tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-192256312024-03-12T23:46:10.435-05:003:40 a.m.I do my best thinking in the middle of the nightmcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.comBlogger2413125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-28442806088223475042012-11-29T18:31:00.003-06:002012-11-29T18:31:43.765-06:00Today's pic<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCKfVCIztLYnmuswjVTkXnjiMdcVdeE0AyRB6Rqn3qRxlPTcurYtdftT-GhZUwMLBva6ItgkS5rFT_ye20ylLYjT0B_9q5Yy8xX2Tp-dF8Oqf6FM8s7mYlpY7VDpfJ9Ipi1nCDyw/s1600/jimmys_egg.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCKfVCIztLYnmuswjVTkXnjiMdcVdeE0AyRB6Rqn3qRxlPTcurYtdftT-GhZUwMLBva6ItgkS5rFT_ye20ylLYjT0B_9q5Yy8xX2Tp-dF8Oqf6FM8s7mYlpY7VDpfJ9Ipi1nCDyw/s320/jimmys_egg.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
This is how I look today. I snapped this while waiting for breakfast at the local diner.<br />
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I try to keep a pleasant countenance. But I look in the mirror, and it seems as if I've aged 10 years in 10 months.<br />
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I weigh about 208 now, and am gaining weight, which is what the doctor wants.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-69019070921898626912012-11-29T18:29:00.000-06:002012-11-29T18:29:05.510-06:00Random thoughtWhen my cat, M. Gaston, was still a kitten, my Basset hound, Bailey, adopted him as her own. She would gently pick him up in her mouth and carry him like a puppy; when he would try to wander off, she would get in front of him, bark urgently, and herd him back to a spot where she could keep her eye on him.<br />
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The Tao is a river wide as the universe, and as small as a tear trickling down your cheek. The millions of galaxies cannot fill it, but it will fit in the palm of your hand.<br />
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It was right in front of me all along, but it took me 55 years to discover it.<br />
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Look at it, and you will see it. Look for it, and you won't.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-19560574415864316702012-11-29T18:25:00.000-06:002012-11-29T18:25:07.706-06:00The resultsThe CT scan from Nov. 16 shows that my tumors have not shrunk further, and may have in fact grown about a millimeter. My oncologist says this is within the margin of error for a CT scan and may be indicative of nothing.<br />
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We changed my chemo treatment two sessions back because of neuropathy (numbness) in my left hand and tongue. This may be permanent or it may clear up in a few months.<br />
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The news could certainly have been better.<br />
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On the good side, my liver function and red cell count remain completely normal. My doctor reiterated that going by lab tests, it appears I have no cancer, and that I'm not getting any chemo. He even went so far as to double-check with the lab to make sure they're been giving me the right stuff. They are.<br />
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I have had sixteen chemo cycles now.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-40547191305527654072012-11-16T17:02:00.001-06:002012-11-16T17:02:13.581-06:00Another updateThey've changed my chemo medication. The active ingredient is still 5FU, but some of the other stuff is different. Short version: more nausea, less of other side effects.<br />
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I've lost a significant amount of feeling in my left hand. This was caused by my previous chemotherapy cocktail. I also have some numbness in my tongue and my right hand. The doctor says this may clear up, or it may not.<br />
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I had a CT scan today – my third (I think) since being diagnosed with cancer. I'll find out the results a week from Monday.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-84168128844982534532012-10-31T11:27:00.001-05:002012-10-31T11:27:42.900-05:00An updateIt's been roughly six weeks since my last blog post. I have now done 14 chemo cycles. Some long term side effects are now manifesting themselves. Back in September, I mentioned occasional tingling in my fingertips. The tips of some of my fingers, as well as the tip of my tongue, are growing numb. This may or may not clear up next spring or summer.<br />
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I had to skip chemo this week. My white cell count had dropped too low to safely receive treatment. This is the second time it's happened, and that's pretty damn good after 14 cycles. I know people who had it happen on the first cycle. Frankly, I'm grateful for the extra week off. I almost called the hospital Monday and told them that mentally, I just wasn't up to it. But I decided to fgo ion anyway, and my white blood cells got me the vacation I needed.<br />
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I took a spill in a restaurant parking lot the other day. One of knees just buckled as I was walking. I fell and landed hard on the knee that gave way. I've got a huge scab on it, but no swelling or other evidence of damage.<br />
