiting process begins.
Time goes by slowly in a Hospital waiting room. It goes slower when their public wifi isn't working. Still I had a backpack full of stuff to entertain me, but lets face it, I can't concentrate: the anticipation is building and I just can't sit still. I'm like a five year old with the attention span of, well, a five year old. I pace just outside the waiting room, too afraid to stray very far lest I miss my turn. My name is called, but it's just the initial preparation: I get to change into the formal attire of the Day Surgery floor: little booties for my feet and a standard-issue Hospital Gown. A robe is also provided. At least I get to keep my pants on. My significant others sister works as a nurse on that floor, and is noted for having a sadistic streak that's dryly referred to as 'humour'. I worry that my clothes will disappear. Fortunately that would not pass. Unfortunately there was something else waiting for me.
While lounging in my new sartorial splendour another nurse inquires at the waiting area for me. I identify myself and am pleasantly surprised: she was the same nurse who helped prepare me for colon surgery, on that cold morning of April 8th in 2010. She remembers my condition, she's happy I've come so far. It's hard to describe the feeling when you make someone happy, simply by being alive. She checks my arm band and tells me there's an additional band that I'm required to wear. I accept this as normal when she fastens the purple band on my other wrist. It is unadorned, no markings of any sort. Simply purple. I study the other patients in the waiting room, and none of them have any bands other than their ID. I wander down to the nursing station where I had dropped off my paperwork an hour beforehand (or was it two...it felt like a day by then..). My practical-joking nurse saw me and in mock-horror advised her coworkers to make sure I wasn't made angry. It wold seem that a purple band means "violent patient". Ha. Ha. Funny. Not. OK it WAS a little humourous and did lighten the mood somewhat.
I wait, somewhat impatiently. I pace some more. I wait some more. Eventually a bed was ready for me. For this procedure I would only receive a localized numbing around the port site, so no IV. I would remain awake during the entire process.
Day surgery transportation is a cross between a Formula 1 car race and a video game obstacle course. The Hospital layout routes you through the maze of corridors, around protruding obstacles until finally you are squeezed into an elevator. I admire the skill of the bed movers. They have a dexterity maneuvering their bulky charges around that verges on miraculous. I arrived at my destination relatively intact, and found I was in Radiology. Actually I was parked in Radiology. It's quiet, sounds are muted, light is indirect and I am in a bed with a warm blanket covering me. I could nap now. Naturally the timing is perfect, as I close my eyes the bed is moved into position for the surgical procedure. They are ready for me. My port is about to be removed.
My doctor explained that they would numb the port site with some injections just as Dentist does for a filling. Only they were removing my port (Does that make it an un-filling?) I would be in bed, head tilted away and in a few minutes, after some cutting, some tugging, some stitches and some bandages and ... I was Port Free.
I was Port Free. I remember being brought back to the fifth floor recovery room, the protocol in case something horrible happened, but of course nothing did. Juice and a cookie were provided, my reward for being such a good patient I suppose.
Such a simple thing, it would take weeks for me to realize how much of my life was devoted to the process of being ready to fight Cancer. I would later determine that I had carried my Port in me for 921 days.
My departure from the Hospital was subdued, the usual cautions about not showering while I still had stitches, any redness, pain, pus or fever, and a date when to return to get my stitches removed. As I walked down those front steps to the street, there was a feeling that the essence of my journey was not one of elation, no fanfare for 'beating' cancer, but the realization that life simply goes on.
Life goes on, and I go with it. And I do so Port free. I still have another year of bloodwork to look forward to, every three months. I have Colonoscopy sometime in 2014, and I have the usual health concerns of everyone who gets older in life. The moment of my Cancer is now past. It seems that my journey will continue, and I realize, somewhat bemusedly, that I've been on a journey all my life. Cancer was just a traveling companion for a little while.
Perhaps because it's a procedure that's done in Radiology, the registration clerk had a difficult time finding the classification for my surgery. For the record, this particular institution charts the procedure under 'CT', even though a Cat Scanner is not used for either the insertion or removal process. The registration is complete when the clerk wraps a plastic ID bracelet around my wrist. Paperwork in hand, I was instructed to proceed to the fifth floor, the day surgery floor for Hotel Dieu Hospital. I've made this journey many times over the past few years, each time it seems there's a slightly different emotion attached. For the early visits when I was being diagnosed there was anxiety and fear; now there was a feeling of calmness a satisfaction that asserts within me and states that I am no longer afraid of Cancer.
Stepping off the elevator, the dedicated volunteers assist in getting me oriented so that my admitting paperwork is dropped off at the correct nursing station. From there I am directed to a small waiting room opposite the same elevators from which I had just exited. The waiting process begins.
Time goes by slowly in a Hospital waiting room. It goes slower when their public wifi isn't working. Still I had a backpack full of stuff to entertain me, but lets face it, I can't concentrate: the anticipation is building and I just can't sit still. I'm like a five year old with the attention span of, well, a five year old. I pace just outside the waiting room, too afraid to stray very far lest I miss my turn. My name is called, but it's just the initial preparation: I get to change into the formal attire of the Day Surgery floor: little booties for my feet and a standard-issue Hospital Gown. A robe is also provided. At least I get to keep my pants on. My significant others sister works as a nurse on that floor, and is noted for having a sadistic streak that's dryly referred to as 'humour'. I worry that my clothes will disappear. Fortunately that would not pass. Unfortunately there was something else waiting for me.
While lounging in my new sartorial splendour another nurse inquires at the waiting area for me. I identify myself and am pleasantly surprised: she was the same nurse who helped prepare me for colon surgery, on that cold morning of April 8th in 2010. She remembers my condition, she's happy I've come so far. It's hard to describe the feeling when you make someone happy, simply by being alive. She checks my arm band and tells me there's an additional band that I'm required to wear. I accept this as normal when she fastens the purple band on my other wrist. It is unadorned, no markings of any sort. Simply purple. I study the other patients in the waiting room, and none of them have any bands other than their ID. I wander down to the nursing station where I had dropped off my paperwork an hour beforehand (or was it two...it felt like a day by then..). My practical-joking nurse saw me and in mock-horror advised her coworkers to make sure I wasn't made angry. It wold seem that a purple band means "violent patient". Ha. Ha. Funny. Not. OK it WAS a little humourous and did lighten the mood somewhat.
I wait, somewhat impatiently. I pace some more. I wait some more. Eventually a bed was ready for me. For this procedure I would only receive a localized numbing around the port site, so no IV. I would remain awake during the entire process.
Day surgery transportation is a cross between a Formula 1 car race and a video game obstacle course. The Hospital layout routes you through the maze of corridors, around protruding obstacles until finally you are squeezed into an elevator. I admire the skill of the bed movers. They have a dexterity maneuvering their bulky charges around that verges on miraculous. I arrived at my destination relatively intact, and found I was in Radiology. Actually I was parked in Radiology. It's quiet, sounds are muted, light is indirect and I am in a bed with a warm blanket covering me. I could nap now. Naturally the timing is perfect, as I close my eyes the bed is moved into position for the surgical procedure. They are ready for me. My port is about to be removed.
My doctor explained that they would numb the port site with some injections just as Dentist does for a filling. Only they were removing my port (Does that make it an un-filling?) I would be in bed, head tilted away and in a few minutes, after some cutting, some tugging, some stitches and some bandages and ... I was Port Free.
