Author: bdharrellauthor

A retired bellyacher, sometimes writer and guardian of the dog Filbrix.

My Cancer Journey VI

My Cancer Journey VI

For those of you following this blog, my apologies for not posting last week as previously scheduled. It was the Christmas thing. Now that we’re past that, let’s continue…

Showtime!

I had a leisurely drive from the house to the hospital for pre-admission testing, including blood work (every time I see someone, they want blood work) and an EKG to make sure that my heart was running as well as it should have. The process took less time to accomplish than the drive over and back to the hospital.

My appointment for surgery was a bit more complicated to say the least. It included pre-packaging what I needed and what I thought I needed for the overnight. Included in the backpack I took were a change of clothes (including a Savannah Bananas T-Shirt) along with the phone and the computer.

We arrived in the wee hours of Monday morning with my deductible. After taking care of the usual paperwork (accomplished mostly at home over the weekend), we went to the day surgery waiting room where I was called almost immediately.

Most of what went on after that was routine. Blood pressure, blood work, an IV inserted into my hand for what they would give me to go to sleep.

The nurse asked if I had any questions. I asked her to remind me to ask The surgeon his choice of Cincinnati chili joints. She told me that her preference was Skyline. She hailed from Northern Kentucky and knew the chili well.

I finally had the opportunity to ask the surgeon the same question. Skyline.

Unanimous.

The anesthesiologist paid me a visit. Nice young woman. I was impressed. No choice of chili, but I won’t hold it against her.

Came the time, I got enough of a buzz from the initial part of the anesthesia. I wasn’t completely out until after I was shoved over on the operating table and was breathing through a mask.

About two hours later, I was whisked out of recovery. Got to the room and almost immediately threw up what little I had in my stomach into a handy wastebasket.

Got moving way too fast.

Turns out that the operation took a little longer than the time initially allotted due to the scar tissue I warned the surgeon about. He got even by making me stay overnight instead of letting me go home.[1]

The dog Filbrix needed my attention. I missed her, too.

Post-operative instructions were issued when I was settled to a certain extent. No lifting, no sex, no… well, there were doubtless others to deal with as well as dealing with the pain. Even though the procedure I had to remove my gall bladder was basically the same as the procedure to go after the few cancer cells on my liver, there was a huge difference in the pain that I felt in the hours after the operation.

The biggest change was the pain in my shoulders. In the more recent procedure, there was none. Nada. Zip.

The first time the pain was definitely there, due to the fact that the procedure was to inflate the body cavity with gas while the surgeon did his thing. Gas may or may not have been used this time around. I didn’t bother to ask.

After getting settled in, Carol went back to the house to assure the dog Filbrix while I tried to settle down to rest… oh fudge! I need to use the bathroom!

Being sixty-nine, the nurses in the hospital would not just let me jump up, go to the restroom, and lay back down in bed. Something having to do with falling.

Falling for someone my age can be downright hazardous. Statistics lend one to believe that falling is a major cause of death among those of us on the high side of sixty. Baylor Hospital takes that statistic seriously, requiring me to use a walker under the supervision of a nurse just to take the five steps to the bathroom.

I wasn’t about to argue with the policy. I was in enough pain already, besides, the nurses there were sympathetic to my plight. By the clever use of a walker, some assistance from a nurse, and some clever stepping on my part, I was able to accomplish my mission with a minimum amount of fuss.

Several times.

Through the rest of the day into night.

And a long night as well.

Over the years, I developed the habit of sleeping on my stomach or in a fetal position, usually on my left side. There have been times when I was forced to sleep on my back, but I did not do so willingly. Overnight in Baylor was one of those times when I did not do so willingly.

Same thing when I was staying overnight in Baylor when a surgeon did the resection of my rectum a couple of years earlier.

This time I was closer to the nurse’s station – but more importantly I was just across the hall from the nurse’s break room. One or more of the nurses had a husband who prepared a meal for her that she would warm up in the microwave at odd hours day or night. I might have begged for something for myself had my appetite been a bit keener or if I hadn’t been on some type of narcotic pain killer. Between the various diversions, I didn’t get much sleep.

Carol came by after breakfast to pick me up to take me home. When we were almost to the point of leaving, I got dressed in a Savannah Bananas T-Shirt matching the one Carol was wearing.[2]

Naturally, there were hoops to go through before discharge, including drawing blood and the usual rigamarole with getting my vital signs. Too, there was the matter of taking out the lines used to feed my anesthesia and whatever else they wanted to pump into my body.

That’s right, I said lines. When the initial line was put in, I was told that there might be another line in the other hand when I woke up from the surgery. Lo and behold, that’s what I found when I woke up. A second line waiting to be tapped.

It never was.

I thought that when I was told that they were going to take a blood sample before my discharge, they would do the convenient thing and use the second line in my hand as a collection point. Instead, there was yet another collection done on the inside of my elbow. Where I had donated blood to the lab on previous occasions and where I donated whole blood back in the day before I became ill.

Both lines were removed and I was finally discharged.

