ok...cancer stuff first. I'm feeling pretty good, both physically and mentally. My pet scan is on the 3rd, and then the results and next round of chemo on the 10th. Keep your fingers crossed!
I'm leaving tomorrow morning for a week in North Carolina. I'm really looking forward to this vacation. For the next 7 days I do not have cancer! No doctors, no chemo, no sickness, no cancer! Probably no new posts either, so I'll see ya in a week!
Friday, June 23, 2006
Monday, June 19, 2006
One of my favorite stories is Kurt Vonnegut's "Billy The Poet"
First off, the cancer. It sucks. Chemo sucks. I have a scan on the 3rd of July, and even if it comes back clean, I still have at least two more treatments to go. The doctor has also decided that I’m a tough guy, so I can handle a little more on the dosage. Of course, I’m no crybaby, so I told him it’s ok. A couple of times last week I was hit with the whole “fatal disease” thing, and started thinking about how bad this could be. I haven’t slept in a while.
As some of you may know, I have a dog named Kirby, who been with my father since I was in Europe, right before I got sick. Kirby is a pit bull. She is 80 pounds of muscle, and a little fat, that believes she’s a 10 pound lap dog. She is an affectionate oaf. While I’m lying on the couch, with barely enough energy to keep my eyes open, Kirby will waddle over and flop her haunches on the floor next to me, just to say “I’m here”. If she senses that I am a little stronger, and willing to share her affection, she will nudge her nose under my arm with the gentleness of a mother with her babe. She will slide herself under until there contact between myself and the top of her head. She demands no more. She doesn’t urge me to pet her, or rub her belly, or play with her, she simply asks for a single point of contact, a simple touch.
The sense of human touch, and all the strength and comfort it can convey, has fallen victim to a society that increasingly overvalues the importance of personal space. While not strictly the domain of the Sicilians, touch is a very important part of our interpersonal relationships. In my family, amongst every member regardless of gender or age or interval of time between meetings, a hug and a kiss on the cheek is an autonomic response to a greeting, a well cooked meal, a touchdown by a favorite team, or a passionate discussion regarding how kids have it easier these days. When sitting on the bench after striking out, my father’s hands upon my shoulders gave me encouragement. When my cousins teased me, a hefty arm around my chest from my Uncle Tony gave me strength. When some ailment had knocked me out, my mother’s hands rubbed across my back eased my ills. At those times when I am lucky enough to have someone special in my life, the simple caress of a woman’s hand over mine, or the soft drop of her lips upon my cheek can be filled with the intensity of a thunderstorm and the gentleness of a summer breeze. At the top of my head is a spot about the size of a dime, a sweet small spot, that when lightly touched, as a fingernail slowly drawn across it, will place me in such a state of relaxation and contentedness that I feel safe and sound from any harm the world may have planned for me.
As I lay on the bed, curled under blankets, distraught by the cold and nausea and the pain of my treatment, the enormity of my father’s love, felt through the easy touch of his hand on my arm, urges me forward. As my mind is clouded and my will sapped, I can regain so much hope when my sister sits at my side, and I place my head in her lap. And when I am well, in those few days I am allowed to be myself, a warm hug with friends reminds me of why I fight. An entire universe is created in a single point of contact.
As some of you may know, I have a dog named Kirby, who been with my father since I was in Europe, right before I got sick. Kirby is a pit bull. She is 80 pounds of muscle, and a little fat, that believes she’s a 10 pound lap dog. She is an affectionate oaf. While I’m lying on the couch, with barely enough energy to keep my eyes open, Kirby will waddle over and flop her haunches on the floor next to me, just to say “I’m here”. If she senses that I am a little stronger, and willing to share her affection, she will nudge her nose under my arm with the gentleness of a mother with her babe. She will slide herself under until there contact between myself and the top of her head. She demands no more. She doesn’t urge me to pet her, or rub her belly, or play with her, she simply asks for a single point of contact, a simple touch.
The sense of human touch, and all the strength and comfort it can convey, has fallen victim to a society that increasingly overvalues the importance of personal space. While not strictly the domain of the Sicilians, touch is a very important part of our interpersonal relationships. In my family, amongst every member regardless of gender or age or interval of time between meetings, a hug and a kiss on the cheek is an autonomic response to a greeting, a well cooked meal, a touchdown by a favorite team, or a passionate discussion regarding how kids have it easier these days. When sitting on the bench after striking out, my father’s hands upon my shoulders gave me encouragement. When my cousins teased me, a hefty arm around my chest from my Uncle Tony gave me strength. When some ailment had knocked me out, my mother’s hands rubbed across my back eased my ills. At those times when I am lucky enough to have someone special in my life, the simple caress of a woman’s hand over mine, or the soft drop of her lips upon my cheek can be filled with the intensity of a thunderstorm and the gentleness of a summer breeze. At the top of my head is a spot about the size of a dime, a sweet small spot, that when lightly touched, as a fingernail slowly drawn across it, will place me in such a state of relaxation and contentedness that I feel safe and sound from any harm the world may have planned for me.
