We were just strangers when we met

Posted on by kwundrow

The sign read “There are no strangers here, just friends you haven’t met.”  This turned out to be pretty prophetic.  By the end of one month of travel, we had met many strangers who by the time we had to part ways, were new friends.

August found my wife and I on a trip up the Rhine in Europe.  It started with us meeting two couples from Nebraska, Mureen and her husband Murray and Gayle and her husband Larry.  We shared stories and drinks and continued those conversations all week long.  Now we also met another couple the very first day and bravely introduced ourselves.  Through the next ten days, we shared walks and talks, dinners and stories of our lives.  But eventually we were saying goodbye to our new friends, Polly and Stu, but knowing we would make a mutual effort to meet again.  Strangers had turned out to be friends we just hadn’t met.

And then there was Lucerne.  We had boarded a paddlewheeler for a trip around Lake Lucerne.  Knowing no local dialects and completely on our own, we took a seat across from an elderly women.  As the boat moved away from the pier, she leaned over and asked if we were from the U.S.  Over the next hour we carried on a fascinating conversation learning things about our new friend, Lucerne and Switzerland.  When she had to disembark at her stop, the women next to her, not knowing any of us, leaned in and said “I’ll take care of them from here.”  And she did.  No language barrier was going to thwart the effort of strangers becoming friends.

My wife and I just returned from a short trip to the North Woods.  On day two of our stay, I headed out to an area golf course.  I was going to squeeze in a quick nine holes somehow hoping I could just play alone and practice my game undisturbed by any semblance of competition.  But this was not to be.  Instead, I was paired up with two gentleman, Gene and his son-in-law, Ryan.  As they had never played the course, I turned out to be their guide.  The three of us shared a very beautiful fall morning and what turned out to be one of my best scores of the season.  As I finished on the ninth hole, we all wished each other well and where we had been strangers just two hours earlier, parted as friends.

The next day, Deb and I took a long bike ride on a trail near our cottage.  When we returned back to our car, which we had left parked at a local pub, we decided we needed some lunch and the pub looked inviting.  It was while we were there that I discovered the sign I quoted at the beginning of this piece.  It was placed prominently above the bar and in the patrons soon proved how true it was.  In no time at all we were in conversation with two local construction workers, the bartender / owner of the pub and two other couples who were traveling like us and had decided to drop in, because that’s what you do at a North Woods pub.  The sign was true, there really were no strangers there.

The next day found us again at the end of another bike ride exploring yet another local pub.  Before you start worrying about my drinking habits, remember that we are on vacation, wait even better, we are retired.  Earlier, as we were locking our bikes and walking downtown, a woman crossing the street had overheard us pondering about this new place, well new to us, and told us it was a great place and that we ought to stop back later when the place opened.  Well it was later and we heeded her advice and entered the establishment.  To our surprise, the women, it turns out her name was Margaret, was not only working there but was in fact the co-owner.  We ordered our drinks and retired to the warmth and coziness of their backyard patio.  There Margaret waited on and conversed with us, sharing her story and getting ours in return.  Within the span of half an hour, we felt like friends.  Hopefully Margaret is reading this blog and is approving my story.  There is no doubt that The Vine in Minocqua will be a new favorite stop on our stays up North and we will look forward to more conversations with the owners, Margaret and Scott.

Our trip was coming to a close when we got one last chance to make a stranger a friend.  It was Saturday and we had just finished golfing.  Not wanting to miss the Badger’s football game, we stopped in the Sayner Pub, yes, I know this is starting to sound like a North Woods pub review but it’s just a coincidence.  We seated ourselves at the bar, best viewing position, I swear, and began watching the game.  We were soon surrounded by strangers who through the comraderie of a sporting event would become our new friends of the day.  Bob on our left, recently retired and living up North and Ryan on our right who turned out to be from Madison.  The Badgers won, we all celebrated and after sharing our stories, parted with the memories and emotions of another well spent day.

This piece would be pointless without a message, okay moral.  One never knows what interesting story resides in the stranger sitting next to you or maybe waiting in the same line.  That is unless you take the step to find out.  To maybe even introduce yourself.  What’s the worst that could happen?  They might just turn out to be the friend you haven’t met.

