Happy New Year from 'My Cancer'

Here's wishing all of you a New Year filled with health, strength, laughter and peace.

7:15 AM ET | 12-31-2007 | permalink

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There Are No Clear Choices

My cancer is spreading. At least that's what the latest scans show. Not very fast, and not a lot, but spreading nevertheless. So now what? What's the next step? There don't seem to be a lot of options.

There's always chemo. But as I've said many times before, I don't see that as a great choice for me. It will make me very sick, and it will be about as effective as doing nothing.

Now that is another option -- do nothing. Just wait for the disease to run its course. But I don't think that's the right choice for me, either.

The tumors in my lungs are pretty small, but I don't think I can have radio frequency ablation again. Your body, your lungs, can only go through so many procedures. And I've already put my body through a lot.

There may be something new out there, something I haven't heard of, so I will definitely ask my doctors.

But for the time being, I don't see an obvious course. Of course, we've been in this situation before, and each time we have found an answer.

Maybe this time the answer is just to have faith, faith that we'll figure it out again.

7:13 AM ET | 12-28-2007 | permalink

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Shades of Gray in Cancer World

Today is a gray day. Not because it's raining, although it is. No ... it's a gray day because nothing is clear. As is usually the case in Cancer World, nothing is ever black or white.

I saw my doctors about the staph infection yesterday morning. Funny, I was more worried about that than my cancer situation.

There was one blood test that had shot off the scale, but everyone seemed to agree that reading was just some sort of mistake. So we repeated the blood test, and sure enough, the results were much closer to "normal."

Then I had a new CT scan. Hadn't had one of those in a while. It looks like I have pleurisy. That's fluid that builds up in the sac around the lungs. That could be causing a lot of the pain I've been feeling, and the fluid can be drained.

But here's where the gray comes in. There are new tumors in my lungs. Very small, but clearly the disease is spreading.

Meanwhile, some older tumors in my lungs apparently have shrunk. How did that happen?

And there are some very small spots on my liver. But we've seen those before, and the consensus when they first showed up was not to worry about them

So where am I?

Some new tumors ... that's bad. But some didn't grow, that's good. The pleurisy is bad, but we'll deal with that right away.

So I guess today is just one of those gray days in Cancer World.

I didn't win today.

But I didn't lose either.

9:55 AM ET | 12-27-2007 | permalink

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The Post-Christmas Test

The day after Christmas.

The presents have all been opened. Most living rooms look like some sort of wrapping paper bomb went off. Christmas dinner has been reduced to leftovers, which I actually enjoy more than the meal itself. Some people are back at work, although I don't think anyone really expects much to be accomplished. There are new toys to be played with, new sweaters to be worn. That new Christmas tie may even make its sole appearance before being exiled to the back of the closet. And I think most people are just plain exhausted.

Here's where the test begins. Can we, like the reformed Mr. Scrooge, keep Christmas in our hearts every day? How long will it be before normal life reasserts itself? How soon will we be too busy to be kind?

A friend of mine recently called me a hopeless optimist. I guess he's right. So yes, I do hope that this year will be better than the last. After all, Santa's already keeping track for next Christmas.

7:35 AM ET | 12-26-2007 | permalink

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Merry Christmas from 'My Cancer'

Merry Christmas to all of you from all of us who work on the My Cancer blog. We wish for you and all your loved ones the joy and wonder of the season. Most of all, we hope that you will all find peace during this special time of the year.

7:12 AM ET | 12-24-2007 | permalink

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This Christmas, Wishes for Comfort and Healing

My junior high school put on a Christmas pageant every year. The 8th grade class performed one of three plays, all written by the principal, if I remember correctly.

The plays were virtually identical. The main character was a little girl who, in alternating years, was blind, deaf, or had a physical disability. She was cured each year in a Christmas miracle.

My year, I played Grandpa. I made my entrance, had a couple of lines, and spent the rest of the first act in a rocking chair. I guess it could have been worse. And yes, I still remember my lines.