I was Port Free. I remember being brought back to the fifth floor recovery room, the protocol in case something horrible happened, but of course nothing did. Juice and a cookie were provided, my reward for being such a good patient I suppose.
Such a simple thing, it would take weeks for me to realize how much of my life was devoted to the process of being ready to fight Cancer. I would later determine that I had carried my Port in me for 921 days.
My departure from the Hospital was subdued, the usual cautions about not showering while I still had stitches, any redness, pain, pus or fever, and a date when to return to get my stitches removed. As I walked down those front steps to the street, there was a feeling that the essence of my journey was not one of elation, no fanfare for 'beating' cancer, but the realization that life simply goes on.
Life goes on, and I go with it. And I do so Port free. I still have another year of bloodwork to look forward to, every three months. I have Colonoscopy sometime in 2014, and I have the usual health concerns of everyone who gets older in life. The moment of my Cancer is now past. It seems that my journey will continue, and I realize, somewhat bemusedly, that I've been on a journey all my life. Cancer was just a traveling companion for a little while.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
De-Ported - I
I see my Oncologist every six months. Every three months there's blood work. Once a month my IV Port gets flushed. November would see a change in this protocol. It began with a visit to my Oncologist.
November 5th and I'm back at the Cancer Centre for my six month follow-up with my Oncologist. New procedural changes for notifying the patient that their doctor is ready to see them were introduced since my last visit. In the past you would register at the front reception desk, be given paperwork and a pager, go upstairs and perform your ESAS survey, drop off the paperwork with the doctor's receptionist and wait for the pager to inform you that you will now be seen. This time no paperwork and no pager. You check in with the front reception, they email your doctor's reception person and after you do the ESAS survey, you wait in the lounge. A friendly voice informs you when it's your turn. Less stressful than having a pager go off unexpectedly in your lap. Maintaining the personal interaction rather than abstracting a visit with a technical process is a nice "soft" change.
I had barely sat down when my name was called, and I was ushered into the patient examining area by the smiling nurse. My weigh is recorded (186lbs) and some survey questions are asked by the nurse - if you have any concerns for the upcoming meeting with your oncologist, now would be a good time to mention them.
There was only one item I wished to discuss, but the exam preliminaries needed to be performed. For that I need to hop up onto the exam table and take deep breaths so my lungs can be heard via stethoscope. Next comes the reclining portion of the exam, where I lie down and look up at the ceiling. Prodding and poking of the abdomen occurs, and the region of greatest interest-in my case the liver-is examined. Other than confirming I'm still ticklish, there was nothing of note to report.
From the cancer doctor's perspective, the liver is the most likely place for cancer to reoccur. My general aches and pains are not really symptoms of the disease that has changed my life. Mostly these complaints are under the larger umbrella of the affliction know as "getting older". I do remind the doc about my primary concern of late: my IV Port.
"We'll take it out." she says. Simple statements like that are, upon later reflection, profound. It means I don't need further treatment. It means I don't hold my breath waiting in fear. It means I have a future.
However those feelings wouldn't manifest until the port was actually removed. While sitting on the exam table, I half-expected my doctor to call a nurse and yank it out of me then and there. Not quite the way it would happen, but I was assured at the end of my visit that a time would be scheduled "before Christmas" for its removal. I was already thinking "Best Christmas Present Ever" when my doctor observed as an afterthought that there were lots of good veins in my hands should we need to resume treatment. OK, I can live with that should it be necessary, but hey it's been nearly two years without any treament, lets just live life today and tomorrow and see what happens. I was also reminded to maintain the rigorous schedule of getting my blood work done every three months. Those tests remain as always, my first line of defense. They also serve as a reminder that better doesn't always mean cured, and cured doesn't always mean finished. LIfe goes on..
My exam now complete, I left the clinic knowing I would be called very soon to schedule the ports' removal. It was a nice sunny day. I was happy. Whether it's true or not, all my positive memories of the WRCC are linked to images of sunshine in my mind. Nothing wrong with being happy, even better when you are healthy. I sincerely believe that you can't have one without the other.
Events are drawing to a close. One more simple small procedure brings me that much closer to finishing my journey. More importantly, to finish on my terms: not merely survive Cancer, but to step our from under its shadow and live without fear.
November 5th and I'm back at the Cancer Centre for my six month follow-up with my Oncologist. New procedural changes for notifying the patient that their doctor is ready to see them were introduced since my last visit. In the past you would register at the front reception desk, be given paperwork and a pager, go upstairs and perform your ESAS survey, drop off the paperwork with the doctor's receptionist and wait for the pager to inform you that you will now be seen. This time no paperwork and no pager. You check in with the front reception, they email your doctor's reception person and after you do the ESAS survey, you wait in the lounge. A friendly voice informs you when it's your turn. Less stressful than having a pager go off unexpectedly in your lap. Maintaining the personal interaction rather than abstracting a visit with a technical process is a nice "soft" change.
I had barely sat down when my name was called, and I was ushered into the patient examining area by the smiling nurse. My weigh is recorded (186lbs) and some survey questions are asked by the nurse - if you have any concerns for the upcoming meeting with your oncologist, now would be a good time to mention them.
There was only one item I wished to discuss, but the exam preliminaries needed to be performed. For that I need to hop up onto the exam table and take deep breaths so my lungs can be heard via stethoscope. Next comes the reclining portion of the exam, where I lie down and look up at the ceiling. Prodding and poking of the abdomen occurs, and the region of greatest interest-in my case the liver-is examined. Other than confirming I'm still ticklish, there was nothing of note to report.
From the cancer doctor's perspective, the liver is the most likely place for cancer to reoccur. My general aches and pains are not really symptoms of the disease that has changed my life. Mostly these complaints are under the larger umbrella of the affliction know as "getting older". I do remind the doc about my primary concern of late: my IV Port.
"We'll take it out." she says. Simple statements like that are, upon later reflection, profound. It means I don't need further treatment. It means I don't hold my breath waiting in fear. It means I have a future.
However those feelings wouldn't manifest until the port was actually removed. While sitting on the exam table, I half-expected my doctor to call a nurse and yank it out of me then and there. Not quite the way it would happen, but I was assured at the end of my visit that a time would be scheduled "before Christmas" for its removal. I was already thinking "Best Christmas Present Ever" when my doctor observed as an afterthought that there were lots of good veins in my hands should we need to resume treatment. OK, I can live with that should it be necessary, but hey it's been nearly two years without any treament, lets just live life today and tomorrow and see what happens. I was also reminded to maintain the rigorous schedule of getting my blood work done every three months. Those tests remain as always, my first line of defense. They also serve as a reminder that better doesn't always mean cured, and cured doesn't always mean finished. LIfe goes on..
My exam now complete, I left the clinic knowing I would be called very soon to schedule the ports' removal. It was a nice sunny day. I was happy. Whether it's true or not, all my positive memories of the WRCC are linked to images of sunshine in my mind. Nothing wrong with being happy, even better when you are healthy. I sincerely believe that you can't have one without the other.
Events are drawing to a close. One more simple small procedure brings me that much closer to finishing my journey. More importantly, to finish on my terms: not merely survive Cancer, but to step our from under its shadow and live without fear.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Fifty three and counting
October was a month that went by with nothing much medically relevant other than the routine and boring Port Flush and B12 shots. That port is only there "just in case", but it's been a year and 10 months since my last chemo treatment. I stick with the blood work regimen: every three months I visit the Cancer Centre where they draw blood and check my CEA numbers. I've been lucky, no sign of anything worrisome.
