I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, well ok, I always do a lot of thinking. I have some ideas about immortality, but I'm going to save them for the next entry. Today will simply be a cancer update.
I'm better. I'm not great, but I'm certainly better than, say, a month ago. I've spent the last few weeks recouping at dad's. This week I was able to drag my ass in to my office twice. I'm not able to stand a full day, but still, it's a step. I'm thin, very thin, disgustingly thin. I came out of the hospital 190 pounds, and three weeks later I'm still 190 pounds. I don't like being this thin. I feel like all I've done for the last few weeks is eat, but still no weight. My sister reminded me, as she often has to do since my brain seems to be nothing more than a giant sieve, that this is how it always happens. I stay thin for 4 or 5 weeks, and then BAM, lots of weight. I guess we'll have to see.
I had a ct scan last week. The scan was to check on how the infection was doing. I was on IV antibiotics at home, and the doctor wouldn't stop them until a ct scan showed him I was clean. Well...I'm clean. No more infection. So that's good news! I went to see my surgeon last Monday. He said my surgical wounds are healing very well, and it should only be a few more weeks before they're all closed up. Also, he took a glance at the ct scan and told me that my innards look to be in good shape. There are no obvious signs of growth. Now he wouldn't say the words, that is for my oncologist, but what he hinted at is that there are no signs of cancer. Yes, this is good news. BUT, let's temper it with a bit of reality. I've had clean ct scans in the last couple of years. They are not the end-all-be-all for diagnosing cancer, especially my cancer. As we all know by now, I will always have cancer, it's just going to be a matter of degree. I am going to see my oncologist in April and we'll find out more then.
Tomorrow, as some of you may or may not know, is my birthday. I'll be 38. 40 is just around the damn corner. For my birthday.........I'm going home!!!! I'm moving back into my own apartment tomorrow, after a 3 and 1/2 month hiatus. I'm really looking forward to it. Some friends are going to come by and help me settle back in. I'll make them some dinner and then we'll just relax at my place. Sure 10 years ago this would not have passed for a birthday party, but then again I was a totally different person, with about 100 more pounds on me. (did I mention that I'm very thin?)
There are a lot of things going on for me right now. Work is changing, I've got some trips coming up, and then there's always the cancer. I'm pretty sure my next couple of blogs will be a bit more profound and introspective, so perhaps you'll want to skip those.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
Jesse is a friend, you know he's been a good friend of mine
As I've mentioned before, cancer brings with it a wide variety of other physical and emotional tribulations. During my most recent sojourn at the Hotel De Hackensack I experienced two physical events for the first time; I passed out, and I hallucinated.
During the last week I was in the hospital, on Wednesday my doctor told me I would be discharged on Friday. When Friday rolled around, I was told I couldn't leave, maybe Saturday. On Saturday I was told I couldn't leave, maybe Sunday. On Sunday, blah blah blah, until I was discharged on Tuesday. The reason the carrot was yanked away so many times was because the level of a drug I regularly take called Coumadin, was not high enough. I take this drug to prevent blood clots, but when I'm in the hospital for surgery, they need to stop this medicine. Blood clotting is very important when it comes to surgery. Playing the "not today, maybe tomorrow" game has happened every time I've been in for surgery. Knowing this would be an issue, I tried to make it a point to let all my doctors know that we needed to start the Coumadin again early, so I wouldn't have to delay my discharge. Of course, nobody payed attention and so I spent an extra 4 days. Sure, 4 days doesn't seem all that long, but when you consider that I was laying in that bed for 2 months, those 4 days felt like an eternity. On that Sunday, a physical therapist came by to walk with me. Walking is a difficult process after you've been supine for 2 months, and so I needed therapy for it. Most times it's a pleasant enough experience. The therapists are nice, and it does feel good to get out of the room, if even for just a couple of minutes. But on that day I was pissed and determined to show everyone that I was fine; fine enough to be sent home and fine enough to take care of myself. The therapist wanted to try some steps, so I jumped out of bed and made my way, grunting and mumbling under my breath, to the stairwell. I went through the door, I looked up at the top of the staircase and started to feel light headed. I grabbed for the hand rail as I heard the therapist calling my name, yelling, asking if I was ok. The hallway went dark. The next thing I knew there were about 10 people all around me, the therapist was waving smelling salts under my nose, and a large orderly was trying to get me to sit in a wheel chair. I passed out. Not your "been drinking since 11 this morning and need to nap" pass out, but actually passed out. This is not something I recommend.
The other event was when I hallucinated. I'm not talking about when you've been sitting at the bar, it's now 3 am, the bartender is ushering the glasses through their three sink dance, the bouncer is flipping over the bar stools and placing them atop the bar so that the cleaning crew can have full and clear access to mop the floor and clean the grit and grime you and your friends trod around in all night, and OH MY GOD that chick at the end of the bar is the hottest thing ever!! I'm talking about my mind telling me that my sister is sitting right beside me, discussing the most recent insanity of our father, while in reality she is most likely tired and fed up at the end of her shift, and on her way home. The doctors at Hackensack, and probably other hospitals as well, are very concerned with a patient's pain. They feel that pain intrudes on the body's natural process of healing, so they are very generous with pain medication. After my surgery they placed me on a PCA (patient controlled analgesia) iv pump. The pump has a little button, which the patient is supposed to press to deliver the pain medicine. Depending on an assortment of factors, the pump is set to only allow a certain amount of medicine to be dispensed in a certain time period. The first few times I had this pca, the drug of choice was morphine. My sister said that I had a reaction the last time I had the morphine (it's these parts of my recovery, right after the surgery, that I have trouble remembering so if Chrissy says it's so, it's so) so this time they hooked me up to a drug called dilaudid. I stayed on the pca pump about two days too long. The last couple of days, I would be in the middle of a conversation with my sister, or my father, or one of my friends, my hands flying around in mid sentence, and I would wake up, clear up really, and realize that nobody was there. These weren't dreams, I wasn't asleep. The presence of another person was incredibly real. My mind vaguely understood what was going on and I had to force myself to not press that button unless I truly needed it. After a couple of days of lower dosing, I was clear enough to let people know that it may have been time to change off the dilaudid.
And they said cancer wouldn't be fun...
During the last week I was in the hospital, on Wednesday my doctor told me I would be discharged on Friday. When Friday rolled around, I was told I couldn't leave, maybe Saturday. On Saturday I was told I couldn't leave, maybe Sunday. On Sunday, blah blah blah, until I was discharged on Tuesday. The reason the carrot was yanked away so many times was because the level of a drug I regularly take called Coumadin, was not high enough. I take this drug to prevent blood clots, but when I'm in the hospital for surgery, they need to stop this medicine. Blood clotting is very important when it comes to surgery. Playing the "not today, maybe tomorrow" game has happened every time I've been in for surgery. Knowing this would be an issue, I tried to make it a point to let all my doctors know that we needed to start the Coumadin again early, so I wouldn't have to delay my discharge. Of course, nobody payed attention and so I spent an extra 4 days. Sure, 4 days doesn't seem all that long, but when you consider that I was laying in that bed for 2 months, those 4 days felt like an eternity. On that Sunday, a physical therapist came by to walk with me. Walking is a difficult process after you've been supine for 2 months, and so I needed therapy for it. Most times it's a pleasant enough experience. The therapists are nice, and it does feel good to get out of the room, if even for just a couple of minutes. But on that day I was pissed and determined to show everyone that I was fine; fine enough to be sent home and fine enough to take care of myself. The therapist wanted to try some steps, so I jumped out of bed and made my way, grunting and mumbling under my breath, to the stairwell. I went through the door, I looked up at the top of the staircase and started to feel light headed. I grabbed for the hand rail as I heard the therapist calling my name, yelling, asking if I was ok. The hallway went dark. The next thing I knew there were about 10 people all around me, the therapist was waving smelling salts under my nose, and a large orderly was trying to get me to sit in a wheel chair. I passed out. Not your "been drinking since 11 this morning and need to nap" pass out, but actually passed out. This is not something I recommend.
The other event was when I hallucinated. I'm not talking about when you've been sitting at the bar, it's now 3 am, the bartender is ushering the glasses through their three sink dance, the bouncer is flipping over the bar stools and placing them atop the bar so that the cleaning crew can have full and clear access to mop the floor and clean the grit and grime you and your friends trod around in all night, and OH MY GOD that chick at the end of the bar is the hottest thing ever!! I'm talking about my mind telling me that my sister is sitting right beside me, discussing the most recent insanity of our father, while in reality she is most likely tired and fed up at the end of her shift, and on her way home. The doctors at Hackensack, and probably other hospitals as well, are very concerned with a patient's pain. They feel that pain intrudes on the body's natural process of healing, so they are very generous with pain medication. After my surgery they placed me on a PCA (patient controlled analgesia) iv pump. The pump has a little button, which the patient is supposed to press to deliver the pain medicine. Depending on an assortment of factors, the pump is set to only allow a certain amount of medicine to be dispensed in a certain time period. The first few times I had this pca, the drug of choice was morphine. My sister said that I had a reaction the last time I had the morphine (it's these parts of my recovery, right after the surgery, that I have trouble remembering so if Chrissy says it's so, it's so) so this time they hooked me up to a drug called dilaudid. I stayed on the pca pump about two days too long. The last couple of days, I would be in the middle of a conversation with my sister, or my father, or one of my friends, my hands flying around in mid sentence, and I would wake up, clear up really, and realize that nobody was there. These weren't dreams, I wasn't asleep. The presence of another person was incredibly real. My mind vaguely understood what was going on and I had to force myself to not press that button unless I truly needed it. After a couple of days of lower dosing, I was clear enough to let people know that it may have been time to change off the dilaudid.
