Archive for the ‘Postcards from Cancerland.’ Category

chemocation.

Posted: July 23, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland.
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This is the first day of our vacation.
We have been planning it for a while.
We are supposed to be at Myrtle Beach.
I had gotten a brand new leopard print speedo.
I’ve been working on my farmer’s tan.
We’ve gone to the beach during this same week for a few years.
It’s a tradition.
We get sand in every crack and crevice as we sit on the beach and soak up the sun. We eat overpriced seafood. We do all the touristy stuff, especially anything piratical!
But, instead of sitting in a beach chair with a Bahama Mama, I will be sitting in a cushy plastic chair with life giving poison coursing through my veins.
I will be wearing my new speedo.
It would be a shame for it to go to waste!
It’s our vacation and we find ourselves restricted.
We find ourselves on chemocation.
We have hit a detour.
But we have found that God is in the detours.
As a lifelong daydreamer, my natural inclination when hit with detours is to take the exit ramp to the nation of imagine.
That is what I choose to do now.
My imagination is wild and free and untouched by disease.
In my imagination I’m unrestricted.
I imagine myself sitting in the white sand next to my bride, surrounded by palm trees, there’s a cool breeze on our faces and colorful beverages with paper umbrellas in our hands. Someone is playing steel drums in the distance. We talk like pirates and laugh like children.
It is good here in the nation of imagine.
God is here.

Infusion

Posted: July 19, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized
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Today  was my first trip to the infusion room.

I’m a total Sci-Fi nerd, so the words “infusion room” invoke a strangely romantic image in my mind. The infusion room sounds like it could be the place where you gather for a briefing or a report on the mission. It’s the place where you are becoming a part of the fight.
And maybe that’s exactly what it is.
Infusion is defined as the introduction of a new element or quality into something.
This is all brand new to me.
The nurse, who I will refer to as “The Infuser”, only because that sounds pretty badass, is about two and a half feet taller than me, and he has kind eyes.
The Infuser would be a pretty cool name for a science fiction movie,
I asked him if I should wear special clothes on treatment days to provide easy access to the port. I suggested that I could wear a variety of stretchy tube tops.
He said a t- shirt would be totally fine.
He put a needle into my chest.
The clear liquid starts.
Infusion.
I’m sitting here in a brand new room with my amazing wife by my side.
She is such an incredible source of strength and support. That doesn’t surprise me. She is a very good woman, I’m so very glad that I was infused into her life twenty seven years ago…
for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health…
Infusion
The freshly painted walls are a soothing shade of blue and there are beautiful paintings of waves hanging all around.
We got here early and we were the only ones in the room at first.
But the chairs are slowly filling up.
There is community here.
We share a common challenge.
We look at each other with kind eyes that know and recognize.
We are all at different places on the same hard road.
Infusion
The Infuser checks on me and adds new bags of clear liquid as needed. I get a little drowsy and hungry.
It’s like an awkward dance with my rolling IV machine every time I’ve had to go to the bathroom (and that’s been a lot!)
At one time a bunch of us were trying to go to the bathroom at the same time, it looked like a overmedicated middle school dance floor.
Other patients come and go.
The clear liquid flows.
Infusion
After about five and a half hours, I’m unplugged and released. Everything seemed to go good.
I’m pretty tired.
As we travel home, I can’t help but feel that my life has been infused with prayer while I travel this road.
The blood of Jesus has infused with mine.
There is power and life there.

Kyrie

Posted: July 19, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized
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“The wind blows hard against this mountain side, across the sea into my soul.
It reaches into where I cannot hide, setting my feet upon the road.
My heart is old, it holds my memories, my body burns a gemlike flame
Somewhere between the soul and soft machine, is where I find myself again.
Kyrie eleison, down the road that I must travel
Kyrie eleison, through the darkness of the night
Kyrie eleison, where I’m going will you follow
Kyrie eleison, on a highway in the light.”
I have always loved this song by Mr. Mister!
I remember driving around town in my Toyota Tercel with the radio blaring. I didn’t realize what I was singing. I thought it was just a peppy love song about a girl named Kyrie.
But, that’s not the case.
The lyrics were written by John Lang. I don’t think we are related, but it would be very cool if we were!
Most people who sing along loudly with it  don’t realize that the song is a prayer. For instance, my wife has always thought that the words were “carry a laser down the road that I must travel”. That’s very cool from a Sci-Fi point of view.
But, that’s not the case…
“Kyrie Eleison” is Greek for “Lord, have mercy.” It is used as a prayer in both Roman Catholic and Greek Orthodox services.
John Lang got inspiration for the song from singing it as a kid in a Episcopal church in Phoenix.
What a cool prayer…
Lord have mercy, down the road that I must travel.
Lord have mercy, through the darkness of the night.
We heard the song as we drove to my oncologist.
I sang along at the top of my lungs…
Because I know what it means.