I can’t help but to think of the line on M*A*S*H that Major Winchester uttered when  finding a rubber chicken in his coffee pot: “Get me the hell out of here!”

Don’t get me wrong. The people working in the trenches of Baylor, Scott and White are the very best I have encountered. Love ‘em to death. But I’d rather be at home.

[1] The surgeon told me going in that he kept his patients overnight when we had our initial consultation. It wasn’t a surprise.

[2] The Savannah Bananas is a baseball team… the baseball equivalent of the Harlem Globetrotters. I purchased the shirts prior to a trip we made a few months earlier to visit my daughter, Sarah, in Savannah.

Story Time

One of my sisters sent me a packet of information about a distant relative – Cousin Julius – a Civil War veteran whose 102nd birthday was celebrated in Life Magazine. Part of the package included a story written by my father. I transcribed the story, intending to print it and send it to my siblings. Well, somehow the writing program didn’t recognize my printer. So, here is the story. As written by my father nearly 75 years ago – along with all his little misspellings and quirks that made the story uniquely his…

MacPheerson and the Smiling Nude

 

        “Whenever I visit you in Norfolk there are always two things of which I can be sure: First, you like me as a friend but do not wish to put any money in my venture. Next, there will be an ad in the Sunday paper which will ask for information concerning Doris Batker.”

               “Right on both counts.”

          “Now you insist on the reason that you will not back me is that you think that my ideas are good in theory but will not be good in practice. The reason for mentioning Miss Batker is to disprove your ideas of me. Look at this ad.”

                    Reward: For information of the whereabouts of

                    Doris Batker who was last seen boarding a train

                    for Washington 15 March 1943. At the time she

                    was wearing a mink coat and had but one small,

                    leather bag with her. She is blond, has a star-shaped

                    scar on the left side of her face, and should be now

                    twenty-six years old.

                    No other information is known.

                    Contact J.M. Mason, Selden arcade, Norfolk for the

                    reward.

          “I have seen the ad; I do not need to read it again.”

          “Well, Tom, here are my ideas on the subject. Miss Batker is of no relation to Mason. He is a well known bachelor and so would hardly be a foster parent. He is the best and most expensive lawyer in town. The cost of employing Mason, together with the mink coat, tells us that more than the girl’s personal safety is involved. All the facts tell us someone other than Miss Batker is to gain, else there would not be this long ad each Sunday.”

          “Mac, you have done nothing but tell me what is obvious. What you do not know is that the girl is my cousin. The exact reason for wishing to find her is this: Soon after Doris vanished an uncle left a will which divides his estate among Doris, my mother, and me. The will is so worded that the money will be in the form of trusts, but the money from the trusts will go to certain charities until Doris is found or is proven to be dead; she cannot be declared dead.”

          “And so you still offer the reward.”

          “Not I; mother is the one offering the reward. My interest in the case ended when Doris’s parents were killed in an auto crash. But all of this puts us back where we started: you are rather good with theory, even if the theory is a well known one.”

          Tom stood up.

          “Would you care to see a copy of the picture which Pinkerton’s used while trying to find the girl? See how the scar shows there by her eye.”

          MacPheerson studied the photo of the girl for a while before he spoke. “Tom, if I were to find the girl, say within a month, would you be willing to add enough money to the reward, but in the form of a loan, to put my venture into action?”

          “Only to say no more of the loan if you do not find the girl.”

          “Agreed.”

Three weeks later, Tom opened a thick envelope that had come in the morning mail. He found it to be the following report from MacPherson:

          To Tom Ashman, Report on Doris Batker.

          The face in the picture of Doris that you showed me was a face I had seen before. Three days before, my brother-in-law had, as a joke, given me a photo of a sexy nude. The face of the nude was that of Doris. The question that presented itself was one of tracing the photograph to the model.

           My brother-in-law told me that he had gotten the photo at a shop on Madison Avenue in Chicago. So I took the next plane. The keeper of the designated shop refused to admit that he had sold this or any other photograph of a nude. He was not open to bribery, so I threatened to call for intervention by the police if he did not wish to aid me. Just how I should have gotten the police to do something was not clear to me; but it was not clear to the shop-keeper, either. Quickly he told me that the photo had come from an establishment on the south side.

          When I gave the address to my cab driver, he told me to wait while he made a phone call. He returned and we were off on a brief but hazardous ride across town. The number that the shop-keeper had given me turned out to be over a bar; the sign on the door said that it was a photographic studio. My driver followed me in like a faithful dog. At the top of the steps two large and unshaven men grabbed me by the arms and told me to come with them; there was nothing else that I could have done. Two other gentlemen cared for my faithful dog.

          We were taken into one of the nicest offices that I had ever seen. Every object was expensive and well chosen. From the far side of a desk we were viewed by a well dressed Italian of about forty.

          “The boys and I found out you were on the way to see us. Now why?”

          While I told him that I wished to find Doris, my two escorts emptied my pockets and put what they found in front of the Italian. It was more than obvious that he did not believe a word I was saying.