And they said cancer wouldn't be fun...
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Oh my! Where has all the time gone?
Yes, my dear friends, it has been a while since I've let you all in on my condition. Yes, this blog was specifically set up for just that purpose. Yes, I even had internet access while in the hospital. I'm just a bad friend is all.
Last you heard, I was going to be in the hospital for a couple of weeks. Well, let me tell you something; that did not really go as planned. Turns out that all the vomitting I was doing may not have been just a reaction to my chemo. The doctors took some pictures and checked the jam-cam in my colon and found a blockage. After some non-invasive attempts to relieve the blockage didn't work, it was time to call in the surgeon. I'm pretty sure I've said this before, but it bears repeating; my surgeon totally rocks!!! I think if he had gone to Bethany, or any of the other fine institutions of higher learning which I attended, we may have hung out and gotten drunk together. My surgeon said that since they were going to open me up to remove the blockage he might as well go ahead and take out all the cancery stuff. And that's what he did. He removed what was left of the tumor, (quick side note, after only two treatments of the new chemo, that tumor had already shrunk in half) lymph nodes, some intestine, and some other areas that they suspected some cancer cells might be. All my margins came back clean. All of this means that there are no obvious signs of cancer in my abdomen at this time. Now, before you go all jump-for-joy on me, just know that it doesn't mean I'm in remission. There may still be some cells swimming around somewhere, which has been the case before. Only a pet scan will show for sure. That's coming up soon. Also, if you've been following along you already know that I'll never really get rid of the cancer, but will be able to live with it in check. That should have been it, I should have been out of the hospital by the end of January, but of course my body has to be difficult.
Right around the day I was supposed to go home, I started spiking fevers and feeling generally run down. Turns out I developed an infection in the surgical sites. This has happened before, so now my surgeon says "this is just how your body deals with it", it's an inevitability. This meant another surgery, to clean it out, and a few more weeks in the hospital, which works out to be about 150 more hours of the food network. I can't really eat right now, but I have a million recipes I want to try out.
February came and went while I was flat on my back in the post-surge ward. I finally made it out of there on the 27th. I'm at my dad's right now, recovering. I still have open wounds from the last surgery and I have to take iv antibiotics about 4 times a day. I'm also pretty weak and probably under 200 pounds. Two months in the hospital will do that to ya. I'm getting a little better every day, and should be back to some sense of normalcy in two or three weeks, which is cool since I have a birthday coming up right around that time.
That's the long and short of it my friends. My last two months in a nutshell. There is some work to be done. I need to get my strength back and still have to go back for some chemo, but the year is looking up. I am going to try and hit Europe in the spring, there's a couple of weddings this summer, and maybe a trip to San Fran in the fall. I've had my beat down mental days, but as always I have a slightly skewed optimism. I love all of you, and thanks for all the cards/flowers/balloons/candy/phone calls/text messages/emails!!! I'll hit ya with some more cancer tainted wisdom soon.
Last you heard, I was going to be in the hospital for a couple of weeks. Well, let me tell you something; that did not really go as planned. Turns out that all the vomitting I was doing may not have been just a reaction to my chemo. The doctors took some pictures and checked the jam-cam in my colon and found a blockage. After some non-invasive attempts to relieve the blockage didn't work, it was time to call in the surgeon. I'm pretty sure I've said this before, but it bears repeating; my surgeon totally rocks!!! I think if he had gone to Bethany, or any of the other fine institutions of higher learning which I attended, we may have hung out and gotten drunk together. My surgeon said that since they were going to open me up to remove the blockage he might as well go ahead and take out all the cancery stuff. And that's what he did. He removed what was left of the tumor, (quick side note, after only two treatments of the new chemo, that tumor had already shrunk in half) lymph nodes, some intestine, and some other areas that they suspected some cancer cells might be. All my margins came back clean. All of this means that there are no obvious signs of cancer in my abdomen at this time. Now, before you go all jump-for-joy on me, just know that it doesn't mean I'm in remission. There may still be some cells swimming around somewhere, which has been the case before. Only a pet scan will show for sure. That's coming up soon. Also, if you've been following along you already know that I'll never really get rid of the cancer, but will be able to live with it in check. That should have been it, I should have been out of the hospital by the end of January, but of course my body has to be difficult.
Right around the day I was supposed to go home, I started spiking fevers and feeling generally run down. Turns out I developed an infection in the surgical sites. This has happened before, so now my surgeon says "this is just how your body deals with it", it's an inevitability. This meant another surgery, to clean it out, and a few more weeks in the hospital, which works out to be about 150 more hours of the food network. I can't really eat right now, but I have a million recipes I want to try out.
February came and went while I was flat on my back in the post-surge ward. I finally made it out of there on the 27th. I'm at my dad's right now, recovering. I still have open wounds from the last surgery and I have to take iv antibiotics about 4 times a day. I'm also pretty weak and probably under 200 pounds. Two months in the hospital will do that to ya. I'm getting a little better every day, and should be back to some sense of normalcy in two or three weeks, which is cool since I have a birthday coming up right around that time.
That's the long and short of it my friends. My last two months in a nutshell. There is some work to be done. I need to get my strength back and still have to go back for some chemo, but the year is looking up. I am going to try and hit Europe in the spring, there's a couple of weddings this summer, and maybe a trip to San Fran in the fall. I've had my beat down mental days, but as always I have a slightly skewed optimism. I love all of you, and thanks for all the cards/flowers/balloons/candy/phone calls/text messages/emails!!! I'll hit ya with some more cancer tainted wisdom soon.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
What was that about the best laid plans?
and now it's January 25th and I'm still in the hospital. Things keep going up and down. I was going to write about some other difficulties dealing with cancer, but I'm tired so I'm just going to leave this little update. I'm still not sure when I'm getting out of here.
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Friday, January 19, 2007
Clinically speaking...
Well all, it's been a busy busy month for me. Just to get you caught up, I'll forgo any of my usual charm and wit, and will go with a more straight forward approach.
Dec 27th, 2006 - (threw up) I visited my doctor for my first treatment of the chemotherapy Irinotican
Dec 28th, 2006 - (threw up) Any substance that might have once been food has now turned into pure liquid and is heading at full speed towards the nearest exit.
Dec 31st, 2006 - (threw up) A fearless band of British explorers brave outrageous winter weather and the Garden State Parkway in order to chime in the new year by watching me sink into my couch in between volatile visits to the bathroom.
Jan 3rd, 2007 - (threw up) I return for my second round of chemo. My doctor said "If you were so sick, why didn't you call me?" to which I replied "I thought this was just how the chemo was going to be." My doctor looked down, shook his head, and mumbled "idiot". Later that day the doctor admitted me to the hospital for dehydration.
Jan 6th, 2007 - (threw up) I'm re hydrated and keeping down most of my food, so they let me out of the hospital. I head to my dad's house to chill until my next chemo.
Jan 10th, 2007 - (threw up) I went back for round three of the chemo. My body, even after having spent that time in the hospital, was still not ready for chemo. I had not stopped throwing up since I left the hospital and my bowels have been flowing like the Hudson. My doctor said he wouldn't give me chemo because my body couldn't handle it just then. He also felt that there had to be another reason the vomiting and diarrhea. He said I needed to rehydrate again and also have a ct scan. I could do them on and out patient basis, or he could admit me. I decided to try the outpatient route.
Jan 11th, 2007 - (threw up) I wake up to go have my ct scan but my body is just exhausted and I don't have enough energy to walk to the front door. I decided to go with my other option; get admitted back into the hospital. Later that evening I'm admitted and had a ct scan which revealed a blockage in my colon.
Jan 13th, 2007 A colonoscopy shows that the blockage is in part because there is a lot of swelling in my colon, most likely from the chemo. The doctor also finds 2 ulcers, again probably from the chemo.
Over the next few days I've gotten a little better, then a little worse, then a little better. I also got another round of chemo on the 17th. It looks as though things are leveling out. I'll probably be home tomorrow. With a few medicinal adjuncts, I should be able to return to a chemo schedule where I'm only sick for a few days and then I have good days in which to live. We shall see.
Dec 27th, 2006 - (threw up) I visited my doctor for my first treatment of the chemotherapy Irinotican
Dec 28th, 2006 - (threw up) Any substance that might have once been food has now turned into pure liquid and is heading at full speed towards the nearest exit.
Dec 31st, 2006 - (threw up) A fearless band of British explorers brave outrageous winter weather and the Garden State Parkway in order to chime in the new year by watching me sink into my couch in between volatile visits to the bathroom.
