Hard to Disguise the Bad Days

A lot of people have said that several of my blogs recently have sounded very down, that I seem depressed.

I guess that's true.

I don't mean to sound that way, but sometimes I have bad days. I guess that comes through in my writing.

I've been tempted not to publish some of them, but everyone says that if that's the way I feel on that day, so be it.

It's hard not to let everything we're going through get to us sometimes. Some days the burden seems greater, seems almost too much to bear. I know I shouldn't, but some days I want to feel sorry for myself, to give in to the dark side.

But those moments pass. We all have to reach inside ourselves and find some reserve still untapped, some strength that's still there, and push forward.

We have to find the will to take the next step, and then the one after that.

Some days that's hard. At least it is for me. I'd love to be a pillar of strength every day, to never feel or show weakness.

But we're all just human, after all.

7:15 AM ET | 11-30-2007 | permalink

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Suspended in Time

I live by a different calendar these days. I measure my life by the next appointment, when the next drain comes out, when the antibiotic pump is disconnected.

I realize that the rest of the world is going on about its business. Going to work, holiday shopping, all the usual stuff. My friends are all working, measuring their lives by new projects or reports due. All the things I used to worry about.

I guess today I'm really feeling the split between Cancer World and the normal world. Cancer World, my world, looks a lot like the normal world. But it is so very different.

I've gotten out of the house a few times, but I've pretty much been house-bound for a while now. I know that outside these walls, life goes on. But it's strange not to be part of it. I can almost feel the hum, the rhythm of everything that's happening out there.

When I first got home, the trees in my backyard were a riot of fall colors. Now they're mostly bare, the leaves littering the ground. Time is passing in both Cancer World and the normal world. I just wish they didn't feel so far apart.

7:32 AM ET | 11-29-2007 | permalink

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Looking Ahead to Better Mornings

What will it be like when things get back to "normal?" Will there be one day when all of a sudden I'm healed? Of course not.

But at some point, I should start to feel like my old self. Or, mostly like my old self.

I was hoping to get the last drain out today. But it's still too active, so I have to wait another week. And the pump that I've worn attached to my arm for the last several weeks will go away next week too.

Even when I'm unplugged, I'll still lave a long way to go. My muscles are waking up, and they are not happy. They atrophied during my hospital stay and long weeks of recuperation. It takes a while for them to come back.

It's possible that some of the pain I feel will last for a long time. The surgery cut some of my nerves. It's unclear how they will react over time.

My doctors are serious when they say recovery takes at least eight weeks. So, I have a way to go. But I still believe that there will come a morning when I wake up and feel pretty good.

When I feel lousy, when the pain gets bad, I think about that morning.

It can't come soon enough.

7:18 AM ET | 11-28-2007 | permalink

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Letting Down the Facade

I was rude to a friend of mine the other day.

At least I think I was. He was very understanding. He had come over to see how I was, had driven a long way, actually. And I fell asleep. Luckily, he and Laurie ignored me and just kept talking.

I couldn't help it. I tried to stay awake, but the lack of sleep at night and the medication just knocked me out. Now, in different circumstances, this would have been unthinkable. It would have been terribly rude. But things have changed.

I'm not afraid to show weakness anymore, or vulnerability.

People have seen me when I'm exhausted, angry, sad. They've seen me wallow in self-pity. They've also seen me in a fighting mood. Trying to hide any of that, trying to keep up a facade of normalcy, just seems silly at this point.

My friends know what I'm going through, and they don't look away. That is a huge gift. It lets me be me. I don't have to worry about appearances when my body is demanding my energy and attention. After all, right now I have an excuse for falling asleep. In a few weeks, that may change. But their understanding of what I'm going through is priceless.

I'm a lucky man.

7:18 AM ET | 11-27-2007 | permalink

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A Body at War

I know a lot of you don't like the "fight" or "war" analogies when we're talking about our struggles with cancer.

Because to call it a fight implies that, ultimately, we'll lose.

I agree with that. But sometimes I find myself using "war" or "fight" because I can't think of a different way to say it. And these days, sometimes I do feel like I've been in a fight.

I saw my plastic surgeon last week. No, I'm not having any body work done, although I've always wanted to do something about my double chin. But now just doesn't seem like the time to worry about it.

The plastic surgeon did all the work on my back after the neurosurgeons were finished with my spine. He moved some muscles around and closed up the incision. He also put the drains in.

He's the doctor who's going to decide if the last drain will come out this week, so I just want to go on record here, in case he reads this, saying what a great doctor he is! I figure a little sucking up can't hurt.