Somewhere over Ireland

Posted on by kwundrow

We have been flying all night, which is a relative term.  While my watch says it is 5:00 am, the outside tells me it is much later.  Seven hours later to be exact.  It is a strange sensation, especially if it is the first time one has ever done it, to fly east, racing toward the sunrise.  The airlines, Delta in our case, does everything possible to help you through this body clock dilemma.  You are served dinner at 11:00 pm, lights and all noise dimmed, eye shades handed out along with blankets and pillows all to get you ready for the big time shift that awaits you.

I walk through the plane several times during the wee hours of the morning, enviously watching the seasoned travelers actually sleeping.  But sleep eludes me.  Though the seats are “comfort seats” designed for extra leg room, my legs will not let me sleep.  They twitch and remind me that I am sitting up when they want to be stretched out parallel to gravity.  The night passes and then at roughly 1:00 am, my time when I should be sound asleep, the plane catches up with the sunrise and reality sets in, you have reached tomorrow, today.

The plane comes awake at 4:30 am.  By this I mean that the lights are slowly brought up and breakfast sounds are coming from the galley.  At 5:00 am we are having breakfast, while miles below, somewhere over the coast of Ireland, they are sitting down to lunch.  As we are landing soon, my body will just have to adapt if this adventure is to begin.  It has been twenty-four hours since I got up in my bedroom thousands of miles behind us.  The world has shrunk and we aren’t in Kansas anymore.

Next stop, Amsterdam, with its canals, windmills and bikes…..hundreds and hundreds of bikes.

Amsterdam

My Cancer Journey: The New Bucket List

Posted on by kwundrow

Week four is now behind me and starting tomorrow I will have thirteen sessions of radiation to complete.  Though I am feeling the best I have felt in several days, chemo session number four was rough. My counts are all low now which means I am on house arrest and I am not a happy camper. Missing so many things during the holidays is tough. You can only watch so many Christmas movies before you ache to be with friends during the holidays. With every passing day another party, another get-together, another festivity has to be skipped. I begin to list all the things I am missing. And thus, I present to you my new bucket list:

Lazy Jane’s for breakfast, possibly for days in a row, a steak, medium rare and covered in mushrooms and onions, Culvers North Atlantic Cod dinner, in the restaurant, no mask, a piece of pie, any pie, with whipped cream, lots of whipped cream, a crowded room with people having conversations, going out to a movie, sipping wine on the porch of Wollersheim Winery, trying all of the food samples at Costco and savoring the flavors. Playing with my grandkids, hugging people again, being free. I suspect you understand now that this is not the normal bucket list, but the items are just as inviting as anything on my other bucket list, the one where I stand atop Machu Picchu or maybe the Great Wall of China. If and when my health and taste decide to return, watch out Madison and surrounding areas because I’m coming. I have a lot of catching up to do and I’m hungry, very hungry.

My Cancer Journey: Somethings Not Right Here

Posted on by kwundrow

T – 14 and counting

Four weeks in, with still 14 days to go. The good news is I get Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off next week, and I may even get out of one chemo treatment. I’m almost giddy thinking about it—though maybe that’s just the weight loss making me feel lighter. I’m officially back to the weight I was when they issued those old drinking IDs. Remember those? If not, you really missed out on a strange little era of draft cards and drinking licenses. Mine was worn thin from how often I had to pull it out. Anyway… I started treatment at 180 pounds. This morning I was 167. Quite the weight-loss program.

There are reasons cancer treatment takes the pounds off. Part of it is the tumor just wearing me down. Part of it is my throat not exactly loving the idea of swallowing food—more on that in a minute. But honestly, the biggest problem is taste. You don’t realize how much taste matters until it disappears.

When we enjoy food, it’s never just one sense. We see it first and remember what it should taste like. Then we smell it, and that makes us even more excited. Sometimes we even feel it—like a hot dog in a bun—before we finally get to that first bite. And when the taste matches or beats our expectations, it’s wonderful. When it doesn’t, everything falls apart pretty quickly.

Now picture your favorite pie. It looks amazing. It smells perfect. You’re ready for that first bite. For me, it’s pumpkin pie with a generous pile of whipped cream. That first bite is everything I hoped for—warm, creamy, delicious. Then I take a second bite… and suddenly it’s like a completely different pie. It tastes old, wrong, almost spoiled. It’s so awful I push the plate away and try not to give that bite back the way it came.