October was fairly boring, I was lazy mostly and if it wasn't for raking leaves I could probably say I did nothing at all. I do have a mature maple in my back yard. My neighbor has a mature Oak in his front yard. Guess where they like to mix it up?
My trusty mower ("Mr. Mulchy") and I spent a pleasant afternoon enjoying the October sunshine.
I would feel that pride of homeownership after doing 'all the yard work' -even cleaning the gutters. November would see all that undone of course, but there are days where it doesn't matter what you do outside, you just enjoy it because you can! This sunny October day made me tired and happy and glad to be alive.
Leaves were not the only thing I did in October. Nope, this is the month that marked a return to my electronics hobby, specifically making Binary Clocks.
Binary Clocks (or in my case Binary Coded Decimal, or BCD clocks) embody all that is geeky with me and my hobby. For one thing it's a clock, and we all know there can never be enough clocks (nor time...). For another, it's got LEDS! My original "chemo clocks" were based around a single numitron tube and four LEDs that displayed the time in a sequential fashion. BCD clocks show the entire time, but in Binary Code, which is great if you grew up counting only in two's.
The BCD clock thing is something I've wanted to do for a while, indeed almost the day my last chemo finished in January of 2011 I started working on this idea. But I wasn't quite there yet, and it sat unfinished for over a year and a half. With my return to work, projects and things I used to divert myself from reality faded into the background. I had a lot to catch up on apparently. So I didn't do much with my electronics hobby, till October.
I made up for lost time. In one two-week period I think I made something like eight PCB's (some still waiting to be soldered up!). I experimented with some different designs, and while these were all adapted from the internet, they had my own particular (or peculiar) stamp about their construction.
 |
| Whole lotta BCD PCB's |
 | |
| 12 hour BCD clock on a Tim Horton's Card |
The GREEN led clock shows 10:00,
the YELLOW led clock shows 10:01.
People do this concept all the time. They do it better, cheaper, faster, slicker and much more artistically. But this one is special, because I did it all -my code, my design, my artwork (pcb) my time and efforts. Good or bad, it's all me.
Finally I completed my last chemo-inspired project. There's only one more thing that ties me yet to my cancer journey and that's my Port. When that is removed I'll be more than an arms length away from Cancer. I'll have the memories and not the reminder every time that I put on a shirt.
October would remain the idyllic Fall it was always meant to be. Before Halloween's chilly arrival however I would receive a phone call from my Oncologist. My six-month follow-up was scheduled for November 5th. The same day as my monthly Port flush. Be it an interesting coincidence, or fortunate timing, my Port would be the focus of my discussions that day.
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Fall Walk
Fall walking is the best. There is an excitement from the collision of cool morning air and bright sunshine. Dew-coated leaves glitter with brilliant colours. Fall gives Summer it's well-deserved rest. Fall is my favourite time of year. In Summer and Spring I ride my bike. In the Fall, I like to walk.
Lately I've been walking with a friend who is keen on marathons. Formerly a runner, he has taken to walking the half-marathon. Of late he has coerced me to be his walking partner (which I took in stride...). An hour or so during the week we would wander around the parks and quieter side streets around my neighborhood. Recently I had the opportunity to walk in a formal event, the Run for Heroes, to support caregivers of Alzheimers patients.
I've seen the effects of Alzheimers and honestly believe that there are worse things than Cancer. Alzheimers robs a person of their identity and their dignity. It places an enormous burden upon caregivers and family. Alzheimers removes that essence of humanity from the shell of our body.
The Run for Heroes is now in its second year. Its organizer has deep and personal connections to how Alzheimers affects the quality of life. From this adversity came the inspiration for the run, to honour those involved with the care of Alzheimer's patients. Not only has he organized a much-coveted Boston Marathon Qualifying course, but has made the mantra of the runners to be "Run for your Hero" -someone in life who inspires everyday courage in the face of astronomical odds. I figured it was time to do things in life beyond my own needs.
So in the cool pre-dawn of Sunday, September 23rd, I found myself with nearly 1,900 others, ready to begin a new journey. I've never seen so many people as eager to get started to do something as grueling as a marthon in all my life. The race began at 7:30am, the starting gun sounding like a canon. Actually the starting gun was a canon, a replica of the canon's used in Fort Malden during the War of 1812. Fittingly, the British at Fort Malden in the town of Amherstburg played a pivotal part in the war of 1812. Our Detroit neighbors were, for a brief time, British citizens!
So I picked as symbolic a first race to enter as I could - I canvassed for donations for the Run for Heroe's for the Alzheimer's society which was being held during the bicentennial anniversary of a pivotal point in North American history. I was pretty blase about the walk itself, initially, after all, I can walk 21Km no problem, right?
Walking the distance was never in doubt-now. But while I walked I thought about how I got to this point. I occurred to me, that on that same date - September 23rd, 2010, I was waking up in the ICU of Hotel DIeu Hospital. The day before saw me undergoing a Liver resection to remove a lobe that had visible tumours on it. Waking up in ICU meant I had survived the biggest surgery of my life. Memories of that morning came to me as I walked my half-marathon: my nurse getting me out of my bed, me crashing back as my blood pressure dropped, then: getting up again - my goal to walk five steps to the Nursing station, then five steps back to my bed. With the help and literal support of my nurse, I made that walk, barely. My recovery literally started with a ten-step program...
Two years later, I have stamina and strength and I'm walking with nineteen-hundred other people who are there for their own reasons and share a common cause. Proud as I am to survive my ordeal, I couldn't do it alone. I needed a lot of help and support. Now it's my turn, in my own small way, to return the favour as best as I can. I don't need to do it all, just what I can.
So I would finish my half-marathon in the modest time of two hours and fourty four minutes, a decent walking pace for 21Km. More importantly I had raised some pledges to be donated to the local Alzheimer's society. I had fun, and I felt good for doing it. Like all things worth doing in life, you have to embrace the moment and do what you can to make it happen.
September would finish with almost winter-like chill and overcast skies. But that Sunday morning, I walked in sunshine and warmth and my future is bright. I not only walked for the Alzheimer's Heroes, but for everyone who was there for me - and there were a lot of you! - you guys will always be my Heroes!
Lately I've been walking with a friend who is keen on marathons. Formerly a runner, he has taken to walking the half-marathon. Of late he has coerced me to be his walking partner (which I took in stride...). An hour or so during the week we would wander around the parks and quieter side streets around my neighborhood. Recently I had the opportunity to walk in a formal event, the Run for Heroes, to support caregivers of Alzheimers patients.
I've seen the effects of Alzheimers and honestly believe that there are worse things than Cancer. Alzheimers robs a person of their identity and their dignity. It places an enormous burden upon caregivers and family. Alzheimers removes that essence of humanity from the shell of our body.
The Run for Heroes is now in its second year. Its organizer has deep and personal connections to how Alzheimers affects the quality of life. From this adversity came the inspiration for the run, to honour those involved with the care of Alzheimer's patients. Not only has he organized a much-coveted Boston Marathon Qualifying course, but has made the mantra of the runners to be "Run for your Hero" -someone in life who inspires everyday courage in the face of astronomical odds. I figured it was time to do things in life beyond my own needs.
