Amen

One year ago this Thanksgiving, I moped around the apartment all day. I declined invitations to two Thanksgiving celebrations, claiming illness. By the end of the day, I had something close to a migraine headache... so you could say it was self-fulfilling prophecy, I guess. Or, in hindsight, it could have been something else.

I am very aware of the chain of events that have anniversaries coming up. Tuesday marks one year since I lost my Grandpa. One week after that, is the anniversary of the day I first noticed "something wrong down there," two days before Mom and I went up to Omaha for my grandfather's funeral mass. Six weeks after that day -- all Tuesdays -- I was diagnosed with TC. Winter was very cold last year.

And here I am... one year later. It's a beautiful day in Dallas, sunny and 70 degrees. It was cold and rainy last year. In the year since, I have become a strong believer in signs, and in harbingers. For the record, today... I feel great.

Soon I'll be heading over to my friends' brand new house, to watch football and gorge myself on turkey. I'm bringing a green bean casserole I made, using Grammie's recipe. She can't be here this year... and I couldn't be up in Omaha, or with my Mom & Dad in Albuquerque... but we're all together in spirit.

You see... this family has always been stronger than distance. I've really come to realize that in the past 12 months... especially in the past three.

It's the truth.

# 3 Clipper Cut, Trim The Sideburns, Block It In The Back

There's a phrase I really didn't think I'd be saying so soon... as I really didn't expect to still have hair. But I had to say it today, when I got a haircut before heading to the airport to catch my flight to Palm Springs for AOPA... which is something else I didn't expect to be able to do, if you'd asked me a month ago.

I'm still living in a surreal quasi-state between what is real, and what I feel like I'm watching in a movie. It's like the last two-and-a-half months happened to someone else. The apartment is starting to feel like "mine" again, meaning I'm adjusting to living alone after having Mom and Abby stay for the past three weeks. I took Mom back to Amarillo to meet Dad last Saturday.

And it all still feels rushed. No one was expecting Mom to be able to go home so soon -- no, strike that. She maintained all along this was a False Alarm, "it looks like cancer but I don't think it is," "we've crossed the main hurdle already." This, as my oncologist had planned to start me on chemo.

The good money was on me being on chemo right now. It's a bet Vegas would have taken.
But the odds have been defied. I'm not the kind of person who usually does that. The doctors say I've won the battle. It's Not Cancer. The gun wasn't loaded. The grenade didn't go off.

I can't describe how good -- and how unreal -- it felt to walk into Great Clips this afternoon.

"Number three clipper cut, trim the sideburns, block it in the back... same as last time." And the same as next.

30 Days

It's not cancer. If only Abby could have told me that...

After the initial scare, after the weeks of waiting, after the moments of hope followed by the moments of fear... after meeting Mom and Dad in Amarillo to pick Mom (and Abby!) up so she could stay with me during the biopsy and recovery... and after receiving cautionary good news that, amazingly, didn't change... it's not cancer.

My God. Amen.

Instead, I picked up some kind of respiratory bug sometime this year... and it managed to do a pretty good impression of cancer on the CT scans and PET scan.

I had the biopsy done October 17. The docs collapsed my left lung and everything, to remove the growth. A frozen dissection of the swollen lymph node showed it was reacting to the lung growth, and wasn't itself cancerous.

The surgeon -- who told me before I went under he suspected it was nothing more than "fleas and ticks," as he put it -- confirmed that suspicion to my Mom in the waiting room, after my two hour surgery. "It's nothing. He'll be fine. Fleas and ticks."

We're still waiting on the definitive answer of what, exactly, I managed to catch. Turns out the hospital didn't draw all the necessary blood to run a second set of tests, to identify what breed of fungus I managed to breathe in (I won't get into the creepy, morphine-fueled dream I had in the hospital the night after they told me, where I had mushrooms growing on my arms.)

But the docs aren't very concerned... people breathe in these things all the time. Sometimes, they make us sick... most often, we never really think anything of it. This appears to be one of those "bugs" people talk about having, that they can't seem to shake, but live with for awhile without very much further thought. The difference is, most people don't get regularly-scheduled CT scans.

Dr B, my oncologist, was downright giddy at last Monday's follow-up appointment... which was originally scheduled to start me on the chemo he expected I'd have to go on. Instead, he did a cursory exam, before more or less tossing me out of his office with the blessing, "go live your life. Oh, and did you ever get that car?"

So it's back to normal. Mom and Abby went back to ABQ Saturday... even with everything going on, it was great having her here, and it was a very nice visit. And later this week, I'm flying to Palm Springs, to cover the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association (AOPA) Expo show.

I gotta tell you... one month ago, I did not expect this to be the way things would turn out.

Wow. And Amen

What Kind Of Year Has It Been?