That’s what treatment has done to my taste buds. It isn’t really the tumor or pain that’s caused the big weight loss—it’s the fact that food just doesn’t taste right anymore. So now I’m living on things like cream of wheat and oatmeal. Bland foods, little expectation, fewer disappointments. I miss my favorites—pie, desserts, chocolate. And the hardest part is the food friends have lovingly brought us. Their hearts are in every dish. Many of them are proud of these meals, and I wish I could enjoy them the way they hoped I would. But most of the time I barely make it past a first bite. I worry it makes me look rude, but it’s just the reality right now.

So that’s my confession. I appreciate every gesture. Truly. I just can’t eat most of it. If there’s one upside, I probably did need to lose a few pounds—the tumor just got a little too enthusiastic about it. And when all of this is over and my taste finally returns, we’ll have a freezer full of meals waiting for me.

My Cancer Journey: Shrinkage is Good

Posted on by kwundrow

T- 17 and halfway point reached. Today we had both chemo and radiation treatments. This meant we were able to speak with both doctors in charge of my treatment and the take away, is good news. At the very least that is what Deb and I heard.

The tumor has started to shrink, which has ramifications for what’s next. Radiology will reset their markers and be able to focus the radiation away from the muscles of my tongue. This could mean a lessening of the pain I endure when I try to swallow anything I eat. Because the magnesium pill I take is very difficult to swallow, the radiologist recommended getting my magnesium through gummies. He has also okayed, almost recommended, switching to THC gummies to get the added benefit of increased appetite and some relief to my now long gone taste. That recommendation has not been completely accepted by my head nurse, Deb, but we’re working on it.

On the oncology side, we are being given a chemo holiday next week, perfect timing there, due in part to my platelet count dropping below the threshold for safe administering of chemo. Still, the good news is that we may only need one more session of chemo even with the one-week skip.

This is good news and it leads me to the first of my cancer treatment rules. For fans of HGTV, you may recognize my shameless use of the “Vacation House Rules” program.

Rule #1.  Find your support team

The temptation is to keep everything to yourself and just go it alone. This is a mistake. People want to feel useful when you get handed this crappy diagnosis. To deny them that chance isn’t fair to them and you. On top of that, you will be wasting a valuable and well-deserved side benefit. Don’t suffer alone, drag your friends in. I was kidding there. Ironically, they will thank you later for honoring them with the chance to show they really care. Now who doesn’t want that feeling? It’s a win win situation and when you have cancer take all the wins you can. Which leads me to my next cancer treatment rules.

Rule #2. Attitude is everything

You weren’t looking for this gift of cancer, but you also can’t walk away from it. The first thing that goes is your whole outlook on everything. That is to be understood. There is a boat load of hard work, discomfort, to put it lightly, and a tsunami of information appointments coming at you. Attitude is critical now. You can give into your cancer, or you can start finding a way through this. You do just that, if you look for the positives. The team of clinicians and doctors assigned to you will do everything they can to fight your cancer. There are even doctors on your team that  to guide you through that maze that the whole protocol created. Lean on friends, see Rule #1, and take each day as it comes. Find the reasons to smile, something worked, something felt a little better, or you just reconnected with a friend who found out you were in need. The little things matter. And that leads me to cancer treatment rule three.

Rule #3. Put in the work

Don’t let anyone tell you this will be easy. It won’t be. Cancer needs to be beaten, not ignored, not taken for granted, and certainly not coddled. You have to do the work. If you have to get up early every day to drive in to the clinic, don’t make your partner drag you out of bed. When they lay out the treatment schedule, get a handle on it. Prepare ahead mentally for what that day will bring. Being ready is good for you and the team. If this whole journey is going to end successfully, it is the effort you put in that will get it there. Prescription is half the battle. You still need to take the medicine. And that leads me to my final rule.

Rule #4. Follow the plan

Cancer is a team sport. Your team has multiple members. Your quarterbacks: the doctors, your running backs: the nurses, your offensive line: your friends and family keeping you safe through the process, your center: this is your most trusted partner, the person who will take charge of the battle at home. This team will collectively lay out a plan for tackling your cancer.  You need to trust these people to have your best interest at heart and because you trust them, follow the plan. There will be days when you might not want to do what’s being prescribed, but if it’s part of the plan, do the work. You are going to beat this. That’s part of the plan.

Deb and I got good news today. I can tell you that it is in no small part due to these four rules. My fight isn’t done but my attitude, my team, and the plan are getting it done. Tomorrow is day seventeen. Bring it on.

