What I know so far
Is that the Sun is shining
Spring is near
and I have Cancer
What I know so far
Is that I am alive
The days are growing warmer
and my question needs an answer
What I know so far
Is that my life has meaning
my future is always changing
and I can cope
What I know so far
Is that I am loved
my fears will fade away
and I have Hope.
Written March 21st, 2014, nearly a month after my Colonoscopy showed cancer in my colon. I don't know staging, or prognosis. I won't know til my doctors review the CT scan of a few days ago. The results may be insignificant or may be life-altering. For now, for today, life goes on, and I go with it.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Sunday, March 16, 2014
A Saga, Posing Twists
Up til now I've had two Colonoscopy procedures. The first changed my life when cancer was discovered. The second reassured me that the procedures I had endured up til then were not in vain. On February 26th, I would undergo the Colonoscopy process for a third time.
Two weeks prior to my appointment I met with the doctor that would perform the procedure. We went over what would happen, discussed the risks (minimal), and when I left the office I had a prescription for Purge-O-Dan. More importantly, I was confident that I would be in good hands. I would endure the ordeal that is the purge, which consists mostly of eating Jello and drinking a lot of liquids. And a visit or two (or 17) to the washroom. I would endure the cold and soreness that seems to be my constant companion these days. On the day of the procedure I would wear my extra heavy wool socks. They'll let you keep those on at least.
I arrive at the Hospital almost an hour before my appointment. I'm registered first in the Admitting department, and am handed some paperwork for the next phase. This next phase is to wander through the maze of corridors to arrive at the waiting room for my procedure. I deposit my freshly printed paperwork, and wait for my name to be called. By arriving early, you get the full benefit of waiting, which apparently is More Waiting and Thinking What's About to Happen To You.
I can't read with my eReader, I can't concentrate and I'm cold and tired. I pace and wander around. I look at the signs posted on the wall, which proclaim 'No Food Or Drink in This Area'. I look at the chairs provided, some of which have beverage holders. I strive to keep myself occupied, but don't succeed. In actuality I probably don't wait that long. My name is eventually called. My Colonoscopy is inching nearer...
Every Hospital procedure requires that a patient be gowned in Hospital-issued clothing. As mentioned earlier, I was able to keep my warm socks. Since having a Colonoscopy means curtailing calories for several days before the procedure, your body doesn't have all the fuel it needs to keep you comfortable. For me, having a Colonoscopy in Winter means no chance of being warm and comfortable. Wearing only a Hospital gown doesn't help. Fortunately I would be in a bed for the remainder of the process. Nurses would hook up an IV to my arm, and sensors would be attached to my chest. I would have sticky tape residue on me for days afterwards. I can honestly say that the only pain in the entire process was removing the tape. Even though I'm in a bed I'm encumered with wires and tubes but figure I can probably read something now. Then I realize that my eReader is in my jacket pocket. In a bag. Under the bed. It may as well be locked away in an underground vault in Greenland. Instead I close my eyes and try to rest. That doesn't work, but it gives me something to do.
Soon enough my bed (with me along for the ride!) is wheeled into the procedure suite. Anesthesiologist, Doctor, Nurse, and Nursing Student are attending. I'm going to be a learning experience for someone. Hopefully a positive experience for everyone involved. My nurses are fussing over the sensors, apparently they're not adhering properly to my chest. More waiting while the sensors are adjusted. My glasses are gently removed by someone. I'm asked to turn on my side. The procedure is ready to begin. I wonder when it will start...
I wake up in the recovery room. My procedure was probably 20 minutes, but I have no recollection of the exam or being brought back to the recovery room. I was asleep for the entire process. Now that time has passed, I can piece together the conversation that I had with my doctor about what he found during the process: A polyp was removed, near the original surgery site. There was some concern about the scar tissue, and the polyp would be sent for a biopsy. I would leave the Hospital positive that everything was fine. I would add this to my list of 'routine, boring, ho-hum' tests.