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I've had this situation with my knees buckling for a while now. I sometimes walk with a cane to help catch myself if one knee or the other suddenly folds. I didn't have it with me when I fell in the parking lot.<br />
<br />
My oncologist's assistant has suggested I may need physical therapy to strengthen my knees. They make machines that do that. I used to use one when I was doing weights (about 110 years ago).<br />
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My weight is fluctuating between 203 and 206 these days – downtown from a pre-surgery weight of about 240 and an all-time high of about 260. But there's quite a bit of flab here; I'm not in danger of wasting away just yet.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-67448006793812516412012-09-15T21:17:00.000-05:002012-09-15T21:19:39.831-05:00Colostomy bags are Buddhist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-12028953369388075032012-09-12T08:35:00.000-05:002012-09-12T08:35:27.128-05:00Who I amOne of the things I've discovered about being a cancer patient is that it becomes your identity: mcarp, cancer patient. When you're in chemo, chemo is the dominant factor in your life. Everything else revolves around it.<br />
<br />
I mentioned in yesterday's post that I sometimes go for days without bathing. Part of the reason for this is that the mere act of taking a shower is so physically draining I have to sit or lie down for twenty minutes afterward. Anything that involves more than two or three minutes of activity is going to require a rest period afterward.<br />
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I've had a bit of normalcy during my three-week 'chemo vacation', but only a bit.<br />
<br />
As I've mentioned before, I take chemo on alternating Mondays, with a portable pump that continues to drip 5FU into my system for 48 hours afterward. Then I remain sick with various side effects for days.<br />
<br />
When I first started chemo, I got five 'good days' between my every-other-week fill-ups. Then it dropped to four days, then three. Now I have <i>no</i> good days. I remain nauseated the whole time. Sensitive to cold the whole time. Fatigued the whole time. Having intermittent tingling of the fingers and toes the whole time. (The tingling is the part that seems to most concern my oncologist; the chemo I'm receiving can cause permanent numbness and nerve damage in the extremities.)<br />
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I was pretty much a slob before I got sick. Now, I'm even worse. But I don't have the energy to be otherwise.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-87408901316937697032012-09-11T17:48:00.000-05:002012-09-11T17:48:01.796-05:00Chemo update: shrinking tumors, deteriorating mindI'm past due for another update.<div>
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I have completed 11 of 12 scheduled chemotherapy cycles. The doctor had to delay the twelfth because my immune system is finally so shot I can't handle another dose. I've taken three weeks off from chemo, and I'll go back in next Monday to see if I'm in good enough shape to resume. If so, they'll hook me up for the twelfth dose then.</div>
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I had a third CT scan at the end of July. Good news: the chemo is working. I'm a little confused by what the oncologist told me, but either one or two of the tumors on my liver have disappeared. The largest one has shrunk significantly, and another has shrunk as well.</div>
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Here's where I'm confused. The first scan revealed three tumors, and the second confirmed that. The third scan shows either one or two tumors, and I didn't get the inconsistency until after I left the doctor's office. In any event, I'm making progress against a disease that at this point in my treatment has already killed about a third of the people who get it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Again, complete recovery from Stage IV colon cancer is almost unheard of. It's a fraction of a percent of all cases. I'm not expecting complete recovery, only to buy as much time as I can get for myself before it kills me. That could be years from now, and I hope it is.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But in other respects, things are not going well. Even I can see the deterioration in my mental and emotional state. I spend day after day holed up in my house, seeing nobody. I sleep in the clothes I wear. I sometimes go for days without bathing.</div>
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<br /></div>
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If you've seen <i>The Lazy Song</i> alternate video by Bruno Mars — the one featuring Leonard Nimoy — it's quite similar to the way I live my life. Except for the bathrobe.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/dULOjT9GYdQ" width="560"></iframe> </div>
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The house looks as bad as it's ever looked. In some respects, it's worse. There are styrofoam cups from Braum's everywhere. I've been living on milk shakes for weeks now, because they're one of the few things that still have any taste. Of course, foam beverage cups are huge space consumers, in or out of the trash can. And they're everywhere in here.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Before I learned that my tumors were vanishing, I had been psychologically preparing myself for imminent death. I knew I would make it through the end of the year, and probably next year as well. But after that, things seemed bleak, and I was training myself to not care. And it was working.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The house is full of fruit flies, by the way. They're everywhere. </div>
mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-32576185471384642842012-07-27T11:02:00.001-05:002012-07-27T11:04:05.362-05:00Another updateGuess it's time for an update. I have completed nine chemotherapy sessions. They warned me the effects would be cumulative, and indeed they are.<br />
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I rarely get out of bed during chemo weeks now. I have been able to drive myself to the hospital for the Monday infusions, but during the eighth session, I got so sick while I was still at the hospital, I had to call a friend to drive me home. She brought another friend to drive my car, and I got home OK.<br />
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I think I have mentioned this before, but my chemo session every other Monday involves about three hours in the infusion center. They load me up with close to a half gallon of various IV drugs. Then they attach a portable pump to me, which drips 5FU into my system for 48 hours. And when <i>that's</i> over, I'm completely hammered. I can't drive. In fact, at this point, I can barely walk when the 5FU is done. It gets worse every session. But I have to go back to the hospital to have the pump disconnected. I thought I was going to need a wheelchair last Wednesday. I made it out of the hospital under my own power, but just barely.<br />
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Nausea is still a problem. I've been through a couple of different medications. They all work a little, but nothing is completely effective. So I throw up a lot. At least it gets me out of bed.<br />
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Chemo is going to cost in the mid-six figures. Insurance will cover almost all of that, but it looks like my co-pay for each sessions is going to be about $600, which means the whole thing will cost me about $7200 out of pocket. My total out-of-pocket expenses are going to be in the range of $40,000 - $50,000. I've already paid most of that.<br />
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<i>Do not try to send me money</i>. I don't need it. I can cover this myself, and I'm very grateful I can. But these dollar figures should give you some idea, if you don't already know, how a catastrophic illness can destroy a family financially.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-54768057792120987612012-06-23T13:18:00.001-05:002012-06-23T13:18:18.044-05:00The Halfway PointI'm at the halfway point in chemotherapy – six sessions. My tumors have shrunk, but not by half. My oncologist tells me the shrinking often accelerates later in the chemo.<br />
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I usually go in for treatment every other week, but I took two weeks off this time because I needed to see another doctor to sort out some insurance issues.<br />
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I really enjoyed having an extra chemo-free week. Drank a lot of milk shakes, ate a lot of ice cream. Sensitivity to cold returns Monday, so I'm enjoying it while I can.<br />
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Fatigue is still a problem. I wore myself out Wednesday carrying a medium-sized bag of dog food into the house, and had to lie down and rest. I can't even think about picking up the big food bags anymore.<br />
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This may all return to normal when I'm done with the chemo, which I guess will be in September.<br />
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Still, it's kind of nice to have a legitimate medical reason for being a slacker.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-7070774679023943282012-06-09T03:23:00.004-05:002012-06-09T03:25:27.188-05:00Back to the Very Dark RoomI feel like I want to talk a little more about fatigue. It's really wearing me down. I took a shower this evening, for reasons that will be evident after you've read the post preceding this one. When I was done, my hands and my knees were trembling so badly I thought I was going to have to just lie down on the bathroom floor to recuperate. It doesn't take much to tire me.<br>
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I've spent 50 of the last 72 hours in bed. I usually feel mentally alert, but my body simply doesn't want to do the things that I want it to do. My body feels like a 220-pound deadweight that my brain has to carry around, and try to cajole into even modest action.<br>
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A few years ago, I put blackout curtains on my bedroom windows and turned that room into what I called the Very Dark Room. I spent the whole summer in there, in quiet solitude, with nothing but the music of Tibetan singing bowls in my ears. My friends scarcely saw me that summer. I just sat there and recharged my batteries, week after week. It felt calm, safe, peaceful and steady. I feel that I'm ready to do that again. I need it more now than I did then.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-26549156287795590592012-06-09T03:05:00.000-05:002012-06-09T03:26:39.544-05:00Catastrophic failureSo, tonight I had my first catastrophic colostomy bag failure. Fortunately I was at home at the time, and I was able to get myself, my clothes and the bag into the bathtub with no collateral damage.<br>