          “The boys and I do not wish to get rough; tell me who sent you.” His voice was not rough, but it was one of authority. His lighting a cigarette was the signal for one of my escorts to slap me soundly on the left side of my face. Till then I had thought of such a blow as being a sort of token resistance offered by a woman. I hope that they never find what a deadly weapon they have. “Who sent you?” My lack of what he considered a proper reply was rewarded by another blow in the face, but this time with a closed fist.

          This sort of thing could have gone on for a long while but I thought it was time to use my head and not let it be used. “Let’s stop all this nonsense, and I will give it to you straight,” I said picking myself up from the floor. The Italian offered me a chair near the center of the room and I gladly took it. “Where is my driver?” I asked.

          “The boys took him into the next room. But remember this: from now on I ask the questions. You had best be full of the proper answers.”

          “If you do not believe that there is a Doris Batker, send one of your lads out for a Norfolk paper; there should still be one in the stands. And if you do not believe that I am trying to find her, you may phone Tom Ashman at my expense.”

          “You are doing nothing but playing for time. It may be that you enjoy being knocked in the face. So, if you do not…”

          At this point the place was alive with police. They took one look at my battered face and muttered something about assault while they put the cuffs on the Italian and his boys. “If those lads are sent to gaol,” thought I, “I should never find more information of Doris.” So I spoke up: “Officers, you have the entire thing wrong. You would never arrest a mother for spanking a naughty child, would you? Well, these gentlemen are of the opinion that I am not a very good in-law, and they are right. As long as we were not disturbing the peace, and as long as I don’t mind, let us drop the matter. What do you say?”[1]  

          Their leader said that if I did not press charges he could not take them to the station; he also said he thought I was a fool for not doing so. He gathered his men and left.

          “Look,” I said to the Italian when the last of the police left the room, “I could have gotten out of here when they left, but I did not. I could have even pressed charges. But that would not have helped me with finding Doris.”

          “You know, I liked that remark you made of ‘in-laws’. I was almost ready to believe you when the police arrived. Now, tell me why is finding this Doris Batker is so important to you?” His voice was no longer one of authority; he had reached a personal level. “Are you in love with her?”

          “I told you I was searching for Doris for the reward offered, but I did not tell you that this Tom Ashman will let me have a tidy sum if the girl is found. I must have every cent from both sources in order to try a little venture that I have in mind. Importation of certain optical glass.”

          The Italian smiled in a friendly way. Offering me a glass of brandy, he said, “I am glad that you are not in love with this girl. That would complicate matters greatly. You see, those police would have loved to have gotten me to the station on any charge. They know that I am mixed up with white slavery, but they do not know how and they cannot prove a thing. But still, they would like to have a chance to question me. It stands to reason that if you had been from the police, as we first feared, we should have made that trip to the station.” He went on: “Einstein is a well known man not because he discovered anything new, but because he knew how to put Hamelton’s system of math before the scientific public. He used his head, not his strength. Suppose that you play Einstein for a week and let me be Hamelton. I will find the girl in the next seven days and report to you at your hotel. Register at the Bismark at my expense. Do not feel that was about the matter; white slavery is not my only income. And at heart I am an honest man.”

          There was little to do but to follow his advice. He insisted that I should most likely be murdered if I were to try to find the girl without his help. Some other person might not believe my story.

          My cab and driver were at the curb. “The police got here just in time. I phoned them before we came here. Always have them check me around here. Oh, I made some money at cards while you were being ‘questioned’.” I marveled at the insight of my driver, and I should like to have known how he got his keepers to play cards. And I wondered whether or the Italian, whose name I did not know, would be able to find the girl… or if he would try to find her at all. At that point it was interesting, but I was in no physical condition to honestly care.

          By Saturday I had begun to care very much. When I thought that my month was a quarter gone and that I had nothing to show for it, save the promise of an unknown man, I began to feel uneasy. There had been no word from the Italian. He ha d said he would give results in a week, and the week would not be over until Monday; but my inactivity had made my fears of never having my import company grow to enormous sizes. I had made up my mind to go out for a drink when there was a light knock at the door. It was the Italian. Behind him stood my cab driver.

          “I have good news for you. I had feared Doris to be dead. We generally do not use pictures of our girls while they work for us. Doris is alive and well. Anything else you wish to know of her you can ask her yourself. In the morning your old cab driver, whom you now see dressed as a chauffeur, will drive you to see Doris in my car.” The Italian was in a jovial mood. “Whenever I am looking for honest work, I shall expect you to give me a job.” He was out of sight before I could say a word to him.

          “I wish I was smart like you and the Italian. He told me that he checked on you and found that you made better grades in college than he. Yes, sir, he is a Harvard man. He told me to be by for you at six in the morning. Good night.”

          I had expected a short ride, but three days later we came to a medium size town in central Texas. My driver told me that in the morning I was to visit the doctor. And the following morning I was driven to the office of a Dr. E. S. Lowe. Just before I entered the office my driver handed me a note which told me that Dr. Lowe’s wife is Doris Batker. I found that she is more than his wife; she was his good right arm, in the form of a skilled surgical nurse.