Jan 3rd, 2007 - (threw up) I return for my second round of chemo. My doctor said "If you were so sick, why didn't you call me?" to which I replied "I thought this was just how the chemo was going to be." My doctor looked down, shook his head, and mumbled "idiot". Later that day the doctor admitted me to the hospital for dehydration.
Jan 6th, 2007 - (threw up) I'm re hydrated and keeping down most of my food, so they let me out of the hospital. I head to my dad's house to chill until my next chemo.
Jan 10th, 2007 - (threw up) I went back for round three of the chemo. My body, even after having spent that time in the hospital, was still not ready for chemo. I had not stopped throwing up since I left the hospital and my bowels have been flowing like the Hudson. My doctor said he wouldn't give me chemo because my body couldn't handle it just then. He also felt that there had to be another reason the vomiting and diarrhea. He said I needed to rehydrate again and also have a ct scan. I could do them on and out patient basis, or he could admit me. I decided to try the outpatient route.
Jan 11th, 2007 - (threw up) I wake up to go have my ct scan but my body is just exhausted and I don't have enough energy to walk to the front door. I decided to go with my other option; get admitted back into the hospital. Later that evening I'm admitted and had a ct scan which revealed a blockage in my colon.
Jan 13th, 2007 A colonoscopy shows that the blockage is in part because there is a lot of swelling in my colon, most likely from the chemo. The doctor also finds 2 ulcers, again probably from the chemo.
Over the next few days I've gotten a little better, then a little worse, then a little better. I also got another round of chemo on the 17th. It looks as though things are leveling out. I'll probably be home tomorrow. With a few medicinal adjuncts, I should be able to return to a chemo schedule where I'm only sick for a few days and then I have good days in which to live. We shall see.
Friday, January 05, 2007
You put the "lida" in "holidays"
When I was a child, holidays bore the full and epic importance of the events they commemorate. Valentine's Day was a celebration of love. Easter was the essence of my religion, remembering the resurrection of Jesus. In adolescence and young adulthood, the year was clearly divided in terms of school. Holidays became bold lines of demarcation. The summer began with Memorial Day, summer camp was in full swing by Independence Day, and Labor Day brought us back to academics. As I got older, holidays afforded an opportunity to revisit youth. Halloween was a time dress up in silly costumes, Thanksgiving a chance to revisit my Alma mater for the traditional football game. In adulthood Christmas had taken on it's more secular face and become a time for my family to gather together. New Year's Eve, some time ago, had become my first grown up holiday as I was able to invite my friends into my home to celebrate.
If you want to see the true meaning of holidays, take a walk down to the corner shop, pick yourself up some cancer, and view the world through tumor colored glasses. Holidays loose the holi and are just days.
This Christmas was wonderful because I got to spend some time with my family, including the newest member, my cousin's son Jonah. I love my family very much. Sitting the whole clan around the kitchen table, laughing and talking, snacking, while Aunt Frannie finishes cooking the day's meal is a comforting event that I look forward to every time we gather. The meal was delicious, as always. It was absolutely wonderful. But, even as we passed out our gifts to each other, my mind was two days away, the first day of my new chemo.
For the third December in a row, the end of the year brought with it not promises of new and exciting opportunities wit a fresh year, but instead the spectre of cancer and a new round of chemo. This year I began on December 28th. My doctor felt confident that this chemo would not make me too sick. Perhaps there would be a little nausea and some diarrhea, but nothing too debilitating. I also spoke with several people who had taken this drug, and they suggested the same outcome. It was not to be. By the next day, even with plenty of drugs to help me, I was vomiting on a daily basis.
New Year's Eve was a quiet event. Dougie and Naomi took pity on my ridiculously sick body, and spent the evening perched in my living room, watching me sleep, bitch and moan, and try to put some food down my gullet only to toss it all up at some point. I was passed out as 2006 gave way to 2007, curled up on my couch beneath layers of blankets as Doug and Naomi blew noise makers, wore silly hats, popped corks, danced around my living room, and cheered in the new year. Alright, that might have just been my delusion, I was passed out! The truth is that Doug was playing a video game on his laptop and I think Naomi was flipping through tv channels. Who has better friends?
Things haven't been much better this week. I'm actually writing this from a hospital bed. More on that later.
If you want to see the true meaning of holidays, take a walk down to the corner shop, pick yourself up some cancer, and view the world through tumor colored glasses. Holidays loose the holi and are just days.
This Christmas was wonderful because I got to spend some time with my family, including the newest member, my cousin's son Jonah. I love my family very much. Sitting the whole clan around the kitchen table, laughing and talking, snacking, while Aunt Frannie finishes cooking the day's meal is a comforting event that I look forward to every time we gather. The meal was delicious, as always. It was absolutely wonderful. But, even as we passed out our gifts to each other, my mind was two days away, the first day of my new chemo.
For the third December in a row, the end of the year brought with it not promises of new and exciting opportunities wit a fresh year, but instead the spectre of cancer and a new round of chemo. This year I began on December 28th. My doctor felt confident that this chemo would not make me too sick. Perhaps there would be a little nausea and some diarrhea, but nothing too debilitating. I also spoke with several people who had taken this drug, and they suggested the same outcome. It was not to be. By the next day, even with plenty of drugs to help me, I was vomiting on a daily basis.
New Year's Eve was a quiet event. Dougie and Naomi took pity on my ridiculously sick body, and spent the evening perched in my living room, watching me sleep, bitch and moan, and try to put some food down my gullet only to toss it all up at some point. I was passed out as 2006 gave way to 2007, curled up on my couch beneath layers of blankets as Doug and Naomi blew noise makers, wore silly hats, popped corks, danced around my living room, and cheered in the new year. Alright, that might have just been my delusion, I was passed out! The truth is that Doug was playing a video game on his laptop and I think Naomi was flipping through tv channels. Who has better friends?
Things haven't been much better this week. I'm actually writing this from a hospital bed. More on that later.
Monday, December 18, 2006
A short story. By.....me
"Daniel" mother called, "Daniel, fetch me some flour from the pantry."
"Yes mother" Daniel replied.
Daniel grabbed a kitchen chair and dragged it behind him into the pantry. He placed the chair against the shelf and climbed onto the seat, steadying himself with one hand on the back. He craned his neck, looking for the precise location of the flour. He spotted it, there, just beyond the box of rice. Daniel stood on his toes, bracing himself with one hand on the shelf just below the flour. He stretched the other arm and reached forward. As Daniel's child finger grazed the front of the package of flour, he got cancer and died.
Relax. I'm ok. Like a bad 70's song, this story got stuck in my head for the last few days and I needed to sing a few bars to shake it loose. The muses, like the cosmos, have a sick sense of humor.
"Yes mother" Daniel replied.
Daniel grabbed a kitchen chair and dragged it behind him into the pantry. He placed the chair against the shelf and climbed onto the seat, steadying himself with one hand on the back. He craned his neck, looking for the precise location of the flour. He spotted it, there, just beyond the box of rice. Daniel stood on his toes, bracing himself with one hand on the shelf just below the flour. He stretched the other arm and reached forward. As Daniel's child finger grazed the front of the package of flour, he got cancer and died.
Relax. I'm ok. Like a bad 70's song, this story got stuck in my head for the last few days and I needed to sing a few bars to shake it loose. The muses, like the cosmos, have a sick sense of humor.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Buckle up. This one is bumpy.
The other day a friend and I were discussing how I'm doing. He said to me that he felt I was hiding something, that the situation was worse than I was letting on. I thought about that for a while. Am I hiding my true feelings from everyone? I don't think so. I'm very honest about the whole cancer situation, with everyone. But, at most times, I don't look or seem like someone greatly concerned for his health. I comprehend the enormity of my situation every minute of every day, but I choose to not let it affect my life. I choose to be happy and enjoy everything. I choose not to become emotional and break down in front of anyone. If I need to crawl into a fetal position and loose my mind, I'll do it on my own time, thank you very much. If I need to vent, I'll do it here.
And so here it is...
I had a ct scan on Monday to re-stage my tumors. I met with the surgeons at Sloan-Kettering yesterday. I won't be having surgery any time soon. There are a lot of details that led to this decision but I will spare you. Suffice it to say that chemo is my best option right now and so I start again next week.
That's the nuts and bolts of it. The facts. The basic plot of the day. Hidden in the shadows is a tale of almost unbearable anxiety. Yesterday was not a good day. I have a complete understanding of my situation, my cancer. I comprehend all the details, complexities and variables involved. At most times it is a bit surreal; I view it from the outside looking in. Yesterday's discussion with the surgeon forced me to face it all with a blinding reality. These doctors were open and frank and held nothing back. Yesterday was not a good day.
Again, I'll spare you the tedious details of the conversation and just give you what I'm left with. My cancer is not going away anytime soon. The main tumor is growing, quickly. In the last month and a half it has doubled in size. The affected lymph nodes have also grown. With my remaining treatment options there is just as much chance that I will be cured as I will not make it to see my next birthday. Yesterday was not a good day.