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I knew this would happen eventually, of course, so I wasn't totally unprepared.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-61395270191132550312012-06-07T03:35:00.000-05:002012-06-07T03:35:00.710-05:0014 YearsI heard a story this week about a friend of a friend. She was diagnosed with colon cancer, same as me. She was stage IV, same as me. She had a colostomy, same as me.<br />
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And I assume that, same as me, the doctors gave her about 18 months to live. But 14 years later, she's still with us.<br />
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That's the kind of story I like to hear.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-13916821314844796832012-06-03T03:40:00.000-05:002012-06-03T07:35:30.359-05:00Bag farts<i>Note: this post will cross many readers' TMI threshold. Continue reading at your own risk.</i><br />
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As I've mentioned previously, my cancer treatment included a colostomy. That's the procedure where they remove part of your colon, then attach what's left to a hole they've opened in the wall of your abdomen, because what's left isn't long enough to reach your ass. You eliminate waste through this hole, or <i>stoma,</i> into a bag attached to your skin with adhesive. The process goes 24/7; you no longer have any control over when you shit.<br />
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But even more curious is that after the procedure, you still fart.<br />
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I am more intimately acquainted with my farting now than I ever was before the surgery. I know that by volume, I fart far more than I shit. When I fart, my colostomy bag suddenly expands like a puffer fish.<br />
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When I was in the hospital recovering from my surgery, the nurses showed me how to 'burp' my bag. But it's something you definitely want to do in a well-ventilated space.<br />
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Like a national park, maybe.<br />
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Because for some reason, bag farts smell worse than normal free range farts. 'Way worse. I mean a couple of orders of magnitude worse.<br />
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Even after my chemo is done, I will still be bagging it. That will be for the rest of my life. Sometimes these are reversible, but not in my case. Too much was cut out.<br />
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If I was still thirty years old, I'd be really distraught about this, I think. But at this stage in my life, it's not as big a deal.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-88078936272251767182012-06-02T06:58:00.001-05:002012-06-02T07:13:05.370-05:00Clearing the cobwebsI decided to go for a longish drive yesterday – longish, at least, by my standards. Once around the lake, then out into the far northwest corner of the city, then back home again. It was cloudy and 64. I didn't need my sunglasses, and I could open the sunroof glass and let some fresh air in.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let's roll.</td></tr>
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Although I generally don't wander far from the house in my errands, I do occasionally like to go for a thirty- or forty-mile meandering drive with no destination in mind. It gives me a chance to sweep the cobwebs out of my brain.<br />
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And when there are only three or four days every two weeks in which I feel like doing something other than sleeping and barfing, it seems wise to make use of them somehow.<br />
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It was also one of those occasions that I felt would have been improved by having a significant other with which to share it. But I've never known a woman who liked to just go on long drives with no other purpose than to drive. My wife would tolerate them, but that was as far as it went.<br />
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With other women, it was always, “Let's go to the mall,” or, “Can we run one or two or a half dozen errands while we're out?” or, “Let's go get mimosas,” or, “Let's go meet this other guy I like so I can try to provoke you two to fight over me,” or, when I still drove the minivan all the time, “I can't be seen in that.”<br />
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I've loved all the fantasy relationships I never actually had. The real ones, well, not so much.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-49263928358450606272012-06-01T23:56:00.001-05:002012-06-02T00:13:52.451-05:00No taste at allAnother chemo note: I had been warned going into this that food might acquire a metallic taste. But that didn't happen.<br />
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What did happen is that food started to have no taste at all. A lot of my meals taste like cardboard and cotton ball sandwiches with a side order of foam packing peanuts.<br />
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The things that seem most edible to me are fresh fruit, especially watermelon, plums and citrus; and, oddly enough, Wendy's chili.<br />
