cats in the cradle

My father was a conflicted soul. An emotional man who cared intensely for his family, he was raised by stoic parents who rarely, if ever, expressed affection for each other or their children. Despite this, and the battle of wills and words of their Irish/Italian marriage, he knew his parents loved each other and their children. But those stifled emotions stayed with him and passed on to our family. Of course we loved each other, but we lacked the courage to express it. 

Now, in my adult life, my mother and I end every call with "I love you." It doesn't feel right if it isn't said. I say it to my wife and sons all the time. They probably get a little sick of it. Truthfully, my sons are the ones who taught me to be more open, and it is not so difficult now. But my father and I always had a much harder time. Since his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer two years ago, I made an attempt to change that. When the timing seemed right, and I wasn't feeling awkward, I would tell him I loved him. His response: "yeah." I could tell it hurt.

Back in my young adult life, when I would leave to go out with friends or back to school, my father started saying "cats in the cradle." I would say it back. It was a reference to the Harry Chapin song about a father and son who never seemed to have time for each other. The older I became, the more I understood the song. My dad and I had a good relationship and would see each other often, but never as much as we would have liked. Something always seemed to interfere, or perhaps that is just a bad excuse. The song was about us, as it must seem to many fathers and sons. 

A few weeks ago, we were both having a rough time with our treatments. I talked to him on the phone and ended our conversation with "I love you, Dad." His response was "I love you too, Mike." Finally, he said the words. I didn't realize that it was the last time he would say them to me.

My father passed away on Monday, August 3rd at 11:42 p.m. He went quietly in his sleep with his family around him to tell him goodbye. I am glad I was there. Since then, I have been thinking about what regrets I have, and there are a few. The one that always worried me most was saying the words before we ran out of time. We finally did, but how could we have gone for so long and not tell each other how we felt?

Then it occurred to me that he had told me, many times. I had always considered "cats in the cradle" to be silly. To me it was a way to avoid conveying how he felt. But now I see those words expressed so much for him. When he said it, he may as well have been singing the entire song. He identified with every word. And he was saying "I love you."

Cats in the cradle, Dad.

ask your doctor

I have been following many doctors' instructions for almost four months since my surgery: Don't drink alcohol, don't drink caffeine, take your medications, go to every appointment, stay out of the sun, wash your hands, drop your pants and bend over, hop up on the table, take a deep breath, stick out your arm, monitor your nausea, drink lots of fluids, avoid crowds, lie still, don't get your bandage wet, and keep a positive attitude. I also have to tell every embarrassing, disgusting, chemo side effect body function to my doctors, RNs, nurses, pharmacists, even an occasional receptionist, like a good little cancer soldier. You'd think someone in that vast army of medical personnel would have the courtesy to tell me the plan. Apparently it's don't ask, don't tell.

July 20 is my final week of chemo and, as I mentioned before, I am having radiation treatment as well. Radiation is six weeks, every day except weekends. I got my tats and my preliminary CT and MRI and am ready. Okay, let's get it going, I'm getting very tired of all this.

I was five minutes late to my first radiation appointment (no surprise) to find two nurses waiting patiently for me. No waiting room and not another patient in sight. This was looking pretty good. They took me to a very large, new and expensive-looking xray machine with a table beneath it all set up and ready for me to hop on (more hopping). So, I hop on and am instructed to pull my pants down to mid thigh (I have said that my tumor was in my thigh, but I may not have mentioned that it was close to my groin) and a towel was discreetly and carefully placed and adjusted so as not to cause me any embarrassment, but still show my thighs. They took their time adjusting, in my opinion, but hey, I'm no expert. 

I will pause a moment while you giggle or get any jokes about my manhood out of your system. Its okay, I understand.

Ready? So, after they raise the table about chest high, it is then adjusted again so the xray beams can be triangulated, using my tattoos, to hit the exact position they want to obliterate - thereby saving the planet (sorry, got a little Jerry Bruckheimer). As I am lying there, I notice my feet are actually against a sheet of glass on the machine and the nurses are discussing something. A couple more attempts to adjust the table, and the nurses tell me they need to find the doctor. Fine. I'll just lie here, up in the air, with my pants pulled down.

The doctor arrives and proceeds to tell me I am too tall. Wha? Apparently the machine hasn't been configured for people my height with the position of my tattoos. Huh? We will need to reschedule so that they can reprogram the machine. Uh, okay. No big deal. What's one more appointment? 

