A few days after my first round of chemo, my daughter Lauren asked me how I was feeling.  When I told her that I was doing much better than I expected, she said without missing a beat, “Daddy 1, Chemo 0.”  Even though 85% of my hair is no longer on my head (and thus we now have a carpeted bathroom that didn’t cost us a penny), I feel that I really did get a freebie with the first cycle.

Memorable moments from round one include two Thursdays ago, when during the 8am hour I felt as though somebody slipped me a couple of martinis.  I was DUI (deejaying under the influence), but no alcohol was involved.  It’s an interesting exercise to try to talk on the radio and run the control board while the chemicals make your brain think it’s riding Space Mountain.  Also there were a few days recently where my voice started strong, but then was pretty much shot by 10am.  I had to turn into a mime each day until the next morning to be able to do my job.  My wife seemed to enjoy the peace though.  Another weird symptom was that most music, jingles, and even our home phone seemed lower in pitch.  I’m not saying that Madonna sounded like Barry White, but there was a morning where Erica’s voice reminded me of Larry King.  

Everything is back to normal now, but with treatment number 2 coming tomorrow, I’m sure we’re in for an even more interesting ride.  

We’ll see how hard the chemo tries to tie the score.  

When I was 12 years old, the radio bug bit me. Of course at that age, every kid listens to the radio, but my older brother used to go see the deejays when they were broadcasting live, and once or twice, he took me along. He always had this huge grin on his face when the air personality would look his way.

My love of music, and the thrill that the radio stars added to the atmosphere sparked a fire in me that charted my vocational course. I didn’t know anything about being on the radio, I just knew I wanted to do it. After regular mock radio shows in my friend Dave’s bedroom, and after studying broadcasting and hosting a morning radio show in college for 4 years, I was ready to do this for a living.

I was hired at my first job 30 years ago this week. Middays on WNKO-FM, Newark, Ohio. They offered me $150 a week, and I couldn’t believe my good luck.

This week, 30 years later I still can’t believe I get to do this.

Since my first treatment treated me mildly, I had a chance to settle into my new lifestyle here at Camp Chemo, commonly known as our house.  However, I still haven’t had as much opportunity as I would like to respond to the many emails sent to me directly, and to the posts here on my blog.  I had ambitious hopes of being able to reply to everybody, since you took the time to support me and talk to me about your challenges, but until I can accomplish that goal, I’m going to use a quicker route to answer some of the common questions that I’ve received. 

Q: What type of cancer do you have?

A:  I have Follicular non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.  It’s a slow-moving plodding kind of cancer.  The slow-moving part is good and bad.  You have some time to figure out a plan to fight it, but it gets a lot of time to spread around before you know you have it.  

Q: How did you discover it?

A: I had a little itsy bitsy pink spot in the right upper corner of my forehead about the size of a quarter that just stayed there for months.  It didn’t itch or hurt, and nobody else noticed it.  When I had my annual dermatology appointment, I showed it to the doctor.  She took a biopsy and sent it off.  It came back benign, and we celebrated.

Q: So, wait a minute, if it was benign, then why are you on chemo?

A: That’s where this doctor was amazing.  Two days after the good news, she called me.  She said she had been reviewing the notes from the pathologist, and even though the diagnosis came back negative for cancer, she wanted to take another biopsy and run it through a different test.  She just didn’t feel certain that we had the whole picture.  Turns out that she was 100% correct, and the second test came back positive for lymphoma.  

Q: Did you have any other symptoms?

A: None.  In fact, I had a complete blood work-up and chest x-ray which both came back fine after the first biopsy.  My dermatologist really went above and beyond the call of duty.  She could have just as easily put my file away after the first test.

Q: So the cancer is on your scalp?  Is that what “follicular” means?

A: It is on my scalp, but also in other internal places as well.  Follicular doesn’t have anything to do with hair or scalp, it’s just what they call those particular cancer cells.  I still don’t feel or see the cancer at all.

Q:  What is the chemo like?

A: The actual name is CHOP-R.  The letters each stand for a chemical (the “P” being Prednisone, a strong steroid).  The “R” stands for Rituxan.  Rituxan is not chemo, but a biological agent that hates my type of cancer.  While the chemo kills good and bad cells, the Rituxan just takes out the bad.  It’s pretty much the state-of-the-art when it comes to lymphoma.   It increases your chances for success by 1.5 gazillion percent.   The doctors say that on a 1-10, my chemo cocktail is about a 3.5 in terms of how it impacts me.  I’m having a treatment every 3 weeks for 18 weeks, or 6 rounds of chemo.  

Q: Did your hair fall out yet?

A: Not yet!  But I’m expecting it to any minute now.  Probably eyebrows and eyelashes too.

Q:  Is your cancer curable?  

