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What's with that shit-eatin' grin? And what is that baby so happy about, anyway? Read on! Read on!

Yesterday I beseeched my beloved radiation technician, Tony, to puh-leeeze stop aiming his rads at my poor, aching butt. [Go ahead. Have a field day with that one.] Tony stated that, regretfully, he could not. "Tony," I cried, "How much more of this?!" Tony consulted my chart and said, "Just three more days, my man, just three more days."

What's this?! Only three more days of radiation?!! But she said two weeks!!! Did this mean FRIDAY would be my LAST day of teletherapy? "That's right, my man. We can't give you any more."

Then, this morning, the receptionist told me they had no appointment in the system for lab work...the scheduler had apparently scheduled me for labs, a visit with the medical oncologist, and my second chemo boost (world's biggest oxymoron...the theory is, the chemotherapy helps the radiation more effectively "target" the cancer cells...) on October 28th, instead of September 28th.

I was already questioning the necessity of a chemo boost to "boost" a mere two days of radiation (Thursday's and Friday's dose), so I was not immediately unhappy. Alicia then paged Dr. Assikis (aka Dr. Death), and we had a nice chat.

M: "My understanding is I will be done with radiation on Friday."

A: "But she told me two weeks!"

M: "I know. Me, too. What I'm wondering is, how pointful is it to have an infusion this afternoon - an infusion that will leave me flat on my back and nauseous for at least four days, and my blood counts depressed for weeks - to boost two days of radiation?"

A: "I'm in complete agreement. The toxicity far outweighs any potential benefit. [One of his favorite lines; one wonders why he is a medical oncologist.] Let's forget chemo today, and I'll see you in a month."

M: [Doing chicken dance all around the medical oncology waiting room.] WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!

NO MORE CHEMO! NO MORE CHEMO! NO MORE CHEMO!

Shit-eatin' grins all around.

3am, and I'm awake. For several seconds, everything is just a cozy blankness, while the brain registers its surroundings - the curtains, the cotton sheets, the cat at the foot of the bed. Slowly, the brain makes sense of who and where I am. And then the brain remembers: I have cancer.

9:30am, and I'm lying under a linear accelerator again. The technicians have left, and the massive, heavily shielded door has swung closed. The massive machine, weighing tons, clicks and whirrs and purrs. Should it inexplicably break, a single arm of this Terminator-esque device could crush me on the table where I lie. A highly improbable scenario, but then the mind wanders off in the unlikeliest of directions when its alone in a room with several hundred rads. Red lights go on, the alarm sounds, and an invisible stream of ionizing radiation bores its way into my pelvis. The alarm stops. The massive arm moves through 45 degrees. The red lights, the alarm, and again, the invisible beam...

Please keep sending thoughts and prayers. I don't care how big and burly you are, how much a guy's guy, how utterly NOT warm and fuzzy you may be. I desperately NEED your thoughts and prayers, at 3am, at 9:30am, at countless moments throughout the day.

Not too bad this morning...I'm taking nausea drugs prophylactically. My daughter decided to mix things up by falling out of bed last night and (apparently) breaking something...either a collar bone or a rib, I can't really tell. So it's off to the pediatician and the orthopedist for Tamara and Alder, with Griffin in tow, while Kim gets me to my radiation appointment...never a dull moment.

Looks like I am down to less than 2 weeks paid time off, which is a worry...FMLA will cover this prolonged absence for another week or so after that, unpaid. So I really need to sail through this second round, 'cuz I need to get back to work, soonest.

Hurgh.

Low-dose cisplatin helps radiation zero in on cancer cells...that's an established fact, and a good thing. So even 'tho 2 weeks of chemo during high-beam radiation is relatively unorthodox, it makes good, clinical sense. Fair 'nuf. I've got my game on.

So radiation redux started today, followed by a few hours in the infusion chair, getting chemo - I had assumed Friday would remain my chemo day, so this was a bit of a surprise. But a good side to this is, one chemo down, one to go...no need to lie around dreading Friday's chemo, 'cuz I've already had it.

