Category: Cranky old guy stuff

This time – Gold!

A few days ago, I quit communicating with a young woman supposedly living in Los Angeles calling herself Ellie. She was one of several young women who have “accidently” gotten a hold of me on Telegram – a secure platform boasting end-to-end encryption, enabling privacy for any number of purposes.

For the most part the purposes I have encountered have included an investment scheme, usually involving Cryptocurrency. Ellie started out differently. When I asked if she was doing Crypto, she answered that she had lost in the low six-figures in Crypto.

Her investments were in gold… but it sure sounded a lot like the pitch for Crypto.

When the subject of investing in gold came up, I politely declined and we had conversations covering other areas, such as her desire to ride a horse, or her plans to visit her parents in Singapore, or another plan to visit Japan, or even telling me about the time she got mugged in Paris. France.

Eventually, though, every conversation we had (with the full knowledge of my wife) circled back to an invitation to invest in gold. I came to realize that my conversations with Ellie had only continued because I was, to her, a project, not a person.

Here’s a bulletin – I am not a project. I have more than a few friends who are much better off than I will ever be (barring an unlikely win in the lottery) and none of them has treated me as a project needing their assistance. My friends know that thanks to good money management on my part, I am in relatively good shape financially. I have what I need to thrive. I am not some poor schlub needing a fabulous investment opportunity handed to me. I am an equal. Occasionally, one of my better-off friends will buy me lunch.

And I am good with that.

The better half and I won’t be driving around in a Bentley or one of Mr. Musk’s battery-powered vehicles anytime soon nor will we jump into an airliner to visit Singapore on a whim. However, we pay our bills and usually have enough left at the end of the month to put into savings and take the occasional trip to the Hideaway Ranch where we can soak naked in a hot tub.

Now, if Ellie or anyone else REALLY wants me to take advantage of a short-term investment opportunity with a large return, I need a lot more information than a name and a vague idea where that person lives. And in the unlikely event that I agree to make an investment, I need to know a heck of a lot more about where my money will be going. I don’t care to be providing a dividend for someone further up in the food chain in some Ponzi scheme.

Some years ago, I fell in love with the movie NETWORK. William Holden’s character was in the process of breaking up an affair with Faye Dunaway’s character, delivering the line that Ms. Dunaway’s character was “… television incarnate… shallow, vapid, and lacking any sort of soul.” (I am paraphrasing, here.) I thought of that movie in my dealings with Ellie. She (and others like her) are the Internet incarnate. Shallow, vapid, and lacking any sort of soul. All I can do at this point is to say bye bye. Better luck with the next person you wish to sucker into your investment scheme.

Gold standard, indeed!

Be Seeing You

Continuing the Journey – 8 Weeks Later

Eight Weeks

May 9, 2020

Taking Care of Business

Eight weeks ago today, I had the needle going into the port feeding me chemotherapy drugs removed for the last time. Today, I am in a bit of a daze, coming off anesthesia administered while I was undergoing a Colonoscopy. The good news – nothing was found in my colon. The bad news – I still have 44 weeks of being monitored by the Oncologist before she will declare me free of the dreaded cancer. In the meantime, I am taking care of business.

It was a Colonoscopy done three years ago that made me a cancer patient to begin with. It was a small mass in my rectum noted by the Gastroenterologist when I had my first Colonoscopy. For a few months, there was quite a bit of hand-wringing going on as to how much damage was done and where, and what to do about it.

I was referred to a surgeon who did a resection with the help of a robot nicknamed “Karen”. After consultation with the Oncologist, it was thought that I was out of the woods, but the Oncologist insisted on watching me for the next five years just to make sure that there was no problem.

I was scheduled for a follow-up Colonoscopy a year after the first one. Nothing was found and I was told to come back in two years.

A little past the one-year mark, or a little less than a year ago, the Rectal Cancer had popped up on my liver. Surgery, Chemotherapy (as a preventative measure) and more hand-wringing later, I found myself sitting with my laptop recalling all that had happened in the three years since my first Colonoscopy.