          But there are some questions I am not able to answer even after these days at Dr. Lowe’s: Who the Italian was. How Doris came to be a nurse. And so on. But I have found out why Doris left. And her return will not be at all welcomed by your mother who offered the reward in the first place. For the past six years Doris has supressed evidence that will convict your mother for murder.

Notes on this story –

With just a couple of exceptions, I transcribed this story exactly as written by my father over 70 years ago. I would guess that this was written in 1949. It was a class assignment for which he earned a B+ with the notation that while the story was good, it could have been balanced better. Thanks to Janice Sing for including this with materials having to do with “Cousin Julius” sent earlier this year. I may have to toy with this story a bit after I’m clear with the Chemo.

Until then, have a Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year!

[1] Two notes on this paragraph: The word “gaol” used by the writer is another term for “jail”. For the other, this was an assignment. After the mention of “the Italian and his boys” the instructor left the words “Where from?” in red and off to the side.

My Cancer Journey V

My Cancer Journey V

The Coming Attraction

As I had mentioned previously, my appointment to have an upper body MRI had me arriving at Baylor Hospital in McKinney at six-thirty on a Tuesday morning. I arrived to find there were two other parties in line before me. One was a woman with an entourage waiting for surgery, the other was a pregnant woman about to burst and her husband. The person at the front desk called out a last name and both parties stirred. Both had last names that were quite similar.

While that situation played out to a conclusion, another woman came in, looking as tired as I was. In the meantime, the sole woman at the front desk was trying her best to do her job.

A second operative finally came to the front desk. She and I went through the paperwork, ran the card for the deductible, and proceeded to the empty radiology waiting room.

The show for me was supposed to start at 6:45.

There was no one able to get me going on the machine until a little before 7:00.

I knew the drill and the tech knew me. He was a little puzzled, having seen me a little less than three weeks earlier. When the situation was explained, we were able to work on getting the session done while having short bursts of conversation before and after we did the deed. When we were done, it was back home to wait until my appointment with the surgeon the following Monday.

*****

To this point, my struggles with doctors were confined to my Primary Care Physician in Allen (about 7 miles away) and to the other doctors, the hospital and the cancer clinic ten miles away in McKinney. The surgeon’s office is in Plano – a good 15–20-mile drive from my home in Princeton.

Carol and I were quite aware of where the surgeon had set up shop in an office building adjacent to Baylor Scott and White’s Plano location. We spent our first anniversary at that hospital – Carol had a double mastectomy ridding her of some suspicious lumps that kept popping up. Adding to the irony, the surgeon who performed the mastectomy on Carol shared an office with the surgeon who was going to work on me.

I was impressed with the man. His overview of what I was to expect was quite thorough. He laid out several scenarios before telling us (Carol was with me) what would be the best scenario for everyone involved. The sample needed by the surgeon was too small to attempt a “Needle Biopsy”, so instead, he proposed a bit of laparoscopic surgery instead.

Been there, done that. Have the T-Shirt.

I remember waking up early, like 4:00am on a Sunday morning early, to intense abdominal pain, thinking I was about to have a heart attack. A trip to the ER eventually revealed that I had gallstones in a gall bladder that needed to be taken out.

The following Friday, May 8,1992, I was in the hands of a surgeon who successfully removed my gall bladder, assisted by one of the local OB/Gyns working the camera. The reason I am specific on the date was that on May 9th, Bruce Springsteen made his first appearance on Saturday Night Live. I was on meds, zonked out of my gourd, but I was sure as sin not going to miss The Boss on SNL!

Two takeaways from that experience were relayed to the surgeon thirty-one years later. When my gall bladder was taken out, the surgeon complained after the fact that was a lot of scar tissue from a previous bit of surgery. Fair warning for the upcoming surgery. The other was my having to pay an Ob/Gyn for his part in the surgery. I was amused at the time and am still amused to this day about “My Gynecologist.”

The surgeon was similarly amused.

With the chit-chat out of the way, we determined to arrange for surgery at Baylor Scott White in McKinney as soon as arrangements could be made.

That left me time to think about a few other things, like scars. While making out an entry for my personal blog, I got to thinking about the other scars I’ve had on my body over the years and got to thinking about those scars.

First and foremost was the scar on the right side of my belly gained when an unknown doctor cut into one-month-old me to relieve my pyloric stenosis. That scar was the one creating the scar tissue the surgeon going in after my gall bladder (with the assistance of my OB/GYN) complained about when he ran a video of his work afterwards. The pyloric stenosis scar grew with me. I learned later on, that cuts for pyloric stenosis were moved from a prominent place on the abdomen to just under the rib cage where the scar would be a lot less noticeable. When I worked in the oil patch[1], one of my co-workers came to work his two-week stretch worried about his newborn son’s diagnosis of pyloric stenosis. I showed him my scar, told him about the newer way surgeons would make a cut, and assured him that since I survived 28 years with the affliction, his son would surely do the same.

