Well, Cindy Crawford I’m not.  She’s made millions off of her trademarked mole,  but when my oncologist spotted one on my back 2 weeks ago, he didn’t offer me a lucrative modeling contract.  Instead, it was back to the dermatologist, the original scene of the crime (see previous posts), to have it looked at and possibly removed and biopsied. 

Seborrheic Keratosis.  No, he’s not a swimmer for the Greek Olympic team.  That’s what my “mole” is.  It’s just a benign brown barnacle thing that people can get as they age.  I don’t know why I have one since I’m still 28 in my mind, but it is what it is.  Whales have barnacles, and now I have one.  I’m gonna show it to the gate attendant at Sea World and see if I can get in free as a “Friend of Shamu.”  I bet they’d let Cindy Crawford  in, and she only has a mole.  

Tomorrow it’s time for my next test, the ever-popular MUGA scan (pronounced MUGGA, not M-U-G-A unless you’re one of The Village People…)  The MUGA scan is a regularly-scheduled video of the heart to see if the chemo is doing it any harm.  I had one before we started the treatments to see what the original factory specs of my heart were.  I wasn’t quite ready to lay on my back perfectly still while this machine hovered just inches from my face for 15 minutes though.  I’m a very calm, low-key guy, but I don’t do well in close quarters like that.  So this time, they’ve prescribed my very first dose of Valium.  Could be quite a show.  Either I’ll feel uninhibited enough to really freak out about the claustrophobia, or I’ll happily break into a slurred version of “I left my heart in scan Francisco.”  

Monday was to be my PET scan to see if the cancer has been scared off, but the appointment has been postponed to Thursday.  It’s kind of the most significant hurdle I’ve had to jump in all of my 28 years (!), so the 4-day delay seems like an eternity.

Maybe instead on Monday I’ll head over to Sea World and flash my “back”stage pass…  

Chemo treatment number 3 (out of 6) is in my body and, while I’m sure my blood cells and organs aren’t too happy about it, they’re keeping their opinions to themselves and not bothering me.  When I wake up in the early morning and know that I feel good enough to go to the radio station and play with my friends Erica and Jay, that puts me ahead of the game.  I’ve been skipping my vacation time and banking the days in case I need them for health reasons later.  I’ve considered taking a couple of long weekends, but for now, having fun on the radio has done more for me than any medicine could, and I haven’t come close to needing a sick day yet.  

I’m well past being self-conscious about my bald head.  I only wear hats at work to keep the concern from my caring co-workers down and to try to keep things as close as possible to business-as-usual.  As soon as I leave each day though, I take the hat off.  But here’s the issue.  I now get “Hat Head.”  The indentation rings that my hats create on my head last all day.  I look like Saturn. And each hat seems to press a penny-sized pink concave button into the top of my forehead that is almost permanent at this point.  It looks like a big outside-in zit. I realize that in the world of stage 4 cancer this is a picky point, but since I don’t have hair to obsess about, I have to over-think something.

My sister Terry, who was diagnosed with breast cancer within two weeks of my lymphoma diagnosis (see earlier posts), is doing well after round 1 of her chemo.  She passes along her thanks for all your support and prayers.  I don’t think you know how much it means when you express your concern to people who have suddenly had their health yanked out of their hands.  You’ve been so wonderful to her and to me.

My next big event is my mid-term exam on Monday, August 4th. They’ll give me a shot of radioactive material, which will light up the cancer cells for the body scan machine to take pictures of. The last PET scan I had was the one that confirmed I have cancer. This one will hopefully show that I can turn most of my attention now to curing my Hat Head.

Talk to you next week!

Chemo treatment #3 is tomorrow, and for some reason I feel like this one will be the true indicator of how I’ll do with the remaining 3.  The first round took my hair, the second took a little energy, but neither have lived up to their potential as far as nasty side-effects.  I’ve had a number of people suggest that I feel free to write about the bad days, the low moments, my fears and my concerns.  The problem with that is that since I’ve started chemo, I haven’t had many.  I went through plenty of Kleenex boxes when I was first diagnosed, but since then, my cancer and I have an understanding.  As long as it goes quietly, I won’t harbor any resentment.  I’ve explained to the cancer that it can’t outlive me, so what’s the use in putting up a big fight?  