Port City.

Posted: July 18, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized
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I woke up with the Ramones song “I wanna be sedated” blasting in my brain, which can only mean one thing…

It’s port day!
I guess the official name is “port insertion day”, but that’s a little long for the greeting cards.
The plan was to put a cute little triangle that looks almost like a tiny computer mouse attached to a plastic tube into my chest. It will serve as a enter/exit ramp for everything that needs to come in or come out.
We checked in, the receptionist asked me the standard questions…
“What’s your birthday?”
“Previous surgeries?”
“Any allergies?” (Only Cilantro, but evidently that doesn’t qualify as a health risk!?)
“Religious preference?” (ummmm…I’m just crazy in love with Jesus.)
And then she dropped a little bomb…
“Do you have a living will?”
“HUH?!”
What? Why? Do you know something?!
I tried not to read anything into that.
the waiting room was full and there was one lady who was just being really rude to the receptionist, why do people have to do that??
I got taken to the first room. Diana got to go with me, that was cool!! I was told to get naked above the waist and put on a lovely green gown. I seriously almost strangled myself putting on the hospital gown. It’s a good thing that Diana and the nurse were there to help me.
As we got blood taken and vitals taken, we made some friends on the nursing staff, that’s always our goal.
It was a very cool all girl group that did the procedure. So I was a bit self conscious about everyone seeing my man boobs. Speaking of my ample chest, they had to shave it!! That made me feel pretty manly.
They tucked the chullet into a sterile beard hammock. I appreciate the care that was taken for my chin mullet. We talked about some of my tattoos.
I WAS sedated, but I don’t really remember it.
SO they dug in and made a one inch cut in my fleshy flesh, through which they  inserted the port. They run a wire through another cut to a big vein and they guided the plastic tube there. Despite the sedation and local numbing stuff I could feel some of that happening.(that was an …umm…interesting sensation).
So now I’m locked and loaded.
It’s weirdly ironic for a pirate to have a port in his chest.
It’s been a few hours since I got inserted and I have some kaleidoscopic multi-colored bruises. I also have a little pain. It is starting to feel like a husky eleven year old boy punched me in the chest for about forty three minutes straight. I probably ought to take some ibuprofen.
I’m in awe of modern medicine. It absolutely blows my mind! I’m so thankful for the brilliant minds that dreamed, designed, and developed machines that can see inside my body and magical plastic tubes that can save my veins.
By the way…
The port is totally under my skin, you can’t see it, so don’t even ask!! Besides that would require the unveiling of my man boobs!
#SoliDeoGloria
#carbonatedjoy

Dragonslayer.

Posted: July 16, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized
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Once upon a time…

My Grandma told me stories that began with the words “once upon a time”.
They were stories of faraway lands and bold adventures, there were castles, and fair damsels.
And there were dragons.
That wasn’t news to me, I had always suspected that there were dragons.
I had seen their eyes glowing green in the dark.
I had felt their putrid breath on the back of my neck as I tried to sleep.
There were dragons…ferocious, fire breathing, fearful dragons.
But…wait…fear not!
There was also always a champion who rode into the village on a gallant steed.
Through acts of sheer sacrifice and raw courage, the champion would defeat the dragon…
again and again.
And so “they lived happily ever after”.
Grandma was an amazing storyteller.
Once upon a time, she told me bold, beautiful stories…
It took me a while to realize that the stories were never about the dragons…
The stories served to remind again and again that the dragons can be defeated.
Thank you Grandma.

Strong Medicine.

Posted: July 14, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized
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The belly bully was pretty angry last night.

I think he knows that his days are numbered so he made some noise. 

I had a PET Scan this morning, which as it turns out, has nothing to do with our beagle. I think she was pretty relieved that she didn’t have to get tested. She was ready to take one for the team though. 

In the last few weeks every part of me has been scanned and studied. I’ve seen my lungs and my kidneys. One report said that my spleen was unremarkable. 

That was a little hurtful. 

I always thought that, surely, I must have a special or even extraordinary spleen. But, nope…it’s unremarkable. 

Anyhow, we showed up at the hospital bright and early, can I just say that my wife is amazing. She has already spent way too much time in waiting rooms. 

I got called back by a man in scrubs, I think EVERYONE should wear scrubs, they seem like a pretty comfortable fashion choice. 

