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.