Quite the journey, but it’s not the last of it.

As I mentioned, I have 44 weeks, four visits with my Oncologist, at least one extra visit to have the port removed, four CAT scans, two visits with my primary care physician, and a partridge in a pear tree. There are a couple of financial details needing my attention (due to an office failing to pay attention to changes in my insurance) and other visits concerning my eyesight.

For the most part, though, I am healthy and wise. Never really wealthy, but two out of three ain’t bad.

Be Seeing You!

Continuing the Journey – Four weeks later

Continuing the Journey – Four weeks later

Four Weeks

April 12, 2024

I’ve had normal days for four weeks, now. Just a couple of minor complaints at this point in my recovery. Still some tingling in my feet and fingers – not bad enough to complain about. Yet. I still get tired somewhat easily, but not as easily as I did a couple of weeks ago. There is the occasional slight feeling of vertigo – the feeling is fleeting. Most of my other bodily functions seem to be working well. One small victory noted this evening – my sense of taste is back. It’s nice to sit down to a meal and be able to taste it. What I need to do, though, is to watch what I eat so I don’t gain back the 30+ pounds that I lost in the past six months.

The visit with the Physician’s Assistant (almost typed Apprentice) went well. I was spared an exam of the problem mentioned in my previous update. Not that I was against the exam. I’ve been probed by female doctors in my nether area enough to not let it bother me. The only inhibition came about from the fellow suspended by a rope and washing the third floor window while I was talking with the PA. We had a nice conversation about my condition and she was able to provide advice as how to alleviate the problem until the colonoscopy next month. It was intimated that there was something that could be done during the colonoscopy. I may ask later, or when I’m about to be put under.

Her hint that there might be a stitch or two involved reminded me of the story told by the boy’s health class I had in my sophomore year in high school. The teacher was a colorful character who peppered his language in relatively crude terms. Seeing as how he was teaching tenth-grade boys, he did well by using the language he did as most of our minds were in the gutter at that point in our lives. Anyhoo, the instructor told the story of going to the local VA Hospital to have his hemorrhoids surgically removed. It went well until he got home, telling us that he felt as if “A wildcat was loose in my ass!”

Naturally, his description was well-received.

Later that year, I was walking with a female upperclassman to the student parking lot where her boyfriend (and still a friend to this day) was waiting to give me a ride somewhere. As we passed the classroom where another group of tenth-grade boys were being instructed in matters of health, my escort shook her head at the open door and declared that she wondered why the man would keep the door to his classroom open, considering his language.

My visit with the PA ended with a scrip, instructions, and confirmation of my date with the person doing the colonoscopy.

More immediately, I am less than three weeks from seeing my Doctor for the first time since becoming the human chemistry set. I do look forward to seeing my Doctor. He is usually in good humor. Aside from the story I’ve passed on about one of my teachers, there’s little else to tell. I’ll probably catch up after the colonoscopy coming in May.

 Be Seeing You!

My Cancer Journey – Intermission

My Cancer Journey – Intermission

In real time, my journey through Chemotherapy has been over for a week. The plug was pulled on my port on March 15th and I got to ring the bell, much to the delight of the nurses and fellow patients at the infusion center.

But the journey is not really over.

According to my Oncologist, I will be checked quarterly for the next year to make sure that the treatment has been 100% effective. My Oncologist did not say how often I would be seeing her after the year is up, although I imagine that I will likely be seeing her (or one of her minions) regularly for some time after that.

In the short term, though, I will be gathering my notes and putting them together to create a book. This will happen at about the same time as I polish up three stories I have neglected in the past six months.

There were a couple of things popping up today – one of them being the news that Kate Middleton, Mrs. Duke of Wales, had cancer when she underwent abdominal surgery earlier this year. It was reported that she would be undergoing preventative Chemotherapy just as I had just finished. After posting a comment on a friend’s posting of Kate’s impending journey, I was answered by a woman whose husband successfully underwent Chemo but later took his own life because of the aftereffects.