Other scars included (not counting my circumcision) included one where a cyst was taken out of my backside, one of the four incisions made for the removal of my gall bladder, one for a hernia repair, and the inside my rectum cut for the resection of said body part.

I made the choice to count however many cuts made for my upcoming surgical appointment as part of a larger collection… making what for some would be considered some sort of life altering experience. What’s one more cut to a pro, eh? For that matter, how many men can honestly say that they had work that included the services of an OB/GYN?

*****

A week and a half later, I got the call.

I was scheduled for pre-admission testing on the 24th of August, followed by surgery early in the morning on the 28th.

[1] Between 1980 and 1984 I worked as a roustabout on offshore oil rigs run by Keydril. Two weeks on and two weeks off. It was quite the adventure. The incident mentioned here occurred on Keydril’s Aleutian Key.

My Cancer Journey IV

My Cancer Journey IV

Life in Temporary Limbo

For the better part of three weeks, I had to wait out the machinations behind the scenes at various doctors offices and the insurance company handling my Medicare account.

There really wasn’t much to do except try to live my life as best I could, taking care of what I needed to take care of to keep the household running. It was during this period that I made the decision to keep track of my disease and post what I could on the internet.

I started with a couple of synopsis on Facebook. I started with a remark about missing the Trifecta, followed by a more complete recap on the Sunday following the news from The Oncologist. I ended the entry with a bit of serendipity:

“The next steps include an MRI, a visit with a different surgeon, and an appointment with the Oncologist – probably after the surgeon goes fishing in my body for a sample.

The first couple of weeks in August will probably be quite interesting.

I am upbeat.

If I ended up having to have Chemotherapy, I could pretend that I’m Lex Luthor![1]

Not to minimize some of the battles other people of my acquaintance have had with “The Big C.” Cancer is a big deal. I am thankful that my journey so far has been as easy as it has been.”

And so it goes.

I took the time to write in my personal blog space courtesy of WordPress at bdharrellauthor.com, too. I did two entries at WordPress in relatively short order. The first was a recap of my situation. The second was more of a reflection.

Cancer, it appears, runs in the family.

My father died of a Melanoma that migrated to his brain less than six months after his 71st birthday.

My mother developed throat cancer and died at the tender age of 86.

My maternal grandfather also had throat cancer, but he died just short of his 93rd birthday.

Mom’s sister died of a massive stroke while she was under treatment for cancer – Dad’s sister had cancer and survived several years before she passed.

I pointed out that I was just 69 with aspirations of living to the ripe old age of 102, killed by a jealous lover.

Another part of the blog was about the connection of tobacco use and cancer. My parents both smoked – Mom quit when she was 40, Dad never really did quit. Mom’s sister and my maternal grandfather both used tobacco. I used tobacco myself until I was thirty-nine.

******

Aside from my forays on the web, I had other concerns. The Dog Filbrix[2], for example, was due for a trip to the vet. On the day I took her, I got a call from the people doing the MRI getting me set up for the first day in August at the ungodly hour of 6:30 in the morning. It was one of those “I have to take it” deals because of the call I got a day or two earlier setting up an appointment to see the surgeon on the seventh.

I wasn’t complaining.

To be scheduled to see a surgeon less than three weeks after the consultation telling me that there was something on my liver appeared (to me) to be rather quick. I was asymptomatic and had no idea that something was wrong, other than being told by the Oncologist that there was something wrong.

And that says a lot about early detection.

Many people wait until there’s a problem, or a number of problems before going to see a doctor and finding out that they have a bigger problem than the one they bargained for. At the time I’m writing this (Early November) I have been following the case of a friend in Ohio who was having trouble sleeping to begin with, along with several other problems at the same time. Eventually (over a period of several months) he was diagnosed with and will be undergoing treatment for Stage 3 lung cancer. His case will come up later as I blog my own experiences.

While I was waiting for the new MRI and my visit with the surgeon, I developed a set of questions to be asked at the appropriate time. I also started to look at what was happening to, or around me, with a sense of humor.

Humor is a defense mechanism I employ quite often. Humor helps to take the edge off.

In my personal library is the book Humor Works, written by John Morreall, Ph.D. (HRD Press Inc. 1997 – ISBN 0-87425-400-0), generously donated by my Mother-In-Law a few years ago. The book confirms that humor can take the edge off a tricky situation for some of us.

I am one of those people.

Being an old fart, I’m allowed.

[1] After writing this entry into my Facebook feed, I found that the current generation of people are not familiar with Superman’s nemesis, Lex Luthor. If it is of any help, perhaps I should bring up a different character. Doctor Evil, as portrayed by Mike Meyers in the Austin Powers movies.

[2] I refer to The Dog Filbrix as The Dog Filbrix because of my daughter. She became enamored of a friend’s small dog, referring to it as The Dog Aderick. She was three, maybe four at the time. Filbrix is on me. When I was a youngster at about the same age, I had a stuffed dog I named Filbrix for some unknown reason. I will have more about the dog Filbrix later on in this narrative.

Photo = My not still 4-year-old daughter and the dog Filbrix

My Cancer Journey III

My Cancer Journey III

This week’s installment is shorter.

