Let's Light This Candle

I'm happy and relieved to report there's some GREAT news to report on the job/personal fulfillment front. I have my ticket in hand to fly down to Florida at the end of the month for two weeks of training that should result in FINALLY wrapping up the requirements for my license.

The plane I'll be training on is already at Jim's place in Green Cove Springs. It's called a Gobosh G-700S, and it's derived from a Polish aircraft called the Aero AT-3. I've already flown the plane I'll be using once before; I had a demo flight in N702GB at Oshkosh last year, and I really liked it.

I won't try just yet to make comparisons between the G-700S and other LSAs I've flown, but from my notes from that flight at Oshkosh last year I recalled it felt a bit more substantial than the SportStar I was training on in Dallas -- tighter in the cockpit (by four inches in width) and a tad more deliberate on the controls. It's also slightly heavier, which should hopefully reassure my grandmother that I'm flying a "real" airplane. (The Gobosh does have a tough act to follow, though... I loved N676EV, it just "fit" me.)


None of this will be "real" for me until I actually have my certificate in my hand -- or, at least, take the first flight with the instructor Gobosh lined up. But it's a good sign, I think, that I have my ticket down to Florida. I'm scheduled to leave Easter morning, with class starting Monday the 24th. That gives me two weeks to get my training done, which should be more than enough. The only things I need to do above what I've already accomplished are the cross-country flights... which should be pretty neat to do over Florida, within sight of the ocean. (I've plotted out my cross-country already, which includes a run up the coast from Burnell to St. Augustine.)

My goal is to have my sport pilot certificate in time for Sun 'N Fun, which starts April 8. It would be nice to go to an airshow as a real pilot, at long last.

Short 'n Sweet

Two years, without cancer. My original surgery was at 7:30 am CST, Tuesday, January 31, 2006. It hasn't come back. And the odds are, it never will.

Amen. Thank God.

And Now, Back To Our Regular Programming

RE: my last post. Yeah, everything was fine. Dr. Rabinowitz affirmed this morning what the radiologist told me yesterday -- "all looks normal." The underlying message, "now stop needlessly worrying yourself to a panic, would you already?" was left unsaid, but evident.

Phew. And, for the record... January 31 will mark two years, to the day, that I've been cancer-free. I didn't feel confident making that statement two days ago, but there it is.

I didn't really even realize it at the time... but worrying about new (and imaginary) cancer symptoms has pretty much consumed my last two weeks, when there's really been a lot going on in my life aside from that. For example, on January 14 I was among a smattering of media types who attended a press conference at Eclipse Aviation, where officials announced a funding, assembly, and distribution partnership with a Danish investment concern, called ETIRC (e-TURK.) The deal means Eclipse 500s will one day be assembled in the Russian Federation, for the European market. We'll see if that happens... in the short term, the deal gives Eclipse a massive infusion of (ah, Russian) cash, which it needed badly to survive the year.

The conference was cooler than I thought it would be. For the first time ever in my time at ANN, I was able to interview The Man himself, Eclipse CEO Vern Raburn -- who, depending largely on who you talk to, is either a) One Of The World's Biggest Jerks, or b) One Of The World's Biggest Jerks, But Also A True Visionary, And A Force To Be Reckoned With.

I won't say which opinion I subscribe to (to his credit, Raburn would be the first to agree with those statements) and I still have my concerns whether Eclipse will ultimately be able to do all it promises -- the company's record so far has been less than perfect in that regard, and that's being charitable. But I hope they succeed. The building blocks are certainly there, now more than ever.

Two days later, I was on a Delta jet (well, two of them) heading to Jacksonville, en route to Sebring, FL for the annual US Sport Aviation Expo. Now in its fourth year, the show marks the unofficial start of the aviation trade show season. This was my second year... and the event seemed a lot more crowded this year than last. Part of that was due to what I think was a much-larger crowd turnout; all three days I was there, I marveled at the number of people. Helping the attendance totals was the fact most of the time, it was cool, cloudy and rainy -- great weather to beat the Florida sun, but lousy to fly in. Like I said in the last post, I didn't do any flying while I was there... maybe next time...

Another factor in how "crowded" the event felt, was the sheer number of light-sport aircraft that are now available on the US market. At last count -- and this number seems to multiply like rabbits at every turn -- there are 73 LSAs available for sale in the US market.

Many seem to be great little planes (most of you already know what I think of the SportStar, for example) but that's probably at least 45 more models than the market really needs, IMO. And Cessna and Cirrus haven't even added their planes (the China-built SkyCatcher and the German-sourced SRS, respectively) to the mix. This, ladies and gentlemen, is called a "glut."