Your stay in the recovery area for a while. How long depends on several factors: Your doctor's recommendations of course, but more importantly by a fundamental action you need to perform: Pass Gas. The longer it takes to achieve this result, the longer you remain in the hospital. Suffice it to say that my lone technical contribution to that day's process was achieved. Several times. I could go home.
You are not allowed to drive, operate heavy equipment, and should not make financial decisions when you are just out of surgery. My caregiver was my chauffeur and my first decision of the day after I left the hospital was to eat something that wasn't Jello.
I would later find out that yogurt is probably the better way to resume normal eating activities: it's not so hard on your gut to restart its normal processing. Yogurt would certainly be gentler than the breakfast fare I had that morning. I really wasn't that hungry, but I was very tired. I would spent the remainder of the day alternately napping followed by bouts of doing nothing. I had successfully completed my third Colonoscopy. Now all I had to do is wait for the results.
When I left the Hospital, I was given an information packet that indicated I was to contact my doctor's office within six weeks to discuss the results of my procedure. I called the next day and was politely informed that the biopsy would be a few days. And a few days later I received a call: my follow up would be on March 20th, almost a month away. I felt confident that I had breezed through my Colonoscopy without issue. Then on Monday, March 10th I received another call, this time from my Oncologist. She had read my results, and there were some concerns. In two days I was being asked to come in and see her to discuss the findings.
During that intervening time I thought a lot about what this discovery meant. Would it mean a little detour on my journey, or the start of a path through uncharted territory? I didn't sleep well for those two nights, and I thought a lot of what I had gone through and wondered if I could do it again. In two days I'd know more, but until then I'd just have to wait.
Finally one more observation: the title of this post is: 'A Saga, Posing Twists'. It's an Anagram for 'waiting to pass gas'. Who says you can't have fun with a Colonoscopy?
Two weeks prior to my appointment I met with the doctor that would perform the procedure. We went over what would happen, discussed the risks (minimal), and when I left the office I had a prescription for Purge-O-Dan. More importantly, I was confident that I would be in good hands. I would endure the ordeal that is the purge, which consists mostly of eating Jello and drinking a lot of liquids. And a visit or two (or 17) to the washroom. I would endure the cold and soreness that seems to be my constant companion these days. On the day of the procedure I would wear my extra heavy wool socks. They'll let you keep those on at least.
I arrive at the Hospital almost an hour before my appointment. I'm registered first in the Admitting department, and am handed some paperwork for the next phase. This next phase is to wander through the maze of corridors to arrive at the waiting room for my procedure. I deposit my freshly printed paperwork, and wait for my name to be called. By arriving early, you get the full benefit of waiting, which apparently is More Waiting and Thinking What's About to Happen To You.
I can't read with my eReader, I can't concentrate and I'm cold and tired. I pace and wander around. I look at the signs posted on the wall, which proclaim 'No Food Or Drink in This Area'. I look at the chairs provided, some of which have beverage holders. I strive to keep myself occupied, but don't succeed. In actuality I probably don't wait that long. My name is eventually called. My Colonoscopy is inching nearer...
Every Hospital procedure requires that a patient be gowned in Hospital-issued clothing. As mentioned earlier, I was able to keep my warm socks. Since having a Colonoscopy means curtailing calories for several days before the procedure, your body doesn't have all the fuel it needs to keep you comfortable. For me, having a Colonoscopy in Winter means no chance of being warm and comfortable. Wearing only a Hospital gown doesn't help. Fortunately I would be in a bed for the remainder of the process. Nurses would hook up an IV to my arm, and sensors would be attached to my chest. I would have sticky tape residue on me for days afterwards. I can honestly say that the only pain in the entire process was removing the tape. Even though I'm in a bed I'm encumered with wires and tubes but figure I can probably read something now. Then I realize that my eReader is in my jacket pocket. In a bag. Under the bed. It may as well be locked away in an underground vault in Greenland. Instead I close my eyes and try to rest. That doesn't work, but it gives me something to do.