Shorter is not intentional – rather, it just turned out that way. This past week (11/21-28/2023) straddled the Thanksgiving Holiday, posing a challenge that will be covered later. Another challenge that came up was in the form of a book sent to me by my sister and her husband. Reading it last night, there was something came up that caused me to do a quick re-edit… having to do with the privacy of the patient and doctor(s). Instead of naming the names of the professionals involved in my care, I will be referring to them in terms of the care they are giving me. I may change the edits later.

Starting Out

The second round started on the 19th of July 2023.

As I mentioned before, I was upbeat about my appointment with the Oncologist. After all, my appointment with my Primary Care Physician the previous Wednesday went well, and there was no news from the surgeon who did the resection from the MRI she had ordered less than a week earlier. My presumption was that no news was good news, so, my visit with the Oncologist would provide me with a medical “Trifecta” that would make me feel really good about myself and my long-term prognosis.

It had been a little over two years since the initial colonoscopy and follow-up surgery. The Oncologist kept me “under observation” with visits every quarter, sliding to visits every six months after a year of quarterly visits. Six months prior to my July visit, I was handed off to a Nurse Practitioner with the promise that my visits would alternate with the good Doctor and the Nurse Practitioner for the remainder of the five-year observation period.

Fine by me.

Just after my visit with my PCP on the 12th, I went to the cancer clinic for a CAT scan at the Oncologist’s request. It was a simple visit. The tech and I had met on several previous occasions. We both knew what needed to be done and the visit was over almost as soon as it started. The only problem I had was with what is called the contrast. There was a newer tech being trained and she had some problem finding a vein. She managed to get me my first bruise from either giving or taking blood. I excused the tech trainee on the basis of lack of experience.

The week between my visit with my PCP and my appointment with the Oncologist went well. Nothing unusual. Took care of some bills, coped with the heat, went shopping, you know, the usual. No word from the surgeon from the MRI she ordered for me, so I presumed that when I went to see the Oncologist on the morning of the 19th at 9:40am that we would have a pleasant visit and I would walk out with a Trifecta.

Missed it by that much.

The Oncologist told me that when looking at the CAT scan, she and the tech had noted a 3cm growth on the edge of my liver.

Now, three centimeters isn’t very much. Just a little over an inch. But those three centimeters are enough to cause concern. We’re talking in terms of a vital organ. While the Oncologist spoke of possible treatment options, my head was trying to wrap around the fact that the cancer I thought I was rid of had made an encore performance.

The good news that morning was that the offending cancer was small and likely excised with little or no problem. The not as good news was that there would definitely be some additional treatment involved. Radiation was mentioned. Chemotherapy was mentioned. There would have to be a biopsy and the involvement of another surgeon. The Oncologist mentioned several choices of surgeon. I asked her which surgeon she would trust. She told me. I told her that if she trusted the surgeon she recommended, I would trust her judgement.

The choice was made. Orders were sent.

All I had to do was to wait for the call to see when I would see the surgeon.

My Cancer Journey II

My Cancer Journey II

If you are following or thinking of following this thread, good news. I have decided to publish chapters on Tuesdays. Hopefully without fail.

Here’s the second installment:

Allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Bruce, although I have had several monikers attached to me by myself and others.

For instance, someone on my high school yearbook took a picture of me playing my cello with the legend, “It’s Harpo! It’s Chico! It’s Groucho! No, it’s Bruco!”[1] I adopted the moniker a couple of years later when I was on the radio as “Bruco in the Nighttime.”[2] Radio was one of several career stops along the way. We’ll get there in just a bit.

When asked where I am from, I tell people that I was born in Maryland, weaned in Pittsburgh, went to elementary school in the Cleveland Ohio area, and to high school in Chillicothe Ohio. As this story unfolds, I have been living in what I refer to as my little corner of the DFW Metromess since 1998. This current location marks the second time I’ve lived in Texas – I lived in a corner of Houston back in the early ‘80s.

I am the oldest of six and the furthest flung. Three of my siblings live in Ohio, the other two are in Indiana and Maine.

My parents were the younger siblings of their respective families. Dad had an older sister living in Houston. Mom’s sister lived in West Virginia, less than fifteen miles from where she and my mother were raised.

Mom, her sister, Dad’s sister, and one of my own sisters were nurses. When it came to my health, they pulled no punches. That’s why I appreciate my care team. I can ask questions and get direct answers.

As you probably guessed from the previous entry, I am married to a woman named Carol. She’s a nurse, too.

Carol is my second wife (and I am her second husband). My first wife, the mother of my two children, is seldom mentioned by me. There’s a certain amount of enmity between us that isn’t helped any by my referring to her as “The Previous Regime.”

My second wife is nicer.