A sad story, but not totally unexpected. Chemotherapy is rough on a person. Yes, there will be some lingering aftereffects. I’ve had a few myself. I believe, though, that the worst of the aftereffects will be gone in another 6-8 weeks – in time to go with the better half to our special retreat in what I refer to as “Near west Texas” to snag some serious time in a hot tub.

I hope that Princess Kate will do the Chemo thing and do it with flying colors.

Anyhoo, during the meanwhilst, it’s intermission time here in my little corner of the DFW Metromess. More dispatches about my experiences will resume in a couple of weeks.

Be Seeing You!

My Cancer Journey XIII

My Cancer Journey XIII

In real time, I have had a busy couple of weeks – which I will delve into later. In the meantime, here is more of my journey…

November and December

Sessions four, five and six were accomplished in what could be described as the “Bleak Midwinter.” True, it was still technically Autumn, but still…

After a short absence, “Willie”, the quiet veteran in his wheelchair from the first infusion, started to become a usual acquaintance. What happened to the other veteran, we have no idea. Maybe he thought that quitting treatment like he said his other group did, was a viable choice.

I could see where someone could think so. Just give up and let the bastard win.

A Facebook friend in Ohio was having similar thoughts after having a stage four lung cancer diagnosis of his own. That friend had been through the wringer for several months prior to his diagnosis beforehand. Still, he decided to see if treatment would do him any good – buy him more time before the grim reaper came by to collect him.

Another friend, one from high school, consented to experimental treatment for his lung cancer several years ago. The treatment bought him another year. When he went, he went quickly. There were continuing conversations we were having which would never be completed.

Several other of my high school companions had more luck with their treatments. Two of them went to the Mayo Clinic and are in remission, leading me to quip that because we didn’t have a Mayo Clinic, we in Texas had to settle for a Miracle Whip Clinic. (Bad joke, I know, but I am known for bad jokes.)

Another of my compadres from high school went into remission at the Cleveland Clinic. He was spared the early death his father suffered. I recall running into his father less than a month before his demise. He appeared normal for a man in his early sixties. It was a shock to learn of his passing.

For myself, I don’t think I’m finished quite yet. Still want to be shot by a jealous lover at the age of 102.

By the time of my third infusion, I could be certain of a couple of things. For one, I could handle certain functions all by myself. On the eleventh of November, my wife went to San Antonio to visit her ailing mother. I was on day four of that round of infusion and for the most part, I felt that I could manage being on my own. I did rather well, considering. Some friends were having a gathering out in the county… people I wanted to see, so, I went. Solo. Did fairly well – donated to the potluck (a Pizza Hut goodie box), had a great time and came back with enough leftovers to last a week. What luck!

The only problem I was having at this point was constipation lasting one to three days after the infusion. Sparing the details, it was one of the worst side effects I had had so far. Combined with hemorrhoids, I was much less than pleased that my own personal plumbing system was not working correctly. Over the course leading up to the halfway point in my Chemo journey, I eventually learned ways to keep from having to be constipated.

The second infusion in December marked the half-way point in my infusion journey. Quite the accomplishment in many ways. In other ways, the journey was becoming tiresome, having to deal with some of the side effects. In addition, I was dealing with my usual Seasonal Affective Disorder. Snapping out of SAD was the next task I had to steel myself with. That and another event which made Christmas not as happy as it should have been.

Brave

From one of the various observations I’ve made on this journey:

Round 5, Day 5

Sunday (12/10)

Other than feeling a bit out of phase, Sunday was actually fairly good. I woke up earlier than usual (by design) and was able to take care of my normal Sunday morning duties with little fuss. There was the bit of fuss about Carol dragging her feet and making us late to church, but I let it go until after we got home, explaining that part of what keeps me grounded is having routine.

We left it at that.