Soon enough my bed (with me along for the ride!) is wheeled into the procedure suite. Anesthesiologist, Doctor, Nurse, and Nursing Student are attending. I'm going to be a learning experience for someone. Hopefully a positive experience for everyone involved. My nurses are fussing over the sensors, apparently they're not adhering properly to my chest. More waiting while the sensors are adjusted. My glasses are gently removed by someone. I'm asked to turn on my side. The procedure is ready to begin. I wonder when it will start...
I wake up in the recovery room. My procedure was probably 20 minutes, but I have no recollection of the exam or being brought back to the recovery room. I was asleep for the entire process. Now that time has passed, I can piece together the conversation that I had with my doctor about what he found during the process: A polyp was removed, near the original surgery site. There was some concern about the scar tissue, and the polyp would be sent for a biopsy. I would leave the Hospital positive that everything was fine. I would add this to my list of 'routine, boring, ho-hum' tests.
Your stay in the recovery area for a while. How long depends on several factors: Your doctor's recommendations of course, but more importantly by a fundamental action you need to perform: Pass Gas. The longer it takes to achieve this result, the longer you remain in the hospital. Suffice it to say that my lone technical contribution to that day's process was achieved. Several times. I could go home.
You are not allowed to drive, operate heavy equipment, and should not make financial decisions when you are just out of surgery. My caregiver was my chauffeur and my first decision of the day after I left the hospital was to eat something that wasn't Jello.
I would later find out that yogurt is probably the better way to resume normal eating activities: it's not so hard on your gut to restart its normal processing. Yogurt would certainly be gentler than the breakfast fare I had that morning. I really wasn't that hungry, but I was very tired. I would spent the remainder of the day alternately napping followed by bouts of doing nothing. I had successfully completed my third Colonoscopy. Now all I had to do is wait for the results.
When I left the Hospital, I was given an information packet that indicated I was to contact my doctor's office within six weeks to discuss the results of my procedure. I called the next day and was politely informed that the biopsy would be a few days. And a few days later I received a call: my follow up would be on March 20th, almost a month away. I felt confident that I had breezed through my Colonoscopy without issue. Then on Monday, March 10th I received another call, this time from my Oncologist. She had read my results, and there were some concerns. In two days I was being asked to come in and see her to discuss the findings.
During that intervening time I thought a lot about what this discovery meant. Would it mean a little detour on my journey, or the start of a path through uncharted territory? I didn't sleep well for those two nights, and I thought a lot of what I had gone through and wondered if I could do it again. In two days I'd know more, but until then I'd just have to wait.
Finally one more observation: the title of this post is: 'A Saga, Posing Twists'. It's an Anagram for 'waiting to pass gas'. Who says you can't have fun with a Colonoscopy?
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Family Day
A few years ago the province of Ontario announced that one day in February would become a civic holiday known as 'Family Day'. I like civic holidays, as I usually get to sleep in. Unfortunately this February the holiday fell on Monday, February 17th. No sleeping in for me that day, I was to meet my newest doctor.
Back in October of 2013 my Oncologist mentioned that I was due for my three year follow-up Colonoscopy. An appointment was made that coincided with that particular February Civic Holiday. Now a cold Monday morning finds me at my new doctor's office for my 8:30am appointment. So much for sleeping in on a holiday. Meeting a new doctor means being prepared to go over not only my current medical conditions, but past history, and family history too. It helps to have a list of all the meds you're currently taking. It also helps when a family member, in this case my sister, fills you in on all the details of your parents medical history. Both my parents had two incidents of cancer in their lives. Both my parents died of cancer. A detailed family history can make a crucial difference.
Past experience has taught me that the 'patient waiting room' means be patient in the 'waiting' room, so I bought along my usual entertainment device: eReader and tablet. I was ready to wait!
However a deserted waiting room greeted me when I arrived that morning. I suppose people were taking advantage of that sleeping-in-on-a-holiday thing. The receptionist verified my health card and mentioned that some places were now refusing to accept the old Red and White OHIP cards. My card is held together with tape, the magnetic strip is scratched and unusable, the numbers are faded. It's been with me through all my medical adventures, but today it served me once more.