So in the cool pre-dawn of Sunday, September 23rd, I found myself with nearly 1,900 others, ready to begin a new journey. I've never seen so many people as eager to get started to do something as grueling as a marthon in all my life. The race began at 7:30am, the starting gun sounding like a canon. Actually the starting gun was a canon, a replica of the canon's used in Fort Malden during the War of 1812. Fittingly, the British at Fort Malden in the town of Amherstburg played a pivotal part in the war of 1812. Our Detroit neighbors were, for a brief time, British citizens!
So I picked as symbolic a first race to enter as I could - I canvassed for donations for the Run for Heroe's for the Alzheimer's society which was being held during the bicentennial anniversary of a pivotal point in North American history. I was pretty blase about the walk itself, initially, after all, I can walk 21Km no problem, right?
Walking the distance was never in doubt-now. But while I walked I thought about how I got to this point. I occurred to me, that on that same date - September 23rd, 2010, I was waking up in the ICU of Hotel DIeu Hospital. The day before saw me undergoing a Liver resection to remove a lobe that had visible tumours on it. Waking up in ICU meant I had survived the biggest surgery of my life. Memories of that morning came to me as I walked my half-marathon: my nurse getting me out of my bed, me crashing back as my blood pressure dropped, then: getting up again - my goal to walk five steps to the Nursing station, then five steps back to my bed. With the help and literal support of my nurse, I made that walk, barely. My recovery literally started with a ten-step program...
Two years later, I have stamina and strength and I'm walking with nineteen-hundred other people who are there for their own reasons and share a common cause. Proud as I am to survive my ordeal, I couldn't do it alone. I needed a lot of help and support. Now it's my turn, in my own small way, to return the favour as best as I can. I don't need to do it all, just what I can.
So I would finish my half-marathon in the modest time of two hours and fourty four minutes, a decent walking pace for 21Km. More importantly I had raised some pledges to be donated to the local Alzheimer's society. I had fun, and I felt good for doing it. Like all things worth doing in life, you have to embrace the moment and do what you can to make it happen.
September would finish with almost winter-like chill and overcast skies. But that Sunday morning, I walked in sunshine and warmth and my future is bright. I not only walked for the Alzheimer's Heroes, but for everyone who was there for me - and there were a lot of you! - you guys will always be my Heroes!
Friday, August 31, 2012
Hot Summer Daze
In June of 2012 I had my first-ever Bone Scan. A few days later I was informed that a follow-up CT scan was booked for me. There was a concern that I had something called Paget's Disease of the Bone. This was unexpected. As I read up on it I could see some similarities to my general complaints about a sore hip and some pain when standing for extended periods. A CT scan would be performed on my neck and skull to check for evidence of this disease. I was concerned, but not worried.
Another CT. I've lost track of how many I've actually received since 2010, but it's close to five or six. I have to wonder if all these CT's have any cumulative effect. Only time will tell.
Despite my misgivings regarding the number of CT's I've had, the results were essentially good news: No evidence of Paget's was found. This probably means I have some arthritis setting in. Eventually I'll have to get a rocking chair. And start wearing suspenders. Perhaps I'll predict the weather based upon my particular aches, and maybe criticizing politicians will become my full-time occupation.
So I'm getting older, that's fine. I don't have Cancer, even better. It's difficult to find that balance between complacency and overreaction. Every time I get a twinge in my stomach or pain in my back there's that briefest twinge of "uh oh...". Fortunately I can relax a bit, no point in always being scared. Right now I'm more interested in being cool -the ambient-temperature kind, 'cuz we all know IT guys are Fonz-cool by default. Whoah.
Even though I am cool , July was extremely hot and humid, not very conducive for exercise and activity. Despite not finding evidence of strange and weird diseases, I can't get complacent. Activity, any activity which gets the body moving and pushes the cardio up a bit is generally good. Ex-cancer patients who want to remain that way should be highly motivated in this regard. Which is why I started to walk and bike ride with a little more conviction.
I walk moderately-fast. The walk around the park behind my house has me covering 3km in about 23 minutes, not bad for a casual walker. I'm not consistent in my walking times or goals, I simply walk to feel better. Of course I still ride my bike when I can, but I just don't seem to find the time to do the 40km a night that I once did. Finding that balance between what we want to do and what we have to do is probably the closest I'll get to finding the Meaning of Life.
So far my life has been good, all things considering. I'm learning to not worry too much about all the things that can go wrong with the human body (a lot), and I'm trying to do the things that I want to do. The medically relevant portion of my life is routine and just something I do. I always seem to meet nice people when I go for tests or treatments, that's surely a good thing!
Surprisingly summer has flown by. August is nearly spent (I started this particular blog entry in July...). This month I had the hum-drum boring old Port Flush and my quarterly blood test for the all-important CEA numbers. My last count have my numbers less than 0.5, which is very very good. One more year of this and I can get my Port removed. Soon I'll see my oncologist and surgeon for six-month checkups instead of every three months. When I look in the mirror I no longer see the sick, scared patient I once was. I see a person who can accept who he is. Also there are a few silver threads amongst the gold...a few more gray hairs here and there.
The blog is winding down, and save for the monthly port flush and B12 shots, there won't be much else Cancer-related to write about (I HOPE!). I guess I can start thinking of formally closing my blog when the Port is removed, the final procedure that literally severs my link with Chemo. On that day I hope I can appreciate the profound effect how some small wayward cells that can only be seen with a microscope have altered my life forever. On that day I hope I will realize that life is not simply what we endure, it's the journey through which we realize our true humanity.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Bones
June was a hot month of ridiculous humidity, no rain and hazy days. Steamy heat aside, I still had a number of medically-related appointments scheduled during the month. In between medical visits, I managed to arrange for some therapeutic chess and some emotional perspective regarding what Cancer means to me.
Back in May I had gone for blood work to have my cholesterol levels checked, per a routine request from my family doctor. My appointment was on June 5th, and I took the opportunity to cluster together some of my other medical visits: the Port Flush and the B12 shot, the core of my monthly regimen. So early that morning I headed off to the clinic where I expected to get my usual needle-into-the-chest, followed by sucking-blood-out and pushing-it-back-in routine.
My port's been in me for two years now and a monthly flush is boring. I've detailed all the things that have happened from no blood return to blood return (OK, there are only two things that occur in a Port flush..) But this time there was a novelty: a recall was issued for my particular kit. Now the kit I usually receive does not have any drugs, just bandages and sterile flush syringes and bits and pieces of medical fluff. There was no explanation why the kit was being recalled. I suppose that my imagination could contrive some sort of scenario where my kit was mixed up with one that creates a strain of Super Mutant Zombies...."mmmmmm Brains...."
A time was set to pick up the old kit and give me the new. But a week after receiving the replacement kit, another one showed up! I was confused. The delivery agent was also confused but still gave me the second kit. Later on I would get a call from the clinic folks again asking me when they could deliver another kit...I was being overwhelmed with Port flush kits! It gets odder still: my replacement kit was only one component: a Heparin syringe. Now Heparin was something I received while in the hospital but it's never been part of my monthly Port flush kit. But I carried all this along with me for my scheduled visit to get flushed.
As expected, when my nurse examined the p.f. kit she was doubtful I needed the included Heparin. After consulting the doctor's notes for my case she confirmed that the newly-added item could be ignored. The port was flushed and I was rewarded with a good blood return. My port still works, sitting there against the day I may need to call upon it again. With one item off my list for that day, it was off to my next appointment and a B12 shot.
