Jell-o shots and the Democratic Party

For the most part, I have faith that this cancer can be beaten. I believe in my surgeon. I believe in my oncologist. I believe in the drugs I'm taking. Hell, I better, because they suck (more on that later). As with most issues of faith, I met a small crisis, I doubted those beliefs.

Last week I went to visit a doctor at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Hospital in New York. Sloan is widely known as one of the best cancer research hospitals in the world. Against my better judgment and usual pragmatic understanding, I had high hopes. I allowed myself, for the briefest of moments, to believe that if there were a Wizard, Sloan was Oz. The offices were pleasant, not clinical at all. The doctors seemed genuine and intelligent. The overall outcome, however, was less than stellar. The doctors I spoke to told me they agreed with my current course and thought I should follow it through. They also mentioned that I might have some other options, but for now we should "stay the course". And there it was... the absolute overwhelming presence of nothing. Nothing new. "Hey! You have cancer! And we're going to give you lots of nasty drugs, which may or may not help in the very least. Good Luck."

It's my own fault. I know better than to think that there is a silver bullet here. I understand the disease process as well as the steps taken to defeat it. I've been through this with my mother, I've been through it with her sister, and I've been through it myself. I know it's going to be a long road, and there are no easy answers. But, I dared to dream, which made the resounding thud of hitting back to earth even harder. Cancer is NOT an easy thing to beat. It takes physical and mental strength and resolve. It takes a family and friends. It takes years. I know all this. And just in case I had forgotten it, the fates sent me prophets in white coats to remind me.

The current drug I'm taking is called Erbitux. Compared to the gut wrenching, soul crushing chemo I've taken in the past, this isn't a horrible drug. I was warned that it would give me a rash. A fellow cancer fighter, whose sister Tracey loves him very very very much, had an experience with this drug last year. His rash became so bad that he could not even leave the house. How will it affect me? Well....let me tell you! It started out with some dry skin on my forehead and cheeks. It flaked, but didn't seem bad. Then it began to burn. not unbearable, irritating like a sun burn. Still, not bad. On Monday I got my second dose in as many weeks. This morning, when I woke up, my skin was cracked and caked with dried blood. My skin is hard and burning even more. Not the handsomest man to begin with, now I look like a leper with acne. Sure, sure...I have stuff to help with it. I have some cream to put on it, and the doc gave me some pills that might help, so really, what's so bad? A little burning and hideous features never hurt anyone. Right Mr. Merrick?

I have some decisions to make in the next couple of months regarding my treatment. For the first time in two years, I'm not sure I can do it. I'm not sure I can make the decisions. I'm not sure I can live through the decisions. The fight keeps getting harder and the results, less noticeable. How the hell did my mother do this for 7 years?

I might disappear for a while. I might not call or answer the phone. I might not blog anything. I might just crawl into my head, sit down to a nice dinner with my demons and discuss things with them. I'm sure they'll understand the need for civility. Maybe I'll put some Coltrane on in the back, they love jazz.

Of course, I might just smash a hole in my wall and continue to blabber on this blog. Choices...