To be honest, I sometimes feel like I’m not representing the plight of cancer patients well enough because my life hasn’t been turned completely upside down…yet.  I even asked my wife the other night if she thought we might be in denial.  I didn’t plan on my question keeping her up until 3am, but even after all that thought, she still didn’t think we were in fantasyland.   She’s a psychologist with a Ph.D, so I believe her, I just don’t appreciate being billed for the 4 hours that she tossed and turned…

So tomorrow it’s back to the treatment room to fill me with more Windex, Prestone, WD40 and lighter fluid. (I can’t remember the exact chemicals in my chemo, but I think that’s correct.)

Hopefully, as with the first two, it knows how to kick the cancer’s butt without kicking mine.

With things going swimingly after my second tour of duty at Camp Chemo, I can fill you in on random details of my redirected life:

My next treatment is on my father’s 90th birthday.  I can finally beat him at golf, but he’s lived 90 years cancer-free, so we’ll call it a draw.

I’ve greatly improved my diet, but finding a place for my increased servings of vegetables is a little awkward. Yesterday for lunch I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a side of asparagus.

To even the skin tone of my hairless head, I’m driving home each day from work with the sunroof open.

With all the recent rains, the mosquitos are landing on me, but not biting.  My chemo-tainted blood must taste like peanut butter and jelly with asparagus to them.

A tank of gas lasts twice as long now that I’m pretty much just driving to work and back each day.  I’d probably get even better results if I didn’t have the sunroof open.

I didn’t realize I own so many hats.  I’ve gone a month without wearing the same one twice. But I still wear the same shoes everyday.

Since my diagnosis, all of my normally sarcastic guy friends have shown me a caring, sensitive, communicative side that I didn’t expect.  If we get any more in touch with our feelings, we’ll be quilting together.

My wife and I have never spent this much time together.  We share dinner together every night.  We walk almost every evening.  We watch movies on the weekends.  The more I’m with her, the more I miss when we’re not.  I think she likes me too.

To keep my system spotless, I’ve had nothing but water to drink since I started chemo.  I don’t know how fish maintain their will to live.

I don’t know if it’s the chemo taking over, but I downloaded a Helen Reddy song to my iPod a couple of weeks ago (”Peaceful”).  As I was at my computer the other day, it came on, and my wife couldn’t understand how one person (me) could enjoy iTunes’ segue from Helen to Zeppelin’s “The Lemon Song”.  To me “Redd Zeppelin” seemed like a perfect mix.  But to a person, no one, not even my previously-mentioned “Spitters and Knitters” men’s club can look me in the eye anymore once they know I have Helen Reddy in my collection.

Thanks again for reading and caring.  I’ll check in next week before round 3.

May your lemons be peaceful.        

Unless you have an irrational fear of it, success is something we all strive for.  There’s hardly anything better than setting goals and achieving them.  The feeling is a combination of joy and relief with a good helping of self-esteem added in.  Hopefully you’ve been blessed with your fair share of personal successes. 

When I was given the information sheets on the 4 chemicals they’d be giving me in my chemo cocktail, each one described possible side-effects.  As is the norm in the medical field, they’re obligated to mention all the possibilities.  Even if only one person started barking like a dog after treatment, they have to mention that you may also find yourself in your backyard keeping your neighbors up at night.  For each of my chemicals the sheet mentioned intestinal distress, ranging from the frequent-trip variety to the “might as well rent out your bathroom, you won’t be needing it” type.  Without getting into any more detail, let’s just say that after each of my first two rounds of chemo, the first few days are like I-4 traffic at 5pm.  And there are no detours or alternate routes.  

The thing about success is it has to be prioritized.  It’s not considered a successful week if you get fired, but finally finish that crossword puzzle.  Having said that though, if days and days go by without something going bye, priorities can change.  Having been diagnosed with cancer, I should have been thinking global, spiritual, and philosophical thoughts about making the world a better place, but I couldn’t think of anything else.  Everything had to be put on the back burner, if you will.  Seeing Charmin ads on TV made me think they were mocking me.  I was even starting to walk differently. Having ingested enough fiber to build a sofa, I was about to call a plumber, a locksmith, anybody.  And then…..success! Woof! Woof!

I wish you a very “successful” 4th of July.  Complete with all the fireworks you hope for.