Or, When Coccidioidomycosis Is The Least Of Your Concerns

One week ago, I went under the knife to finally -- as in, after close to two months of anxious waiting -- determine what had caused a nodule to swell up on my left lung, and one of my lymph nodes to go through the roof inflammation-wise. As I wrote here many times after my initial "uh-oh" following a CT scan in August, the fear was that my cancer had come back. TC typically hits the lymphatic system... and while the lungs are less likely to metastasize, it's been known to happen (as it did for arguably the most famous testicular cancer survivor to date, Lance Armstrong.)

So, after weeks of tests and various stalling procedures by Blue Cross Blue Shield, I had my biopsy done Tuesday morning. I woke up in the recovery room four hours later, doped to the gills on morphine and barely aware of, well, anything, except the nurses coming in every two hours to take my blood ox level and heart rate.

But the preliminary news was encouraging.

"Your lung nodule was definitely an infection, and not cancer," my oncologist said with a cheer in his voice Wednesday. "And so far, everything shows your lymph node (which was located near the affected lung) was reacting to that. You're doing OK, my friend," Dr. B added -- the first time he's ever called me that.

More tests, more doctors before I was discharged Thursday at noon -- with all of them saying more or less the same thing. "It looks like an infection." "The frozen dissection of the lymph node was reactionary, not indicative of a tumor." "Maybe it's mold."

So... what is it? Well, we don't know for sure yet -- and there's still a chance some oblique test may show a trace of Something Bad -- but the infectious disease doctor who came by to see me Thursday morning seemed VERY interested in the fact I was from New Mexico, and had just been back in August -- right before the CT showed the swellings.

"You may have valley fever," he told me. Which isn't a walk in the park -- it's a fungal infection, common in dry, windy locations -- but it's not cancer, either. It's also not contagious, and only rarely life-threatening. So far, it seems my body was doing its job in combating the infection... and it's likely I never would have noticed anything other than a croupy cough, except that I get CT scans done every three months as part of the observation regime for TC. It probably would have gone away on its own.

So... good news. I'm still scared, of course -- a trait I've determined will follow me for the rest of my life -- but the news is a LOT better than we could have hoped for a week ago at this time. I haven't allowed myself the luxury of relief yet... that comes when ALL the tests are back... but I have noticed my blood pressure has dropped noticeably in the past seven days.

But, I mean, wow... what a difference a year makes. If you would have told me then...

Escape

Well, we finally have movement on the medical front. The PET scan last week showed two areas of concern: the lung nodule (that lit up "lukewarm" -- may or may not be a big deal) and an inflamed lymph node (that showed "hot" -- meaning it is likely cancer, although there remains a chance it's not). 

My biopsy -- the surgeon will remove both nodules -- is scheduled for Tuesday at 11:30 am. I'm driving to pick up Mom (and Abby) tomorrow, so she can stay with me through whatever may come. We don't have a return date yet.

All in all, I was having more fun last week. Although the shadow of "the scan showed two areas of possible metastasis" -- there's a truly ugly word -- loomed over me, I was still able to kind-of get away from it all and escape to Galveston for a weekend retreat. I admit it... for 36 hours, I ran away from my problems as much as I could.

I spent most of the trip in the car... driving to and from the coast, driving around Galveston, driving onto and off of the ferry between the Island and Port Bolivar. I've always been very respectful of water -- I still don't know how to truly "swim," although an ex of mine taught me enough to fake it, and not drown in a pool -- and there's just something about looking out over an open sea, and not seeing land anywhere. I also saw about 30 dolphins. It was humbling, vaguely spiritual... and just what I needed.

If only I could have stayed.

I'll probably need to go on chemotherapy. I don't yet know how bad that will be. Dr. B reassured me it won't be as bad as I've heard... yes, I'll lose my hair, but it will grow back as soon as I'm off it. I'll also feel weak, and nauseous -- although "very few people puke their guts out anymore," he tells me (that's an altogether weird and unexpected statement from my usually reserved, very proper Indian oncologist. It was also appreciated.) In the meantime, I'll miss two trade events I wanted to go to -- X Prize Cup in Las Cruces next week, and the AOPA convention in Palm Springs next month) but at least I should still be able to work through it all.

Here's to having a job I can do from home... on my back, if necessary, working on a laptop computer.

Yeah... last year at this time was a lot more fun. Saying my goodbyes from my former coworkers at AG, the Triumphant Hero going off to His New Career. I've played the "what would I have said then had someone told me here's where I'd be in a year" game... and I don't have an answer, other than benign resignation.

It wasn't too long ago I wrote that I considered cancer an almost-fair tradeoff for the good that's happened in my life this past year. Well, now I don't know anymore. At the same time, though... I'm looking forward to what next year might bring, when I'm past this.
Sometimes, that's almost enough.

Month In Hell

Goodbye, September. Eleven months before I see you again will still be too soon.

This has been a month in hell for me. The worry, the fear, the doubt, the sleepless nights, the phantom pains, the ever present anxiety, the placing of my entire life on hold. The tests, and the waiting for the results. The questions, and lack of answers. The bureaucratic mess and heartless decisions that delayed Blue Cross/Blue Shield approving a test that could have answered many of those questions by now.