I bring this up not to relive my past acting triumph, or humiliation, more accurately, but to talk about healing. As I said, the little girl was healed every year. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen in real life.

But my Christmas wish for all of you, those fighting the disease and those standing beside them, is that you find some healing, some peace. Even if it's just for an hour. I hope that Christmas dinner, or opening presents, or a silly family tradition, something will take your mind off the illness and pain. Just an hour or two of normalcy would be one of the best Christmas gifts ever.

And now a note about our friend Stephanie Dornbrook. She has been a regular on this blog, and was featured in the Discovery documentary. She has shown so much strength and humor. Her daughter, Mara, wrote in to say that Stephanie is nearing the end of her life:

Dear all,

I know that my mother Stephanie has a bit of her own following on this blog (she was the one featured in Living With Cancer). She's not making it to the computer much any more, and is beyond "battling." Please don't read this sadly, I think that she is amazing and has dealt with this phase of her life with courage, strength and grace. She (and we) got so much more time than was forecasted. Not to mention the precious months with her grandson (my son)!

For so long -- now -- it feels like we were playing with the concept of her dying. When I was pregnant, I simply could not imagine the day after I gave birth. I couldn't make plans as I was unable to see what that future looked like. I feel the same way with my mother dying. I simply cannot conceive of this world without her in it.

Prayers and loving thoughts for our family as we face the coming weeks -- which are pretty clearly the end of her terrestrial life -- are welcomed and appreciated.

I hope all of you will join me in praying for Stephanie and her family. And I hope she knows how grateful we all are for everything she has given us.

7:11 AM ET | 12-21-2007 | permalink

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Keeping Christmas in Perspective

I love the Christmas season, even with all the excess. The lights, the decorations, the carols -- I love it all.

So I'm a little sad this year that I'm missing a lot of it. I can't get out as much. I'm certainly in no shape to brave the craziness at the malls. And it all seems to go by so quickly.

But I also tell myself that it's just this year, that next year I'll be healthy enough to enjoy it all. Who knows if that's going to be true? But I choose to believe that it is.

Anyway, there are lots of other people who are going to miss Christmas altogether.

There are far too many people living on the street, under overpasses, in cardboard boxes. How can we allow that to continue? We see a lot of people at intersections asking the passing cars for money. I always give them money. Anyone who does that must really need it.

There are thousands of young Americans in faraway places who are trying to make the best of the holidays. Hard to do when you're living in harm's way.

And here at home, when the TV runs a non-stop cacophony of ads touting all the things we absolutely must buy, there are millions of Americans struggling just to put food on the table, let alone buy presents.

I know what I'm saying is obvious, but I think we can't be reminded enough of how fortunate we really are.

7:05 AM ET | 12-20-2007 | permalink

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Better Than Yesterday

It's a miracle.

OK, not really a miracle, but something close to one. For the last couple of weeks, I've been trying all sorts of drugs to find a way to blunt the pain. Opiates. Narcotics that will only be dispensed by a pharmacy if they have the original prescription form. Fast-acting, slow-acting. It seems like I've tried them all. We've tried them in various combinations, too. Nothing seemed to work.

But then we tried a simple over-the-counter pain reliever. And it worked. At least it seems to have worked so far. Oh, I still have pain, but the tightness in my chest that was so unbearable, the back pain, all that's lessened. Sometimes it's the simple solutions that work the best.

Now, I may be jumping the gun. After all, it's been less than two days since we started this. But I'm able to say something today that I haven't been able to say in weeks -- "I feel better than I did yesterday."

It's amazing what having a little less pain can do for your disposition. I'm in a much better mood than I've been in for a while. That's good news for all the people who've had to put up with me on the dark days.

This may not last, new pains may crop up, but I'm going to claim today as mine.

Leroy - 1, Pain - 0

7:39 AM ET | 12-19-2007 | permalink

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The Strength to Remain Standing

It all comes down to strength.

