life

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: 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: 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.

A Magical Invitation

Posted on by kwundrow

It had been one of those days. It seemed like every time I got one task completed, the next one fell in my lap. I was leaving a late evening meeting, when she called. I had planned on going home and relaxing, when I saw the missed call from my daughter. My mind ran through the scenarios, ranging from just checking in to needing my help. As my finger poised over the call back option, I entertained letting it go until morning, but could I? The answer to that was I couldn’t, and I called her back.

When she answered, it was obvious she was excited about something. I gathered through her giddiness that she was with my son-in-law and granddaughter in the countryside watching the northern lights.  She was inviting me to come join them and strangely, I was considering turning down her invitation. In my defense, I was tired and it was getting late. It would be a thirty-minute drive and I would have to find this field in the middle of nowhere. I had seen northern lights before and this far south, they were never that impressive, at least for me. But she was so insistent, and my decision was made.

It was all of the thirty-minute drive and without GPS, it would have been a task to find them. They were out in a large, recently picked corn field found just off a barely two-lane country road. As I got out of the car, my daughter approached. “They just stopped she proclaimed, but we are hoping they will start back up soon.” Great, I thought, this is going to turn out like all my other efforts to see northern lights. Just then it happened. It was as if someone had suddenly flipped a light switch in a dark room. The sky filled with reds and greens, shimmering and growing brighter with every passing second. There were towers of red streaming straight up like fireworks. Sometimes, the sky was filled with fan-like displays. The reds faded to orange, and then the greens filled in the gaps. It was a mesmerizing display.

I spent over an hour out there in that field. My daughter and granddaughter were at my side. We stared in awe at the night sky. The northern lights display would have been well worth the effort on its own. But, as I stood there with them, it became clear to me what a gift I would have passed up. She was insistent on my coming out. How had I not realized the true reason I had to come out there? This was what every father craves. It was her invitation to join her. The adventure is so important to her that she needs you there to share it with her.

Standing out in a corn field looking up at the night sky was special because I shared it with her. That invitation I almost ignored made the adventure sweeter, made the experience deeper, made the evening memorable. I can only hope that there will be more invitations, more adventures to share. And above all, that I wouldn’t ever fail to accept that invitation when it comes.

Early Morning

Posted on by kwundrow

We were recently in Aruba with another couple for a week of sun, warmth, and relaxation. I had been given the task of securing our cabana on the beach each morning. Due to the popularity of our beach, you needed to be there by 6:30 in the morning if you were to get one of the much sought after cabanas. This was an easily accepted task for me as I tend to have a hard time sleeping past 6:00 anyway. For the first three days, I arrived right around 6:30 am and along with the other early cabana claimers, would find an open one, plant a coupe of stake holder chairs with towels, and then head back to the condo where by this time, everyone was up and moving.

For our last day on Aruba, we were undecided as to whether we would spend our last hours on the beach, or use them to grab a little last sight seeing. For reasons unknown to me, I awoke just before five am that morning, and lying awake next to my sleepy spouse, decided I would take our chairs and head down to the beach earlier than usual to claim a spot on the off hand chance that beach time would win out over sight seeing. As I stepped out onto the street that separated our condo from the beach, I couldn’t help but noticed the stillness of the predawn hour. Save for the waves lapping the beach, there were no other sounds. The city was still asleep. Where the morning before there had been a fewer runners and an occasional vehicle, this morning it was too early even for that. I was alone.

At face value, loneliness is not generally a welcome companion, but this loneliness had such a different feel. I wasn’t lonely, I was simply alone. The beach, softly backlit by the street lamps of the empty boulevard behind me, was deserted at this hour. Having staked out my claim, I began to walk the water’s edge as the ocean crept up the sand beach and lapped at my feet. Realizing that going back to the condo would be too early for my sleeping roommates, I decided to enjoy my alone time. I headed back up the beach and out to the silent street. I decided to walk the ocean front, soaking in the quiet of the city. As I walked, I eventually found myself at a small diner, the only open business along my entire walk. The thought of a hot cup of joe in this cozy diner suddenly was very appealing. As I entered, I found myself as the only other patron in the diner. At that point, had there been even a small crowd, I am sure I would have left, but as it was just the two of us and the waitress, I grabbed a seat. By the time my coffee came, I had struck up a conversation with my fellow diner, revealing where we were from and what had found us here so early in the morning.

With my coffee consumed and the sun just beginning to push back the darkness, I began my walk back to the condo. Unlike my walk to the diner in a city still asleep, she was now beginning to stir. Cars were starting to frequent the street, runners were emerging from beachfront condos, and the sounds of the city began to push back the silence. A building crane over here and a truck over there each adding there sounds to the growing noise of a waking city. By the time I reached the condo, the sun was climbing out of the ocean and sunlight began to replace streetlights. My alone time was ending.

Though there doesn’t need to be a point to story telling, there is a point to this one. I write it to preserve the beautiful memory of that morning and to share the image with whoever has experienced something similar. We can choose to be lonely, or we can welcome the opportunity for alone time. In a world filled all too often with bad news and unwanted noise, the quiet of being alone might truly be inviting. Do understand, I do not dismiss the dangers of loneliness, for there can be danger when mixed with a sense of despair or hopelessness, but rather that sometimes the best times are those quiet times alone. In those times we avoid the distractions of life and find the ability to refocus on what is important.

For me, that early morning walk with just the quiet of the predawn morning as my companion, will be my favorite memory of our week in Aruba. The sound of the waves, the empty streets, and that cozy diner shared with a stranger were exactly what I needed. What a perfect ending to an island getaway. It was the relaxing last moment before I would deal with the cacophony of the world awaiting me back home. It had reminded me that I had the ability to push out the noise and refocus my thoughts. Here’s hoping you can savor your next alone time, and that like I did that morning, you can find the beauty in the quiet that surrounds you.