I found myself with my mind wandering and my body attempting to keep up with what we Episcopalians call “Pew Aerobics” (Sit, Stand, Sit, Kneel, Stand, Sit, etc.). Our Seminarian – on the cusp of being Ordained, delivered the sermon – something having to do with Advent. I didn’t realize that he was the Seminarian until after the service when I asked, “Who’s that hippie?”

Immediately after Communion, I went with Carol to the Crying Room in the back of the church where she made herself available for healing prayer as a member of the Order of St. Luke. We had a chat with a parishioner whose brother had cancer. We had been praying for him and his brother for several weeks. He told us when we met that his brother died the previous Sunday. We prayed for both.

The Rector (Minister as a point of reference to non-Episcopalians) came in while we were commiserating, offering comforting words and then pivoting to my experience, stating that he thought I was brave for going through Chemo.

I never considered myself to be “Brave.” Rather, the opposite. Not that I’m a craven coward. I’ve been scared of plenty of things, not the least of which has been going through Chemotherapy. Thinking it through, though, what our Rector said made plenty of sense. It takes a fair amount of bravery to face a potentially fatal disease head-on while being afraid of what’s needed to face that disease. The pokes, the prods, the surgery, the port, and the medicines are all pretty darn scary. At the same time, something in the back of my mind tells me to keep on keeping on. I will get through this.

Something else keeps me going. It’s the support of family and friends through this stage of my life. I have been astounded at the response to some of my postings. They have helped me make it this far… helping me to be brave in the face of what I am going through. For that support, I am humbled beyond reckoning.

Sunday’s best show of support came from my stepson, Warren. He was down here in the DFW Metromess to attend a wedding over the weekend, and he took the time to stop in to see us Sunday afternoon. Although he never said so directly, he was concerned about my health. Something I especially appreciated from him. Now, I wasn’t being particularly brave in his presence, but I have an inkling that somewhere in the back of his mind he’s proud of my bravery. It’s just his way.

Again, I appreciate the Prayers and the Karma coming my way. I’m going to make it through this. Honest.

Be Seeing You!

My Cancer Journey XII

My Cancer Journey XII

I spent most of yesterday celebrating a “Normal” day with lots and lots of sunshine. Because of the President’s Day holiday, my mindset and the garbage collectors think this is Tuesday.

Normal Days

Cycle 3, Day 9

Since Day 7 of this cycle, I have been experiencing what I am going to call “Normal Days.” Most of the immediate ill effects of Chemotherapy have worn off. No bandages, no “football” to carry around, no constipation, and nearly normal sleep patterns.

There are some effects I need to realize won’t be going away.

Cold, for instance.

I’m writing this wearing a long-sleeved undershirt, a short-sleeved golf shirt, and topped off with a sweatshirt. And I am cold still cold.

Admittedly it’s partly my fault.

One of the benefits of Normal Days is that I can indulge again in cold orange juice and “Dad Tea.” For the uninitiated, “Dad Tea” is my own variation of that syrupy (in my opinion) concoction known as “Sweet Tea” served here in the south. My variation uses decaffeinated tea, and only a slight hint of sugar. Since starting chemo, “Dad Tea” is more of a luxury than a basic element of living. Of course, served over ice, so I expect to be cold.

I’ve also set the thermostat down to 68 degrees.

Part of my problem with chemo is that I have developed sensitivity to cold, especially in my fingers. If I lunge into the freezer, or for that matter even the refrigerator, my fingertips let me believe that even a quick delve into said appliance puts me in immediate danger of frostbite. And I am wondering if maybe that feeling will continue after I’ve finished with chemo. I had a chat with a friend of mine who had finished chemo a few months ago. He complained that since chemo he has had cold feet – even on the warmest days.

As I’ve continued this journey, I’ve looked forward to Normal Days. Sometimes my normal days are few (only one Normal Day during round 4), other cycles, most of the days between treatment are Normal Days. Sure, there are times I need to bundle up to avoid the cold. Other times, I am thankful that the meds are either better tolerated or there just weren’t as many meds on a cycle.