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A doctor friend says tastebuds have a high cellular turnover rate and thus are greatly affected by chemo.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-4018025641038924002012-05-31T23:44:00.001-05:002012-05-31T23:44:16.391-05:00A new lookThis needs more work. But since I blew up the template that I had been using for seven years, I had to do <i>something.</i><br />
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Anticipate further changes soon.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-88034711671382211632012-05-31T17:16:00.002-05:002012-05-31T17:21:36.148-05:00A new look?It's been years since I updated the look of this blog. Blogger has a slew of design features that have been added since then, and I'm not using any of them. On the one hand, I'd like to do something new, but on the other hand, I'm comfortable with what I've got.<br />
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Update: Ooops. Looks like I just blew up my template. It was supposed to be saved, but apparently it wasn't. That should encourage some change. Change is good.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-73937611580193257622012-05-31T13:44:00.002-05:002012-05-31T13:45:22.990-05:00Mind and bodyEven though it's contrary to Buddhist teaching, I have always instinctively thought of myself as separate and apart from everything and everyone else.<br />
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I have also always thought of my body as just a tool my brain uses – and in my case, a tool that wasn't always as effective as it might be. As I think I've written before, I'm a big guy, and someone who just met me might naturally assume I had been a football or basketball player at either the high school or collegiate level. But in fact, I am decidedly nonathletic. I'm clumsy and graceless. I'm sloth like in my movements. I have always tired easily, even as a child. I remember a couple of instances in childhood where I almost blacked out just running around and playing with my friends.<br />
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For me, my own right hand seems as alien as the pen or fork or hammer as it's holding.<br />
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I mention this because until recently, I just assumed that everyone thought the same way about their bodies: tools being used by brains. It had never occurred to me that athletes, dancers, yoga instructors and others may not think that way about their bodies at all. They may see their minds and bodies as a single entity. Perhaps that's the reason they are athletes, dancers and yoga instructors.<br />
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Well, that's just what I'm thinking. I don't know if it's true.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-41696733597705767842012-05-27T15:27:00.000-05:002012-05-27T16:53:32.649-05:00A certain attachment to not throwing upWhen I first became interested in eastern philosophy, I wasn't looking for 'big E' enlightenment. More than anything else, I guess, I was trying to score points with Ms W&E.<br />
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But what I found was the first philosophy of life I had encountered that seemed consistent with my own understanding of reality. I remember reading <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wenzi" target="_blank">Wenzi</a> with tears streaming down my face, realizing that at one time in the ancient past, millions of people saw the world the same way I see it now.<br />
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But I also realized that this was a philosophy that worked very well with the comfortable life I was leading at the time. I had quit working, except for a handful of freelance clients. I got up when I wanted to get up, and went to bed when I wanted to go to bed. I came and went as I pleased. My life of neither being nor not being was rather idyllic, and presented few significant challenges. Actually, it presented <i>no</i> significant challenges.<br />
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Then, suddenly, a challenge.<br />
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Now, after just four months of treatment, I find myself nostalgic for the days before I knew I had cancer.<br />
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I've mentioned this before, but my body is actually handling the chemotherapy quite well. My four tumors have shrunk slightly after four treatments.<br />
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My <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carcinoembryonic_antigen" target="_blank">CEA</a> has dropped to a measly 2.5, within the range for persons with no cancer.<br />
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My white cell and hemoglobin counts are within normal range; my red cell count is actually <i>increasing.</i> This means my immune system is still functioning properly, and I'm not in immediate danger of dying, as <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/music/music-news/9278906/Bee-Gees-star-Robin-Gibb-dies-aged-62-after-cancer-battle.html" target="_blank">Robin Gibb apparently did</a>, of an illness indirectly caused by cancer treatment.<br />
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But two things are wearing me down. One is constant fatigue. I've always been rather low-energy, but now I spend entire days in my recliner watching TV.<br />