Not sure what's coming next -- Heli-Expo is at the end of February, in Houston -- but two things are certain: one, I want to finally get my pilot training knocked out before Spring... and two, taking care of some niggling issues here at home (one of those things is the diet... which I'm happy to report/brag has been good for a 13-pound loss in the first month, according to my semi-reliable bathroom scale -- we'll call it 10 lbs, and one belt-notch, to be safe.)

It's time to start living again...

'You Can Never Rejoice'

I had planned for this post to be a resounding call of victory. It's not going to be, at least not yet.

Two years ago today -- at around 8:45 in the morning, Dallas time, I still remember every chilling detail vividly -- I was diagnosed with TC. That was the day the train of my life jumped the tracks. I cannot put into words how the sound of the words "it's cancer" hit my ears, how everything else that was said after that echoed.

I still remember walking, senses numbed and footsteps heavy, through the halls of Trinity Medical Center, across the parking lot, getting into the Grand Am, checking my cell phone.

The first person I told, oddly enough, was a co-worker, Pete... who called me as I drove home. Our conversation is the only part of that drive that I remember. I made it all of three seconds before I broke down. All I could say was "it's cancer." I called my parents next, after I got home.

I still revisit these emotions often. I can't help not to. They are a part of me I will never, ever be able to get rid of. I've tried. Hopefully one day the memories won't resonate as sharply as they still do.

I thought I was over the paranoia, the suspicion of Something Dark lurking around the corner. I guess I'm not. The first twinges of suspicion came over two weeks ago, probably soon after I looked at a calendar. Something feels different. Was that bump there before?

What started as the quiet voice of nagging doubt -- confronted by the reassurance This Has Happened Four Times Before Over The Past Two Years, You've Gotten Panicky Before, And It's Always, ALWAYS Been Nothing -- turned increasingly towards I Don't Know For Sure, Maybe This Time It IS Something Really Wrong.

I carried those fears with me to Sebring last week. It was probably a good thing the weather was rotten for most of the time, removing all possibility of me going up in a plane. I haven't flown well before, or enjoyed it, when my mind has been elsewhere.

I resolved to email Dr. Rabinowitz when I got back home, to ask for his advice.

"Doctor, this is at least the fifth time I've noticed these types of 'changes' - and after more than few unneeded visits and ultrasounds, everything has always come back perfectly normal," I wrote yesterday. "...The rational part of my brain -- and my family, and my friends -- tell me this is almost overwhelmingly likely to be nothing to worry about. The panicky side of my brain, though, can't stop feeling for any new changes. which I'm sure isn't helping the situation."

Dr. Rabinowitz got back to me a few hours later. "What I think will be best is to order a repeat testicular ultrasound. This will set your mind at rest and give us a baseline study." The test is scheduled for Friday afternoon.

He added I'm not the first TC patient of his to experience these feelings. "I just had another TC patient of mine have exactly the same issue. An ultrasound of the testis relieved his concerns as well. Ian."

God bless him for that.

It's probably nothing. Hell, I'd bet my own money on it. Because it has been nothing before... and I don't really think God or the universe would be so cruel as to hit me with this again, especially two years (almost to the day) since it happened the first time.

The chances of a repeat TC occurrence are somewhere south of three percent. As I've said on this blog before -- when the rational side of my brain was doing the typing -- TC doesn't spread across, or down. If something new popped up on The Other One, it would be just that -- something new. That hardly, HARDLY ever happens.

And nothing short of the radiologist telling me "You're OK" tomorrow will convince me of that. I honestly think in the two years since January 24, 2006, I've become a stronger, and better, person.  Those around me would agree, I think... except when it comes to this. 

My Mom -- who, yes, will be going with me to the appointment tomorrow, and God bless her for that -- summed it up best, when we talked on the phone last week as I sat nervously in my motel room in Avon Park.

"The worst part of seeing you go through this is that you never feel confident you're OK," she said. "You can be grateful, and thankful things seem to have passed... But you can never rejoice."

Maybe tomorrow afternoon, I can come a little closer to that goal. I hope so.

This... Is... Unacceptable!

OK, look. I understand that being on a diet plan automatically means your food choices are limited... and often, less than appetizing. Like I said in my last post, so far I've been impressed with what NutriSystem has to offer, given that I wasn't expecting very much. Some of the meals are actually more than OK, in fact; I've even developed a taste for the "BBQ Soy Chips."

But not... let me repeat, NOT... the "Mashed Potatoes with Meat Loaf and Tomato Sauce."

I shoulda copped wise to what was about to happen the moment I read the box. For starters... since when are the mashed potatoes listed first for that particular combination... or whenever you're talking about a "meat and potatoes" dish? But, OK, this is diet food, and perhaps for some reason the mashed potatoes are supposed to be the main course. Whatever.

Then I opened the package. As you can see, the meat loaf was the larger portion. Good thing, too, since the "mashed potatoes" consisted of a grayish lump of... something, that resembled congealed petroleum.