As I lay on the bed, curled under blankets, distraught by the cold and nausea and the pain of my treatment, the enormity of my father’s love, felt through the easy touch of his hand on my arm, urges me forward. As my mind is clouded and my will sapped, I can regain so much hope when my sister sits at my side, and I place my head in her lap. And when I am well, in those few days I am allowed to be myself, a warm hug with friends reminds me of why I fight. An entire universe is created in a single point of contact.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Don't come around here no more
I had chemo today. Did all the usual stuff; met with the doctor, talked about future treatments, got my poison, came home. I'm not feeling too bad physically, but I know that'll all change tomorrow.
Today I'm going to be terse, and devoid of any creative prose. Of all the emotions I've touched on in this blog, anger has had the least coverage. It's not really that I haven't shared with you my anger, but I've actually not been that angry. I think being angry is useless and detrimental. I try to let it go, to not hold a grudge, to not let things get to me. But dammit, I'm pissed off!!
My doctor told me today that there will be at least two more chemo treatments, even if my scan on July 3rd is clean. I know that I wrote that I expected this outcome, but COME ON!! I'm not mad at him, or my dad, though the two of them bore the brunt when I yelled something ridiculous and incoherent at them in the office. I'm not mad at god, or GOD, for giving me the disease. I'm not mad at the nurses who smile sweetly while injecting the poison in my veins, nor am I mad at this screwed up website that somehow lost the original version of this post that took me two hours to write just now, but I'm friggin pissed at something, that's for damn sure.
This whole thing is just really getting on my nerves. Why the hell did this happen to me?? I've done some screwed up things in my life, I'll be the first to admit it, but certainly nothing to deserve this. When is it going to end?? All the friggin surgery, two rounds of chemo, and the outlook doesn't offer a break, EVER! This is how my life is going to be from now until the day those little bastard cancer cells decide to take over everything. Sure, maybe it won't kill me. Maybe they'll just take out the rest of my colon and replace it with a handy bag I can wear on my hip to carry my shit around. That will be great, the chicks love that. Or maybe they'll find some other organ to invade, and I can spend the rest of my life hooked up to a machine. That should make camping much more fun.
On top of all the wonderful physical hurdles I'm going to endure the next few days, I'm going to have to try very hard not to go off on my dad. He doesn't make me angry, but he's the one that's here. Of course it's not fair, but he loves me enough to understand that I'm not angry at him, just angry, and frustrated, and overwhelmed, and beat down, and scared, angry. Did I mention I'm angry?
I want to pound out so much more on this keyboard, but my mind is just not firing right now. There is this Kubrick-world haze around me and I'm not sure what I'm thinking.
A small disclaimer; I understand, and very much appreciate all the love and consideration you my friends have shown me. I know that some of you read my posts and want to just reach out and care for me right away, and that's fantastic. But don't worry about me. Don't think I'm laying around on my dad's couch thinking about going outside and killing some squirrels. Don't think for even a second that I'm going to let this beat me down. I'll be fine, I will. But for today I need to be pissed off.
Today I'm going to be terse, and devoid of any creative prose. Of all the emotions I've touched on in this blog, anger has had the least coverage. It's not really that I haven't shared with you my anger, but I've actually not been that angry. I think being angry is useless and detrimental. I try to let it go, to not hold a grudge, to not let things get to me. But dammit, I'm pissed off!!
My doctor told me today that there will be at least two more chemo treatments, even if my scan on July 3rd is clean. I know that I wrote that I expected this outcome, but COME ON!! I'm not mad at him, or my dad, though the two of them bore the brunt when I yelled something ridiculous and incoherent at them in the office. I'm not mad at god, or GOD, for giving me the disease. I'm not mad at the nurses who smile sweetly while injecting the poison in my veins, nor am I mad at this screwed up website that somehow lost the original version of this post that took me two hours to write just now, but I'm friggin pissed at something, that's for damn sure.
This whole thing is just really getting on my nerves. Why the hell did this happen to me?? I've done some screwed up things in my life, I'll be the first to admit it, but certainly nothing to deserve this. When is it going to end?? All the friggin surgery, two rounds of chemo, and the outlook doesn't offer a break, EVER! This is how my life is going to be from now until the day those little bastard cancer cells decide to take over everything. Sure, maybe it won't kill me. Maybe they'll just take out the rest of my colon and replace it with a handy bag I can wear on my hip to carry my shit around. That will be great, the chicks love that. Or maybe they'll find some other organ to invade, and I can spend the rest of my life hooked up to a machine. That should make camping much more fun.