My Cancer Journey: Lost Days

Posted on by kwundrow

T- 19 and on hold for the weekend. My goal with this journal was to both let people know what treatment protocol is like, while also letting friends know how I was doing. The ride after chemo is rough. For the first twenty-four hours after, there is this increase in energy and spirit. That is at least what my experience was after those first three.

With the first two chemo sessions, I experienced a little nausea, but not much else. The chemo session I had on Wednesday was number three. Thursday was the same manic high that I have described before. Then on Friday I got my first look at what might lie ahead. I was down for the count, and nothing was working. Eating was a task because swallowing anything was painful to nearly impossible. My loving caretaker wife, worried about my weight loss, was constantly asking me what food she could make. Honestly, she should have been saying what food can I make you eat. The effort in eating is one thing, the general lack of taste and, with certain foods, the adverse taste, combines to make it undesirable. After radiation, yup, feeling lousy doesn’t get you a pass, the only thing that saved me was sleeping the entire afternoon away.

Today is Saturday, but Deb actually had to convince me of that since my chemo brain had apparently misplaced Friday. Considering how Friday had gone, good move chemo brain. I am feeling much better today, but also two pounds lighter than three days ago.  At this pace, when friends reach out asking if they can see me, I’d have to say maybe, maybe not. It depends on how I’m standing.

I have two days of rest before I mark the next session off my countdown calendar. It will be number fifteen and put one day closer to the end, one day closer to a cure. Everyone around me is trying to keep me positive, but their intent is hard for me to hear. I am in this dark tunnel and the light at the end seems so very far away. But keep the positive messages coming. If I am ever going to crawl out the other end of this tunnel, I need you to keep pushing me.

My Cancer Journey: Mr. Toads Wild Ride

Posted on by kwundrow

T-21. Yesterday, Deb and I have crossed off number “12 “on the cancer calendar my granddaughter Adela made for me. Though I officially began this ride on October 17th, when I was diagnosed with my cancer, the treatment protocol didn’t start until November 24th. With weekend and holiday reprieves from the daily doses, yesterday was day 12 of treatment and what I call Double Tap Wednesdays. If you’ve been reading my journal as it’s grown, you know that I have taken to sometimes, well okay, most of the time give names to the experiences of this trip. I am calling the overall experience My Cancer Journal, while the treatment phase is Mr. Toads Wild Ride, the twenty-four hours following chemo became the Chemo Express, and since Wednesdays are the day of the week when I receive both radiation and chemo, Double Tap Wednesday. Deb worries that I am being a bit cavalier at times, but when going through cancer, the best chance for hope is to remain optimistic.  This requires being able to add a touch of humor. Naming these junctures helps to create opportunities to chuckle.

Yesterday was Double Tap Wednesday. The day technically began at 3:30 am, lying awake in bed contemplating how this cancer has seeped into my life. Abandoning any hope of grabbing any additional sleep, at 5:30 am, I got up, got dressed, and headed out to shovel the two inches of snow that had accumulated on our driveway overnight. Cancer has its way of making you appreciate the little things and moving that powdery white snow around was one of them. The quiet of a predawn morning, the shadows the porchlight cast across the snow, the scrape of the shovel against the concrete driveway, all seemed to offer the peace I couldn’t find in bed this morning.

We arrived at the clinic just before 9:00 am to start what would be another long Wednesday. I check in at the oncology desk greeted by my favorite receptionist. She greets me, as she does every day, with her spirit lifting smile. I do what I always do, I flirt, eventually give her my last name and birthdate, which being my ticket to enter the “long hall walking” door. As the door clicks open, Deb and I begin what feels like “the dead man walking” prison scene from the movies. The walk takes us down three very plain hallways eventually arriving at our destination, the cancer waiting room. The room is full this morning. We are all waiting for the same thing, one more dose of radiation, one more day marked off our countdown calendars. What I tell you I am trying to do each day will come as no surprise to those of you who know me. No one in this room ever talks. They just sit silent, staring at their phones, reading a book, or just staring straight ahead. I try to engage. Don’t we want to talk about our lives, who we are, where we’re from? We don’t need to talk about cancer, just something, anything, and…. It hasn’t happened, at least not yet. I have twenty-one more days to crack this wall of solitude. Wish me luck or beg me to stop. Eventually my name is called, and I tip toe silently from the room. A reprieve for all those who feared I might pick on them to get the room talking.