Wait. "Gray" isn't even the right word. "Taupe" would be more appropriate, since there was a definite, uniform brownish tinge to the ostensibly edible pile of foodstuff before me. Photos don't do the freakish scene justice.

Adventurous (stupid) soul that I am, I nuked the dish per the instructions on the box... which sports a photo of regular-looking mashed potatoes, by the way. Even as I prayed microwave radiation would somehow restore normal coloring to the potatoes, I read the ingredients. Yes, those are supposed to be real mashed potatoes... well, potato flakes, but if those are good enough to serve your parents at Thanksgiving then surely they're OK here, too...

The microwave dinged. The potatoes were the same, of course, except now steam was coming off them. Great. A grayish-brown, steaming glob of God-knows-what. Yum.

Yeah, I tasted it. I was in this far, I had to go all the way. Incidentally, it was with similar logic I moved to California with a woman I barely knew 10 years ago. So, precedent would appear to indicate that logic is seldom a wise choice. But I tasted the damn "potatoes" anyway.

It was a small taste. About a tablespoon. For a split-second, I detected the faintest hint of potato-flavor... which was soon replaced by what I would imagine to be the taste of hot, wet, clammy, liquified cardboard.

Thirty seconds later, paper towel in hand, I was cleaning the remnants of that one, (thankfully) small bite off my kitchen floor. Soon after, I tossed the entire meal into the garbage -- maybe the meat loaf was OK, I'll never know -- along with another unopened box.

Good news -- I lived to tell the tale, so apparently the "potatoes" weren't poisonous.

More good news -- So far, that's the only item I haven't been able to tolerate.

And still more good news -- Ten days into the diet, I've lost seven pounds. That's a proportion I'm more than happy with.

I'm also happy to say I started actually exercising this week, and I've made a point of walking around the block for at least 45 minutes every day. So far, the sense of accomplishment has kept me going in this routine. I'm motivated. I have a goal, which I think is realistic -- drop 15 pounds before Sun 'N Fun, which is in late April (and one week before my next cancer check-up.) Even allowing for the inevitable slowdown in progress, that should still be attainable. More would be a welcome bonus.

But keep me the hell away from the "mashed potatoes." I'll take more soy chips.

The Road Ahead

Happy Belated New Year, everybody. I'll keep this brief, since I'm busy doing what I've been doing since December 31... writing End-Of-Year features for ANN, and struggling to accept the reality of a strict diet. I'm trying out NutriSystem... we'll see if it helps.

I have noticed a difference already, in less than a week. Hard to say if that's because of the food, or just eating (a lot) less in general. Speaking of the food... it isn't bad, but it's loaded with preservatives and rather salty -- the better to keep it edible without resorting to freezing (the Army calls this application of food technology "MREs" -- meals, ready-to-eat.) So, this will be a brief excursion, I think, but I'm curious to see the results.

One other thing on the diet -- like I said, the meals are decent, but they've got some odd ingredients. On the label of most of the "meat" dishes, at the very end, is this disclaimer: "CONTAINS FISH (Anchovy, Sardine, Tilapia)."

Ugh. This is for a good reason, this is for a good reason... And it is. I admit over the past two years I haven't been taking very good care of myself... and it's time to change that.
So, again, happy new year to all. I think 2008 will be a good one -- I really do

Fear, Itself

Two months had passed, all-too-quickly... and already it was time this week to once again confront the New Reality.

 

Tuesday 7:40 am -- I arrive early at UNM Cancer Center for requisite blood work, ahead of "just a follow-up" CT scan over at OSIS at 10. Surprisingly, the clinic gets me in and out in less than 20 minutes. I make small talk with the cute phlebotomist as she draws my samples.

 

8:00 am -- After slamming down the first of two barium "milkshakes" while sitting in the car -- a new experience, and not too pleasant (I usually drink them at home, from a glass, to fool myself into thinking it's a "treat") -- I find myself with about 90 minutes to kill... so I book down to the Sunport to watch planes. It's a slow morning at ABQ, though I do get to see the mass (14-plane!) departure of South Aero Cessna 402s and 414s, flying UPS freight to all corners of New Mexico, southern CO and western AZ.

9:15 am -- As per the instructions, I drink half of second "milkshake;" I must save the rest for immediately before the test. The car finds its way back to the Lomas and University area, and over to OSIS. Due to construction on what will ultimately be the new UNMCC, the clinic offers valet parking. This is the only place so far I've seen valet parking, a staple of Dallas life, in Albuquerque.

9:50 am -- They call me in for my CT. Force down the last of the oddly-flavored shake (imagine a chalky, metallic pina colada... and this is one of the better flavors) and get in the gown to lay back on the plastic moveable platform. Helpfully, the radiology tech describes every detail of this process: "okay, now I'm going to find a vein to hook up the IV for the contrast... are you allergic to shellfish? The contrast is iodine-based... We'll do just a quick set of scans, chest/abdomen/pelvis... You'll feel flush when the iodine begins, I can get you a washcloth for your forehead if you like..."