A: They don’t talk “cure” with this one.  They talk “manage”.  They use the word “remission.”  But they also talk years, and decades cancer-free.  With medicine making such tremendous strides every day, 10 years from now hopefully this, and all other cancers and afflictions will be remedied with a vaccine or other cure.  

Q: Why aren’t you talking about your cancer on the air?

A: I have a little, but this blog is the more appropriate place for people to be updated regularly.  I’m sure it will come up on the air from time to time, but mostly when it’s to talk about the fundraising events of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.  I’ve worked with them for years even before my diagnosis.  If I can help to shed some light on their wonderful efforts, I’m happy to do so.   

Q: How are your wife and daughter?

A: Everybody is doing very well.  We went through all the normal stages when I was first diagnosed, and we still go through the disbelief from time to time, but tears have been replaced by hope, and the shock has worn off.  We again thank everybody for your concern,  your prayers, and for reaching out to us.  Your support makes an indescribable difference, and has been something we have all leaned on to get through the longer days.

Q: Is this the last question?

A: Yes. 

With the first batch of chemo now in my body, some silent changes are taking place.  My red blood cells (the ones that carry oxygen to my parts) are diminishing which will start to sap my energy.  Being fatigued isn’t being tired.  It’s being exhausted. So far I’m pretty good, but last night when I got tired, I had a different reaction.  Instead of just yawning, my nose went numb.  It was back to normal this morning though.  There’s something wrong with being able to smell your fingers, but not feel your nose.  Random numbness is a pretty normal thing with this cocktail of chemo I’m told.  

Also, my white blood cells (the ones that fight infection and disease) have been downsized.  It’s an unfortunate casualty, especially for a germ freak like me.  I need to stay out of crowds, avoid uncooked foods, and wear a mask around sick people.  (And I work with a lot of sick people..) My battle with the germ thing has always been that, while I supply the studio with Purell, and am always hyper-aware of restaurant cashiers who handle money and food with the same hands, I still bite my nails.  It doesn’t make sense, but I do.  With my resistance being so low, that lovely habit has to die.  But with stress being up, and little bits of cuticle constantly inviting me in for a bite like the food sample lady at Costco, I have to resist.  It’s not worth the downside.  

All in all though, the first round of chemo has been kind so far.  I’ve been able join you in the mornings on the radio, get some work done, and try to begin to respond to an inbox full of very supportive email and comments.  

Also, my sister Terry’s lumpectomy went as well as it could.  No lymph node involvement, and clear margins.  We’re all very excited about that. Her chemo will actually be more effective since they’ve determined that her cancer was more aggressive than originally thought, and chemo likes to eat aggressive cells.

As I told Terry, it’s amazing what passes for good news these days.  

You’re looking at a guy who only has 5 treatments left!

But going into my first chemo, I had no idea that my bladder was going to be the star of the show.  A few times a year I have what I like to call, “low tide.”  I can tell when it’s coming because I’ll have about a 3 pound weight gain in one week, and then I’ll have a day where I have to pee every 15 minutes.  It doesn’t happen that often, but today, was a low tide day.  I went 4 times in the waiting room (actually in the bathroom off the waiting room to be more precise), and at least twice an hour during the 5 hour chemo session.  The nurses were amazed as were the other patients.  Too bad I was at the doctor’s office today, I could’ve helped put out some of the brush fires in the area.

I just took the Prednisone when I got home.  Too early for side effects at this point, but in an hour or so I’m gonna go out and see if I can lift my car.

The best medicine I received today though was that Terry’s surgery was very successful, and her lymph nodes were clear.

Fran was wonderful, and although she couldn’t sit there with me, she came back for pep talks and deep, wet, lingering kisses (YOU decide whether you believe that or not).  She’s been the errand queen, getting me everything I need to be a true chemodonna.

So, I’ll spend the weekend full of poisonous chemicals and see what happens.  My body is probably having a flashback to the days I swam in Lake Erie at summer camp.

So far, so good!

Note to chemo:

You don’t get to take my hair (on my head).

Tonight’s the night…  

Within just a few days of my lymphoma diagnosis, My older sister Terry discovered she has breast cancer. This is crazy. At the very moment I’ll be in the chemo chair, my sister will be in an operating room having a lumpectomy.  Our family is trying to make sense of it all.  

We’ve always had some weird connections…Terry was born on the 18th. I was born on the 18th. Our Dad was born on the 18th in 1918. I started at MIX 105.1 on the 18th. Terry’s husband was born on the 18th. My wife and I were married on the 18th. I’m scheduled for 18 weeks of chemotherapy. But the odds that Terry and I would both be members of this year’s cancer class, and have our diagnoses so close together, is an unwelcome coincidence.  Needless to say, our already strong bond has become unbreakable as Friday looms closer.

Our totally healthy parents, who will turn 90 and 85 this summer have accused us of trying to kill them with all the stress. But I truly believe that our family’s happiest times are ahead of us.