I am now being led to the radiation room to be zapped. I passed down two more boringly plain rooms before reaching the huge steel door. It is rolled open for now and invites me, if I dare, to step into its little chamber and have a go at Mr. Toads Wild Ride. I am greeted by three operators who will very soon make a dash for the safe side of that big steel door. They help me onto the table and position my head in the hard foam cradle designed to keep me aligned. Next come my tooth guards and then the mask. Calling it a mask doesn’t do it justice. The thing covers me from the top of my head all the way to my midsection. With my head and shoulders now covered by the mask, I both audibly hear and feel the loud pops as the mask is snapped into place and I am trapped. Immovable, I am now ready for Mr. Toad. He is a behemoth and he smiles down at me as the green light comes on and I see my reflection on his mirrored face. Slowly he begins to start his first revolution around me as I lie on his table. For the next fifteen minutes I listen to the faint sound of music in the background as Mr. Toad whirrs and circles my head, all the while zapping my tumor with radiation. Eventually I imagine I hear the big steel door roll open and a smiling attendant looks down at me and tells me we are finished. The mask snaps loose and the ride is over. I am free, that is free to go to the next phase of this day.

When we first arrived at the clinic today, my first stop was at the lab where I was fitted with this lovely port in my arm. That port will come into play during my afternoon chemo procedure. Our next appointment is a consultation with our oncology nurse practitioner. She is evaluating how my treatments are progressing, answering our questions about the same, and after being assured that everything is on track, we head up to the third-floor oncology wing. Here another waiting room awaits us, but this one is much nicer than the waiting room we occupied earlier. This one has comfy seats and spacious windows with views of the clinic’s campus. This is your first sign that chemo will be different than radiation. No less daunting, after all I am about to get two liters of cisplatin, my chemo serving of choice. Cisplatin is basically poison. As my nurse pulls on rubber gloves and protective clothing, it drives that message home. It will work at poisoning the tumor while radiation will battle to shrink it. A powerful team at war inside my throat.

The process of receiving this potent drug is at least comfortable. No strapping me down. We are ushered to a comfortable though small cubicle with an easy chair for me and another sitting area for Deb. We are asked if we’d like any coffee or other beverages and I am even offered snacks. Once I am hooked up and the fluids are draining into me via the port in my arm, I lean back, enjoy my music, and read a book. The whole process will take around two hours during which time I needed to produce 500 ml of pee. I am told to not hold back as I cannot finish the protocol until I fill the quota. In the end, this will take me two trips to successfully pull off. I’m a good pee producer, but not quite MVP one tripper level. And thus, about 3:00 pm, my quota met, the Cisplatin coursing through my kidneys, our stay is complete. We are free to leave the building, until tomorrow of course. Good news, it’s just radiation. Easy day!

My Cancer Journey: Riding the Chemo Express

Posted on by kwundrow

December 5th

T – 24 and I am on the ride. My cancer treatment consists of two parts. The first is radiation and the second, chemo. It’s chemo lag day, at least that is what I’ve named it. I soaked in my second serving of chemo three days ago and as predicted by those in the know, I am feeling it. Chemo will do its best to kill the tumor, but the downside is that it takes its toll on the body.

The effects of my first serving of the chemo were hardly noteworthy. I barely noticed anything different than the radiation effects. This second serving is markedly different. It has left me feeling like I just got over the 24-hour flu with its chills, aches, nausea, and fatigue. My activities take place in short bursts of energy followed up with fatigue. The only upside has been the weekend pass Deb has granted me. In her role as resident in charge, Deb has ordered me to take the day easy, watch TV, and allow her to wait on me, hand and foot. This order is one I can manage. For now, I will take small comfort knowing I have survived my first two legs of the Chemo Express.

I boarded The Chemo Express two weeks ago and I am now destined to ride it to the end. Only two days ago, I was at the top looking down into the loop. Today I am in the loop, upside down, and waiting to head back down to the bottom. As my car starts back up the track on Monday, I know full well that the scariest part of this ride still lies ahead. The climbs will get steeper and the loops will get tighter, but I have no choice other than to hang on and let Deb and my friends be my seatbelt.