Where do we find the strength to take one more pill, go through one more procedure, wait for the results of one more scan? How do we find the strength to keep moving when the pain is strong enough to bring us to our knees? We're all stronger than we think. But I'm talking about something more. Where does the strength come from to keep fighting, even when the odds may be stacked against us?

For me, I think some of it is just stubbornness. I'm not going to let the disease beat me. Or at least I'm going to make it work damn hard to get me.

We lose our strength sometimes. Over the past few weeks, I admit that I've given into despair. There have been times when it all just seemed too much.

But I've never thought about giving up. Back when I was working in Latin America, one of the rules was that if you were stopped at a roadblock, you never got on your knees. Others, including journalists, had been forced to kneel. Then they were executed. So the thinking was, never get on your knees; Well, I may have bad days. I may be weakened by the pain. It may be all I can do to fight through the day. But with all of that, I'm sure as hell not getting on my knees.

Ever.

7:11 AM ET | 12-18-2007 | permalink

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A Victory In and Of Itself

I don't have anything very profound to say today.

Yesterday was pretty much like the days before it. The search for relief from the pain goes on. So I wake up this morning to face another day. The pain will still be here. So will the frustration and impatience.

But go back three sentences -- there's my message for today. We're here to face another day. Good day or bad, easy or hard, that's a victory in and of itself. I don't think I need to say any more.

7:30 AM ET | 12-17-2007 | permalink

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A Welcome Change of Topic

I'm a little tired of writing about being sick. For that matter, I'm tired of being sick. But that's a different issue.

So I'm sitting here thinking about Christmas. My Christmases, actually.

My earliest memory is of getting a stuffed chimp. He was probably bigger than I was, and he wore little white rubber shoes. I loved him.

There were countless trees through the years, and they all looked the same. We fought over who got to put up the "lucky" ornaments. And we were quick to jump on anyone who dared to put the tinsel on in clumps rather than one strand at a time.

As I got older, I had to work a lot of Christmases. Those were still fun, though. Everyone would bring in food.

I was overseas for some holidays. Panama, during the invasion of 1989, was one. We had a makeup Christmas when I got back, with a decorated palm tree filling in for a fir tree.

One of my favorites was back in 1975. I had dropped out of college and was hanging out in Munich with some friends. The main square in Munich is very picturesque. It was snowing, a heavy fluffy snow. We walked by the old cathedral and could hear the choir and congregation singing "Silent Night." It was just one of those perfect moments.

I guess as I look back, I realize that each Christmas was special in its own way, and it's good to remember that. Now wasn't this more fun than talking about being sick?

7:19 AM ET | 12-14-2007 | permalink

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Pain Takes the Spontaneity Out of Life

I've developed a whole new range of habits during my recovery. I know where to brace myself if the pain gets bad when I'm walking. I know how to get in and out of bed in the ways that will produce the least amount of pain. I've learned that massaging the muscles that have tightened up brings a few seconds of relief. For those few precious seconds, the pain just goes away.

I guess I've learned how to live this life.

It's a little more complicated than my life was before. I have to think about things before I do them, plan how I'm going to do whatever it is I'm going to do. I guess I miss just being able to sort of stumble through life without thinking too much about it. Something needed to be moved? I'd just pick it up. Not any more. Moving around the house was something I took for granted.

I hope to go back to that life relatively soon, as soon as my body gets over what we did to it. It's funny, I'm the only person who hasn't seen the scars, the holes and all on my back. I never will. I was shocked the other day when I was feeling around my back and realized there's still a huge lump there. It's still pretty swollen. But that too should pass.

I just look forward to the day when I can stand up, or sit down, without stopping to think about it. That will be sweet.

7:39 AM ET | 12-13-2007 | permalink

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Christmas Traditions, Revised

It's funny how the cancer can affect the smallest things. The ripple effects touch every part of our lives.

We got our Christmas tree this week. That's a big change for me, one that has nothing to do with cancer. The whole time I was growing up, we got our trees on Christmas Eve. There was a practical reason for that. We'd come in as the tree folks were getting ready to close up. I don't think we ever paid more than $1.50 for a tree. And we got big ones, eight to 10 feet. Decorating the tree was our Christmas Eve tradition.