My sister sat there, angry, as she will get when confronted with a discussion which involves harm to someone she loves. Angry at the air, at the specter, not necessarily at the doctors, though they did take the brunt. I came close to falling to the ground, regressing to infancy, but could not as it would have brought my sister's anger to tears, and I will not be responsible for that.
This is now my friends. I'm angry, concerned, confused, and absolutely terrified. I'll go out tonight, have a good time with some friends, and then go home and try to sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat, and then chemo. That will be then.
And so here it is...
I had a ct scan on Monday to re-stage my tumors. I met with the surgeons at Sloan-Kettering yesterday. I won't be having surgery any time soon. There are a lot of details that led to this decision but I will spare you. Suffice it to say that chemo is my best option right now and so I start again next week.
That's the nuts and bolts of it. The facts. The basic plot of the day. Hidden in the shadows is a tale of almost unbearable anxiety. Yesterday was not a good day. I have a complete understanding of my situation, my cancer. I comprehend all the details, complexities and variables involved. At most times it is a bit surreal; I view it from the outside looking in. Yesterday's discussion with the surgeon forced me to face it all with a blinding reality. These doctors were open and frank and held nothing back. Yesterday was not a good day.
Again, I'll spare you the tedious details of the conversation and just give you what I'm left with. My cancer is not going away anytime soon. The main tumor is growing, quickly. In the last month and a half it has doubled in size. The affected lymph nodes have also grown. With my remaining treatment options there is just as much chance that I will be cured as I will not make it to see my next birthday. Yesterday was not a good day.
My sister sat there, angry, as she will get when confronted with a discussion which involves harm to someone she loves. Angry at the air, at the specter, not necessarily at the doctors, though they did take the brunt. I came close to falling to the ground, regressing to infancy, but could not as it would have brought my sister's anger to tears, and I will not be responsible for that.
This is now my friends. I'm angry, concerned, confused, and absolutely terrified. I'll go out tonight, have a good time with some friends, and then go home and try to sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat, and then chemo. That will be then.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
The duck goes quack. The cow goes moo.
Something isn't right. I can't put my finger on it, but I just don't feel right. I'm not physically ill, well, except for the cancer. I'm not depressed. I'm having a lot of trouble sleeping. I cannot escape my own synapses. The air is wrong. Warped. The hours don't make sense, and the minutes aren't talking.
I've entered a strange new phase of my carcinomic marathon. My current treatment only takes a few hours a week, and doesn't make me sick, so I'm back to working full weeks. Not only am I back at my desk, I've got new responsibilities, and have been thrown in, feet first, to the deep end of a huge project that has me working even on my days off. I've worked these types of projects before, I actually like it, but this is the first time I've had to work this hard, work all these extra hours, attend all these meetings, interact with all these people, and still remember that I have cancer. Most of my day is too busy for me to think about it, but the reality is that it is still there, the tumor is still there, the disease is still there. Most of the people I'm working with don't know about it. They are aware that I have an odd schedule, and that once a week I work from home, but I don't think they know why. I'm fighting dichotomies now. I'm well enough to work, and I'm good at it, but there are times when my body reminds me that I'm not well. I don't want the people I'm working with to expect any less of me because I'm sick, but I have to work even harder to compensate. I don't want to use cancer as an excuse, but at times it is a reason.
Over the last couple of months I've had to think a lot about the cancer that's left in my body. I've had to weigh the options of treatments. I won't know if this current drug is working on the tumor for a few weeks, but I suspect it isn't. I've decided I want this damn interloper out of me. I'm going to meet with a surgeon at Sloan-Kettering on December 14th. I expect that I will be going into surgery in January, most likely in NYC.
The Holidays are upon us. I won't even begin to try and explain what a tornado this is spinning in my imagination.
To all my friends, I wish you well. I hope to see some of you soon.
Billy
I've entered a strange new phase of my carcinomic marathon. My current treatment only takes a few hours a week, and doesn't make me sick, so I'm back to working full weeks. Not only am I back at my desk, I've got new responsibilities, and have been thrown in, feet first, to the deep end of a huge project that has me working even on my days off. I've worked these types of projects before, I actually like it, but this is the first time I've had to work this hard, work all these extra hours, attend all these meetings, interact with all these people, and still remember that I have cancer. Most of my day is too busy for me to think about it, but the reality is that it is still there, the tumor is still there, the disease is still there. Most of the people I'm working with don't know about it. They are aware that I have an odd schedule, and that once a week I work from home, but I don't think they know why. I'm fighting dichotomies now. I'm well enough to work, and I'm good at it, but there are times when my body reminds me that I'm not well. I don't want the people I'm working with to expect any less of me because I'm sick, but I have to work even harder to compensate. I don't want to use cancer as an excuse, but at times it is a reason.
Over the last couple of months I've had to think a lot about the cancer that's left in my body. I've had to weigh the options of treatments. I won't know if this current drug is working on the tumor for a few weeks, but I suspect it isn't. I've decided I want this damn interloper out of me. I'm going to meet with a surgeon at Sloan-Kettering on December 14th. I expect that I will be going into surgery in January, most likely in NYC.
The Holidays are upon us. I won't even begin to try and explain what a tornado this is spinning in my imagination.
To all my friends, I wish you well. I hope to see some of you soon.
Billy
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Now with even more blog..ish...ness...ity
The cancer battle continues. The rash crawling all over my body is getting a little better, certainly more tolerable. I haven't been sick since my last round of chemo. So things are looking up for now. I'll be able to enjoy the holidays at least.
In the last couple of years I've gone through a lot of new experiences. Being the cerebral person that I am, I have had a lot of fun examining everything from all possible sides. One of the more interesting scenarios I've run into is the reaction some people have when I tell them I have cancer. For those of you who aren't sure what to say;
What you should not say to someone who has just told you he has cancer:
"That's too bad. My father (mother, sister, mailman, dog, etc.) had cancer. He's (she's, it's) dead now." - Oh really? Is this supposed to be comforting? To this I usually reply "My uncle was walking around one day saying stupid shit. He's dead now."
"I'm sorry." - You can't possibly be apologizing to me! You didn't give me cancer. Or did you? If you're telling me you feel sorry for me, cut it out! I don't feel sorry for me. If you must, do it on your own time, I've got better things to do.
"Wow, you look pretty good for a guy with cancer." - Oh, but for a completely healthy person I look like total crap?
"You know, what you should do is..." - I appreciate your concern and good advice, I really do. But I'm the one that's been fighting cancer for two years now. Believe me, unless you have a secret cure for cancer that nobody knows about, if there is something I should, could, or would do, the suggestion has already crossed my path.
"God will get you through it." - No! My oncologist will get me through it. My surgeon will get me through it. I will get me through it. God is too busy laughing at the evangelicals. Besides, if I believe God will cure me, doesn't that mean I have to believe He's the one that gave it to me?
"That's horrible! I had a bad flu once." - ummmmmm......NO!
Things you should say to someone who has just told you he has cancer:
"Ooo, that sucks. Have a beer." - Yes, it does. And I like beer.
"I'll pray for you." - This is different from "God will get you through it." While I may be a heathen, if you have faith and it makes you feel better, go for it.
"Would you like free pie?" - I have cancer people, I'm not inhuman. Of course I'd like pie!
"How did you get it?" or "How bad is it?" - These are legitimate questions. And really, if there is anything I enjoy more than the sound of my own voice, it's the sound of my own voice telling a good story.
"So a priest, a rabbi, and a poodle walk into a bar..." - I enjoy a good joke. And this is a good time to make me laugh.
"That huge scar on your belly really turns me on. Take me now you sexy, sexy man." - You can say this to me if you are Heather, or Naomi, or Jodi, or Tracy, or Graz, or Ivy, or Meg or any other of my beautiful female friends. If you say it to me Dave, again, I'm gonna have to slap you.
In the last couple of years I've gone through a lot of new experiences. Being the cerebral person that I am, I have had a lot of fun examining everything from all possible sides. One of the more interesting scenarios I've run into is the reaction some people have when I tell them I have cancer. For those of you who aren't sure what to say;
What you should not say to someone who has just told you he has cancer:
"That's too bad. My father (mother, sister, mailman, dog, etc.) had cancer. He's (she's, it's) dead now." - Oh really? Is this supposed to be comforting? To this I usually reply "My uncle was walking around one day saying stupid shit. He's dead now."
"I'm sorry." - You can't possibly be apologizing to me! You didn't give me cancer. Or did you? If you're telling me you feel sorry for me, cut it out! I don't feel sorry for me. If you must, do it on your own time, I've got better things to do.
"Wow, you look pretty good for a guy with cancer." - Oh, but for a completely healthy person I look like total crap?
"You know, what you should do is..." - I appreciate your concern and good advice, I really do. But I'm the one that's been fighting cancer for two years now. Believe me, unless you have a secret cure for cancer that nobody knows about, if there is something I should, could, or would do, the suggestion has already crossed my path.
"God will get you through it." - No! My oncologist will get me through it. My surgeon will get me through it. I will get me through it. God is too busy laughing at the evangelicals. Besides, if I believe God will cure me, doesn't that mean I have to believe He's the one that gave it to me?