Registration continued with paperwork for me to fill out: my medical history, my current meds, allergies...all the usual questions. Except for Crestor and Vitamins D and B12, I take very little in the way of medicine. Once completed I sat down for perhaps two minutes before I was ushered into the medical examination room. I would wait a couple of more minutes before the doctor arrived.
When he arrives, we chat about my current condition, why I am referred to him, if I notice any changes in my bowel or general health. He asks about my Cancer and the treatment I received, and seemed surprised that I had liver surgery for the metastases. I recount my history and family history There's a routine examination, and I'm up on the table being 'poked and prodded' once again. Nothing apparently out of place and I'm headed back to the receptionist to confirm an appointment for the Colonoscopy exam. I'll be scheduled for the next week, on February 26th at 08:40am.
My appointment confirmed, my prescription needed to be filled: laxatives and the preparatory agent know as Purgeodan. In my past I was always prescribed Colyte for this process, I wonder what the differences will be. I arrive at my usual pharmacy and discovered that they couldn't fulfill my prescription that day. Although it was filled by the next day, it is advisable to not wait til the last minute. Now all I need to do is plan the days until 'the main event'.
For myself the dreaded 'purge' day actually takes a bit of planning menu-wise. In general I've followed my old regimen to gradually reduces the food intake and the type of foods consumed prior to the purge. In general it goes something like this:
-No blood thinners / aspirin a week before the test
-soft foods three days before the test, and no fibre/nuts, things like scrambled eggs, mushy foods
-two days before the test was full fluids: plain yogurts, cream soups, nothing that you actually chew. No fruits in the yogurt either!
-one day before the test -the day of the purge is clear fluids only: so clear chicken broth and jello, black coffee or tea, and those jello's better not be red or blue!
The idea was to reduce the fibre and solid food intake, hopefully keeping lots of fluids in you for the day of the purge. Gatorade was suggested to keep the electrolyte levels up. Jello is suggested to fool you into thinking you're eating something good. I only eat Jello when I have to, sadly that summertime staple is now firmly associated with Hospitals and ("unfun") procedures.
One week before my test and I've had my prescription filled, and menu planned. My work schedule is cleared and I have two days to concentrate solely on my health. I'm as ready as I can be. I've done this before, so not concerned about the procedure. The only thing that matters is the results. In seven days I'll go through a twenty minute procedure. Twenty minutes that may change a life forever.
In all likelihood I won't be conscious during the procedure. Where else can you say that doing nothing for twenty minutes is the best thing you can do for your health!? I just hope I don't sleep in that day!
Back in October of 2013 my Oncologist mentioned that I was due for my three year follow-up Colonoscopy. An appointment was made that coincided with that particular February Civic Holiday. Now a cold Monday morning finds me at my new doctor's office for my 8:30am appointment. So much for sleeping in on a holiday. Meeting a new doctor means being prepared to go over not only my current medical conditions, but past history, and family history too. It helps to have a list of all the meds you're currently taking. It also helps when a family member, in this case my sister, fills you in on all the details of your parents medical history. Both my parents had two incidents of cancer in their lives. Both my parents died of cancer. A detailed family history can make a crucial difference.
Past experience has taught me that the 'patient waiting room' means be patient in the 'waiting' room, so I bought along my usual entertainment device: eReader and tablet. I was ready to wait!
However a deserted waiting room greeted me when I arrived that morning. I suppose people were taking advantage of that sleeping-in-on-a-holiday thing. The receptionist verified my health card and mentioned that some places were now refusing to accept the old Red and White OHIP cards. My card is held together with tape, the magnetic strip is scratched and unusable, the numbers are faded. It's been with me through all my medical adventures, but today it served me once more.
Registration continued with paperwork for me to fill out: my medical history, my current meds, allergies...all the usual questions. Except for Crestor and Vitamins D and B12, I take very little in the way of medicine. Once completed I sat down for perhaps two minutes before I was ushered into the medical examination room. I would wait a couple of more minutes before the doctor arrived.