Like many “Baby Boomers,” I’ve had more than one “career” in my lifetime. Radio, for instance, was something that I was sort of born into. Robust, distinctive voice, and a penchant for trivia helped me to maintain my own in the medium. To this day, I encounter people who remark about my voice, asking if I’ve ever been on the radio. I admitted so to a couple I was in the process of selling at a well-known home improvement store here in the Metromess[3] that indeed I had been on the radio in southern Ohio. The woman immediately told me what radio station I worked in Ohio (much to my surprise), revealing herself to be the older sister of one of my running buddies.

Small world.

While performing on the radio may seem attractive, the downside is that wages suck. I’ve borrowed the term, “Minimum wage and all the records you can eat.” With the current state of the art, there are no longer records to eat – only what’s blowing around in this ether called the internet.

I had a six-year hiatus from radio in the eighties. Three years each working as a roustabout on an offshore oil rig, three years attempting to run a business I had purchased. I lost he money I saved working offshore running the business.

When I went back into radio for the next six years, the way radio did business was starting to change. I managed to make more money than I did previously, but still not enough to support a family.

There was a short time when I worked in the circulation department of a local newspaper, followed by what I consider to be my second real career selling major appliances for three “Big Box” stores.

Enough of my work history.

I believe I covered my personal history, too.

After “retirement,” I took up writing for fun and losing money. When this second round of cancer came about, I put aside some of what I was writing, to write about this new phase of my life.

Can’t wait to see how this all works out!

******

Two things should be noted here.

For one, this book, or guide, or whatever this turns out to be, follows notes I made on my Facebook page and on my WordPress site – bdharrellauthor.com

For the other, not everyone’s journey is the same. These are my impressions and may not be what you would expect if you are on this journey yourself.

Let’s hope you don’t have to go on that journey. If you do, let others know. You won’t believe the amount of support you’ll get.

[1] Pronounced – Brew-So, following the Marx Brothers’ theme.

[2] Not to be confused with “Cousin Brucie” AKA “Cousin Bruce Morrow” or with Don Imus’ “Imus in the Morning” which was being broadcast at the same time.

[3] A friend of mine used the term “DFW Metromess” a couple of years ago. I decided to appropriate (steal) the term to use as my own. After all, “Plagiarism isn’t stealing, it’s merely recycling!” – Professor Peter Schickele

Be Seeing You!

My Cancer Journey – 1

My Cancer Journey – 1

This is the first installment of many having to do with my ongoing treatment of a dose of cancer discovered this past summer. It is a work in progress – and it is as of this date, nowhere near complete.

Prelude

Cancer is a disease no one wants, but people end up getting it anyway.

Not everyone gets it. But at the same time, the disease seems to make its rounds. When someone gets it, usually he or she will find out about others who either have it or had it. Like going out and buying a car. My wife, Carol and I went last year and purchased a used Chevrolet Spark – a car I have dubbed “The Roller Skate.” Until we made the purchase, I hadn’t noted the things. Now, they’re popping up everywhere.

Is it all psychological, or is that psychiatric?

Back in May of 2021, I learned by way of a colonoscopy that I had rectal cancer. There wasn’t much there. The person doing the colonoscopy removed the mass and referred me to a very good surgeon who made sure that I was clean as a whistle by doing a relatively simple resection of the offending part of my rectum.

My concern at the time centered on what might happen to me. I was sent to Physical Therapy to pump me up with what I needed in the way of strength so that I might withstand what might actually happen when the surgeon cut into me with her scalpel. Words like “Radiation” and “Chemotherapy” were paraded around me with possible timelines that would mean a year taken away from whatever I thought I might be doing in that time.

News of how well the surgery on my rectum went – despite part of it being conducted by a robotic surgeon nicknamed “Karen” by the surgical staff – came from Dr. Palanisamy, an Asian woman who was quite thorough with her evaluation of me. I appreciate her being forthright about what was or would be happening to me. I also very much appreciate her cheery disposition.

It was after the surgery that I started to note the number of people I knew who had been affected by cancer. My parents and both of my aunts had it. Several classmates had lost the battle or were still battling the disease. My stepdaughter’s ex underwent treatment. The same stepdaughter’s new fiancé was diagnosed and was gone within a month.

I came to understand and appreciate that the battle I fought in the summer of 2021 was short, sweet, and successful. As a precaution, Dr. Palanisamy insisted that I have regular check-ups with her and/or her Nurse Practitioner over the next five years. For the first year and a half, those check-ups were quarterly. In October 2022, the check-ups were moved to every six months. Dr. Novosad, the surgeon who worked with “Karen” did regular exams as well, involving KY Jelly and a rubber glove.[1]

All in all, my little bout with “The Big C” was short, sweet, and without incident.

That is, until July 2023.

From July 5 through July 19 I had a series of “Labs”, CAT scans, and MRIs followed by consultations with Dr. Sarver (my Primary Care Physician) and Dr. Palanisamy. By this time, I had been spared the regular exam from Dr. Novosad, although she had ordered the MRI just to keep track of her work.

I met with Dr. Sarver on the 12th, followed by the CAT scan for Dr. Palanisamy later the same day. The MRI came about the next day.

Dr. Sarver was impressed with my attitude and my bloodwork. He sent me on my merry way.