"That's horrible! I had a bad flu once." - ummmmmm......NO!
Things you should say to someone who has just told you he has cancer:
"Ooo, that sucks. Have a beer." - Yes, it does. And I like beer.
"I'll pray for you." - This is different from "God will get you through it." While I may be a heathen, if you have faith and it makes you feel better, go for it.
"Would you like free pie?" - I have cancer people, I'm not inhuman. Of course I'd like pie!
"How did you get it?" or "How bad is it?" - These are legitimate questions. And really, if there is anything I enjoy more than the sound of my own voice, it's the sound of my own voice telling a good story.
"So a priest, a rabbi, and a poodle walk into a bar..." - I enjoy a good joke. And this is a good time to make me laugh.
"That huge scar on your belly really turns me on. Take me now you sexy, sexy man." - You can say this to me if you are Heather, or Naomi, or Jodi, or Tracy, or Graz, or Ivy, or Meg or any other of my beautiful female friends. If you say it to me Dave, again, I'm gonna have to slap you.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
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...
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...
Thursday, November 02, 2006
I'm just the guy; who does the thing.
I was laying in bed last night, my mind wandering through every possible maze the universe has to offer when I found myself in a conversation with someone, explaining to them that I have cancer. Cancer. The word, though a major player in my vocabulary for several years, hit me harder than ever. I have cancer. You ever seen what this shit does to kids? (well, people, but the reference would have gotten lost if I didn't use "kids") Here I am, going onto my third year with this, and the width and breadth of the disease is just hitting me now?
I can see how this could happen. I've been so busy paying attention to my treatment, to my surgical recoveries, to getting through it, that I haven't actually looked at "it". Sure, it may seem as if I've had my head wrapped around it for quite some time, but looks like I've just been faking it. I can talk a good game.
I think, sometime in the next couple of weeks I'm going to find myself at my keyboard, late one night, spewing out another deep existential look at this whole mess, it's been a while. But for now I'll just give you an update on the facts of the case.
If you've been keeping up, you know that my tumor grew a little since July. My oncologist has started me on a new drug called erbitux. This drug is not a chemo therapy, it's what is called a "targeted" therapy. The drug is specifically targeting the tumor, and should not make me sick like chemo. It will, however, give me a fairly bad rash after a few weeks. As if I wasn't ugly enough.
I also spoke to my surgeon. He said that surgery might be a good option at this point. It would be major, and put me out for about a month, but it's on the list of options.
Tomorrow I am going to see a doctor at Sloan-Kettering. For those of you not familiar with this facility, it is one of the top cancer research institutes in the country. My oncologist suggested it, and he said that I'm a prime candidate for clinical trials. We'll see what they have to say.
In the mean time, I'm battling my demons left and right. I'm having trouble sleeping. I'm cranky, and tired and mad and just...well....just......arrrrggggggg
In the mean time I'm enjoying every moment I can! Personally I believe in the curing properties of beer.
love you all
I can see how this could happen. I've been so busy paying attention to my treatment, to my surgical recoveries, to getting through it, that I haven't actually looked at "it". Sure, it may seem as if I've had my head wrapped around it for quite some time, but looks like I've just been faking it. I can talk a good game.
I think, sometime in the next couple of weeks I'm going to find myself at my keyboard, late one night, spewing out another deep existential look at this whole mess, it's been a while. But for now I'll just give you an update on the facts of the case.
If you've been keeping up, you know that my tumor grew a little since July. My oncologist has started me on a new drug called erbitux. This drug is not a chemo therapy, it's what is called a "targeted" therapy. The drug is specifically targeting the tumor, and should not make me sick like chemo. It will, however, give me a fairly bad rash after a few weeks. As if I wasn't ugly enough.
I also spoke to my surgeon. He said that surgery might be a good option at this point. It would be major, and put me out for about a month, but it's on the list of options.
Tomorrow I am going to see a doctor at Sloan-Kettering. For those of you not familiar with this facility, it is one of the top cancer research institutes in the country. My oncologist suggested it, and he said that I'm a prime candidate for clinical trials. We'll see what they have to say.
In the mean time, I'm battling my demons left and right. I'm having trouble sleeping. I'm cranky, and tired and mad and just...well....just......arrrrggggggg
In the mean time I'm enjoying every moment I can! Personally I believe in the curing properties of beer.
love you all
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
A man is placed upon the steps, a baby cries
And here it is. I got the results from my PET scan yesterday. The tumor, that smarmy little 2cm x 3cm bugger that has taken up residence in my abdominal cavity decided to have a little feast and it put on some weight. It's now 3cm x 4cm. Yup, it got bigger.
There are plans. Good plans. Plans to do stuff. Stuff that should help. Of course, I've been living by plans for the last two years and I still have cancer. Sure, you wouldn't know it by looking at me; I've gained back weight, I'm getting around ok, I don't look sick. But, sure enough, I'm still a cancer patient.
I'll fill y'all in on the plans later. For now, I need to be the cancer guy that I don't like to be; the cancer guy I don't show you. The simpering, angry, scared guy. I figure I'll need at least the week before I get back to the screwed up normalcy that I've been living.
Love you all!
There are plans. Good plans. Plans to do stuff. Stuff that should help. Of course, I've been living by plans for the last two years and I still have cancer. Sure, you wouldn't know it by looking at me; I've gained back weight, I'm getting around ok, I don't look sick. But, sure enough, I'm still a cancer patient.
I'll fill y'all in on the plans later. For now, I need to be the cancer guy that I don't like to be; the cancer guy I don't show you. The simpering, angry, scared guy. I figure I'll need at least the week before I get back to the screwed up normalcy that I've been living.
Love you all!
Friday, October 13, 2006
Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain
Welcome to a mid-non-chemo-having-not-in-the-hospital-nothing-really-wrong-physically-week edition of my blog.
Today was the closest I've felt to "normal" in quite a long time. Surely I've had good weeks, even great weeks such as my recent vacation down at the Outer Banks, but today was almost back to the pre-cancer Billy. I was having trouble sleeping this week as I await the results of my recent PET scan, so last night I doubled up on the meds and took some ambien along with the normal dose of Tylenol PM, and I slept like the proverbial log. Since I got a good night's sleep, I was able to wake up early and get to work at a normal time. I also took the train to work. This is not the way it's been for the last couple of years. Usually I sleep a little later and drive into the office. But, back to my normal commute, I felt a little bit more like myself. I spent a full day in the office, another rarity these days, and then joined some friends after work for a birthday celebration. Back to my old self....sort of.
I noticed something tonight, something different about me. I've written before about the solitary nature of having cancer; about how it's a very personal situation. For the most part, this part of it has been fine with me, I'm a rather solitary person. I loved living by myself, and now that I have a roommate I often enjoy the idea that Vinny is never home, it's like living by myself. But there has been a change that in retrospect, started when I first got sick. I'm not so happy being alone anymore. All day I looked forward to being out with people, and when I was, I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to be alone. Taking a strong honest look at the situation, it seems that now, when I'm healthy enough to be active, I have an almost compulsion to be around other people. It's strange, this is not me, it's a little scary. I'm not afraid of being alone, at least I never was, and I am not overwhelmingly sad when I am alone, but still...there is something going on. I didn't want to leave my friends tonight. I even called and texted a few other friends. I felt something, I don't know what it was, but it was heavy, as I walked to the train station alone. I listened to some melancholy songs on the way home. And when I got off the train I called Dave because I knew that he would still be up. I called just to hear his voice. I called just so that I wasn't alone walking from the train station to my apartment. The phone call didn't last all that long, and I know that if Dave is reading this he's going to tell me "why didn't you just say that you wanted to talk? I would have stayed on the line with you." but Dave, don't worry. I'm just venting here.
I'm a strong person, and as you can tell from the things I've written before, I depend a lot on myself. It's not that I don't depend on other people, it's more that I don't feel like it's anyone else's responsibility to take care of me. My parents raised me well, and I am a man, so I should be able to take care of myself. I can remember the first time I was in the hospital. I was there for three months. It was great that during the day I had people around, lots of visitors. But, at the end of the day, when the sun was no longer streaming through my window, and the floor was quiet, I was alone, all alone. It was just me and the trauma that put me there. Those nights hurt. I've never told anyone this. I would get pretty freaked out looking around the empty, dark room, knowing that I had to get out, and I was really the only one that was going to make that happen.
In case I didn't mention this before, I'm a little drunk. I offer that as some excuse for the disjointed and probably incomprehensible thoughts I've presented here. I think what I'm trying to say is that there is a new part of me, a part that I'm not all that crazy about, that feels a need to be around people, and I'm having a lot of trouble dealing with it. It's not easy to say to someone "hey, can you come hang out with me? not do anything mind you, just be there, be a presence." I can't figure out why this should surface now, why cancer has brought this on me, but I'll figure it out.