There is no way that anyone can or should go through this alone. Though there is a team of medical people standing by, it is the nonmedical stuff that can be the toughest. With every passing day, I will have missed another event or lost the taste of another one of my favorite foods.  This ride is tough in so many ways, but it’s survivable. Every day, I hear from friends asking what they can do to help. I wish there was an easy answer, but there isn’t. I appreciate all the messages of encouragement, the prayers, and offers to drive me to treatment. In truth, I’ve had so many offers of a ride, I may have to extend my treatments to get them all in. And here’s a thought, once I lick this thing, can I continue to take advantage of the taxi service?

I understand the “what can I do” inquiries, I’ve been there too, just now I’m on the other side. Please know this, everything you do, from sending an email, to checking in, or the offer of a meal, is important to me. They build my resolve to see this through the rough spots, to stay on the ride to its end. It’s incredible how strength exists in just saying the words.

The best thing you can do for a person dealing with cancer is to be there. You do it with every effort you make, with every prayer you offer. Whether you really get to drive me to treatment or not, know that the offer alone was all I needed. Knowing that you would sit beside me on the Chemo Express is all that’s needed to guarantee I won’t fall off.

My Cancer Journey: Emoji on a Camel

Posted on by kwundrow

I thought I would depart from the heavier and emotional side of this trip through cancer world and lighten it up a bit. And this is a good day to do it. Yesterday was treatment number seven and once a week I get to add chemo to my ride. Though that may seem bad, there is a bizarre benefit. At this point it is only the second one and I am still standing strong. The side effect benefit of chemo, at least for me, is apparently mania, good mania. On days that I have chemo I am rewarded, like the good puppy patient I am, with a return to the nausea pill for the next four days. Why, you ask, is that a good thing. Well, the side effect of that pill is, for lack of a better term, “knock out”. Within ten minutes of taking it, I can look forward to at least three hours of blissful sleep. And it doesn’t stop there; I get a solid three to four after that. My close friends know me well enough to know that sleep and I have not been very good friends. As a result, Chemo yields nausea pills, pills return much needed sleep, and great sleep leads to a manic state the day after. Writing this piece is already me starting the fifth project of my day. Oh, I will get back to possibly finishing the other four I started, but not if another something distracts me. I wrote about my distractibility in a blog called Adventures in Grocery Shopping.  I invite you to give that one a read to better understand how distractable I am.

(https://kenismsblog.com/?s=adventures+in+grocery+shopping).

I wanted to share two signs that might help you better understand what’s going on with someone going through cancer. Remember, these are just two of them. Depending on the patient’s type of cancer and their prospects, they will create different effects. What I explain here is relative to my cancer, one that has a cure promise at the end.

First sign, thirst: Doctors always want to ascertain your threshold of pain with the old scale of 1 to 10. Hats off to those of you who don’t experience any difficulty in determining the difference between a 1 vs a 4 vs a 9. I on the other hand need some visual, but since I can’t see my face when I am dealing with pain, thirst in this case, those little emoji faces aren’t offering much help. And while I am this close, how can you ever say 10. Saying 10 leaves you no room for what might still be coming. I once told my doctor that I was reserving the 10 rating for my tombstone. It would read “That was a 10 and now he’s gone.” My cancer thirst on a scale of one to ten is an emoji seated on a camel in the Sahara Desert. I don’t travel anywhere without a bottle of water these days though I still resist my wife’s request that I carry this gallon jug of water around. Strangely, the thing has a little hook on it leading me to believe I wear it on my belt. And now I am pulling my pants back up from around my ankles. My apology for that visual. On a scale of 1 to 10, where does that image fall? Bottom line is that I am always thirsty, thank God for my wife and her supply of water, Dove Ice Cream Bars, and shakes.

The second trait is focus or the lack of it: Between somepretty good drugs, i.e. the afore mentioned nausea pill and the fact that you have cancer, let’s not forget that sidetrack to life’s railway system, the brain gets a tad foggy. Sentences become a disjointed collection of words, eventually the whole attempt just sliding downhill in an avalanche to end as “sorry, what the hell was I trying to say.” This is the point when I pull out my C Card using it like a hall pass to explain it all away. I do appreciate how forgiving people can be when you drop the C word. Last week I needed work done on my laptop and I found myself talking with this young Geek Squad tech. He had just asked me a simple question about the programs that I used on my laptop. I started to work up my answer when the fog rolled in. After babbling incoherently, fishing for anything that sounded like an answer, I channeled Michael Keaton and his quotable line from the movie Mr Mom, “yeah 220, 221, whatever it takes.”  When I saw his shocked expression, I pulled the C Card pass. I am sure he is still thinking I was really cursed, he’s old AND he’s got cancer. He just gently took the computer, asked for my logon, and said he could take it from there, that and “sure hope you get better.” Total optimism from the kid who would at least save my computer.