Since Dr. Novosad said nothing after the MRI, I presumed that everything was peachy-keen with her, too.

My appointment with Dr. Palanisamy was on the 19th. I was all ready to declare a Trifecta of good health and had all but lined-up a weekend with Carol to celebrate my good fortune.

“It looks as if there is a small growth on the edge of your liver. About 3cm. Not big, really, but we need to find out what it is. The sooner the better.”

So much for the Trifecta.

On to round two.

[1] I could have said something about the exam being degrading, but in the grand scheme of things, it really wasn’t, as most women would testify after having visited a Gynecologist. I had an exam of my testicles done by a young woman many moons ago. I thought that I might have been embarrassed but found that I wasn’t.

Paper Cuts

Paper Cuts

A portion of my “Good Wednesday” was spent taking care of business I should have been filing quite some time ago. I was halfway through the job when I realized the most dangerous part of going through Chemotherapy.

Paper cuts.

When I dragged out my foldable utility trailer last night for Halloween, I decided to use it as a way to organize the various dregs and vestiges of reminders and notices connected with the various doctors’ appointments and gymnastics associated with those same appointments. Between going to get a haircut (maybe to lose it before Christmas) and heading off to the pharmacy to get a flu shot, I separated enough pieces of paper to put a CVS sales receipt to shame.

All in all, I had at least thirteen different classifications of paperwork covering at least five doctors, four different medical buildings, three Nurse Practitioners, two different drug stores, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

How that partridge got there, I have no idea. Perhaps it has something to do with this being the first of November.

It should be noted that with all that I have collected, I was able to toss half again as much without really trying. I mean, do I really need to keep a roster of sports teams provided by my opthalmologist as a way to test my vision? I didn’t think so.

To be honest, part of my collection of paper is really my own fault. I prefer the proverbial paper trail to relying on the “Cloud” to be able to recall important documents. Part of that has to do with having gone through high school in a town with a paper mill. Gotta keep those folks working!

And then I sit down at the end of the day, contemplating doing the actual filing in the morning, and I look up from the laptop to realize that there is a whole ‘nother bunch of paper in my “In” box that needs attention – including a stack of old photos of “Cousin Julius” forwarded to me by my youngest sister. Somehow, she thinks that I am the family historian… and that’s because I have an old copy of LIFE magazine showing Cousin Julius’ 102nd birthday party. Our grandmother is in the article, uncredited, but she is there none the less. (Sweet Mary Pickford was at the party for Cousin Julius. It was quite the article.)

But I digress.

I have a goal to have a clean desk by the time I head off to the clinic to be infused next Wednesday. I hope that by then, I will find out whether or not I really belong there!

Be Seeing You!

AI – AI – AI – YIKES!

AI – AI – AI – YIKES!

Like it or not, we appear to be headed into an era where Artificial Intelligence (AI) is starting to creep into our lives. I occasionally encounter AI on an almost daily business. For example, this morning I got four (count ’em, 4) solicitations on one of my email accounts telling me that there’s this company that combats hair loss. And that’s what I am looking forward to – losing my hair due to Chemo. Now, how did that company know that I was anticipating hair loss due to Chemotherapy? Sniffing around on my social media posts, no doubt.

Now, let’s be fair. The company is “Hers” and aims services to women. I had a brief discussion with my doctor about possible hair loss, and she pointed out that hair loss by women during Chemotherapy is more of a psychological hurdle than it is for men. I can laugh off hair loss as an opportunity to cosplay Superman’s nemesis, Lex Luthor, or Mike Meyer’s “Dr. Evil”. The headwraps I see on women in the waiting room at the cancer clinic have my utmost respect for what they are going through.

Back to AI.

My wife started reading a Chinese Novel – one which started out as a novella. Read a chapter or two, watch a few ads, and the story continues.

She started to tell me about this thing she was reading and it didn’t take too long for me to figure out what was happening. The story had certain elements that kept repeating. For instance, the central character, a woman, was constantly giving birth to multiple children… 5-10 or more at a time. Take a break, read some ads, and there she goes again! The term “Breed Sow” comes to mind. Given the storyline and the willingness of the young heroine of the story, I firmly believe that by reading the ads, my wife is giving some piece of AI somewhere a cue to continue with the same storyline.

Coincidentally, Amazon has announced that it will not accept more than three books per week from any one author. With AI, apparently, some people are using AI as a shortcut to publishing fame and fortune.

What a racket!

I could spend just minutes instead of hours or weeks or months or years writing a novel that would earn me fame and fortune, thanks to AI. But that wouldn’t be very sporting of me, now, will it? Granted, there would be fewer incidents of misplaced commas (as seen two lines up) and the story line may not jibe with what I originally intended, but such is the cost of convenience.

Part of the reason I write is that it is cathartic. I may not have perfect grammar sometimes. I may misspell a word here and there. But they are my words, my constructs, and they tell the reader a little more about the person writing the story.

The month of November is National Novel Writing Month. I would hope that AI or AI-assisted novels would be disallowed. Would be a shame if it were.

Be Seeing You!