I will not cry when you leave, and the calendar turns to October. With that turn comes a new month, and new concerns. My PET scan is scheduled for the 3rd... but at least I can carry into the month with some hope now, and an optimism I did not have on August 31st, when the calendar changed and this goddamned farce began.

I had my consult with Dr. B today. There is a lot of potentially good news to report... the lymph node growths that are of concern have remained the same size... one has gotten smaller... since the August CT scan. Tumors don't shrink... they can remain the same size for awhile, but TC usually grows quickly. So, PGN (Possible Good News) #1.

PGN #2: No tumor markers are present in my blood.

PGN #3: All other scans are clean.

That's the good news. Here's the questionable stuff --

There remains one area of concern: the nodule on my left lung has grown from 8 mm to 13 mm. That could be a tumor... or, it could be scarring from some kind of respiratory infection. My allergies - or something - have been kicking my tail since heading back to NM, and this could all be from that. Dr. B prescribed an antibiotic to see if that clears the congestion up... if it does, then that could be another sign that this is, well, nothing.

I finally have the PET scan scheduled for next Tuesday, 3 pm. If that shows anything amiss, then all bets are off and we start thinking cancer again. But even Dr. B saw this as good news ("with qualifications"), which is a sign to me that maybe, just maybe... this has all been much ado about nothing.

I hope and pray.

I'll be awake when September ends... because I want to change each and every one of my calendars to October as soon as I can.

...And God Spoke

Today is D-Day. Today is the day I find out the results of the bevy of tests I had this week (is two enough to warrant a "bevy?" I'm saying yes here). Those tests will tell me and my oncologist -- or at least give a decent idea -- whether or not my cancer has returned. My consult is at 1:00 pm.

But this isn't about that, really. It's related to it... but this post is really about an unbelievable bit of reassurance and comfort I received Thursday, in the most unlikely of places. I was not expecting it, and I did not ask for it... but it was exactly what I needed, without even knowing it.

And as pithy and self-righteous as the title of this post may sound... for the life of me I can't think of a better way to sum up what I'm feeling right now.

First, some background. As I mentioned in recent posts, I recently bought a new car -- a Mazda 6. I first went to the dealership last month, two days before I found out that my cancer may have recurred. It took me three weeks -- three tough weeks -- before I decided I was of clear-enough mind to go ahead and buy the car, with all that was going on. I haven't regretted the decision; I love the car (although I still miss the GA... and the GA's sunroof.)

Anyway... yesterday, I took the new car back to the dealership to pick up my new license plates. I also had a detail coming to me (although I've washed the car three times since I've had it, waxed it once, and it wasn't really 'dirty') and I was waiting in the dealership's showroom for that to be done when one of the sales managers walked up to me. I'd chatted with him a few times during the buying process, and I shook his hand as he asked me how I was enjoying the new car.

"Hey, got a second?" he asked me.

We chatted a bit about the new showroom fixtures being installed at the dealership, as per Mazda dictate ("I think it's all just a way for Mazda to sell furniture," he quipped) and then lowered his voice.

"Just so you know... I went through what you're now going through about 10 years ago."
It took me a second to understand what he was talking about... and it hit me just as he said, "TC. I had it, and had my last round of chemo right before my 35th birthday."

He told me about his experience. How he discovered he had it, and how it affected him. He told me about the "fucking asshole" urologist who had told him "he had good news and bad news"... where the good news was it was treatable. And he answered my questions... all of which were much more personal than the typical "car salesman/customer" relationship normally allows.
He told me about his experience being on chemo... the hair loss ("I looked like Grasshopper from the Kung Fu movies"), the sickness, the smell.

"And here it is 10 years later -- I got testicular cancer before it was 'cool' -- and I'm doing fine. It's never come back."

It never occurred to me to ask who told him I was going through this -- I'd told the salesman when he called me the day I found out, August 28, to let me know they'd agreed to the numbers I'd wanted -- and it never occurred to me to be at least a little pissed that my health was the subject of gossip at a car dealership.

Fact is... he didn't have to say anything. It's not a story a lot of men would feel comfortable sharing with a relative stranger. But he chose to share his story, because he felt it would help me. And it did.

For the first time this month... first time this year... I was able to talk to someone who had gone through what I am going through now, and reassure me in a way no one else I know could right now. At a car lot. What are the odds?

We talked for about 15 minutes, before the salesman came back with my now-even-cleaner car. I shook his hand again -- a grateful wringing -- and thanked him for telling me.
"No problem. And if you ever need to talk, or have any questions, you know how to reach me here."
I left the dealership feeling... heartened. And with a sense of reassurance I haven't had in the past month. For the first time, I felt I really knew, and believed, that even if the diagnosis is bad... it's not the end of the world.

I can't begin to describe what I'm feeling now, as I write about this. I am still scared... terrified... and I still expect the worst today. But there's also this feeling of genuine hope now... of optimism... and, of gratitude, to both my fellow TC survivor and also... well, you know.

And God spoke, and sent me a sign even I... not the most religious person, especially lately... believe to be heaven-sent.