Anyway, he was quite pleased with the way the incision is healing. And then he said, "You look great on the outside. Inside, you're still a war zone." He was talking about our efforts to defeat the staph infection, something that is apparently much harder than I thought.

I'd never thought of it that way, but I guess he's right. My body is a war zone.

However we talk about it, however we label it, I am fighting for my life.

7:35 AM ET | 11-26-2007 | permalink

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Giving Thanks

We have so much to be thankful for.

That might sound funny coming from someone with cancer. We have each other -- the greatest gift of all. We have our loved ones. Our doctors and their skills. We can still laugh when we should, and cry when we need to. And most important ... we're still here.

I wish all of you a wonderful Thanksgiving.

See you Monday.

4:30 PM ET | 11-21-2007 | permalink

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The Body's Well Kept Secrets

Sometimes it's hard to make sense of what's happening.

I have blood samples taken every week, and countless tests. My red cells are good, my white cells seem to be up.

I have to admit, I don't understand what a lot of the tests are all about. My potassium is back up. It had been down for a while. I do understand that one. It shows that I'm back drinking lots of milk.

There are two markers for infection. Actually, I think they measure inflammation. The doctors watch them to try to determine if there's still any infection. These aren't perfect measures. Other factors, like my cancer, can affect them.

But this past week, one marker went up and the other went down. So what does that mean? Are we winning, or is the infection coming back?

In practice, it means we keep watching, keep an eye out for trends.

What amazes me is that after all the tests -- the MRIs, CTs with or without contrast, X-rays, blood tests and so on -- after all that, what happens in my body is still a mystery.

I don't say this as a criticism. Far from it. I think my doctors are brilliant in figuring out what's going on.

I'm just amazed that our bodies still protect their secrets. I wish they wouldn't.

Life would be so much easier if they didn't.

7:05 AM ET | 11-21-2007 | permalink

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A Season of Worry and Cheer

Time seems to be moving after all.

I get another drain removed tomorrow. The pump goes away in two weeks. While the days may be going by slowly, they are going by.

The holidays are upon us, and they bring some unique concerns this year. Will I be able to sit at the table for the entire Thanksgiving dinner? Will I have to excuse myself and return to the big stuffed chair where I'm most comfortable?

How will I handle Christmas shopping this year? I can't drive and I still can't walk long distances yet. Although thinking about it, that walker might come in pretty handy for plowing through the hordes of shoppers.

These are really trivial concerns. Most of us face much greater challenges, both physical and emotional. I guess it feels good just to worry about little stuff every now and then.

The big stuff isn't going away.

7:06 AM ET | 11-20-2007 | permalink

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Walking a Familiar Path

About 40 yards. That's how far I got before we had to stop and sit on a bench.

My friend Ted Koppel had taken me back to the path along the Potomac River where we used to hike regularly. As a matter of fact, he and I did our normal six mile loop two years ago, the afternoon before my doctors found the brain tumor.

We've spent a lot of time on that path. We carried 40-pound packs getting in shape for the invasion of Iraq. We've hiked in sunshine, rain, snow, you name it.

Five years ago, after my first cancer surgery, that's where I did my rehab. Ted, Laurie, and I would go each day, a little farther each day. About a hundred yards the first day. Six miles, with ease, a few weeks later.

So Ted took me back there over the weekend. I've only recently been walking without the walker. I still have the pump attached to my arm.

We walked from the parking lot to a bench by the path, rested, and then went about 40 yards to the next bench. I was pretty much exhausted. Time to turn around and call it a day.

But it was great to be out in the fresh air. Great to be on the path I know so well. Great to reclaim a bit of my old life.

Next time, we'll go a little farther.

7:35 AM ET | 11-19-2007 | permalink

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Past, Present ... Future?

It's only about 3 o'clock as I write this but it's already starting to get dark. It's a very wintry-looking day, even though it's not that cold. To be honest, this is the kind of day that makes it easier to get depressed. Actually, I get depressed on sunny days if I'm sick. Nothing worse than being trapped inside on a beautiful day.

A year ago, I was just finishing chemo. I spent most of my time sitting on the couch feeling sick. On the really bad days, I'm not even sure if I knew whether the sun was up or not.

Two years ago, I was in the calm before the storm. My diagnosis, discovering the tumor in my brain and the ones in my lungs, still a couple of weeks away. I had no idea what was happening inside my body or how profoundly it would change everything.

Three years ago, I was still a network executive, too wrapped up in budgets and politics and too stressed out to take the time to look out the window.

I have more time now.