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The other thing is nausea. This isn't nausea like you get from food poisoning or some other illness. I don't know how to describe it. I have this vague, very low-level nausea a lot of time, and it suddenly escalates to irreversible upchucking in a matter of 2-3 seconds. And yes, I take something for it, and it helps, but it's not 100% effective.<br />
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There are some foods I literally cannot <i>think</i> about without getting queasy. Pictures of burgers on TV commercials can trigger it. I dashed out of a restaurant and barfed on its front porch the other day. I barely got out the front door in time. I have no idea what set it off – maybe an odor of cooking food.<br />
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So, there's that, along with the fatigue.<br />
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I have a certain attachment, as it turns out, to not throwing up. Also to being able to take a shower or walk to the mailbox and back without having to lie down for 15 minutes. But in the present moment, that is not my life. It is not who I am. And the present moment is where I live. But my philosophy is now being put to the test.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-64896356447718717992012-04-30T04:16:00.000-05:002012-04-30T04:24:23.217-05:00Some things finally become clearI've probably posted two hundred items since 2005 about my lousy love life. I keep thinking I am done posting about it, especially now. But a new insight is occasionally gained, and I feel led to share it.<br />
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If you've read the previous posts on this topic, you know that I'm almost sixty and still waiting for a willowy, ethereal hippie chick type who physically resembles Stevie Nicks circa 1975 and who embodies the character traits of Quan Yin, the east Asian bodhisattva of compassion.<br />
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Needless to say, I never met anyone like that. And the ones who came close were looking for someone a little more interesting and entertaining than me.<br />
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But looking back on it, I see now that I wasn't looking for a relationship. I never had the emotional energy for that, as women who've actually had relationships with me can attest.<br />
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All I was looking for someone who could soothe the pain of my depression when I was feeling it. And when I wasn't depressed, I was perfectly content being alone, and didn't want Stevie Nicks/Quan Yin to be around at all.<br />
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I was totally focused on my emotional needs as I perceived them. Her emotional needs? My fantasy woman wouldn't have any, except to make me feel better. That was all I wanted.<br />
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And although I understand it now, I can't say it's changed my attitude. It's still self-centered and unrealistic, but it's still what I want.<br />
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And, of course, will never have.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-74153481893676686092012-04-30T03:43:00.001-05:002012-04-30T04:19:23.667-05:00Cancer updateTime for an update, I suppose.<br />
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I am now three sessions into chemotherapy. I have, probably, three more to go before a CT scan to determine if the chemo has had any effect on the tumors.<br />
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My chemo regimen consists of three and a half hours in the infusion center every other Monday, followed by 48 hours with a take-home pump.<br />
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The infusion center is a large room filled with big, comfortable recliners, staffed by oncology nurses. Every other Monday, staff 'bartenders' prepare the mix of chemicals I receive, ranging from vitamins to steroids to actual chemotherapy drugs. I settle into one of the big chairs with my iPad, and the nurses feed me one bag after another, intravenously.<br />
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But it's the take-home pump, if I understand correctly, that carries the main event: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fluorouracil" target="_blank">fluorouracil</a>, which has been the treatment of choice for colon cancer for fifty years.<br />
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I wear the pump until Wednesday. And by Wednesday, I feel like hammered shit, which continues until the weekend. I sleep, I throw up, I watch TV, and that's about all the activity for which I am able to muster any energy.<br />
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The first week was bad, the second week not as bad, and the third week somewhere in between weeks one and two.<br />
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And none of it has been as bad as the recovery after the surgery.<br />
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On paper, I look great. My blood counts are within normal range, and actually improved between weeks two and three. My immune system thus far seems to be holding up well.<br />