Today was the closest I've felt to "normal" in quite a long time. Surely I've had good weeks, even great weeks such as my recent vacation down at the Outer Banks, but today was almost back to the pre-cancer Billy. I was having trouble sleeping this week as I await the results of my recent PET scan, so last night I doubled up on the meds and took some ambien along with the normal dose of Tylenol PM, and I slept like the proverbial log. Since I got a good night's sleep, I was able to wake up early and get to work at a normal time. I also took the train to work. This is not the way it's been for the last couple of years. Usually I sleep a little later and drive into the office. But, back to my normal commute, I felt a little bit more like myself. I spent a full day in the office, another rarity these days, and then joined some friends after work for a birthday celebration. Back to my old self....sort of.
I noticed something tonight, something different about me. I've written before about the solitary nature of having cancer; about how it's a very personal situation. For the most part, this part of it has been fine with me, I'm a rather solitary person. I loved living by myself, and now that I have a roommate I often enjoy the idea that Vinny is never home, it's like living by myself. But there has been a change that in retrospect, started when I first got sick. I'm not so happy being alone anymore. All day I looked forward to being out with people, and when I was, I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to be alone. Taking a strong honest look at the situation, it seems that now, when I'm healthy enough to be active, I have an almost compulsion to be around other people. It's strange, this is not me, it's a little scary. I'm not afraid of being alone, at least I never was, and I am not overwhelmingly sad when I am alone, but still...there is something going on. I didn't want to leave my friends tonight. I even called and texted a few other friends. I felt something, I don't know what it was, but it was heavy, as I walked to the train station alone. I listened to some melancholy songs on the way home. And when I got off the train I called Dave because I knew that he would still be up. I called just to hear his voice. I called just so that I wasn't alone walking from the train station to my apartment. The phone call didn't last all that long, and I know that if Dave is reading this he's going to tell me "why didn't you just say that you wanted to talk? I would have stayed on the line with you." but Dave, don't worry. I'm just venting here.
I'm a strong person, and as you can tell from the things I've written before, I depend a lot on myself. It's not that I don't depend on other people, it's more that I don't feel like it's anyone else's responsibility to take care of me. My parents raised me well, and I am a man, so I should be able to take care of myself. I can remember the first time I was in the hospital. I was there for three months. It was great that during the day I had people around, lots of visitors. But, at the end of the day, when the sun was no longer streaming through my window, and the floor was quiet, I was alone, all alone. It was just me and the trauma that put me there. Those nights hurt. I've never told anyone this. I would get pretty freaked out looking around the empty, dark room, knowing that I had to get out, and I was really the only one that was going to make that happen.
In case I didn't mention this before, I'm a little drunk. I offer that as some excuse for the disjointed and probably incomprehensible thoughts I've presented here. I think what I'm trying to say is that there is a new part of me, a part that I'm not all that crazy about, that feels a need to be around people, and I'm having a lot of trouble dealing with it. It's not easy to say to someone "hey, can you come hang out with me? not do anything mind you, just be there, be a presence." I can't figure out why this should surface now, why cancer has brought this on me, but I'll figure it out.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Just when you thought the salami was right
OK, let's talk cancer. I had chemo last week. I think my body is getting used to it. This isn't to say that the whole week was roses and strawberry jam, no chemo still sucks harder than a Dyson, but I didn't throw up, or really even feel like I was going to. Oh lordy, the things that are "good" in my life... I'm going to have a PET scan sometime in the next two weeks, and will get the results on the 16th. A PET scan involves injecting radioactive sugar into my blood stream and then using a large tube-like machine to take full color photos of my innards. If there are any cancer cells left, they will munch down on the sugar and it will "light up" on the scan.
I've written before about the scans. I've written before about the immense anxiety I go through while I'm waiting for the results. But it bears repeating. This is going to be a tough couple of weeks.
Again, for some unknown reason, the enormity of this whole thing hit me like a wet fish last week. CANCER!! If you're not careful, something like that can kill ya! I was gazing up at a beautiful blue sky when I had a very vivid recollection of the day I first found out I had cancer. I was surprised by a birthday party in Amsterdam. I was surprised that I made the all-star team in pee-wee football. I was surprised when I got my first set of SAT scores back. I was surprised when Allegra Smith asked me out. I was surprised when my cousin told me she was having a baby. NOTHING is quite like the surprise of finding out you have cancer. Trust me on that one. That was two years ago now. Two years. Two years pretty much lost to this whole fight. I've had my share of good times in the last two years, but mostly it's been about the cancer. Can you imagine loosing two years of your life? For a total of 6 months of those two years I was in a hospital bed or rehab facility. When I wasn't, I spent two or three weeks a month sick from the chemo. I'm 37 right now, but I don't remember what it was like to be 35 and 36. Those two years were simply exercises in tolerance, strength, coping, and quite possibly futility. I'm not feeling too positive about the scan. I don't think that the cancer has spread, or that I'm any worse off, but I simply can't believe that I'm rid of it. Don't get upset, I'm not. I'm not being fatalistic. Cancer is now part of my life, as is the cane I use to walk with. These are just the realities of my life, and I've accepted them.
I feel like I've droned on and on with this blog about the whole "carpe diem" thing, and about how fighting is worth the effort, and about how much I love all you guys and how much your support means to me, so for now I'll let that go. The next couple of weeks are going to include a lot of sleepless nights, maybe some drinking, certainly some football. You know, life as it is.
I've written before about the scans. I've written before about the immense anxiety I go through while I'm waiting for the results. But it bears repeating. This is going to be a tough couple of weeks.
Again, for some unknown reason, the enormity of this whole thing hit me like a wet fish last week. CANCER!! If you're not careful, something like that can kill ya! I was gazing up at a beautiful blue sky when I had a very vivid recollection of the day I first found out I had cancer. I was surprised by a birthday party in Amsterdam. I was surprised that I made the all-star team in pee-wee football. I was surprised when I got my first set of SAT scores back. I was surprised when Allegra Smith asked me out. I was surprised when my cousin told me she was having a baby. NOTHING is quite like the surprise of finding out you have cancer. Trust me on that one. That was two years ago now. Two years. Two years pretty much lost to this whole fight. I've had my share of good times in the last two years, but mostly it's been about the cancer. Can you imagine loosing two years of your life? For a total of 6 months of those two years I was in a hospital bed or rehab facility. When I wasn't, I spent two or three weeks a month sick from the chemo. I'm 37 right now, but I don't remember what it was like to be 35 and 36. Those two years were simply exercises in tolerance, strength, coping, and quite possibly futility. I'm not feeling too positive about the scan. I don't think that the cancer has spread, or that I'm any worse off, but I simply can't believe that I'm rid of it. Don't get upset, I'm not. I'm not being fatalistic. Cancer is now part of my life, as is the cane I use to walk with. These are just the realities of my life, and I've accepted them.
I feel like I've droned on and on with this blog about the whole "carpe diem" thing, and about how fighting is worth the effort, and about how much I love all you guys and how much your support means to me, so for now I'll let that go. The next couple of weeks are going to include a lot of sleepless nights, maybe some drinking, certainly some football. You know, life as it is.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
The yin and yang of things
Today is "Fulcrum Day". The center point of balance between two opposite sides of my life. Last week was wonderful!! This week will be horrible!!
I just got back from a week on vacation where there was, in no particular order; waves, beer, driving on the beach, Brits, beer, b-b-q, beer, a hot tub, throwing objects, ethnic insults, beer, belly laughs, beer, mosquitoes, stuffed shells, a doting mother, lots of pretty little college students, an ugly accident right in front of us, a waffle house, french toast, beer, nudity, Miller's Crossing, Danes, crossword puzzles, great friends, and beer.
This week is chemo.
There are a lot of things floating around my head right now. Some of them might even be brilliant insights into the working of the world, but I'm not in the sharing mood. I will say this however; I would do week after week of chemo in return for just one day of last week. It was that much fun. Family and Friends and good times are THE reasons to live.
Blah Blah Blah
I just got back from a week on vacation where there was, in no particular order; waves, beer, driving on the beach, Brits, beer, b-b-q, beer, a hot tub, throwing objects, ethnic insults, beer, belly laughs, beer, mosquitoes, stuffed shells, a doting mother, lots of pretty little college students, an ugly accident right in front of us, a waffle house, french toast, beer, nudity, Miller's Crossing, Danes, crossword puzzles, great friends, and beer.
This week is chemo.
There are a lot of things floating around my head right now. Some of them might even be brilliant insights into the working of the world, but I'm not in the sharing mood. I will say this however; I would do week after week of chemo in return for just one day of last week. It was that much fun. Family and Friends and good times are THE reasons to live.
Blah Blah Blah
Monday, September 04, 2006
would you be mine? could you be mine?
While this post may seem to bounce from point to point, be assured, in my chemo addled mind there is cohesion.
The plan, as of now, is I will have one more chemo treatment, after I return from vacation at the end of the month, and then scans. Those scans, those nerve wrecking, nausea inducing, anxiety ridden scans. I'm not feeling too positive about the scan. We've covered that ground before.
I'm a friggin emotional wreck right now. Sometimes I think my surgeon removed my testicles when he took half of my lower intestines. But, as it is, I'm bigger than most of you, except for Chris, so if you give me grief for crying like a little girl, I'll kick ya butt.
