Not Dead Yet - posted above with correct date

Just Remember I Love You

Over the weekend I completed the LiveStrong ride and event here in South Florida.   Although having a few bumps being the inaugural event, it came off splendidly. I ended up riding the short course with my wife and her good friend.  I was originally afraid to ride because these things are usually crash fests, but with most riders doing the 100k or 30 mile ride there was only a small group to do the symbolic 10.2 mile ride.  It actually made a funny picture with half a dozen police cruisers surrounding just the three of a us, blocking traffic on A1A in north Miami beach, after the group spread out and everyone else but us left the police escort behind.  I've never felt more safe on two wheels.  I can't imagine what $215,000 will buy for LiveStrong.  How many guidebooks or staff hours spent directing those diagnosed with cancer into clinical trials or helping navigate insurance options.  It's an amazing thing.

Some good news, the medical team has OK'd me to return to work on Monday.  I had my six weeks scans in Houston yesterday, and the results were neither here nor there - as expected at this juncture.  They could have been worse, they certainly could have been better.  In fact, they were good enough to keep me in the TIL clinical trial but also bad enough to consider leaving the trial and starting option B (or D, or E - I've lost track). Ah, the ambiguity of cancer treatment. I have further scans in another six weeks that will be important in determining whether the TIL treatment was successful or not, should I decide to wait.  In the meantime life seems to slowly be returning to some level of normalcy, although I'm not sure what I expect normal to be these days. I think about this a lot. I am not equal, physically, to what I was before the fight began.  There are aches and pains, some body parts don't function as well as they did and stamina is fleeting.  But does this mean I am worse off than when I began? Or is it something to be treated or accepted in kind?  Should I complain or rejoice?  I have resorted to asking myself "what would John Wayne do?"  I use this as a litmus test as to the degree of 'nutting up' that is required for any given situation.  Would John Wayne complain about aches and pains?  I think not.  Perhaps this is the new normal, or perhaps it will get better. Either way, it is what it is.

I have to admit that I am a little afraid to return to something like a normal life.  Any survivor - and anyone living with cancer is a survivor - has to question why it is that they survived. What did they survive for? I am sure that there'll come a point, perhaps at a dismal business meeting in some god forsaken town, where I will ask myself "I survived for this?"  I have given a lot of thought to this and I believe the answer will definitely be 'yes'.  We survive for everything that is life, the small things, the big things, the good and the bad.  Because the dead only know one thing, that it is better to be alive.  It is better to know anything then it is know nothing.  And to be honest, I quite fancied my life before my battle with cancer began - the good, bad, big and small.  I will gladly take the little things, the bad things, again if I could only just maintain my role as my children's father.  That alone is worth everything, and my family is the reason I fought so hard this summer.  Fittingly, our family anthem is the 70s song "Just Remember I Love You".  For some reason, my kids absolutely love that song and the lyrics have been keenly appropriate this year.  There is nothing sweeter in the world than my six-year-old singing to me "just remember I love you, and it'll be all right".  I remember, believe me I remembered during the endless hours in the hospital bed staring at the picture of her precious face knowing that I had to pull through for her.

So - since I do not have much going on for at least the next month on the cancer front - this will be my last post for a while, perhaps longer.  I'm getting back to a normal life and hopefully for good. If you haven't already, sign up for e-mail notification of any future blog updates.  I cannot even begin to thank all my readers for your support. Many I know, most I do not. However, each and every one has meant very much to me and all have had a hand in this great fight.  Unfortunately, the fight continues.  Not just for me but also for the 28 million other people affected by cancer in the world today.  October is breast cancer awareness month and, sadly, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer just a short time ago. She begins chemotherapy treatment next week in her hometown.  As if I do not have enough reasons to hate cancer - now one half of my birth family is going through cancer treatment.  Her prognosis is good though, and she is a tough old bird - but it still pisses me off. There are way to many affected by cancer in the world today, it's just unacceptable.

Let's agree that in the meantime you will continue to do your part, fighting for yourself or a loved one or just out of kindness for others.  I'll continue my fight, kicking cancer's ass in my own backyard.  Until next time.

"When it all goes crazy and the thrill is gone,
The days get rainy and the nights get long,
And you get that feeling you were born to lose
Staring at your ceiling thinking of your blues.
When there's so much trouble that you want to cry
The world has crumbled and you don't know why
When your hopes are fading and they can't be found
Dreams have left you waiting, friends have let you down.
Just remember I love you, and it will be all right.
Just remember I love you more than I can say.
Maybe then your blues will fade away."
"When the blues come calling at the break of dawn
The rain keeps falling but the rainbow's gone
When you feel like crying but the tears won't come
When your dreams are dying, when you're on the run.
Just remember I love you and it will be all right."