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I spent a few weeks obsessing about what seemed like my certain impending death, and I have gotten past that. I still think about it, but not like I used to. That's partly because my current oncologist seems much more optimistic about my situation than did his predecessor.<br />
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I think the cat just peed down the air conditioning vent, so I'm going to sign off for now.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-48929270035973160422012-03-22T05:43:00.000-05:002012-03-22T05:43:42.401-05:00Another updateSleep has improved dramatically over the past five days, and I'm back to roughly the same sleep pattern I had before the surgery – which means I'm still up a lot during the night.<br />
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Chemotherapy was supposed to start today, but has been delayed until Monday because of a scheduling problem at the hospital.<br />
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I've had some confusion and false starts with oncologists. My first oncologist turned out to be out-of-network for my insurance. My surgeon found me a new one, and I'll tell you I really like the guy. He's the first MD I've seen during all this who hasn't talked as if the end of my story is a foregone conclusion.<br />
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I cracked the screen on my iPad, so I bought an iPad 3. This isn't necessarily a wise expenditure, given my current situation. But if I'm going to spend three hours a week in the chair at the infusion center, I wants something to pass the time. I've downloaded some shows from PBS to watch: episodes of NOVA, The American Experience and the John Adams miniseries. Those should keep me occupied.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-71937625804327492192012-03-17T14:04:00.001-05:002012-03-17T14:05:39.841-05:00An updateIt's been almost a month since I updated. Here's what's been happening.<br />
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I got home from the hospital, and my recovery seemed to be moving along briskly. Within a few days, I was up walking around the neighborhood, driving to the coffee shop, and going for short trips to the grocery store.<br />
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Then, I had a setback. The painkiller I was taking started making me groggy. My incision became infected, and the surgeon prescribed a sulfa-based antibiotic that nauseated me and made me throw up twice or three times a day. I started having strange hot flashes that felt like I was running a fever of 102° or so, even though the thermometer showed I had no fever at all.<br />
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Eventually, I was in bed most or all of the day. Couldn't drive, couldn't make it to the coffee shop. Fortunately, friends came by to check on me and keep me company during all this. My friend Cindy came and sat with me for a couple of hours one evening, even though I was too zoned out to even carry on a conversation. My friend Rena stayed over one night when I was at my nadir.<br />
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Then my surgeon took me off the painkiller and the antibiotic, and I started feeling better again the next day. The hot flashes, he told me, were caused by dehydration. At his suggestion, a knocked back about a half gallon of Gatorade over the course of the day, and the hot flashes ended. <br />
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Now, I'm back up and around, although I tire easily and I'm good for about a half day of activity at most. I also have not slept well since leaving the hospital. I had a pretty good night last night, sleeping maybe six hours, but most nights I sleep three or four hours at most.<br />
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More to come.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19225631.post-32716094493033725092012-02-20T03:59:00.001-06:002012-02-20T04:00:32.923-06:00An Outpouring of SupportSo, I'm home recovering from the first major surgery of my life. I am now an <i>ostomate,</i> a person who has undergone surgery to create a new body orifice for the discharge of wastes. In other words, I now shit through my stomach.<br />
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If I were still thirty years old, I guess this would be a horrific experience for me. At age 59, with a mostly sedentary lifestyle, it's not that big a deal. Cleanup is gag-inducing, but perhaps I'll get used to it with time.<br />
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The most remarkable thing about this experience is the outpouring of support I've received. My coffee shop family has kept me fed, run errands for me, spent evenings with me to keep from being depressed and lonely, and generally gone far above and beyond the call of duty.<br />
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In addition, my friend and former boss at the city, Karen, has gotten me to the hospital, helped me keep track of paperwork. Her husband has run errands to the pharmacy for me.<br />
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Old TV colleagues, many of whom I had not seen in decades, have come to visit.<br />
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I should also say something here about Facebook. Love it or hate it, Facebook was the key medium in getting word out to others about my situation.mcarphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01441337328813297359noreply@blogger.com1