My B12 is taken monthly, via injection. I bring my little vial of B12 with me to the doctor's office, and a nurse gives me the injection. This kind of B12 is administered via syringe into the muscle (or in my case where muscle should be on my upper arm) so I try to wear short sleeves or easily-rolled-up shirts. After the shot a little bandage is applied to cover the miniscule hole from the needle and I'm done until next month. With this months obligation fulfilled, I was set to meet with the family doc to discuss cholesterol numbers. There was also an additional item that I wanted to discuss with him.
For some time I've been complaining about some lower back pain. And a sore left hip. And my right pinky finger is achy too. Plus my tailbone feels painful after sitting and trying to stand up. In short I can't always find a way to comfortably sit or stand for prolonged periods; but walking and bike riding, even extended sessions, were OK. My fear of course is that new unexplained pains herald the return of Cancer. I wanted to let my doctor know what I was feeling, I wanted reassurance that I was going to be OK.
So I was poked and prodded, and asked to stand and twist (no hula hoop gyrations required). I was asked about my sleeping, if I had any sweating at night or difficulty breathing. Maybe I had early onset arthritis "I'm only 52 I'm too young for arthritis" I thought. I would be scheduled for a bone scan later that month.
A Bone Scan is a new procedure for me, it's a Nuclear Medicine procedure, which requires an injection of a radioactive solution. Fortunately there was no special preparation required for this procedure, so I could eat and drink normally. The process itself was in two parts, the first was the initial 'snapshot' and the injection. I would then return in a few hours and have a full body bone scan. I was also advised to drink lots of fluids during the day and avoid crossing the border. For those who live near the US-Canada border, the highly-sensitive radiation detectors at these crossing will pinpoint the radioactive markers circulating in your blood. Hijinks and hilarity are sure to ensue if that happens. Fortunately I never left the hospital during my wait.
This bone scan is a lengthy process, and you are required to lie flat on your back, not move, and oh yes, your arms and legs are bound by velcro straps. The table doesn't move, but a sliding camera goes under, around and over you. Your legs and arms shouldn't dangle, so you're in quasi-mummy mode. Except the velcro fasteners for the band supporting my arms began to slip. Every few minutes I could hear the distinctive sound as the velcro's bonds lost a little more cohesion. It became really interesting when whatever mechanism moving the camera caught on the band and I could feel the tension building against my arms. Fortunately the tension lessoned and the camera completed its scan without further impediment.
At one point the process was stopped while the technician placed a lead apron over my abdomen. My arms were then freed of their restraints and placed on top of this apron. Scanning was just for the arms and wrists and hands I guess.
A final scan was taken that went around and over me. It felt like I was in a reverse roller-coaster, where the car stays still and the track changes orientation. Weird experiences, but I can say that about all my Hospital visits this past couple of years.
In terms of procedures I think I would have been happier if the table were slightly wider so my arms could rest naturally flat without the velcro, or maybe a contoured ledge would make the patient feel better. Perhaps someone who makes these things will read my blog and ask for my input...
My medical procedures in June were not the only reminder of my experiences with Cancer. An awareness and fund-raising event known across the country as The Relay For Life was held for the Windsor/Lasalle area. While I have yet to formally participate, I've attended these ceremonies to remind myself that I am not the only one affected, not the only one who has to deal with sorrows this disease brings to people's lives. Most moving for me is the Luminary ceremony, as it honours everyone who has been touched by Cancer's shadow.
At its heart the Luminary ceremony is more than a memorium for those whose lives have passed or been affected by Cancer. It's about keeping the light of Hope shining, holding the shadow of Cancer at bay. Metaphor becomes reality when just after dusk the Luminary candles are lit by the efforts of dozens of volunteers. A single flickering point of light seems fragile and insubstantial on its own. But an array of thousands of such points, arranged in a continuous ribbon circling the large outdoor track brings a tightness to my chest. I am sad and proud at the same time.
The Relay walk will continue through the evening to morning. I will walk only for a short time however, as this event is not yet my event. I will pause my walk occasionally to read the messages written on the Luminaries. The phrase "In Memory of ...", is repeated in endless variations. I stop at the Luminaries I did for my parents. For me I can deal with my own Cancer. But why does it take the ones you love? It is enough for one evening, I go home, tired, proud, sad and contemplative. Next year I will do this again.
One thing I want to do is participate in the Survivor's Victory Lap. This is the start of the Relay For Life events for the night, and as implied, the first lap is walked by those who were determined to beat Cancer. Traditional wisdom supposes that a Cancer Survivor is one who is Cancer free for five years. Yup, I'll be doing that walk in 2015, for my 55th birthday. No problem.
Back in May I had gone for blood work to have my cholesterol levels checked, per a routine request from my family doctor. My appointment was on June 5th, and I took the opportunity to cluster together some of my other medical visits: the Port Flush and the B12 shot, the core of my monthly regimen. So early that morning I headed off to the clinic where I expected to get my usual needle-into-the-chest, followed by sucking-blood-out and pushing-it-back-in routine.
My port's been in me for two years now and a monthly flush is boring. I've detailed all the things that have happened from no blood return to blood return (OK, there are only two things that occur in a Port flush..) But this time there was a novelty: a recall was issued for my particular kit. Now the kit I usually receive does not have any drugs, just bandages and sterile flush syringes and bits and pieces of medical fluff. There was no explanation why the kit was being recalled. I suppose that my imagination could contrive some sort of scenario where my kit was mixed up with one that creates a strain of Super Mutant Zombies...."mmmmmm Brains...."
A time was set to pick up the old kit and give me the new. But a week after receiving the replacement kit, another one showed up! I was confused. The delivery agent was also confused but still gave me the second kit. Later on I would get a call from the clinic folks again asking me when they could deliver another kit...I was being overwhelmed with Port flush kits! It gets odder still: my replacement kit was only one component: a Heparin syringe. Now Heparin was something I received while in the hospital but it's never been part of my monthly Port flush kit. But I carried all this along with me for my scheduled visit to get flushed.
As expected, when my nurse examined the p.f. kit she was doubtful I needed the included Heparin. After consulting the doctor's notes for my case she confirmed that the newly-added item could be ignored. The port was flushed and I was rewarded with a good blood return. My port still works, sitting there against the day I may need to call upon it again. With one item off my list for that day, it was off to my next appointment and a B12 shot.
My B12 is taken monthly, via injection. I bring my little vial of B12 with me to the doctor's office, and a nurse gives me the injection. This kind of B12 is administered via syringe into the muscle (or in my case where muscle should be on my upper arm) so I try to wear short sleeves or easily-rolled-up shirts. After the shot a little bandage is applied to cover the miniscule hole from the needle and I'm done until next month. With this months obligation fulfilled, I was set to meet with the family doc to discuss cholesterol numbers. There was also an additional item that I wanted to discuss with him.
For some time I've been complaining about some lower back pain. And a sore left hip. And my right pinky finger is achy too. Plus my tailbone feels painful after sitting and trying to stand up. In short I can't always find a way to comfortably sit or stand for prolonged periods; but walking and bike riding, even extended sessions, were OK. My fear of course is that new unexplained pains herald the return of Cancer. I wanted to let my doctor know what I was feeling, I wanted reassurance that I was going to be OK.