I do, and it certainly is.

Undead

Life is slowly getting back to normal since I returned home earlier in the week.  I've taken Dr. Hwu's advice and am trying to mentally ease into the unique position of having no future treatment on my calendar.  I'm as afraid to allow myself to trust that the treatment completely worked as I am afraid to imagine that it did not.  It's the elephant in the room that we will just sit next to for a while, getting comfortable with before trying to figure out what it means.  Physically, having spent most of the past month in the hospital has left me a ninety pound weakling.  My skin is peeling from the top of my head on down as if I somehow, ironically, got a sunburn.  Except this sunburn is chemical and from the inside out.  And for some strange reason I permanently smell a strong odor exactly like that of Lipton instant ice tea (some side affects are more weird than worrisome).  I remain, and will remain for many months, on heavy duty antibiotics as the new immune system continues to grow.  But no real lasting complaints from the recent treatment, just the side effects of the extended sedentary time.  I'm now back on the bike trainer and slowly getting the engine running.  I feel good and I'm having a hard time holding back and pacing myself, if you can imagine that.  I've limited my rides/workouts to increase by only 10% at a turn which should keep me out of trouble.  I'm still not sure if I'll be riding one of the easier bike rides in the LiveLong/LiveStrong event here in south Florida next weekend.  I'm more concerned about my road skills than my legs, and since charity events are notorious for being bike crash-fests I would prefer to avoid injuring my already sensitive hip.  As of today we have over 1,400 registered riders and runners for the event with over $125,000 raised.  The goal of 1,600 participants should be easily met by next Saturday.  This is an amazing accomplishment for an inaugural event that, I think, guarantees that it is made an annual event.  Zimmerman and zMotion have really pulled this off.
     Something else I did this week was to watch Charlie Sheen's roast on television.  I believe that life’s lessons can be found as easily in the gutter as on the windswept mountaintops or the self-help section of a bookstore.  Those who do not believe this miss out on quite a few opportunities to learn a few things.  So whatever you may think of Charlie and his recent troubles, I think his summer holds a lesson for us all.  Successful people – and we cannot deny his success just because we disagree with how he celebrated that success – tend to do successful things.  At the apparent end of his crazy train ride he moved forward, not backwards.  He laughed at himself, learned from the experience and moved on.  He did not execute a reversal or a return to some previous self, but moved forward.  This seems to be evident in a newfound appreciation for what is good in his life, a renewed love for those who love him.  He appears to be turning a potentially lethal episode into a chance to improve himself.  In his own words, "I'm done with 'winning' because I've already won."

This phrase stuck in my mind this week because I’ve recently claimed in this space to be “winning” but am realizing that I, too, have already won.  Both in terms of learning valuable life lessons from a traumatic episode and also from passing a milestone in my battle with cancer.  A year ago today I made an appointment with my optometrist because I was having unexplained limited field of vision in my right eye.  This would eventually be exposed as a tumor and my initial cancer symptom.  Stage 4 melanoma cancer patients live, on average, one year past their initial symptoms of the disease.  There is nothing absolute about that number or date, or any such statistic, but that's how my situation was framed by the oncologists when I was diagnosed.  That wound up the countdown clock that started ticking in the back of my mind.  For what it is worth, today I am now past that dreaded milestone.  I have now beaten those particular odds.  And cancer has already left me a much better person - a little worse for wear,  but a better human being then when I started.  I have a newfound appreciation for my life, for my loved ones and for the great adventure upon which I continue.  And I’m not only still here, I'm very much not dead.  At the Melanoma Research Foundation's online community the stage 4’s that have beaten the odds are called the “undead.”  So that’s me, from today onward - the undead.  May I wish myself many happy returns.
    Still, we always need to keep our eyes on the prize as we pass such milestones.  For me that prize is having the three best letters is the alphabet – NED – entered in my medical records.  NED, or ‘no evidence of disease’, is the closest you can get to being declared cured of cancer.  That goal feels more real than ever now, and I swear I can almost see it if I look hard enough.  I move towards it now with increased determination, with a little more energy in my steps, because I've already beaten the initial odds against me.  What else can I do?
     So time for a score update:  William 1, cancer 0.