On top of all the wonderful physical hurdles I'm going to endure the next few days, I'm going to have to try very hard not to go off on my dad. He doesn't make me angry, but he's the one that's here. Of course it's not fair, but he loves me enough to understand that I'm not angry at him, just angry, and frustrated, and overwhelmed, and beat down, and scared, angry. Did I mention I'm angry?
I want to pound out so much more on this keyboard, but my mind is just not firing right now. There is this Kubrick-world haze around me and I'm not sure what I'm thinking.
A small disclaimer; I understand, and very much appreciate all the love and consideration you my friends have shown me. I know that some of you read my posts and want to just reach out and care for me right away, and that's fantastic. But don't worry about me. Don't think I'm laying around on my dad's couch thinking about going outside and killing some squirrels. Don't think for even a second that I'm going to let this beat me down. I'll be fine, I will. But for today I need to be pissed off.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Dating tip #20: Never tell her she looks like her mom
Let me start with a brief update. I'm doing pretty well today, that is, I'm having a good DAY. My life is lived in 24 hour chunks right now, each day being different than the preceding. I had chemo last Tuesday, and the week went as expected; tired, nauseous, achy, blah blah blah. The plan, for now, is to slug down another dose of that poison next week, Monday the 12th, then rest up for a little vacation with the family. On the 25th I'll be packing up the Jeep, dropping the top, and heading down to Southern Shores North Carolina, to spend a week at the beach. I'll be driving down with my dad, and spending the week with my family, yup, my family, the Lamazza side, the endangered species. That should lead to some very interesting blogs. Stay tuned. When I return, some time during the first week of July, I'll be heading in for a PET scan. The scan should give us a good idea of how the chemo has worked. If all goes well, and I mean very well, the scan will show that there is no cancer left, and I will be done with chemo. Of course, this is not the outcome I expect. I'm pretty sure I'll have a couple more rounds in July, but I suppose anything is possible.
A couple of weeks ago I met with a new cardiologist. I had to present him with the saga that has been my life for the last couple of years. Among other medical queries, he asked if I was seeing a shrink. When I told him no, he asked if I wanted to. Again I said no.
This is not the first time someone has suggested therapy. My family and friends and other doctors have made similar inquiries in the past. The suggestions have not been born of any specific concern for my behavior. I have not shown signs of nor been significantly depressed. As I explained to the doctor, of course I have moments of being upset, and the occasional sleepless night (ok, sleepless weeks) but it's not been anything I couldn't handle. My mind, just as my body and this disease, is mine to deal with. I have a very strong sense of personal responsibility. I used to think I got this from my father, but the more I deal with him in his "retirement" years, the more I'm convinced it was my mother that instilled this particular belief in me. (love ya dad!)You get a cold; you take medicine and rest. You fall down and sprain your wrist; you get up and deal with the pain. You make a mistake; you fix it. You want to go out and have fun with your friends; you get a job and earn your way. You are accountable for your life! It is the saddest failure of humanity to shirk this responsibility, and this failure is the greatest detriment to society as a whole. Sadly, today, we are living in a world where personal responsibility is not cultivated or held in any esteem. Any dolt can instigate litigation for events they themselves have brought on. People are not held accountable for their actions because some horrible experience befell them when they were a child. It is acceptable, and even encouraged, to find external causes for internal problems. Even our government, when faced with incontrovertible facts that show they have made grievous mistakes, will not accept responsibility and instead use fear tactics and political doublespeak to quell the raging masses. But I digress.
My family has always been big on talking. Ok, we're Sicilian, so we've always been big on talking LOUDLY. My mother and I talked about almost everything. The night after my uncle Tony died, I was about 13, I had a very long conversation with mom. We talked about the myriad of emotions washing over my family at the time. We were sad, we were angry, we were mournful, we were confused. She said that it was ok to have all these emotions and that the best way to deal with them was to talk to those we love, but that it was of the utmost importance that we did actually deal with them. When my grandmother died, my mother's mother, I talked to my dad about it. This was the first time I remembered seeing my father truly upset about the loss of a loved one. When my aunt JoAnne died, my mother's sister, I talked to her husband and daughter. We even went to a grief counseling meeting. While I've always been very close to Charly, and have shared a lot with her, this was definitely a first for me and my uncle Bill. When my mother died (as I've written previously, the Lamazzas are a dying breed) I talked to my sister, my father, and my very close friends Chris and Pete and Sean and... When I was working EMS, there were many instances when the job took a hit on my psyche. Sometimes, after a particularly bad MCI, different agencies would offer counseling, particularly after 9/11. My comrades and I often gathered for group therapy at the Park Tavern Psychological Retreat and Mental Hospital and worked through our issues with the aid of medicinal ales,occasionall nudity, and rhytmlesss dancing upon tables. After that happy-go-lucky gastroenterologist came bounding into my hospital room and smilingly pronounced "so! you have cancer!" I got right on the phone and called Dave (for those who need reminding, he had cancer when he was a youngin as well). Since then, I've been talking to anyone who would listen, and thankfully there have been many of you. This is how I have taken responsibility for my mental well being. I post this blog, I get drunk and make my British friends cry, I whine breathlessly to friends on the phone, I throw around my opinion about how people should live with cancer on a few message boards, and I lay my head on my sisters lap and whine that I can't do this any more. This is my therapy. I do not mean to imply that therapy is not a valid and beneficial exercise. I know that for many people it is a very powerful way to help maintain their lives. I am simply saying that I have my method, for my life, to manage my pain. There may come a time when I think it is all too overwhelming, and perhaps I should see a shrink, but I'm sure I'll talk to someone about it first.