But today is a “Normal Day.”

I’ve done my normal rounds, walked the dog Filbrix, took the trash cans to the curb, filled and ran the dishwasher, checked my emails, and sparred with my insurance carrier.

It feels darn good to be able to do so.

I could complain, but I won’t.

It’s a “Normal Day.” May as well enjoy it while I have it.

Round 4

The day before Thanksgiving is no time to sit in the clinic to receive a dose of Chemo and the attendant medicines. The day after Thanksgiving I needed to have the needle pulled out of my port – something that I couldn’t have done at the infusion clinic due to the staff having the day off. Taking the needle out was all up to me.

I received the good news that I was approved to pull my own needle on the Monday before the infusion. Yes, I viewed the video on the internet and was briefed on the subject ahead of time. Just to be certain that I had the routine down pat, I was pulled into the infusion center ahead of the medications and was given a thorough set of instructions from the nurse in charge of giving instructions to us. A printed set of instructions was included in the package sent home with me, along with supplies and a pair of plastic bags containing the supplies.

The other reason the day before Thanksgiving is no time to sit in the clinic to receive a dose of Chemo and the attendant medicines is that the chemicals tended to kill my appetite, partially because the chemicals played hell with my taste buds.

Thanksgiving turned into a glum affair – Carol didn’t have to cook other than to heat up a package of Hormel Turkey and Gravy (four minutes in the microwave), slam together some mashed potatoes, and figure out what she was going to serve as a vegetable. The only happy creature in the house was the dog Filbrix. I was only able to choke down a little over half of what I was served. Filbrix did her duty by finishing up what I had on my plate. She’s good at that.

There were walks, there were naps, and there was lots of time cruising the internet and phoning the progeny to tell them Happy Thanksgiving.

The test came on Friday. In some senses, the operation was really simple. Daunting, but simple. Stripping the lines between the port and the pump – Injecting saline to clear the line – and then pulling the needle out with the assistance of the butterfly attachments built into the needle. Carol and I managed, got the pump and the needle placed into a “Sharps” bag, and went on with life over the long weekend.

When we were back to reality on Monday, I got in the car and delivered the plastic bags with the pump and the attendant tubing back to the infusion clinic. By the time I arrived, the place was swimming in Christmas decorations. Some of the work was done the day before Thanksgiving. The rest, later. Not unexpected, since nurses like to have a few days off, too.

Be Seeing You!

My Cancer Journey XI

My Cancer Journey XI

What I am posting today was written at the beginning of my Chemo treatments. Tomorrow (February 14th) will mark treatment #10 of 12 as well as Valentine’s Day, Ash Wednesday, and my 70th Birthday. As I prepare this particular chapter, the thought hit me; if we knew what the future held when we started on a particular journey, would we still go through with it?

Food for thought.

By the way, there are two chapters this week.

The First Cycle

October 9th through the 13th included appointments with three different doctors (or nurse practitioners), the infusion, two sets of labs and a return visit to return a pump I would get on Wednesday (10/11).

My first Monday visit was with my Oncologist’s nurse practitioner. I saw it as sort of a final “Pep Rally” for what was to come. I still had lots of questions needing to be answered. Carol was with me on this visit so that she might answer questions that I may not have even thought of. Having a nurse as a wife comes in handy from time to time. This time, knowing that I had an opportunity to ask more questions, I prepared ahead, writing questions on note cards, making certain that I had the right questions I needed to ask.

That session went extremely well. I appreciate the fact that my questions were answered in a straightforward manner.

The second medical encounter was with Texas Vision and Lazer Center. I had been with them for several years due to a referral from my optician. There was concern that because my Maternal Grandmother had Glaucoma in the last part of her life, I might be subject to the same disease. On an earlier visit, TVLC determined that I was developing Cataracts, so, we’ve been keeping tabs on the Cataracts.