They lower me and let me off the table. I take the opportunity to ask my radiation oncologist about the advantages of chemo and radiation at the same time. "Oh, we're not doing them at the same time. We are suspending you're chemo for six weeks and then you will resume once radiation is through" Wha? "Well, if that's what I have to do, then that's what I'll do," said the patient with the sense of humor and sparkling attitude. "I'll just be bald a while longer." Crap. "What is the advantage?" I asked innocently. "Oh, no advantage one way or the other. Your chemo oncologist and I just decided that is what we would do. Didn't anyone tell you?" Huh?

No advantage? Screw that! I'm tired of being the dutiful little cancer soldier. I told the doctor if there is no proof one way or the other, he is going to have to wait. Long story short: I am continuing with chemo and holding off on radiation. I want this to be over. I'm tired of having a good attitude about all this. I want my friends back. I want my freedom back. I want my hair back. (Insert witty remark here, I'm too pissed off.)

I will begin radiation treatment sometime in August. I'm not really looking forward to it but, I am told, it should only make me tired. Tired doesn't sound too bad, I don't mind telling receptionists I'm tired. 

So, until August, the radiation nurses will just have to practice proper towel placement on someone shorter. 

tats

Yesterday, I got a tattoo. Actually, four tattoos. Yes, four. It was blissful torment to see them grinding out in all their bloody, ink-slinging glory. I savored every painful prick of the artist's iron. I prefer to think of my tats as marks of deep tribulation. No, strike that. Maybe, stigmatas of infinite anguish. Oh, that's good.

Okay, they're tattoos, but they're not really tattoos. Fine, they are more like four freckles. But, I demanded the nurse who made them wear a bandana and tank top. And, they are ink, they are permanent, and they really, really stung. Happy?

So, I'm halfway through with chemo (hooray), and here comes another oncologist. "Not sick and tired enough? Let's blast you with radiation. We'll be behind this lead-lined wall." The "tats" are to help the doctor know where to point, with continued accuracy, the beam that is going to zap more of the cancer cells that they can't see and don't know are there. Invisible beams shooting at microscopic invaders that may not exist, hmmm. Sometimes I wonder if this isn't just some huge, well-organized grift - with a capital G and that rhymes with C and that stands for cancer.

My regiment will be a 15-minute session, once a day, for six weeks. On the days I also have chemo, it will be a long day because, of course, they are not at the same location. But, if I get started now, I will be done with everything by the end of July, with a couple of weeks of summer to spare before school begins.

Then, I plan to get a real tattoo. I've always liked the pinup classics, like Vargas and Petty. Maybe a bald sailor girl proclaiming my own V-Day. 

peanut head

I am bald.

The doctors were right, of course, they said I would lose my hair. Over the last few days, it has been coming out in tufts in my hands. So, rather than pathetically hang on to the very last strand of my golden fleece, I let go. It was fun, kinda.

I asked my sister and my niece to do the honors. I remembered being told that they shave my brother-in-law's head. Turns out they did it once. So, since I wanted to keep it in the family, I let them shave me anyway. On one condition, no blood.

We sat on our back deck on a beautiful June evening and, with a brand new pair of clippers, had an early Halloween, carving my pumpkin into a frightful array of follicle nightmares. They were timid at first, but once they got going, they could have put any military barber to shame. Didn't cut me once. Although, the maniacal laughter got a little annoying.

How does it look? My wife thinks it looks good and that I shouldn't wear a hat. Without my glasses, she thinks I look like a badass. She's being nice. I'm not convinced. With my glasses, I think I look like some deranged soldier from Full Metal Jacket. My cranium is smaller than I thought, which makes me think my brain is smaller as well. Perhaps when my sister called me peanut head, she wasn't referring to its shape, but its size. 

I have some folliclely-challenged friends who have absolutely no sympathy for me, at least as far as my hair. Enjoy this moment, my friends. I can't say I understand how they feel, because mine will grow back. But, at least for the summer, I have a chance to walk in their SPF 50 shoes.

Even though it has been less than a day, I am ready for it to come back. It doesn't feel right. But, I know that like the long hours of chemo and waiting for the tired, sick feeling to go away after each set of treatment, it will require patience. What doesn't.

hiccup

This is not the way I thought I would begin my blogging life, but I've had a curve ball thrown at me recently and I'd like to share my experience with anyone wishing to know. 