"I've done this before," I say, as lightheartedly as I can. "No worries, and the last time they went in through the wrist." Which is where the tech ultimately finds a vein. Good thing needles don't make me squeamish (while a needle in your wrist isn't exactly a pleasant sensation, at least it doesn't bruise.)

10:05 am, roughly -- Zap. More radiation than a person should ever be subjected to in one sitting courses through my body. This is my eighth CT since my January 2006 diagnosis. I still find the process horribly fascinating; in short, the machine images thousands of radial "slices" of your body, then presents them in an overlapping, single image for the radiologist to read. Tumors light up.

10:20 am -- Off the machine, out the door, and waiting in the cold for the valet to bring the Mazda around. I occupy my mind with the question "is it appropriate to tip a valet at a medical facility?" When the valet opens the car door, and I hear the radio playing -- I'd left it off -- I decide against giving him money.

Now, the waiting begins...

Wednesday -- A busy day. Too busy, I decide, to email Dr. Rabinowitz for the results of the scan. I'll do it tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow morning.

Thursday -- Another busy day. I defer emailing Rabinowitz until I'm done for the day, ahead of schedule, at 3:30 pm. I send off the email just as I'm heading out the door: "Hi, Dr. Rabinowitz. I was wondering if you've had a chance to review the results from my CT scan Tuesday morning..?" This is by design. If I stay home, I'll be checking email nervously every 15 minutes. Instead I head back down to the Sunport.

5:30 pm -- Sunset, and the ABQ Airport Police chase me out of the viewing area. Wow, times have changed... You used to be able to go to the viewing area at all hours, back when it was off the approach end to runways 8 and 12. One of Eclipse's assembly buildings -- where they paint the aircraft -- is there now.

If he emails you, you know you're fine, I rationalize to myself. If he has bad news, he won't tell you in an email, he'll call you...

6:00 pm -- Arrive home. I head immediately to the computer. No email.

I check Caller ID.

A switchboard number for UNM Hospital is there, called at 5:31 pm. No message.

I begin shitting bricks.

6:15 pm -- I call my parents, who offer all the reassurance they can. "He'd leave a message, at least asking him to call you back," Dad says. No, he wouldn't, I reply, in frightened tears.

6:20 pm -- Try Dr. Rabinowitz's office number. It's the common line for his clinic. I try in vain to negotiate the phone tree. Everyone's gone home.

6:25 pm -- "There's something wrong, there's something wrong." I repeat this mantra for several minutes, frightened out of my mind. I've been through this before, last year, the month-and-a-half before a surgical biopsy determined actually, hey, the spot on your lung isn't cancer after all. All the nervousness and I fear I experienced then... and have since managed to more-or-less put out of my mind... have come back in full force, within a half-hour. I've gone past my breaking point.

6:45 pm -- With my heart racing and tears still coming from the corners of my eyes, I force myself to lay down on the couch and read the latest EAA "Sport Pilot" magazine. "The Office" plays on the TV in the background. 

7:25 pm -- No email. The phone hasn't rang since I've been home.

8:15 pm -- I turn off the TV, walk back into my office and sit blankly at the computer. I absentmindedly write up a quick update on the shuttle launch for ANN -- they're waiting until January 10th now, that'll really screw up NASA's schedule -- and then turn on Flight Simulator X. The "Janet" mission to Area 51 occupies the next 25 minutes of my life.

8:50 pm -- With the simulated Groom Lake employees safely at their simulated jobs for the simulated day, I close FSX and once again check email.

There's a message from Dr. Rabinowitz. I open it without any pause for nervousness.

"It looks good!........normal! Ian"

I cry for the next two minutes. To hell with anyone who would think less of me for that.

9:05 pm -- With the "you were right, thank God" call to the parents complete, I sit back in my desk chair, utterly drained. My eyes are still moist.

What cancer has done to my body isn't the worst part of it; in fact, that's been relatively minor in comparison to what this horrible scourge has done to my mind. The lack of news, lack of a definite prognosis. For most of the time between follow-up appointments, I manage to live my life -- and I've accomplished a great deal over the past two years.

 

But for three or four days surrounding my follow-ups... I die a little until the doctor tells me it's OK to resume living.

10:30 pm -- I lay back down on the couch, television turned to a "Seinfeld" repeat, and soon fall into a nervously-relieved sleep. The TV is still on when I wake up again, at 2:30 in the morning.

 

Still sleepy, I walk outside to unplug the Christmas lights on my balcony before heading to the bedroom... and pause.

 

It's snowing. It's a beautiful sight. I stand outside for several minutes, watching, oblivious to the cold.