There was a gap between my visit to Texas Oncology and TVLC which we used to do a little restocking with Costco and to grab a sandwich. Costco was easy. Grabbing the sandwich was a little trickier. We only had so much time between Costco and my appointment with TVLC. The sandwich shop we decided on was a bit slower than it could have been, causing me to have to boot having to eat the sandwich until later.

My sandwich (a Wagyu Beef Sub) was well worth the wait and was good for two meals.

TVLC was only doing some preliminary testing which lasted no more than fifteen minutes. Another visit was scheduled for the following Monday.

My visit with My PCP allowed me enough time to go home, pet Filbrix, eat half of my sandwich, and a leisurely drive over the river and through the woods to the good doctor’s office.

“You won’t believe what’s happened since the last time I saw you.”

It had been three months since I had seen my PCP, and a week and a half until a scheduled “Wellness Visit” as part of Medicare. He was unaware of my failed Trifecta in July, my diagnosis, the operation, and the port. We concentrated on my right leg and what needed to be done so I could walk normally. (The crutches and the wheelchair had been retired by the time of this visit.)

After the business with the leg, he and I talked about my upcoming Chemotherapy session. He assured me that I had the right Oncologist for the job (he once had an office near my Oncologist) and that he stated (tongue firmly in cheek) the best thing about her is that she was one of very few people shorter than he is. 

I reminded him of our upcoming Well Visit and the labs he ordered on the 12th. After pondering a moment, he and I agreed that blood work done on the 12th would be rather useless since I would be pumping chemicals into my veins. That would throw the whole purpose of getting blood work in the first place.

All the ducks were in a row for Wednesday and Friday. Except one.

There was a deductible involved.

I got the call on Tuesday afternoon and was given a figure that would have caused trouble had I not been prudent with the household finances over the previous several months. Being operated on and then having to go through Chemotherapy ain’t cheap.

Wednesday morning. I had been bracing for Wednesday morning for the better part of a month – not knowing what to expect, despite having been briefed on what would come to be when I got there.

I took two bags with me containing what I thought I might need for my first infusion session. As a precaution, I arranged for rides to and from the center. Before my ride arrived, I showered, shaved, and before getting dressed, applied a Lidocaine ointment on top of the skin on top of the port. Lidocaine is a topical anesthetic used to keep the insertion of a needle into the port from causing me discomfort. To keep the Lidocaine in place, I had a clear bandage covering the port site provided from a stock Carol had in reserve.

The ducks were in a row.

My ride to the infusion center came almost precisely at the time he needed to be there, getting me to the infusion center with no problems. My driver had a few stories about his encounters with cancer, including an ongoing struggle with prostate cancer, and pointing out where a niece of his would be opening a restaurant after the first of the year in a block of buildings under construction.

I walked into the infusion center filled with apprehension of what would happen to me that morning and in the next couple of days.

Fortunately there were lots of friendly faces to greet me every step of the way with the process.

 

The Process

To be clear, the infusion center is integral with the Oncologist’s office which is integral with Baylor Scott White – McKinney.

When I arrived at the infusion center, I was already familiar with at least some of the office layout and was prepared to an extent as to what would happen.

After getting checked in and making the four-figure deductible payment, it was hurry up and wait for blood work, followed by hurry up and wait to go into the infusion center proper.

What I found out later in the process was the blood work needed to be analyzed to prepare the proper doses of the medicines I needed. While I was sitting in a waiting room for my turn to come, my Oncologist and a Pharmacist were determining what medicines I needed, in what dose.

After attempting to read for a while, I finally decided that if I were to start going through my Facebook feed, I would be called in and at least that part of the wait would be over. It worked. After only five minutes with my phone, I was called back to the infusion room.

It started with the usual – blood pressure, heart rate, oxygenation, weight. Preliminaries done; I was shown to a chair in a section of the room where no one else had yet settled. I was given a short orientation of what would be happening to me over the next few hours. I was also given a binder telling me about my treatment, the medicines I would be getting (and the possible side effects of taking those medicines), and resources I could refer to if I had questions not covered by the binder.