So I saw the radiation oncologist today, for what I thought was just follow-up, but proved to be a second "simulation" - a procedure involving a CT scan, physician review of the CT scan, and magic marker marks placed all over my belly, based on said physician review, magic marker marks which then guide the laser-assisted aiming when the radiation begins. Radiation - high-beam radiation, i.e., more focused, less diffuse, aimed right at the original tumor site - begins on Wednesday, September 21, and will last for 2 to 2.5 weeks. (The long-awaited MRI, which will help them further decide on the exact "field" to use, is on Monday.)

Then my kindly radiation oncologist - who, let me pause to stress, really IS kindly! I love her dearly, and I think she is fighting for me...every time I see her, she has done more reading, and done more extrapolating, trying to apply other singular cases of rare cancers to my singularly rare cancer. This wonderful woman has a name - Dr. Natia Eshiashvili* - and she is from (the other) Georgia. She's also hot.

Anywho, then my kindly radiation oncologist hits me with the worst news I've had in weeks: She'd like to do chemo in adjunct to the high-beam radiation. Two weeks of cisplatin.

I let her know how THAT made me feel, of course, in fairly strong language. She was apologetic that she hadn't mentioned it before, but she only learned about it as a treatment option this past week, as she was further researching treatment options for (singular) me. In fact, she went on to say, she also wants to do even MORE chemo - sort of preventative chemo - after all this radiation. (My father-in-law, a nephrologist at Henry Ford, had also suggested this nightmare scenario, based on discussion with colleagues, and is researching it further.)

Dr. Natia: "You are very young, and you've responded very well to everything so far. [!!!] We want to hit this with everything we can, to be as aggressive as possible, for the best chance at a good outcome."

Well, OK. Yeah. I want the good outcome. But more CHEMO?! I don't know whether to scream, or laugh, or cry. Ah. Sniff. Looks like we've settled on "cry."

*No one can pronounce this, so she is everywhere referred to as "Dr. Natia."

So I'm back on-line, but not very often, with precious little to say, and definitely lacking the pre- and early-treatment acerbic wit that made this blog such a treat...what's up with that?!

Truth be told, I am humbled. Humbled. Confounded. Fazed and fuddled. Rattled. I've had some set-backs in my life, and I've faced some serious challenges, but I have NEVER been CLOBBERED the way my so-called treatment clobbered me.

Every day is a challenge. I still hurt in myriad, unspeakable places. I am weak, and pale, and my stomache is not my own. At times, my whole body feels as if it is not my own. Sometimes, I can only walk hunched over. I'm tired all the time, fatigued to the core, and there's no telling how long any of this is going to last.

That's hard to take. It's humbling.

On the upside, every day does seem to get a little bit better. My wife and my mother are both constantly at my side, and taking amazingly good, compassionate care of me. Friends are showing up on my doorstep, and calling every evening. I have never felt more loved.

And you know what? That's humbling, too.

Treatment is over. Yes, some high-beam radiation may yet follow but, for all extents and purposes, treatment is over. For 5 weeks my life was theirs, just one grueling appointment after another; now, once again, it is mine.

Ah, and there it is. My life is mine. How does one to return to life - to living - after being scared - and scarred - to death? A puzzle I will need to tease apart in the weeks and months and years to come. For now, I feel semi-frozen, afraid to really breathe, afraid to really feel.

Dear, dear friends,

Sunday, September 4, 2005, and I feel as if I may be - just maybe - returning to life. The past 3 weeks have been an absolute hell, full of nausea, loss of appetite, painful burns, weakness, dehydration, and dizziness. I have lost a mind-boggling 45 pounds as teletherapy and chemotherapy have utterly ravaged my body.

"First, do no harm." How strange that I never even felt sick, until the treatment started.

Friday, September 2 was my last chemo...Thursday, September 8 will be my last radiation therapy.

My heart goes out to the millions devastated by the recent hurricane...a hurricane I more or less slept through, hopitalized at Emory, heavily doped up on Dilaudid and Phernergan; I am only now reading about the tragedy.

Forgive me this rather disjointed post...I am myself feeling rather disjointed. LOVE TO ALL.