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.   

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.

Don’t tell my cancer, but we’re about to launch “Operation Get Outta Here.”  Tomorrow (5/30) they’ll put me into a light sleep while they install the port in my chest that will serve as the entry point for my chemo treatments which will begin next Friday (6/6). I’ve enjoyed this period of time between the original diagnosis and the beginning of treatment.  

I’ve done so many things that I love to do that I might not be up for during the next few months.  Yesterday I played a pretty solid round of golf. We spent a priceless holiday weekend at the beach with the gift of some amazing late spring weather.  Lauren and I had a fun Daddy-Daughter bowling date.  We’ve gone out for several dinners with friends.  We also had our first-ever family portrait taken. It’s that childhood feeling at the end of the summer when the new school year, which once seemed so far away, is only days away.

But here’s what I didn’t expect we’d be doing.  We’re laughing.  A lot.  Cancer isn’t funny…in fact, it’s about as unfunny as it gets.  But 18 years ago I was fortunate enough to marry a woman who can be as goofy as I.  And as genetics would have it, we spawned a goofy child.  In our current situation, the choices are to laugh or cry.  We worked hard at the beginning to fulfill our crying requirement, and now we’re on to the other.

If you’ve been through this yourself, then maybe you get it, but I can’t explain the euphoria.  There’s something extremely liberating about having such a challenge ahead that the small daily aggravations of life fall off the radar.  We’re enjoying so many things so much more.  It’s a side-effect the doctors didn’t tell me about.

There are rough days ahead.  The chemo, especially the steroids, will try to fool with my moods and patience.  But at least going into this we’re charged up and ready.  I’ve drawn so much strength from your support, and I’ve learned a great deal from the personal stories you’ve sent me.  I’ll represent as best I can by giving this my best effort.

Until next week…

I’ve been enjoying what I call my “honeymoon” since my cancer diagnosis on April 7th.  Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma has many sub-types, and mine is typically a slow mover.  I’ve most likely had it for a year or more, but so far it’s found a home in me without interfering too much with vital organs.  Because I have no outward symptoms, I’ve been afforded a brief period of relative calm between when we found out what I have, and the start of treatment.  

Wednesday (5/21) is an appointment to get our final outside opinion.  Tuesday (5/27) will be the final strategy session with my oncologist.  Then the honeymoon is over, and I begin to plan differently.  

I keep my calendar on this computer.  If I want to see how busy a month is going to be, I click on the monthly tab.  There’s also a weekly tab.  And then there’s the one I’ll be using for the rest of the year.  The daily tab.  Chemo won’t let me look a week or a month out to make plans.  I’ll know as I go how much I’m able to fill up my days, and how much others can count on me.  

This is all grown-up stuff that I’m not used to!  I’m the least mature person in my family!  But the honeymoon is about over, and it’s time to get to work.   It’s a physical and emotional investment that I’m more than willing to make.  

Thank you for reading.  Thank you for caring.  I wish you all the best with whatever challenges you are facing!  

A few weeks ago on a rainy night on I-4, there appeared to be a car stopped on the left shoulder with it’s flashers on.  My wife and I were in the left lane with a tanker truck right next to us on the right.  As we got closer to the stopped car, I realized that the stopped car was half on the shoulder and half in our lane.  I had one option which was to accelerate as quickly as possible to sneak in front of the flammable truck to our right and avoid smashing into the back of the car on our left.  If the tires didn’t grab the wet road, or if we didn’t have enough space to make the move, we were done.  Needless to say, we made it.  But it spooked me for a couple of days.  It can all go that quickly.  And it does everyday on highways everywhere.  I felt as though we’d dodged a bullet.  

Within a couple of weeks I received my cancer diagnosis.  Until the phone rang, I didn’t know. Then I did.  My life was rerouted in a matter of seconds.  But it didn’t end, it just changed. Big difference. I get to see my enemy, and I get to fight it.  That phone call was bad news, but it could be worse.  Brush fires, wars, earthquakes, tornadoes, cyclones, random crimes.  How many people in the past week have left us with no warning, and no chance to fight back?

I can’t tell you how much your comments on my first blog entry, and emails to me directly have empowered me.  I’m humbled by your concern, and the fact that you took the time to surround me, and to so beautifully tell me your stories and offer your support.

With all the appointments and tests, formulating our plan to chase away the lymphoma has become a 2nd full time job.  I’m frustrated that the end of the day comes too quickly and that I haven’t been able to respond to you personally.  Until I can, please know that I’ve read every word, and so have my wife and daughter.   You’ve helped to infuse strength and resolve into our home as we ramp up for the coming challenges.    I hope that in some way we can return the favor, as I know you might be fighting uphill battles of your own.  We’re hugging, talking, walking, and laughing.  Spirits are good, and we like our chances.  It could be a lot worse.  

It’s been a trademark of The Scott & Erica Show to share just about everything that goes on in our lives.  From the mundane to the major events, you may know more about us than you do some of your own family.

Something has happened in my life that I haven’t spoken to you about yet.  For me it’s been going on in the background for a month, and I just let my co-workers in on it last week.

I have cancer.

To be exact, it’s non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.

In the past month, after our fun on the morning show, I’ve left for blood tests, biopsies, and scans.  They all confirmed the diagnosis. 

I’ve never smoked.  I’ve never used drugs.  I’m not overweight.  But if it can happen to the beautiful children I just met at the Florida Hospital Celebrity Stroll last Sunday, it can happen to me.  It would be arrogant to think that cancer only happens to other people. 

The lymphoma I have is slow moving.  So slow that I don’t have ANY symptoms.  I feel great!  But thank goodness I have annual check-ups and thank goodness my dermatologist cared enough to take a second look when the early results were inconclusive.

My family and friends have been riding an emotional rollercoaster as you might guess.  But as we’ve gotten further away from the diagnosis, and closer to the treatment, things are evening out.

There’s nothing fun about chemotherapy, which is most likely going to be the treatment.  However, I will have an extra 15 minutes every morning since I won’t have any hair to sculpt!  My doctor is going to work with me to schedule treatments so that I’m still able to come to work and be harrassed by Erica and Jay.  Management has been amazingly, but not surprisingly supportive, as have all my co-workers.

Since we do share our lives so much with you, it would be odd if I didn’t update you on how things are going from time to time.  But most of that kind of information will be found here on my blog.  I invite you to share in my recovery here, and to tell me what’s going on with you. 

For us, our 4 hours on the air in the morning are our oasis from normal daily stresses.  I know that by talking about this on the air Wednesday morning I allowed a breach to take place.  But we’re going to move on with our show today and everyday.

I know there’s a certain amount of limelight that comes with hosting a morning show.  We can push one button and use our 100,000 watt transmitter to talk to half the state (not to mention the entire world through our web stream here on our site.) But what I’d like to do is reflect that light back onto the thousands of men, women, children, and their families in our listening area who have also received a cancer or other life-threatening diagnosis.  We have a special bond now, and I hope I can help you the way you’ve already inspired me.

This isn’t the end of any road, but a turn onto a less familiar one.  I’ll have to slow down a bit to handle the curves and bumps, but that’ll give me a chance to look around and appreciate all the blessings along the way.

Thanks for listening.  Thanks for caring.  And thanks for understanding that we’re going to go right back to being goofballs.

I’ll update you here quite often. 

With love,

Scott