This lack of focus keeps me from working on anything for very long. In some cases, we are talking seconds. I move from one room of the house to the next, wondering why I went there, and sometimes which room it is. I find myself staring at my phone with no clue if I was making a call, looking up some incredibly interesting internet fodder, or maybe I just hung up on my daughter’s call. I ask my wife “do you know what I was doing?” She in turn asks me if I had lunch. My answer, “maybe?”  “220, 221, whatever it takes.” “Can I use the C Card again?”

I am starting to come off the mania that has been driving me through this day and I wish I had bottled some of it up for tomorrow. It always seems that these writings end with me at least trying to make a point. It will be some small piece of information, some alternate perception, or maybe just a chance for you to see inside my brain or at least the way I look at things around me. I think this is what I want the takeaway to be. Cancer is a trip, and I mean that in every sense of the word you old hippies. One minute you are up, the next minute looking to crash. If nothing else comes from this overtly long and getting longer blog, I hope you can find some info to help you understand the journey or at least find compassion for that cancer patient you know or just met. I can tell you that there are enough to go around. My little cancer waiting room at the clinic is always full, all waiting for one more dose, one more chance.

At the start of this I said I was keeping it light today. I hope I mixed in just enough humor with just enough storytelling to accomplish that. However, given my focus lately, I am not even sure I finished it. No matter, I’ve still got a hundred ounce jug of H2O distracting me and the emoji on the camel is still wandering in the Sahara.

My Cancer Journey: Saturday Nights Alright for Fighting

Posted on by kwundrow

T – 29 and holding. I really didn’t think that with the first day off, sans the Holiday, I would be wishing I had received a treatment instead. In my mind the thirty three days is a long time, but when you start counting the weekends and holidays off, it adds up to fifty days. With my first week behind me and still feeling okay, it made sense that I would feel this way and want to just keep going. I suspect I may think differently down the road, but for now it’s just another day of waiting. And so, it’s Saturday night and I want to keep fighting.

I am for the most part still fighting with the notion that I should be feeling worse. After all I do have cancer. At this point it’s biggest marker has been a scratchy throat and some headaches. There is one new development. They had warned me that as the cancer progressed and the treatments along with it, I would begin to lose my sense of taste. It wouldn’t just end, but rather it would fade. As that happened, my sense of what a favorite food should taste like would confuse my brain when it had no taste. What’s worse is that it would not only trick my brain into not wanting it, but to never want it at all. Ironically, the more flavorful the food, the worse it would be. Eventually, all I will want are foods that were already bland to begin with. Well, as of tonight that effect has begun. I shared a pizza with Deb along with some cottage cheese and to top it off, a piece of pumpkin pie for dessert, with whip cream of course. Three of my favorite things, thank you Doris Day for the melody to accompany my reverie. The result, first bite of each tasted just as I expected, flavorful and enjoyable. Bite number two began a downhill slide to something tasting flat and eventually, to needing to push it aside, unfinished and unenjoyed. As much as that pained me, it had to be hard on Deb who has always been a great cook. Not many can ever rival your mother’s cooking, yet in many recipes, she does just that., sorry mom.

I am ordained to keep fighting. I will fight through days off and I will fight with foods that want to trick me. I will be taking this one bite at a time.

My Cancer Journey Continues: With a Nod to Stanley Kubrick

Posted on by kwundrow

November 28th

T-29. Today, as I return for radiation dose number four, it is all becoming routine. A few minutes in the waiting room then down the hall and into the “chamber”. I slide unto the table and wiggle my head into the custom headrest. Next comes the mask and as they fit it snuggly around my face, head, and shoulders I hear the snaps lock it in place. At that moment, I feel like an astronaut being prepped for a flight into deep space. I think about playing out that fantasy in my head while the whatever it is, whirrs softly as it circles my head, “Hal …. open the door”. Then fifteen minutes later, I hear the welcome voice of the technician as she reenters the room and let’s me know we are finished. Hal has opened the door. For those of you to young to remember or old enough but never much into sci fi, a shameful nod to “2001 A Space Odyssey.” And so concludes day four of treatment. The next two days are mine to rest and regroup and then it’s back to the routine.