Thanks to all of you for your notes, I love hearing from you. I would like to say though, that in my last post I was not complaining about meeting women. Relationships are not on the menu right now (we'll get back to that in a second). I was actually perplexed by women, which is par for the course. And did anyone read the second post from that day? All of you wrote me about the first piece, telling me to man up and stride unto the breach, but nobody commented on my moment of perfection. People, people! I write these things for you, not just because I like the sound of my own fingers on the keyboard.
One subject I have not touched upon while sharing with you my dance with the disease, is relationships. I've talked about my family, and my friends, and interaction with other cancer patients, but I have, until this point, steered clear of any discussion involving a significant other, a girlfriend. Currently I am single. While I certainly have more pressing issues on my mind, somewhere in the back of the grey matter I am trying to deal with the concept of being sick and maintaining a relationship. For that brief while when I was in remission (that word just snakes out of the corner of my mouth with bitterness) I dated a lovely young lady, but it did not work out. At this time, and it's anyone's guess as to how long "this time" is going to last, I need to be selfish. I need to focus my energy on me, on winning, on recovering. It would be unfair to any woman for me to enter into a relationship without being able to offer her the attention, affection, and time required of a relationship. At the very least, I'm, at times, a useless lump who can do no more than sink into the couch and stare mindlessly at the tv. When I do have more energy, I still tend to nest. During the chemo, there are brief times when I'm physically able or willing to be an active and involved person. Certainly, love and affection can see past these mere inconveniences, but they are just some of the issues. My mind and soul need to assign themselves to myself, to the millions of ideas running through my mind, to the torrent of synapses in my brain. Sure, this is basically me in a nutshell to begin with, but the added 2 x 4 of this beat down drive with a tumor at the wheel makes me even more me. What woman deserves that?? I often wonder what this whole experience would be like if I was involved with someone when I first got sick. I'm not so sure I would be able to handle it. Actually, I KNOW I can't, that's the whole point here isn't it? Moving forward, I have many issues to deal with as well. The cancer isn't going away. I'm not ever going to be rid of it, I'll live with it, until I won't. There will be more chemos, maybe more surgeries. How's that for baggage? How do you bring that into a relationship? Damned if I know. Surely life and death are a part of any relationship, but with me it's going to be a more tangible aspect. I've never really thought about having a family, I always believed that if it happened that would be wonderful, but if not I was still a happy man. Now, I need to face that there is a very real chance that I will never have children. The chemo has, more than likely, left me with dead swimmers. And, if some of them happen to survive my poisoned cure, I have to grapple with the idea that I will pass this disease onto my children. I wouldn't wish this experience on anyone, and I am not about to thrust it upon my own offspring. I still believe that I don't need to have children or a family to make me happy, but they will be a blessing if they come. However, I'm a little pissed off that my choices are limited. It's a control thing.
The plan, as of now, is I will have one more chemo treatment, after I return from vacation at the end of the month, and then scans. Those scans, those nerve wrecking, nausea inducing, anxiety ridden scans. I'm not feeling too positive about the scan. We've covered that ground before.
I'm a friggin emotional wreck right now. Sometimes I think my surgeon removed my testicles when he took half of my lower intestines. But, as it is, I'm bigger than most of you, except for Chris, so if you give me grief for crying like a little girl, I'll kick ya butt.
Thanks to all of you for your notes, I love hearing from you. I would like to say though, that in my last post I was not complaining about meeting women. Relationships are not on the menu right now (we'll get back to that in a second). I was actually perplexed by women, which is par for the course. And did anyone read the second post from that day? All of you wrote me about the first piece, telling me to man up and stride unto the breach, but nobody commented on my moment of perfection. People, people! I write these things for you, not just because I like the sound of my own fingers on the keyboard.
One subject I have not touched upon while sharing with you my dance with the disease, is relationships. I've talked about my family, and my friends, and interaction with other cancer patients, but I have, until this point, steered clear of any discussion involving a significant other, a girlfriend. Currently I am single. While I certainly have more pressing issues on my mind, somewhere in the back of the grey matter I am trying to deal with the concept of being sick and maintaining a relationship. For that brief while when I was in remission (that word just snakes out of the corner of my mouth with bitterness) I dated a lovely young lady, but it did not work out. At this time, and it's anyone's guess as to how long "this time" is going to last, I need to be selfish. I need to focus my energy on me, on winning, on recovering. It would be unfair to any woman for me to enter into a relationship without being able to offer her the attention, affection, and time required of a relationship. At the very least, I'm, at times, a useless lump who can do no more than sink into the couch and stare mindlessly at the tv. When I do have more energy, I still tend to nest. During the chemo, there are brief times when I'm physically able or willing to be an active and involved person. Certainly, love and affection can see past these mere inconveniences, but they are just some of the issues. My mind and soul need to assign themselves to myself, to the millions of ideas running through my mind, to the torrent of synapses in my brain. Sure, this is basically me in a nutshell to begin with, but the added 2 x 4 of this beat down drive with a tumor at the wheel makes me even more me. What woman deserves that?? I often wonder what this whole experience would be like if I was involved with someone when I first got sick. I'm not so sure I would be able to handle it. Actually, I KNOW I can't, that's the whole point here isn't it? Moving forward, I have many issues to deal with as well. The cancer isn't going away. I'm not ever going to be rid of it, I'll live with it, until I won't. There will be more chemos, maybe more surgeries. How's that for baggage? How do you bring that into a relationship? Damned if I know. Surely life and death are a part of any relationship, but with me it's going to be a more tangible aspect. I've never really thought about having a family, I always believed that if it happened that would be wonderful, but if not I was still a happy man. Now, I need to face that there is a very real chance that I will never have children. The chemo has, more than likely, left me with dead swimmers. And, if some of them happen to survive my poisoned cure, I have to grapple with the idea that I will pass this disease onto my children. I wouldn't wish this experience on anyone, and I am not about to thrust it upon my own offspring. I still believe that I don't need to have children or a family to make me happy, but they will be a blessing if they come. However, I'm a little pissed off that my choices are limited. It's a control thing.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Two. Two. Two posts in one day!
While I've had wonderful relationships in the past, I am not what one would refer to as a "ladies man". I'm absolutely horrible at meeting women. I have no self confidence when it comes to my appearance, and as we all know regardless of one's character or charisma, it is the eye that generates initial attraction. One evening I was out with Dave, who has what we refer to as "game". There were a few ladies at a table near by who had gained our interest. Dave and I had a few beers, occasionally looking over at the young women, but did not make any moves. While I had stepped away to visit the restroom, Dave had begun a conversation with the girls, and when I returned, they were all sitting at our table. Of course Dave was charming and funny, and the girls seemed to be having a good time. After the initial small talk had worked it's way around the table, one of the girls said to me "We were checking you guys out all night. We wanted to come over and talk to you both, but we were afraid of you." Afraid of me?? That seems to be the consensus. I offer all this as a prelude so that you understand what comes next is honest and free of ego.
Friday evening I was out with a couple of friends of mine at a bar in Jersey City. We had found our way to this particular pub so that we could watch Evander Hollyfield make his best effort at a comeback. There was a rather attractive looking woman who caught my eye. From time to time I glanced over and it looked to me as if she was actually checking me out. Of course, having no confidence, I figured she was just interested in whatever was behind me. After a while my companions began to notice her as well. They both felt that she was indeed looking at me, and with some interest. After a while, it was fairly obvious. But I have no game, and so the evening ended without any sort of connection being made. Tonight, as I sat by myself, enjoying a meal and some football, I again noticed that I caught the eye of a woman at the bar. Again, we never even as much as said hello. I understand my own shortcomings, but to my female friends I pose this question; What the hell??? We are living in the 21st century now. Is it still unacceptable for a woman to make a move? I have a couple of female friends who during discussions of courting, sound as if they are living in the 1950's (you know who you are KP and CG). The feel it is totally incumbent upon the man to make any sort of move. They refuse to be the first to flirt, or to approach a stranger and introduce themselves. And these are incredibly beautiful, smart, and otherwise strong women. In every other part of their lives they take control, but when it comes to meeting men, they remain subservient. Sure, I should work on my game. I should grab the bull by the horns. I should get off my ass and make a move. But, I'm still perplexed by this dichotomy of the female character. Anyone have an explanation? Heather? Jody? Helen? Kaycee? Anyone????
Friday evening I was out with a couple of friends of mine at a bar in Jersey City. We had found our way to this particular pub so that we could watch Evander Hollyfield make his best effort at a comeback. There was a rather attractive looking woman who caught my eye. From time to time I glanced over and it looked to me as if she was actually checking me out. Of course, having no confidence, I figured she was just interested in whatever was behind me. After a while my companions began to notice her as well. They both felt that she was indeed looking at me, and with some interest. After a while, it was fairly obvious. But I have no game, and so the evening ended without any sort of connection being made. Tonight, as I sat by myself, enjoying a meal and some football, I again noticed that I caught the eye of a woman at the bar. Again, we never even as much as said hello. I understand my own shortcomings, but to my female friends I pose this question; What the hell??? We are living in the 21st century now. Is it still unacceptable for a woman to make a move? I have a couple of female friends who during discussions of courting, sound as if they are living in the 1950's (you know who you are KP and CG). The feel it is totally incumbent upon the man to make any sort of move. They refuse to be the first to flirt, or to approach a stranger and introduce themselves. And these are incredibly beautiful, smart, and otherwise strong women. In every other part of their lives they take control, but when it comes to meeting men, they remain subservient. Sure, I should work on my game. I should grab the bull by the horns. I should get off my ass and make a move. But, I'm still perplexed by this dichotomy of the female character. Anyone have an explanation? Heather? Jody? Helen? Kaycee? Anyone????