I can watch the days roll by, but as I sit here, I wonder ... where will I be a year from now?

7:11 AM ET | 11-16-2007 | permalink

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Divided Attention

Another day, another doctor. Actually, two new doctors. This time, they were from the infectious disease department. They're the ones whose job it is to treat the staph infection.

Killing the staph germs is apparently tougher than I thought. I still have the pump attached to me full-time, pumping antibiotics every couple of hours.

These doctors are adding another antibiotic, a powerful one also used to treat tuberculosis and leprosy. It has one very interesting side effect: Apparently it turns your sweat and tears orange. That should be interesting.

I wonder what's happening with my cancer while we're preoccupied with this infection. I assume that it's growing, but it's funny, I really don't think about it very often. That's certainly a big change from two years ago. Back then, I couldn't think of anything but my cancer. It was hovering over me every second of every day.

Now, almost two years later, cancer is something that I've learned to live with. There's a tempo to having cancer, a rhythm.

You just have to learn to hear it.

I will be preoccupied with my other health problems for another couple of months. And then it will be time to focus on the cancer again. One thing I know for sure, it will still be there waiting for me.

7:05 AM ET | 11-15-2007 | permalink

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So Much for Bribery

The good news is that I didn't feel a thing when the drains came out. The less good news is that only half the drains were removed. The doctor wants to leave two of them in a little while longer.

But that wasn't the only difficulty during today's visit. For a long time I thought I had lost my wallet. Just what I needed. That killed my plan to bribe the doctor to take all the drains out. Tough to do with no money.

But just as we were leaving Laurie found my wallet stuck in my jacket sleeve. That was a huge relief. So I didn't get everything I wanted but I'll take what I got. I'm better off than when the day started.

7:13 AM ET | 11-14-2007 | permalink

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A Patient in Public

Going up to the hospital today is a big deal, not only because I'm getting the drains removed, but also because it will be my first real trip in public since I came home after my surgery.

I'm certainly not self-conscious anymore. I'll have my walker, the pump plugged into my arm, and the drains still hanging from my back. I'll look like what I am: a patient.

There's a little bit of planning to be done. Where to drop me off? Where I should wait? How long a walk is it to the elevators?

I never used to give a second thought to these things. Now, these are practical issues that have to be taken seriously.

Those who know what to look for can tell the patients from the civilians pretty easily.

I used to think that I didn't look like I was sick. I guess today it will be a little more obvious.

7:25 AM ET | 11-13-2007 | permalink

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Feeling 'A Little Pressure'

One more day. That's what I keep telling myself. One more day, and then the drains come out tomorrow. I can't wait.

The drains have been a pain, literally and figuratively. They come off their tubes. They leak. They look sorta gross.

So, I'm counting the hours. I do expect their removal to be painful. After all, I've had them for several weeks. I'd just be very surprised if I didn't feel anything.

It's funny, a lot of the doctors have a new expression. I wonder how they all learn the same ones. Is it like the song of the whales, mysteriously transmitted to each of them? In any case, the new phrase is: "You're going to feel some pressure." Now so far, each time a doctor has said that, I haven't felt any pressure, but whatever they've done has hurt like hell.

So I expect it to hurt when the drains come out. But life will be so much better once they're gone. It will be worth feeling a little pressure.

7:13 AM ET | 11-12-2007 | permalink

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Pretty Well Beaten Up

A few months after I finished the chemo, I started to feel like myself again. The radiation made me feel funny for a couple of weeks after the last treatment. The coughing from the Radio Frequency Ablation went away after about three weeks.

I've been really lucky. After all these procedures, I've pretty much gone back to the old me.

But these latest surgeries have been the most invasive. I wonder if I'll totally get over them and go back to "normal" again?

And then there's the effect on my vision from the stroke. Will that go away? No one knows.

I think there has been a cumulative effect from all this. I think my body has been pretty well beaten up. It's been through a lot.

But I guess that's the way it's supposed to go.

It reminds me of my favorite line from that terrible Tom Cruise car movie, Days of Thunder when they say that "rubbin'" -- or bumping -- is part of racing.

My body may be showing more of the effects of all that rubbin' from the last two years. But so what?

I'm still in the race.

7:39 AM ET | 11- 9-2007 | permalink

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Striving for Sleep

I'm exhausted.

I'm only sleeping a couple of hours each night, and another hour or two during the day. You'd think my body would want to shut down for hours at a time to speed the healing process. But apparently it's not going to work that way.

Sleep, after all, can be a refuge from the pain and discomfort. I'd love to nod off for long stretches just to avoid the way I feel sometimes. I keep thinking that, at some point, I will just become so sleepy I'll collapse where I sit.