So I was poked and prodded, and asked to stand and twist (no hula hoop gyrations required). I was asked about my sleeping, if I had any sweating at night or difficulty breathing. Maybe I had early onset arthritis "I'm only 52 I'm too young for arthritis" I thought. I would be scheduled for a bone scan later that month.
A Bone Scan is a new procedure for me, it's a Nuclear Medicine procedure, which requires an injection of a radioactive solution. Fortunately there was no special preparation required for this procedure, so I could eat and drink normally. The process itself was in two parts, the first was the initial 'snapshot' and the injection. I would then return in a few hours and have a full body bone scan. I was also advised to drink lots of fluids during the day and avoid crossing the border. For those who live near the US-Canada border, the highly-sensitive radiation detectors at these crossing will pinpoint the radioactive markers circulating in your blood. Hijinks and hilarity are sure to ensue if that happens. Fortunately I never left the hospital during my wait.
This bone scan is a lengthy process, and you are required to lie flat on your back, not move, and oh yes, your arms and legs are bound by velcro straps. The table doesn't move, but a sliding camera goes under, around and over you. Your legs and arms shouldn't dangle, so you're in quasi-mummy mode. Except the velcro fasteners for the band supporting my arms began to slip. Every few minutes I could hear the distinctive sound as the velcro's bonds lost a little more cohesion. It became really interesting when whatever mechanism moving the camera caught on the band and I could feel the tension building against my arms. Fortunately the tension lessoned and the camera completed its scan without further impediment.
At one point the process was stopped while the technician placed a lead apron over my abdomen. My arms were then freed of their restraints and placed on top of this apron. Scanning was just for the arms and wrists and hands I guess.
A final scan was taken that went around and over me. It felt like I was in a reverse roller-coaster, where the car stays still and the track changes orientation. Weird experiences, but I can say that about all my Hospital visits this past couple of years.
In terms of procedures I think I would have been happier if the table were slightly wider so my arms could rest naturally flat without the velcro, or maybe a contoured ledge would make the patient feel better. Perhaps someone who makes these things will read my blog and ask for my input...
My medical procedures in June were not the only reminder of my experiences with Cancer. An awareness and fund-raising event known across the country as The Relay For Life was held for the Windsor/Lasalle area. While I have yet to formally participate, I've attended these ceremonies to remind myself that I am not the only one affected, not the only one who has to deal with sorrows this disease brings to people's lives. Most moving for me is the Luminary ceremony, as it honours everyone who has been touched by Cancer's shadow.
At its heart the Luminary ceremony is more than a memorium for those whose lives have passed or been affected by Cancer. It's about keeping the light of Hope shining, holding the shadow of Cancer at bay. Metaphor becomes reality when just after dusk the Luminary candles are lit by the efforts of dozens of volunteers. A single flickering point of light seems fragile and insubstantial on its own. But an array of thousands of such points, arranged in a continuous ribbon circling the large outdoor track brings a tightness to my chest. I am sad and proud at the same time.
The Relay walk will continue through the evening to morning. I will walk only for a short time however, as this event is not yet my event. I will pause my walk occasionally to read the messages written on the Luminaries. The phrase "In Memory of ...", is repeated in endless variations. I stop at the Luminaries I did for my parents. For me I can deal with my own Cancer. But why does it take the ones you love? It is enough for one evening, I go home, tired, proud, sad and contemplative. Next year I will do this again.
One thing I want to do is participate in the Survivor's Victory Lap. This is the start of the Relay For Life events for the night, and as implied, the first lap is walked by those who were determined to beat Cancer. Traditional wisdom supposes that a Cancer Survivor is one who is Cancer free for five years. Yup, I'll be doing that walk in 2015, for my 55th birthday. No problem.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tracks in the sand
On Friday, May 14, 2010 I received my first chemotherapy treatment. Two years to the day sees me in a routine follow-up with my Oncologist. A couple of months prior to this visit I had a CT scan. Today I would hear that the CT was clean, no evidence of liver problems, no evidence of my cancer.
When I first learned of my illness I told my manager that he should find a new System Administrator. I simply did not believe I would make it through treatment and be able to return to work. That's when my boss (and friend) told me his story, how he too was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. This survivor of ten years gave me the benefits of his experiences. Although I can barely recall the details of our conversation that day, the essence came through and is with me still: I choose my path. I make the decisions for my treatment. I control my life.
It's now two years (and counting!) since this whole thing began and I find that I have to struggle to recall events. Time does heal even the most profoundly moving events. I rely more upon my journals and this blog to confirm that these events did indeed happen to me. My 'souvenirs' of surgery are faint, and these faded scars on my abdomen seem to point to a greater passage of time. Surely it was longer than two years ago they seem to say. My journey's markers are disappearing, like footprints on a sandy beach.
Results matter, and I'm better and I can dream of looking at a future that is marked by a calendar and not a clock. I still try to find that part of the day where I can focus on what it is to be me (hah!) and mostly I find I'm just a boring guy. I don't need to know where I've been, just that I can keep going.
The epilog of my visit was that that my Oncologist is happy with my progress. She only needs to see me once every six months now! The blood tests will still be every three months, and yes I will likely be getting a Colonoscopy next year. File all these under routine, and mark them "BORING". Boring I can live with.
When I first learned of my illness I told my manager that he should find a new System Administrator. I simply did not believe I would make it through treatment and be able to return to work. That's when my boss (and friend) told me his story, how he too was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. This survivor of ten years gave me the benefits of his experiences. Although I can barely recall the details of our conversation that day, the essence came through and is with me still: I choose my path. I make the decisions for my treatment. I control my life.
It's now two years (and counting!) since this whole thing began and I find that I have to struggle to recall events. Time does heal even the most profoundly moving events. I rely more upon my journals and this blog to confirm that these events did indeed happen to me. My 'souvenirs' of surgery are faint, and these faded scars on my abdomen seem to point to a greater passage of time. Surely it was longer than two years ago they seem to say. My journey's markers are disappearing, like footprints on a sandy beach.
Results matter, and I'm better and I can dream of looking at a future that is marked by a calendar and not a clock. I still try to find that part of the day where I can focus on what it is to be me (hah!) and mostly I find I'm just a boring guy. I don't need to know where I've been, just that I can keep going.
The epilog of my visit was that that my Oncologist is happy with my progress. She only needs to see me once every six months now! The blood tests will still be every three months, and yes I will likely be getting a Colonoscopy next year. File all these under routine, and mark them "BORING". Boring I can live with.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
The Return of the Spring
By the time the first week of May rolls around this part of the world we've usually experienced a fair amount of sunshine accompanied by the gradual climb of the thermometer. Not to mention the humidity. This year Spring first snuck in for a few weeks in early March. Then it went on a meteorological bender that alternated between rain, cold, freezing frost, overcast skies, or an amalgam of these elements. Nowhere was the combination of sun plus warmth in evidence. That is until the first week of May, when we had a record-breaking day on the 3rd. The return of the Sun brought along with it the Return of the Spring.
I haven't felt much like writing in my blog, which is in some ways fortunate. My inspirational muse was the outright attack of my body against itself, with rebel cells conspiring to annihilate various organs within me. A really unpleasant thing to have happen. So I wrote about the process, which is now seemingly far away in my dim memories. After treatment concluded in early 2011, I wrote sparingly, detailing those events with direct relevance to my journey. The hard-core medical aspects are finished, hopefully forever. The readjustment to my former pre-cancer diagnosis is mostly complete. Now I have to learn how to live life without a medical safety net. In other words, I have to live like everyone else.