These days, you have to go much earlier and pay much more. I still like a big tree. Anything under eight feet is a Christmas bush. But this year that's going to change, for some very practical reasons. I can't handle a big tree. Can't lift it or carry it. I can't go up on a ladder to do the lights. I'm just not strong enough. My doctors said I shouldn't lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk. And I'm sure a tree weighs many gallons.

So we got a smaller tree, one I can handle, or at least help with. After all, just having a tree, any tree, is really what's important. Big or small, I've always thought of the tree as a symbol of hope and wonder. That's especially true this year.

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

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A Picture of Ignorance and Bliss

We were looking at old pictures ... vacations, parties, the usual. Clearly something went wrong with the camera in the later shots, because I seem to look thicker, while my hair looks thinner. We'll have to get that fixed.

There are lots of memories in those boxes. But in one packet, there are a couple of shots that stand out. Pictures of me shortly after I got home from the hospital after my brain surgery. I look different.

Granted, part of my head was shaved, not a great look for me. But that's not it. I'm not sure anyone else would even see what I see in those shots.

I think it's in my eyes. I'm not as innocent as I look in the earlier pictures. Something has changed.

Or am I just reading into the shots what I already know? I had changed. In some of those pictures from a few years earlier, I'm sure that the cancer was already there, growing silently. But I didn't know it. Ignorance was bliss.

In the shots after the surgery, I'm not ignorant anymore. I know what's happening to me.

What I didn't know then is that you can live with cancer. And I didn't know that you can live longer than people expect. I didn't know a lot of the things I know now. I was scared, and I think that's what I see in those shots.

Or maybe, I'm just embarrassed by the haircut.

7:35 AM ET | 12-11-2007 | permalink

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A Painful Question

It's a standard question in any hospital or doctor's office. On a scale of one to 10 -- 10 being the worst -- how would you rate your pain?

I like the scale they use for little kids. It's a series of faces, ranging from happy to clearly really unhappy. But they don't use that for grownups.

My pain these days has been pretty bad. My back, which had been numb since the first surgery, has woken up. And it's not happy. It turns out the doctors had to move some muscles around to rebuild my back. My chest and abdominal muscles are trying to rebuild, too. They're not happy either.

I take pain medication. But the antibiotic I'm taking negates the pain meds, somehow rendering them ineffective. That doesn't help.

Now, I don't mean to whine, but this level of constant pain is tough to get through. It can fill your brain, keep you from thinking about anything else.

I'm assuming this is temporary, that it won't last forever. But when will it get better?

It's just that the next time they ask me that question, I'd love to point to the happy face.

7:05 AM ET | 12-10-2007 | permalink

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Defying Expectations

Two years ago today, my life changed forever.

The day started out like any other. I had a job interview that afternoon for a position I really wanted. It was a phone interview, and the only thing that worried me was that I had started to slur my words. I couldn't figure out why. None of my friends said anything. I wrote it off to fatigue. I wasn't sleeping well. I was waking up with headaches, which was something new for me.

The interview went fine. But at dinner, it was clear that things weren't fine. One side of my face was drooping. We went to the emergency room and the doctor's first thought was Bell's Palsy, a temporary paralysis of the face. I remember thinking how awful it would be if that's what I had.

Then everything changed. I had a brain scan, and as I was wheeled back into the ER I caught the eye of my doctor. And I knew.

"We found a mass." I had a brain tumor and tumors in my lungs. I was told three to six months. I remember the room spinning, or was it my head?

Well, two years later, I'm still here. Thanks to the skills of my doctors, the strength of my friends and loved ones, and the generosity of all of you who have included me in your thoughts and prayers. And also a little stubbornness on my part.

I won't say I shouldn't be here, I don't think that's right. I wasn't expected to still be here, that's certainly true.

I'm a different person in many ways. Everything I've gone through, all the things I've learned, have changed me in ways large and small.