The boat goes up, the boat goes down.
No cancer news today. Things haven't changed much. Cancer sucks...blah blah blah. I really REALLY don't want to go back to chemo next week. Blah Blah Blah.
Bayonne is a bit of an enigma. It is in the most densely populated county in the country, but because of it's geographical isolation it tries hard to separate itself from the hordes up north. Bayonne makes an effort to stay a small town community in a metropolis that is often considered the 6th borough of Manhattan. While there are two McDonald's, a Burger King and a Wendy's, Bayonne has long resisted the allure of chains. We got our first Dunkin Donuts last year, along with the first ever movie theater. A week ago, Bayonne entered the realm of "Strip Mall New Jersey" with it's very own Houlihan's. A landmark day in Bayonne history.
Sure, my life may seem the stuff of legends, but in reality it is often boring and banal. Today was just a day, like all others. I had nothing planned and nothing special materialized. I was bumming around my apartment, bored and hungry, and decided to head on over to the newest restaurant in town. So, I picked up a Sunday New York Times and drove on over to Houlihan's. So far, based on the facts at hand, nobody would ever derive that I would encounter the most perfect confluence of events that could befall me. I certainly didn't see it coming. I grabbed a seat at the bar, ordered up a Blue Moon and took a look at the menu. No surprises there, after all, it is Houlihan's. The bartender took my order and in short enough time my steak had arrived. I asked if they could put the Jets game on the tv closest to my range of vision and they obliged. The bar was full, the restaurant was hopping, but still, at this point, there was no indication that in a few minutes I would be dead center of an unimaginable set of circumstances. I had breezed through a few sections of the Times and was working my way through the Book Review. A few bites of meat washed down with a fine ale, turn the page, take a look at the score. Seemingly innocuous, correct? I began to read a review of a biography when I sat back and took stock at what had opened before me. The review was about a book entitled The Knight Who Became King Arthur's Chronicler by Christina Hardyment. The book was about Sir Thomas Mallory, who apparently was a bit of a thug, but also produced one of the most wonderful pieces of poetry with his work Morte d' Arthur. (I have a lot of thoughts on this particular issue, but I'll save it for another time) And there it was; the most beautiful combination of my life's interests. Steak, Beer, Footbal, and Mid-Millennium British Epic Poetry! The only way it could have been better is if, somehow, I was having sex at the same moment. There's something to strive for I suppose.
Bayonne is a bit of an enigma. It is in the most densely populated county in the country, but because of it's geographical isolation it tries hard to separate itself from the hordes up north. Bayonne makes an effort to stay a small town community in a metropolis that is often considered the 6th borough of Manhattan. While there are two McDonald's, a Burger King and a Wendy's, Bayonne has long resisted the allure of chains. We got our first Dunkin Donuts last year, along with the first ever movie theater. A week ago, Bayonne entered the realm of "Strip Mall New Jersey" with it's very own Houlihan's. A landmark day in Bayonne history.
Sure, my life may seem the stuff of legends, but in reality it is often boring and banal. Today was just a day, like all others. I had nothing planned and nothing special materialized. I was bumming around my apartment, bored and hungry, and decided to head on over to the newest restaurant in town. So, I picked up a Sunday New York Times and drove on over to Houlihan's. So far, based on the facts at hand, nobody would ever derive that I would encounter the most perfect confluence of events that could befall me. I certainly didn't see it coming. I grabbed a seat at the bar, ordered up a Blue Moon and took a look at the menu. No surprises there, after all, it is Houlihan's. The bartender took my order and in short enough time my steak had arrived. I asked if they could put the Jets game on the tv closest to my range of vision and they obliged. The bar was full, the restaurant was hopping, but still, at this point, there was no indication that in a few minutes I would be dead center of an unimaginable set of circumstances. I had breezed through a few sections of the Times and was working my way through the Book Review. A few bites of meat washed down with a fine ale, turn the page, take a look at the score. Seemingly innocuous, correct? I began to read a review of a biography when I sat back and took stock at what had opened before me. The review was about a book entitled The Knight Who Became King Arthur's Chronicler by Christina Hardyment. The book was about Sir Thomas Mallory, who apparently was a bit of a thug, but also produced one of the most wonderful pieces of poetry with his work Morte d' Arthur. (I have a lot of thoughts on this particular issue, but I'll save it for another time) And there it was; the most beautiful combination of my life's interests. Steak, Beer, Footbal, and Mid-Millennium British Epic Poetry! The only way it could have been better is if, somehow, I was having sex at the same moment. There's something to strive for I suppose.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Red Rover Left XL 7 on three. On three.
My cancer story has not changed much in the last few weeks. I am still going to chemo, and it still is a very unpleasant experience. I think I have three more treatments and then we will do another scan to see how well the drugs are working. There is the possibility of more surgery, but I'm really not interested in going that route. When I was first diagnosed, I believed that surgery was the best course of action. But now, after having gone through two major surgeries, and a few minor ones, I'm not in such a hurry to go through that again. In the mean time, it's just business as usual. I appreciate all of you who check up on me and drop me notes. It really is a big boost to my psyche to hear from you all.
and now for some random thoughts;
"Overwhelming sense of impending doom"
When I first started in the EMS field, EMT school taught me all the basic skills needed to be a good EMT, but my buddy Mike taught me the street skills required to make me a great EMT. One of the first things Mike shared with me , something they don't mention at all in school, is that sometimes people just die. You can do everything that you have been trained to do, but for some people, when it is their time to go, it is simply their time to go. Some people are well aware of it as well. Some patients, when you first encounter them, will look at you and say "I'm going to die". As an EMT, you know that this is going to be a rough call. A patient may experience some pain or discomfort, probably cardiac in nature, but it is the "overwhelming sense of impending doom" that brings them to this conclusion. When a patient is calm and composed and says to you "I'm going to die" without emotion or distress, they are usually right.
In paramedic school they told us about the "overwhelming sense of impending doom". While the term sounds straight forward and obvious, the true sense of it is not. You can parse the words and understand the meaning of the term, but you cannot empathize with the sensation. People try to describe it, but often they simply say "I know what it is, but I can't tell you what what it is. I'm going to die". I know now what they are talking about.
Last week I was out with a friend, taking advantage of life while I can. We were sitting at a bar when a strong feeling seized me, an overwhelming sense of impending doom. I stood there, quiet and still, viewing the scene around me as if filmed through a distorted lens. Time stopped. My brain was overloaded with images and thoughts. I believe I even felt my cancer. The music dulled. I could feel my the whites of my eyes turning grey, tears pushing at the ducts. I was not afraid, or upset, but I could sense my mortality, my place in the world, my beeingness. Eventually it subsided, and thankfully I didn't break out bawling hysterically. I composed myself and went on with the evening. Of course, I didn't think I was going to die, at least not at that moment. It was quite the experience though, and I'm still trying to figure it out.
and now for some random thoughts;
"Overwhelming sense of impending doom"
When I first started in the EMS field, EMT school taught me all the basic skills needed to be a good EMT, but my buddy Mike taught me the street skills required to make me a great EMT. One of the first things Mike shared with me , something they don't mention at all in school, is that sometimes people just die. You can do everything that you have been trained to do, but for some people, when it is their time to go, it is simply their time to go. Some people are well aware of it as well. Some patients, when you first encounter them, will look at you and say "I'm going to die". As an EMT, you know that this is going to be a rough call. A patient may experience some pain or discomfort, probably cardiac in nature, but it is the "overwhelming sense of impending doom" that brings them to this conclusion. When a patient is calm and composed and says to you "I'm going to die" without emotion or distress, they are usually right.
In paramedic school they told us about the "overwhelming sense of impending doom". While the term sounds straight forward and obvious, the true sense of it is not. You can parse the words and understand the meaning of the term, but you cannot empathize with the sensation. People try to describe it, but often they simply say "I know what it is, but I can't tell you what what it is. I'm going to die". I know now what they are talking about.
Last week I was out with a friend, taking advantage of life while I can. We were sitting at a bar when a strong feeling seized me, an overwhelming sense of impending doom. I stood there, quiet and still, viewing the scene around me as if filmed through a distorted lens. Time stopped. My brain was overloaded with images and thoughts. I believe I even felt my cancer. The music dulled. I could feel my the whites of my eyes turning grey, tears pushing at the ducts. I was not afraid, or upset, but I could sense my mortality, my place in the world, my beeingness. Eventually it subsided, and thankfully I didn't break out bawling hysterically. I composed myself and went on with the evening. Of course, I didn't think I was going to die, at least not at that moment. It was quite the experience though, and I'm still trying to figure it out.
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