I have cancer.

That is the first time I have said it that succinctly since I was diagnosed back in March. Probably the first time I really believed it. In the short past, when I felt the need to tell people, I'd usually talk around it because I didn't want friends to worry. "Its an isolated tumor. A little hiccup and then on with life." And I have truly felt that way. Now that I have started treatment it doesn't feel like a hiccup, unless its a never-felt-so-tired-in-my-life-please-make-it-stop hiccup.

It started last year. I discovered a lump in my thigh and finally got around to asking a doctor about it. "Its normal" is basically the reply I got. A little time went by and it grew. I asked another doctor and he said, "We should take a look at it." An ultrasound, a doctor's puzzled looks, MRI, CT scan, biopsy and doctor's-request-that-I-visit-him-today later, I was told the lump is a tumor, malignant and fairly rare. "What is it?" I asked.

Myxoid-Round Cell Liposarcoma.

By the way, that doctor's call is scary as shit.

Basically its a soft tissue cancer. Most are benign. The round cells are the concern. They are aggressive. To be honest, I haven't done a lot of research on it. When I do look it up, mortality rate is the first thing my eyes gravitate to. I don't need to see that. Besides, who can read that stuff anyway? I get lost in the medical jargon and have no idea what the hell they are talking about. Instead, I got the advice of some highly-regarded doctors, and asked them to speak slowly.

Fortunately, it hasn't reared its ugly head anywhere else, but because of the aggressive nature of the cancer, my youth * ) and my health, all the doctors concurred that aggressive treatment was the answer. Basically, infusing me with poison and zapping me with radiation. Research on treatment is hard to come by for my type of cancer, but the docs think they can knock the return down from a 40% chance to a 5% chance. Next time it would likely appear in my lungs. No thanks. Treatment sounds like fun, sign me up.

So, first thing first, let's get rid of the tumor. This was the easy part. Go to sleep, wake up, no pain, say hi to visitors, go home the next day. Unfortunately, the doctor had to remove part of my thigh muscle with the tumor so, for a robin egg-size tumor, I have a 5 inch scar, a piece of meat the size of a baseball missing from my leg, and a permanently numb thigh. 

Chemotherapy didn't seem like it would be that bad. Sitting in a lounge chair with my laptop, a good book and friends coming to visit. Worse things than sitting in a La-Z-boy for 6 hours. Right?

After my first week of chemotherapy, laying on my bed, unable to eat or drink, I thought there was a plot to kill me. Several times I thought of that poor little girl in The Sixth Sense. I lost 10 pounds because of the nausea from the meds. Just the mention of "soup" sent me running. I have had more than a few 100mph psychedelic dreams. You'd think that was a plus, but they always seem to turn into nightmares that stay with you even when you wake up. Not a relaxing weekend.

On the brighter side, I still have my hair, but they say it won't last. Not a hat person, but I bought a couple of hats. Some people look good with no hair, I am guessing I ain't one. My sister always called me peanut head, an adolescent term of endearment. 

I get a two week break between the 5-day, 6-hour-a-day treatments. Then I start the process over again, three more times. I should be done with chemo by the end of July. Fingers crossed. Then radiation. Most people I have met at the cancer center only have to come in one or two days a week for a couple of hours, but most of them have been doing this for a while. I guess I feel lucky I have a short track to run.

The really bad thing about chemo is that while it is aimed at bad cells, it also destroys good cells that are needed to fight the cancer. White blood cells, which form in your bones and fight infection (see I learned something), are extremely important, without them chemo could kill me. At the moment my count is very low, so I need to be careful as far as infection and fever as I build my count back up. No crowds, landscaping, handling anything unsavory, restaurants, fruit with skin, pig wrestling, etc. So I may not be on the who's who of garden socials and frat parties this summer.

Today is one week and a day since my first day of chemo, so I am on hiatus at the moment. I almost feel back to normal, but something feels different. I don't know what it is.

One thing I do know, this IS a hiccup. And I know I have the unerring love and support of Roxanne, my amazing wife of 21 years, two sons that I couldn't be more proud of, a deeply caring family and extended family, and a lot of very good, very thoughtful friends. And I know all these people matter to me. 

For all your actions, thoughts and prayers, thank you from the deepest depths of my heart. 

Hiccup.