I got poked and they put a splurt of radioactive sugar water into my veins. It is basically nuclear Kool-Aid (which would be a great name for a punk band!) that lights up the bad stuff. It exposes the junk. I became a big glow stick. After getting the magic glow juice, I waited for an hour in a sterile orange vinyl chair and watched the morning news. It takes a while for the sweet radiation to kick in. Once it did, the tech took me into the back of a semi truck trailer. This is where the PET scanner is. I like getting treated in the back of a truck, it kind of makes it seem apocalyptic in a fun way.

I dropped my pants…AGAIN, laid down on a thing that looked like a modified ironing board and went back and forth though a big tube. The machine was very quiet, I just laid there listening to a local station playing Ariana Grande songs. (I wonder what size drink Ariana Grande gets at Starbucks?)

And then, just like that it was over, another notch off the medical to do list. This test will show us exactly where the belly bully is hanging out and if he has any buddies. 

His days are numbered. 

During this process, I’ve encountered some truly lovely health professionals from doctors and nurses to receptionists, technicians, and physicians assistants. They have been compassionate, real, human and hospitable. I appreciate them so much. It reminds me how completely therapeutic the simple act of kindness is. 

It has made a huge difference.

I’ve learned that kindness glows in the dark more than radioactive sugar water. 

It is strong medicine and you don’t need a prescription or a pair of scrubs to administer it.

Ridiculous Hope.

Posted: July 9, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland.
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I wake up and I feel no pain…no abdomen weirdness.
My mind and heart explode with a ridiculous hope…maybe the belly bully disappeared in the night. I believe that can happen.
Maybe this has just been a bad dream.
Maybe…
Maybe is a beautiful word.
It is a garden where wonderful things can sprout.
Whoa…wait a minute, there he is. The bully makes his threats. That’s what bullies do.
That’s okay, his time is limited.
I still believe.
I will water and weed the garden of maybe.
I know that ridiculous hope is never wasted.
I choose to believe the most ridiculous things.

Some Days Punch you in the face, fight back with JOY.

Posted: July 3, 2018 in Postcards from Cancerland., Uncategorized
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I went in for a physical last week, my Doctor’s hands and fingers went some wildly inappropriate places…”HOLY SCHNIKES!!!”
Eventually, his hands ended up on my stomach, which was awkward because I’m really ticklish. He was concerned about a “unnatural fullness in my midsection”. I tried to explain that it was probably tacos, but he wasn’t buying it.
He scheduled an ultrasound to get a look at my innards. I went in, got goop rubbed all over my belly, and laid on the crinkly hospital paper and watched the screen. It looked like a Doppler radar. Among some swishy looking internal organs, I got to see the built up gas in my own stomach…that was pretty awesome.
The good news from the ultrasound was that I’m not pregnant. I actually asked the lady, with a totally straight face: “SOO, am I pregnant?” She looked at me like I was nuts and said “ummm…no.”
Evidently the ultrasound caused some more concern because, almost immediately, my Doctor sent me for a cat scan at another hospital.
The not so good news is that they found several masses on my abdomen.
I can’t even pronounce the word “abdomen” without really concentrating and I even had to google it to spell it correctly.
It’s easier to say gut or tummy. But, neither of those words carry the needed weight of the diagnosis, “tummy tumor” sounds like a twisted children’s book.
I’ve become acquainted with other weighty words that I can’t pronounce…
words like oncologist and hematologist.
There are some weighty words that when uttered, instantly suck all of the air out of the room.
Ugly words like cancer.
I went to the oncologist this morning. He’s an awesome guy who likes 70s rock and loves to laugh. We are going to be good friends.
He showed us the X-rays. It turns out that I have at least two tumors that are about the size of grapefruits on my stomach and kidney. I go in for a biopsy with a big needle on Thursday…
That will be big fun.
Then I have an appointment with the oncologist again on Monday. He was VERY optimistic and said that if it is the kind of tumor that he is thinking it is very treatable.
I’m also relieved because he said that this is nothing I did to myself. It’s not because of lifestyle or heredity. It just happens. It’s not because of the thousands of microwave burritos I’ve eaten in my lifetime…whew!
But…
Can I be honest with you?
I’m a little scared.
I’m scared of the unknown. I’ve always been someone who embraces the unknown and does a happy dance.
Right now the unknown scares the crap out of me.
I’m trying to remember the dance moves.
And frankly, I’m scared of the financial mountain that this creates for our family. This is a sucker punch. I’m trying to remember to trust.
I will remember.
My oncologist spoke these words to me today, “there is great hope in all of this”.
THAT is where I choose to live.
I choose hope.
I choose joy.
I choose trust.
Please pray for us.
I will keep you posted.
I promise to fight this thing with joy.
AND in the hope of hurling some hope, I choose to live this adventure outloud.
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