I still have links to my treatment, via the monthly Port Flush. During my last Port Flush in April there was no blood return. Perhaps this was a Chemo April Fool's joke. A successful port flush requires this blood return aspect, as chemo cannot be delivered properly without it. Since I'm currently not under chemo at this time it's not a big concern, and generally we let it go til the following month. Thus today's ( May 5th ) process reaffirmed that my port was working OK: I got a good blood return! With the Port working normally and all things being equal, I can hope for a time very soon to have this little item removed. That's my near-term goal, to have the last vestige of my cancer treatment fully gone.
This latest Port Flush was performed by one of the professional, yet personable nurses at the clinic where I'm treated. It is interesting to observe that in my relatively short parade through the medical process that I can see the 'old school' approach is still very much in use. To wit: my pulse was taken as part of the procedure in the old fashioned way: fingertips lightly on my wrist, the steady gaze of her eyes focused on the second-hand of her watch. No shortcuts, no assumptions, but always professional. The thermometer was digital and went under my tongue, fortunately. Again I was in mind that the practice of medicine with the patient as a person was in effect. I was not simply the input source for technology, with the output a number. Although if it has LED's I'm all for it, whatever it is!
So with this month's port flush successful I'll have good news for my visit with my oncologist in less than two weeks. Should the CT I had almost two months ago be as mundane as I suspect, then I expect that the Port that's lived in me for the last two years will be scheduled for removal. One less reminder of what I had to endure, but also one less symbol of what I have accomplished. I think though, that the best symbol for all that I've accomplished is what I see when I look in a mirror.
The plan I had in effect when I first got sick still continues. This path I am following has led me with great precision through the Cancer labyrinth. We'll see what my Oncologist has in store for me some ten days from now.
I haven't felt much like writing in my blog, which is in some ways fortunate. My inspirational muse was the outright attack of my body against itself, with rebel cells conspiring to annihilate various organs within me. A really unpleasant thing to have happen. So I wrote about the process, which is now seemingly far away in my dim memories. After treatment concluded in early 2011, I wrote sparingly, detailing those events with direct relevance to my journey. The hard-core medical aspects are finished, hopefully forever. The readjustment to my former pre-cancer diagnosis is mostly complete. Now I have to learn how to live life without a medical safety net. In other words, I have to live like everyone else.
I still have links to my treatment, via the monthly Port Flush. During my last Port Flush in April there was no blood return. Perhaps this was a Chemo April Fool's joke. A successful port flush requires this blood return aspect, as chemo cannot be delivered properly without it. Since I'm currently not under chemo at this time it's not a big concern, and generally we let it go til the following month. Thus today's ( May 5th ) process reaffirmed that my port was working OK: I got a good blood return! With the Port working normally and all things being equal, I can hope for a time very soon to have this little item removed. That's my near-term goal, to have the last vestige of my cancer treatment fully gone.
This latest Port Flush was performed by one of the professional, yet personable nurses at the clinic where I'm treated. It is interesting to observe that in my relatively short parade through the medical process that I can see the 'old school' approach is still very much in use. To wit: my pulse was taken as part of the procedure in the old fashioned way: fingertips lightly on my wrist, the steady gaze of her eyes focused on the second-hand of her watch. No shortcuts, no assumptions, but always professional. The thermometer was digital and went under my tongue, fortunately. Again I was in mind that the practice of medicine with the patient as a person was in effect. I was not simply the input source for technology, with the output a number. Although if it has LED's I'm all for it, whatever it is!
So with this month's port flush successful I'll have good news for my visit with my oncologist in less than two weeks. Should the CT I had almost two months ago be as mundane as I suspect, then I expect that the Port that's lived in me for the last two years will be scheduled for removal. One less reminder of what I had to endure, but also one less symbol of what I have accomplished. I think though, that the best symbol for all that I've accomplished is what I see when I look in a mirror.
The plan I had in effect when I first got sick still continues. This path I am following has led me with great precision through the Cancer labyrinth. We'll see what my Oncologist has in store for me some ten days from now.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Waiting
The volatile March weather had it all - humid days where temperatures soared to 25C, storms with hail and lightning and of course, torrential rains. The onset of warm weather and sunny days convinced mother nature to turn everything green overnight, but the cool evenings abruptly reversed her gains. The weather was interesting but my usual foray into the medical world was fairly uneventful.
This month in addition to the regular routine of B12 shot and Port flush was the CT scan of my liver. I've been feeling more-or-less OK, just not sleeping well (returning to work does have it's drawbacks..) and some unsettled stomach issues, also likely due to that working full-time experience. By now though a CT scan is routine. My new normal is to wait. I wait before the test, I wait during the test, and of course, I wait some more for the results. The last part is the most difficult, because the way our medical system works is that bad news is reported quickly, and good news isn't. They make you wait...
Early morning of March the 20th I arrive at the Hospital's registration desk, where I pick a number, just like at a deli counter. I sit patiently, waiting to be called. Upon being summoned I'm quickly registered, confirming that I have had nothing to eat or drink for at least 3 hours prior to the exam. I'm handed another paper to bring to the Imaging departments registration desk. In the Imaging department I exchange my paper for a pager, similar to the ones you now get while waiting at restaurants. This one will give me the room I'm to go to when called. More waiting. The flow of patients continues and although I have numerous electronic distractions I can't focus. I fidget and I pace. Finally the pager goes off and tells me where to wander to next. I find my room down the hall and am invited to sit, a nurse will now put an IV into my arm for the upcoming CT procedure.
With this CT exam a contrast dye is introduced during the procedure. This necessitates an injection site in my right arm. An IV is carefully inserted and made fast. I am asked to sit in the alcove across from the CT room. I wait some more. I don't know why I'm wound up this morning; I haven't had any coffee, my last 3 CT's were great, I've been back to work for a year. Why am I worrying so? My name is being called, and the friendly technician leads me into the CT exam room. It's low light is soothing in comparison to the harsh industrial lighting of the general Hospital environment.
Lying on my back, arms above my head, a thin hospital sheet covers me from the waist down. Generally I remove all my accessories from my pockets before this process, it's not a requirement, just what I do. I'm asked to undo my belt and lower my pants down "a bit". I smile in the memory of having these CT's wearing little more than the standard hospital gown; my modesty is long gone in this institution.
Waiting during the exam, I'm asked to breathe in, hold, breathe normally. The process repeats a few times. The technician advises she's going to introduce the contrast fluid. During the flush my ears and back of my neck feel warm. Some patients report a feeling like they wet themselves. I can relate. More breathing instructions.
Finally my waiting is over. The exam is complete, my technician gently removes the IV and I'm done. I'm advised to drink lots and lots of water that day, to flush the contrast dye out of my system. My exam probably took no more than 10 minutes, it just seemed like an eternity. I emerge from the hospital into bright sunshine, spring is tantalizingly close. I can't wait for it to arrive.
This month in addition to the regular routine of B12 shot and Port flush was the CT scan of my liver. I've been feeling more-or-less OK, just not sleeping well (returning to work does have it's drawbacks..) and some unsettled stomach issues, also likely due to that working full-time experience. By now though a CT scan is routine. My new normal is to wait. I wait before the test, I wait during the test, and of course, I wait some more for the results. The last part is the most difficult, because the way our medical system works is that bad news is reported quickly, and good news isn't. They make you wait...