When he arrives, we chat about my current condition, why I am referred to him, if I notice any changes in my bowel or general health. He asks about my Cancer and the treatment I received, and seemed surprised that I had liver surgery for the metastases. I recount my history and family history There's a routine examination, and I'm up on the table being 'poked and prodded' once again. Nothing apparently out of place and I'm headed back to the receptionist to confirm an appointment for the Colonoscopy exam. I'll be scheduled for the next week, on February 26th at 08:40am.
My appointment confirmed, my prescription needed to be filled: laxatives and the preparatory agent know as Purgeodan. In my past I was always prescribed Colyte for this process, I wonder what the differences will be. I arrive at my usual pharmacy and discovered that they couldn't fulfill my prescription that day. Although it was filled by the next day, it is advisable to not wait til the last minute. Now all I need to do is plan the days until 'the main event'.
For myself the dreaded 'purge' day actually takes a bit of planning menu-wise. In general I've followed my old regimen to gradually reduces the food intake and the type of foods consumed prior to the purge. In general it goes something like this:
-No blood thinners / aspirin a week before the test
-soft foods three days before the test, and no fibre/nuts, things like scrambled eggs, mushy foods
-two days before the test was full fluids: plain yogurts, cream soups, nothing that you actually chew. No fruits in the yogurt either!
-one day before the test -the day of the purge is clear fluids only: so clear chicken broth and jello, black coffee or tea, and those jello's better not be red or blue!
The idea was to reduce the fibre and solid food intake, hopefully keeping lots of fluids in you for the day of the purge. Gatorade was suggested to keep the electrolyte levels up. Jello is suggested to fool you into thinking you're eating something good. I only eat Jello when I have to, sadly that summertime staple is now firmly associated with Hospitals and ("unfun") procedures.
One week before my test and I've had my prescription filled, and menu planned. My work schedule is cleared and I have two days to concentrate solely on my health. I'm as ready as I can be. I've done this before, so not concerned about the procedure. The only thing that matters is the results. In seven days I'll go through a twenty minute procedure. Twenty minutes that may change a life forever.
In all likelihood I won't be conscious during the procedure. Where else can you say that doing nothing for twenty minutes is the best thing you can do for your health!? I just hope I don't sleep in that day!
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Cold Prophecy
Another Christmas, the fourth since my Cancer diagnosis of 2010. This one was reminiscent of those of my youth in Northern Ontario, featuring as it did snow and cold weather. The New Year would bring more snow. A lot more snow, due to a weather phenomena whimsically referred to as "The Polar Vortex'. My dreams of a vacation of idleness and relaxation were rudely dashed by episodes of snow shoveling, punctuated by numbing cold. I'm getting older, my bones ache, I feel the cold that much more. I'm such a wimp.
January crawls by, the cold creeping into the house causes the furnace to run continuously. I dread the upcoming heating bills. My only exercise is shoveling snow and my short walks to work. I think if it wasn't for the B12 shots I receive monthly I'd have no energy to do anything. This is my "Winter of discontent".
January starts the quarterly cycle for my post-cancer blood work protocol: every three months I show up a the local Cancer Center lab, where my blood is drawn. The blood is basically a check of the CEA values. Since my treatment stopped 3 years ago, I have regularly had this test every three months. To date, there have been no significant findings. This is a good thing. I will keep going until my oncologist tells me to stop.
There will be a more invasive procedure however: In February I will meet with a new surgeon to discuss my upcoming Colonoscopy. Three years since the last visit in 2011, time for some internal spelunking. In the meantime I will be taking advantage of a free seminar put on by the local Cancer Clinic to talk about nutrition. It's easy to fall back into old habits, and the price you pay is to watch your weight rise and your waistline expand. The hope is that a little refresher on basic nutrition for (former) Cancer patients will help me manage both my caloric intake and my dietary motivations. Plus I probably shouldn't eat everything put in front of me as if I'll never have that chance again.