A couple of weeks ago I met with a new cardiologist. I had to present him with the saga that has been my life for the last couple of years. Among other medical queries, he asked if I was seeing a shrink. When I told him no, he asked if I wanted to. Again I said no.
This is not the first time someone has suggested therapy. My family and friends and other doctors have made similar inquiries in the past. The suggestions have not been born of any specific concern for my behavior. I have not shown signs of nor been significantly depressed. As I explained to the doctor, of course I have moments of being upset, and the occasional sleepless night (ok, sleepless weeks) but it's not been anything I couldn't handle. My mind, just as my body and this disease, is mine to deal with. I have a very strong sense of personal responsibility. I used to think I got this from my father, but the more I deal with him in his "retirement" years, the more I'm convinced it was my mother that instilled this particular belief in me. (love ya dad!)You get a cold; you take medicine and rest. You fall down and sprain your wrist; you get up and deal with the pain. You make a mistake; you fix it. You want to go out and have fun with your friends; you get a job and earn your way. You are accountable for your life! It is the saddest failure of humanity to shirk this responsibility, and this failure is the greatest detriment to society as a whole. Sadly, today, we are living in a world where personal responsibility is not cultivated or held in any esteem. Any dolt can instigate litigation for events they themselves have brought on. People are not held accountable for their actions because some horrible experience befell them when they were a child. It is acceptable, and even encouraged, to find external causes for internal problems. Even our government, when faced with incontrovertible facts that show they have made grievous mistakes, will not accept responsibility and instead use fear tactics and political doublespeak to quell the raging masses. But I digress.
My family has always been big on talking. Ok, we're Sicilian, so we've always been big on talking LOUDLY. My mother and I talked about almost everything. The night after my uncle Tony died, I was about 13, I had a very long conversation with mom. We talked about the myriad of emotions washing over my family at the time. We were sad, we were angry, we were mournful, we were confused. She said that it was ok to have all these emotions and that the best way to deal with them was to talk to those we love, but that it was of the utmost importance that we did actually deal with them. When my grandmother died, my mother's mother, I talked to my dad about it. This was the first time I remembered seeing my father truly upset about the loss of a loved one. When my aunt JoAnne died, my mother's sister, I talked to her husband and daughter. We even went to a grief counseling meeting. While I've always been very close to Charly, and have shared a lot with her, this was definitely a first for me and my uncle Bill. When my mother died (as I've written previously, the Lamazzas are a dying breed) I talked to my sister, my father, and my very close friends Chris and Pete and Sean and... When I was working EMS, there were many instances when the job took a hit on my psyche. Sometimes, after a particularly bad MCI, different agencies would offer counseling, particularly after 9/11. My comrades and I often gathered for group therapy at the Park Tavern Psychological Retreat and Mental Hospital and worked through our issues with the aid of medicinal ales,occasionall nudity, and rhytmlesss dancing upon tables. After that happy-go-lucky gastroenterologist came bounding into my hospital room and smilingly pronounced "so! you have cancer!" I got right on the phone and called Dave (for those who need reminding, he had cancer when he was a youngin as well). Since then, I've been talking to anyone who would listen, and thankfully there have been many of you. This is how I have taken responsibility for my mental well being. I post this blog, I get drunk and make my British friends cry, I whine breathlessly to friends on the phone, I throw around my opinion about how people should live with cancer on a few message boards, and I lay my head on my sisters lap and whine that I can't do this any more. This is my therapy. I do not mean to imply that therapy is not a valid and beneficial exercise. I know that for many people it is a very powerful way to help maintain their lives. I am simply saying that I have my method, for my life, to manage my pain. There may come a time when I think it is all too overwhelming, and perhaps I should see a shrink, but I'm sure I'll talk to someone about it first.
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