Who knows how this will play out?

Today I'm not going to think about that. Today there's really only one thing to say.

I'm still here.

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

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My Cancer, Unplugged

UNPLUGGED!!!!!

No more drain. No more pump. The drain is in the trash. The pump is ready to be shipped back to the company that provided it. I have two new bandages over the holes, but that's it. I'm free.

As Pinocchio would say, "I've got no strings on me."

I was going to write a much longer blog, write about the snow -- about how an inch or so turned a one-hour drive into more than three hours. But if you'll forgive me, I'm just going to sit here and enjoy my first hours of tubelessness.

7:31 AM ET | 12- 6-2007 | permalink

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TV for the Night Owl

I'm sleeping better.

That means I'm getting four or five hours a night instead of two or three. The pain medication has pretty much lost its power. It never really did much to alleviate the pain, but at least it would put me to sleep. Now it doesn't even do that.

So, I usually sleep for a couple of hours and then wake up. I stay awake for most of the rest of the night. Now, I've complained before about the poor quality of daytime TV. Overnight TV is just as bad. As best I can tell, the cable channel bought about 15 movies and simply plays them over and over.

I guess they figure people are awake every once in a while. They don't think about people like me who are up every night.

Braveheart seems to be on every night. Now, I liked it the first couple of times I watched it. Now, if nothing else is on, I'll watch it with the sound off and do all the dialogue myself. I can't do the accents but at 3:00 in the morning, who cares?

Dirty Dancing has resurfaced and now seems to be a nightly staple. If I come in near the end, I will watch long enough just to see Patrick Swayze say, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner."

There are lots of movies that you've never heard of. If you watch them for any length of time, you start to wonder who greenlighted their production and what could they possibly have been thinking?

But a bad movie will beat an infommercial any time. All the other channels are pretty much taken over by "paid programming." Do they really think people stay up to learn about jerky makers or the latest way to get six-pack abs?

The TV does make those dark hours pass a little more quickly.

When I get well though, and will hopefully be sleeping through the night, I'm not going to miss those old movies. I may still work on my accent for Braveheart, but that's it. Baby can stay in the corner for all I care.

7:35 AM ET | 12- 5-2007 | permalink

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Enjoying the Lights this Year

I went for a long drive today. I had to take my car in for its emissions inspection. Since I can't drive, a friend of mine drove and I was just a passenger. And even though it was daytime, a lot of houses had their Christmas lights on.

I remember this time a year ago.

My situation wasn't so good. I had stopped the chemo because the cancer had broken through. It was spreading and growing. So I spent a fair amount of time wondering if that was going to be my last Christmas. That did add a bittersweet sense to the holidays.

Well, here we are, a year later, and it's Christmastime again.

I made it.

It's been a crazy year, no question about that. But as I drove around today and looked at the lights, I didn't have that thought again. I didn't think that this might be the last time.

It might be, or I might be writing this same blog again in a year.

One thing I've learned this past year is that you never know what's going to happen next. Life is crazy. Life with cancer is completely crazy. So I'm just going to enjoy the lights and not worry about next year.

7:30 AM ET | 12- 4-2007 | permalink

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Getting Your Hopes Up

We all do it, even though we know better. We get our hopes up.

If all goes well, the last drain in my back and the antibiotic pump will be removed this week. Or not. It's possible my doctors will want me to keep the pump a while longer. And there's always the chance my other doctor will want me to keep the drain, too.

I tell myself that if that's what happens, it's okay. After all, I've lived with them this long, a little longer wouldn't be so bad.

But I know when I'm lying to myself. I'd be hugely disappointed.

You can live with just about anything if you have to. Tubes and IVs and drugs and all that. But once you get an end-date, once you think it's going to be over, it becomes much more difficult, almost impossible, to tolerate those things any longer.

So I hope that things go my way this week. Like Pinocchio, I'm really tired of having strings, or tubes, on me.

I want, I need, to be disconnected.

7:35 AM ET | 12- 3-2007 | permalink

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