Aside from the fatigue of just getting through the dark dreary days and energy-sucking cold, I find that I'm tired and finding it hard to concentrate. The simple explanation: it happens when you get older and don't go to sleep early. I hope that this year I start getting to sleep before 2:00am. So far it's been an under-achieved goal.
For once our television meteorologists are correct in their predictions: they said it was going to be cold and it was. I'll have my procedure in another month, and really can't predict the results of my tests. The only thing I know for sure right now, is that January I spent a lot of time out in the cold, and sometime in February, I'm pretty sure I'll be out cold! Hopefully the results of these tests will be ...heartwarming.
January crawls by, the cold creeping into the house causes the furnace to run continuously. I dread the upcoming heating bills. My only exercise is shoveling snow and my short walks to work. I think if it wasn't for the B12 shots I receive monthly I'd have no energy to do anything. This is my "Winter of discontent".
January starts the quarterly cycle for my post-cancer blood work protocol: every three months I show up a the local Cancer Center lab, where my blood is drawn. The blood is basically a check of the CEA values. Since my treatment stopped 3 years ago, I have regularly had this test every three months. To date, there have been no significant findings. This is a good thing. I will keep going until my oncologist tells me to stop.
There will be a more invasive procedure however: In February I will meet with a new surgeon to discuss my upcoming Colonoscopy. Three years since the last visit in 2011, time for some internal spelunking. In the meantime I will be taking advantage of a free seminar put on by the local Cancer Clinic to talk about nutrition. It's easy to fall back into old habits, and the price you pay is to watch your weight rise and your waistline expand. The hope is that a little refresher on basic nutrition for (former) Cancer patients will help me manage both my caloric intake and my dietary motivations. Plus I probably shouldn't eat everything put in front of me as if I'll never have that chance again.
Aside from the fatigue of just getting through the dark dreary days and energy-sucking cold, I find that I'm tired and finding it hard to concentrate. The simple explanation: it happens when you get older and don't go to sleep early. I hope that this year I start getting to sleep before 2:00am. So far it's been an under-achieved goal.
For once our television meteorologists are correct in their predictions: they said it was going to be cold and it was. I'll have my procedure in another month, and really can't predict the results of my tests. The only thing I know for sure right now, is that January I spent a lot of time out in the cold, and sometime in February, I'm pretty sure I'll be out cold! Hopefully the results of these tests will be ...heartwarming.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
A shot in the arm...
For some time now I've been debating the merits of further posting to my blog. Essentially I'm as good as I'm going to be regarding my Cancer treatment. My last visit with the oncologist bolstered my confidence that this particular colon cancer likely won't re-occur. My liver is in good shape apparently, and does whatever a liver does without any problems. I'm not scheduled for anything major, save for a colonoscopy sometime in 2014. Until then, it's basically dullsville as far as the cancer game is played.
So what do I write about? There are of course still some mundane yet medically important aspects, not directly treatment related, but helpful anyways. For instance, I've never got a Flu shot. Oh sure I figure I've lived through Cancer and can revert to the stoic 'nope I'm a survivor I don't get the flu (only life-threatening illnesses...)' mentality. But realistically a short chat with a medical professional (a rather persuasive pharmacist in my case) convinced me of the merits of taking the proactive approach. Basically if I get sick and cancer comes back (OR if the cancer comes back and I get sick) my immune system would need all the help it can get. So I opted to get the shot.
Having never had a flu shot before I wasn't particularly worried about Yet Another Needle in my arm. I'm stoic, remember? The pharmacist invites me to get behind the privacy screen where I'm informed that the shot will be high up on my arm. Easiest thing to do is to simply remove my shirt. I'm glad for the privacy screen, it means I won't be causing casual passers-by to faint at the sight of my less-than toned "muscles". Or be blinded by the reflected glare off of very pale skin. The shot is over in a minute, and I don't bleed. A comment from the person giving the shot is that men don't bleed like stuck pigs; I guess we're basically all clotting fools.