Early morning of March the 20th I arrive at the Hospital's registration desk, where I pick a number, just like at a deli counter. I sit patiently, waiting to be called. Upon being summoned I'm quickly registered, confirming that I have had nothing to eat or drink for at least 3 hours prior to the exam. I'm handed another paper to bring to the Imaging departments registration desk. In the Imaging department I exchange my paper for a pager, similar to the ones you now get while waiting at restaurants. This one will give me the room I'm to go to when called. More waiting. The flow of patients continues and although I have numerous electronic distractions I can't focus. I fidget and I pace. Finally the pager goes off and tells me where to wander to next. I find my room down the hall and am invited to sit, a nurse will now put an IV into my arm for the upcoming CT procedure.
With this CT exam a contrast dye is introduced during the procedure. This necessitates an injection site in my right arm. An IV is carefully inserted and made fast. I am asked to sit in the alcove across from the CT room. I wait some more. I don't know why I'm wound up this morning; I haven't had any coffee, my last 3 CT's were great, I've been back to work for a year. Why am I worrying so? My name is being called, and the friendly technician leads me into the CT exam room. It's low light is soothing in comparison to the harsh industrial lighting of the general Hospital environment.
Lying on my back, arms above my head, a thin hospital sheet covers me from the waist down. Generally I remove all my accessories from my pockets before this process, it's not a requirement, just what I do. I'm asked to undo my belt and lower my pants down "a bit". I smile in the memory of having these CT's wearing little more than the standard hospital gown; my modesty is long gone in this institution.
Waiting during the exam, I'm asked to breathe in, hold, breathe normally. The process repeats a few times. The technician advises she's going to introduce the contrast fluid. During the flush my ears and back of my neck feel warm. Some patients report a feeling like they wet themselves. I can relate. More breathing instructions.
Finally my waiting is over. The exam is complete, my technician gently removes the IV and I'm done. I'm advised to drink lots and lots of water that day, to flush the contrast dye out of my system. My exam probably took no more than 10 minutes, it just seemed like an eternity. I emerge from the hospital into bright sunshine, spring is tantalizingly close. I can't wait for it to arrive.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
The Volunteer Experience
Preface: When I was diagnosed with Cancer I was off work and had spare time to do things I had neglected for years. Playing chess for fun was one of them. Like any organized event, having help (even free and bewildered help in some cases...) can make the event a better experience for everyone. This is my account of my biggest Volunteer Experience in over twenty years.
The Volunteer Experience
Two years ago I found myself revisiting a favourite but long-neglected pastime, that of playing Chess. I wandered down to a local Saturday tournament to check out what had changed in the Chess scene since I last played some three decades earlier. While I did not play in this tournament, I had an opportunity to play a few ‘fun’ games against some of our local stars. So I played a National Master (I lost) and a young man who was four decades my junior. Lost that one too.
While at this venue I met some of the folks who arrange tournaments, and found that Windsor Windsor Brazil
My contribution to this process would be quite modest, but daunting nevertheless: I would be an Arbiter for the Chess Challenge of 2012. This year I would volunteer for the honour of overseeing tables of kids bent on destroying their opponent. Plus I would have to deal with “Chess Parents”, teachers with their own ideas of how to pair the opponents and ‘n’ people with ‘n+1’ ways to interpret The Rules Of Chess. It would be fun. I hoped.
First off with nearly 80 schools and with no more than 8 kids per grade permitted for each school, things get very complicated very quickly. Fortunately the Tournament Director (TD) is quite experienced at running tournaments, and more importantly, in not letting his Volunteer Help hinder the process too much. The CC itself has close to 1500 kids registered over two days. I would be an Arbiter of one of the rooms assigned to the CC for Tuesday, February 28th.
However the 27th proved interesting: one school decided they did not want to play on their previously assigned-and-registered day, but preferred the Tuesday. A last minute change that had all the Arbiters burning the oil as schedules were changed, room assignments rebalanced and pairings assigned. Once again the TD had this covered. I had not even started and I was already overwhelmed!
Tuesday was a beautiful sunny, almost spring-like day. I arrived at and was soon put to work with the registration process. Busloads of kids began arriving, and I was slated to have 184 kids in my room. That’s 184 kids, plus parents, plus teachers, and fortunately, a Lot More Volunteers! I would be one of the four or so ‘official’ chess arbiters. There would also be a number of local High School students who would serve as the official scorekeepers for the various sections for each grade. Eventually everyone was assigned their official Name Tag which designated their Grade, Section and School, and each was paired for the first round. Ninety-two pairs of kids shook hands, and round one of eight began.
“The room was eerily quiet, 184 kids with their heads bent over a chess board, fiercely concentrating on subtle strategies, seeking to annihilate their opponent. “
I wish. In reality a Children’s Chess Challenge has a decibel level somewhat above a shout and below a jet engine revving for take off. In my room that day, there were184 personalities that range from ‘Chess is Cool’ to ‘Hey, a chess tournament, I can get a day out of school!’. Just to add some zest to this experience, the Arbitration portion of my volunteer role commenced almost from the time the first piece was moved.
Touch move is the golden rule in ‘official’ chess tournaments. You touch it you move it: so long as there is at least one legal move. Saying “check” is a courtesy, not a requirement. Absolutely you CANNOT take your opponents king. No how no way, taking the king is NOT checkmate! So it went. The rules of chess were blasted, dematerialized, re-assembled into fanciful interpretations. My role was that of an Arbiter, not a referee. I was to rule only upon a dispute, i.e. only when someone (a player, not a parent or teacher) complained. I would spell out the rules of chess, how a piece could move. I could indicate the legal squares a piece could move to, but I could not suggest any particular move. Chess Arbitration is the only venue when you can truly say you deal with things en passant (I won’t explain it, Google it!). I dealt with kids who would pick up their pieces and thunderously bang them down on the board, dramatic as any 7 year old could be.
That’s when I made the discovery that my casual suggestion to the 7 year old God of Thunder/chess wizard to play pianissimo instead of forte would introduce me to the Chess Parent. Chess Parents are like Hockey Parents, just without skates. Every Chess Parent sees the essence of Bobby Fischer within their child…. Humour and coffee were my staples during the day. Eight rounds with a lunch break of Pizza and Pop for the kids. And I thought they were energetic in the morning…
The day went by in a blur. I ruled about illegal moves and etiquette of chess. I resolved the case where one young person kept saying ‘checkmate’ after each move (it wasn’t) and I felt for the kids who lost in six moves. I’m sure there were brilliances I did not see, though I saw many entertaining games. And most importantly, everyone seemed to have fun. Eight rounds, at roughly 25 minutes per round, …did I mention the day went by in a blur?
By four that afternoon the boards were packed away, medals awarded and the equipment stowed. I was exhausted. The TD said it didn’t go too badly, and he still had to do all the final score sheets to give to the schools. When I arrived at home I would crash and “nap” for four hours.
There were medals for the kids and pennants for every participant. Everyone seemed to get something from this event. What did I get? Beyond the simple satisfaction of helping out my friend the TD, I got to relieve the memories I had forgotten when I first learned about the enigmatic game of Chess. Even though my volunteer experience took me far outside my comfort zone (184 kids!), I was made to feel part of a community. Finally I can look back and say I truly had fun!
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