I've already talked about trying bad TV as a sleep aid. In the end, I guess, I'll just sleep when my body tells me to.

One note: I made it upstairs today. The first time I've done that in about a month.

I think that counts as a victory.

7:30 AM ET | 11- 8-2007 | permalink

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The Middle of the Night

The nights are the worst.

It would be nice if I could sleep for eight or ten hours, but I don't. I usually wake up in the middle of the night. The pain medicine used to make me sleep. A couple of pills and I'd be out for the night. But I stopped taking them because I didn't like the way they made me feel.

I guess it's the pain that wakes me up. I still have tubes and drains in my back, and lying on them isn't very comfortable.

I don't feel very introspective these days, don't feel like thinking deep thoughts in the middle of the night. The pain gets in the way of that too.

So it comes down to me and my TV.

I bought a new TV right before the surgery, which turned out to be pretty smart, I guess. The TV choices are pretty slim in those hours when I'm lying there. The same movies are on every night. But every once in a while, you stumble onto something worthwhile.

The other night, I found a marathon of movies made out of the old Man from U.N.C.L.E. series. That was a favorite of mine 40 years ago ... and no, it hasn't aged well. But then, maybe the same could be said of me.

After the third or fourth cheesy attempt at world domination had been thwarted, I realized something ... my back didn't hurt anymore. The world was saved and I didn't have much pain.

Now that's a good night, after all.

9:07 AM ET | 11- 7-2007 | permalink

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Can't Argue with Progress

I'm spending a lot of time looking out at the back yard. The leaves are changing and the view is spectacular.

Things are sort of normal, and sort of not.

We're having a new roof put on, so those idyllic views of the foliage are mixed with pounding, scraping, hammering, and more pounding. It's a lot like living in a drum, but all the drummers are playing at different tempos.

It's strange to know that others will have to blow the leaves this year. Normally, that's one of my jobs.

Thanksgiving is coming in a few weeks. We're making plans, but I wonder what kind of shape I'll be in. Will I be able to sit at the table for a whole dinner?

By then, the drains will have been removed from my back. Can't wait for that. The percussion symphony will have ended, and the roof will be done. Most of the leaves I'm looking at now will have fallen.

All in all, things will be moving forward.

And who can argue with progress?

7:33 AM ET | 11- 6-2007 | permalink

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An Impatient Patient

How much longer? You can write that any number of ways. How many more days? How soon?

That's really the issue. The only issue.

When will I feel better? When will I feel like myself again? Of course, in the back of my mind is a scarier question: Will I ever feel like myself again?

The answer for many of us is "YES." We will get through our current troubles. But knowing that, or believing that, doesn't make it any easier.

By the holidays, my doctors tell me, I should be mostly healed. But on the tough days, it's hard for me to be patient.

That's a long time to feel the way I feel these days. The thing is, though, there's nothing else to do.

You can't quit. There's no giving up. Once you're in the game, you're committed.

So, somewhere, I need to find the patience, the strength to recover. Because there's something else we've all learned. When this round is over, something else is going to come up.

It always does.

9:55 AM ET | 11- 5-2007 | permalink

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Being the One In Need

There are times when I hope I am able to give support and counsel to those of you who need it.

There are other times, like now, when I am the one in need.

And I'll be honest, I don't really like being the one who needs the help.

But that pride seems silly now. A relic of my pre-cancer life.

I have no problem asking for help these days. What's amazing is that I don't even have to ask any more.

I need help right now, serious help. And, without asking, I already feel the cushion of all of your good wishes ... and your strength.

It's an amazing feeling, unlike anything else in the world.

I feel that, and I feel fortunate.

7:21 AM ET | 11- 2-2007 | permalink

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An Ordeal of Inconvenience

How many more days?

How many days until I feel like myself again? I could stop and figure it out probably, but I don't think I need to.

It's not the pain I feel each day. I've found ways to deal with that. It's more the inconvenience. The fact that each day is an ordeal in its own way.

Cleaning up? Complicated. Messy.

Keeping track of the drains that remove the fluid from my back -- you want to make sure one of the tubes doesn't catch on something by accident.

Then there's the antibiotics pump around my neck. You need to make sure the line isn't tangled.

All these things sound pretty minor ... and they are.

In a few weeks, I won't have to worry about any of these things. But right now I do.

Each day I get closer to my old life. When I'm finally there I think I'm going to be amazed at how "easy" everything is.

7:11 AM ET | 11- 1-2007 | permalink

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