The shot completed, my shirt rebuttoned and I'm ready to leave....but..not yet. Apparently there's a little cautionary note in the pamphlet handed to the 'flu shot-ees' that advises a 15 minute waiting period after receiving your shot. Hey more waiting in a medical environment. I'm pretty good at that by now.
Fifteen minutes later, no fever, no projectile vomiting, no desire to perform the Lambada, I'm free to go. Simple. Easy. Quick. Done. Some people complain that 'the flu shot makes them sick'. Over the next couple of day I monitor how I feel, and overall I feel healthy Until the weekend. When I got sick. Apparently migraine headaches due to a combination of weather change (it got cold) and not keeping hydrated were my undoing. The flu shot prevents a bad case of the Flu; it doesn't stop you from being dumb and not taking responsibility for your own health.
One week later and I'm as good as I usually am (other than a rather humiliating loss at chess to a young lady; who despite not yet being a teenager, is quite talented. Did I mention I was humiliated?!). I wonder if there's a shot to make me a better chess player? Probably not: science is good but I'd need a a Miracle!
So what do I write about? There are of course still some mundane yet medically important aspects, not directly treatment related, but helpful anyways. For instance, I've never got a Flu shot. Oh sure I figure I've lived through Cancer and can revert to the stoic 'nope I'm a survivor I don't get the flu (only life-threatening illnesses...)' mentality. But realistically a short chat with a medical professional (a rather persuasive pharmacist in my case) convinced me of the merits of taking the proactive approach. Basically if I get sick and cancer comes back (OR if the cancer comes back and I get sick) my immune system would need all the help it can get. So I opted to get the shot.
Having never had a flu shot before I wasn't particularly worried about Yet Another Needle in my arm. I'm stoic, remember? The pharmacist invites me to get behind the privacy screen where I'm informed that the shot will be high up on my arm. Easiest thing to do is to simply remove my shirt. I'm glad for the privacy screen, it means I won't be causing casual passers-by to faint at the sight of my less-than toned "muscles". Or be blinded by the reflected glare off of very pale skin. The shot is over in a minute, and I don't bleed. A comment from the person giving the shot is that men don't bleed like stuck pigs; I guess we're basically all clotting fools.
The shot completed, my shirt rebuttoned and I'm ready to leave....but..not yet. Apparently there's a little cautionary note in the pamphlet handed to the 'flu shot-ees' that advises a 15 minute waiting period after receiving your shot. Hey more waiting in a medical environment. I'm pretty good at that by now.
Fifteen minutes later, no fever, no projectile vomiting, no desire to perform the Lambada, I'm free to go. Simple. Easy. Quick. Done. Some people complain that 'the flu shot makes them sick'. Over the next couple of day I monitor how I feel, and overall I feel healthy Until the weekend. When I got sick. Apparently migraine headaches due to a combination of weather change (it got cold) and not keeping hydrated were my undoing. The flu shot prevents a bad case of the Flu; it doesn't stop you from being dumb and not taking responsibility for your own health.
One week later and I'm as good as I usually am (other than a rather humiliating loss at chess to a young lady; who despite not yet being a teenager, is quite talented. Did I mention I was humiliated?!). I wonder if there's a shot to make me a better chess player? Probably not: science is good but I'd need a a Miracle!
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Protocol visit 2/2
My post-cancer protocol calls for two visits a year to my Oncologist for general check-ups. My first was without incident and my second would require a CT exam. The exam occurred in September, and here in October, the day after Canadian Thanksgiving finds me at the Cancer Centre once more.
Even though it's six months between visits, I still remember the procedure to follow: stop at the main reception, get paperwork. Next, go to a registration kiosk and perform the ESAS survey (No Pain, Yes I was tired cuz I work all day, yes I'm anxious cuz I'm in a Cancer Clinic...). Print survey results, hand paperwork bundle to another receptionist. Wait......
Soon I was called in by the nurse, and the preliminary weigh-in (187 pounds) and some general questions about my health were recorded. I was led to another exam room and asked if there were any specific issues I would like to discuss -not this time. My nurse said that the doctor would be in soon. Which meant I could open up my Android Tablet and do web surfing to occupy my time.
The Oncologist arrived just as I was able to log on to the Hospital's public internet. With my Chemo Chronicles Blog page on the screen (what else would I want to read at the Cancer Centre?!) I offered my doctor a chance to see what a patient writes about the Cancer experience. She accepted and spent a few minutes reading my last entry, detailing the CT I had the month before.
I learned something that Oncologists who read that they 'Poke and Prod' a patient are actually performing a Clinical Examination. But then she called me a WIMP.....
It seemed that she was (mildly) amused at my description that the Worst Pain of a CT is the bandage removal (hey it left a red mark and everything! ) So my thoughtful, caring medical professional used one of her numerous medical definitions to classify me as a "Wimp". She's not wrong however.
The Good News is that the CT of the liver showed no problems. Nothing in the CT to be concerned about in general. Although she did not have the CEA results from my blood work it is unlikely that the numbers, which haven't changed in several years would spike up in the past few months. I was extremely relieved at this news, and I could probably amend that ESAS report for 'Anxiety = 0'.
Some discussion that in the next year I would have my three year Colonoscopy follow-up. But that's routine by now (Been there, done that, got the Johnny Shirt). She mentioned that rather than a CT there might be an Ultrasound (I've had a few CT's now, more than I ever wanted). However the big takeaway from this session is that the Cancer likely won't reoccur.
I left feeling satisfied, with more confidence that 'The Big C' and I are done with our dance. One more year remains according to the protocol I'm following. One more year of quarterly blood tests and maybe one or two visits with my Oncologist. Should all the result be good, there's every reason to believe that the Cancer Centre and I can go our separate ways.
Even though it's six months between visits, I still remember the procedure to follow: stop at the main reception, get paperwork. Next, go to a registration kiosk and perform the ESAS survey (No Pain, Yes I was tired cuz I work all day, yes I'm anxious cuz I'm in a Cancer Clinic...). Print survey results, hand paperwork bundle to another receptionist. Wait......
Soon I was called in by the nurse, and the preliminary weigh-in (187 pounds) and some general questions about my health were recorded. I was led to another exam room and asked if there were any specific issues I would like to discuss -not this time. My nurse said that the doctor would be in soon. Which meant I could open up my Android Tablet and do web surfing to occupy my time.
The Oncologist arrived just as I was able to log on to the Hospital's public internet. With my Chemo Chronicles Blog page on the screen (what else would I want to read at the Cancer Centre?!) I offered my doctor a chance to see what a patient writes about the Cancer experience. She accepted and spent a few minutes reading my last entry, detailing the CT I had the month before.
I learned something that Oncologists who read that they 'Poke and Prod' a patient are actually performing a Clinical Examination. But then she called me a WIMP.....
It seemed that she was (mildly) amused at my description that the Worst Pain of a CT is the bandage removal (hey it left a red mark and everything! ) So my thoughtful, caring medical professional used one of her numerous medical definitions to classify me as a "Wimp". She's not wrong however.
The Good News is that the CT of the liver showed no problems. Nothing in the CT to be concerned about in general. Although she did not have the CEA results from my blood work it is unlikely that the numbers, which haven't changed in several years would spike up in the past few months. I was extremely relieved at this news, and I could probably amend that ESAS report for 'Anxiety = 0'.
Some discussion that in the next year I would have my three year Colonoscopy follow-up. But that's routine by now (Been there, done that, got the Johnny Shirt). She mentioned that rather than a CT there might be an Ultrasound (I've had a few CT's now, more than I ever wanted). However the big takeaway from this session is that the Cancer likely won't reoccur.
I left feeling satisfied, with more confidence that 'The Big C' and I are done with our dance. One more year remains according to the protocol I'm following. One more year of quarterly blood tests and maybe one or two visits with my Oncologist. Should all the result be good, there's every reason to believe that the Cancer Centre and I can go our separate ways.
Friday, September 27, 2013
YACTS -Yet Another CT Scan
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.
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.
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:
 |
| 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!
 | |
| 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:
 | |
| 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.
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