The preliminary medicines arrived, and it was time to connect to the port.

Prior to heading to my infusion center, I was instructed to put on a quantity of numbing cream over the port, over which I put a clear bandage. My job at the center was to expose the port while the nurse removed the bandage. After a quick clean of the area, a needle was inserted into the port.

OUCH!

First lesson learned. Use more of the numbing cream before heading to the infusion session. The poke wasn’t that bad. It was bearable and the pain was extremely short lived.

I finally settled in with my feet up and ready to roll. I read a little bit (starting to re-read Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings series of books) before I found another inmate, rather a pair of inmates settling on the opposite side of the section where I was sitting.

Through conversation, I learned that both were veterans – one Vietnam era, the other during Desert Storm. Both had experience overseas. The Vietnam Vet told stories of clandestine activities he had been aware of while he was there. I heard some of those stories before, passed along by a long-time friend who was part of the Vietnam experience. The Desert Storm Vet was quiet about his experiences. He spent most of his time in Germany, as did another long-time friend of mine who had a similar experience.

Both men were seasoned veterans of another sort; both had had several Chemotherapy treatments before this round; both were treated for lung cancer. The Vietnam Vet told of his first time around with Chemo when he was in a group of several other men. According to him, the other men in his group gave up after four or five treatments… those who quit died within three months of quitting treatment. Not something I wanted to hear while I was being infused for the first time. I still had aftereffects to deal with.

The most immediate aftereffect I had to deal with was using the bathroom. I tended to forget that I was being pumped full of liquids and that at some point, I needed to empty my bladder. The problem I had was that I was hooked to a machine that was plugged into the wall behind me. I finally worked up the courage to ask the nurse to unhook the apparatus from the wall so I could pilot the stand and myself to one of the two restrooms.

I waited too long.

No, I made it to the toilet with no leakage, but my prostrate was irritated by some of the drugs I had been given to the point that I had very little flow trickling down from a very full (and no doubt a very irritated) bladder.

Lesson learned; don’t wait too long to use the bathroom while being infused… and drink something else to make things easier on the prostate and the bladder

My Cancer Journey VIII

My Cancer Journey VIII

Thrombosis

The Wednesday after Labor Day, I noted that my right leg was giving me trouble. Nothing that a few more Acetaminophen couldn’t handle.

Thursday, the pain was worse. I could barely get around the block with Filbrix. When Carol got home, she laid down the law. If I was still having trouble the next day, I was to call my Primary Care Physician.

The pain was worse. I called the PCP’s office and told them what was happening. After consulting with his nurse, I was instructed to go to an imaging center as soon as was practical and have them scan my leg.

I called the recommended imaging center and was told that the soonest they could see me was mid-afternoon. If I needed to see someone sooner, there was another center across the street from Baylor McKinney.

I needed to see someone sooner. An appointment was set, I secured Filbrix, and was on my way.

The imaging center appeared to be well run. I was in an exam room within five minutes of my arrival, having an amicable chat with a young woman who was in training. I was in good enough spirits to give my standard answer to my date of birth (If your sweetheart didn’t get you something for this day, he or she really doesn’t care for – followed by the year) and then telling the woman I was “Thirty-Nine.” Neither the technician or the observer had a clue that I was referring to Jack Benny, so I explained the connection and we discussed more recent comedians. The technician revealed that his birthday was on the same day (different year) while he was doing his job.

At the end of the session, I was told that it looked like I had a blood clot. I was given a disc to give to a doctor when I had the opportunity, or when I got to the Emergency Room. I left the center and sat in the car waiting to see what I needed to do next. My PCP’s office was a good half-hour drive from where I was parked. On the other hand, the Emergency Room at Baylor McKinney was across the street.

It took about ten minutes of waiting in the car to get the call from the PCP’s office to go to the Emergency Room. It took another ten minutes to drive to the ER, park the car, and hobble inside.

Just the little bit of walking I had to do from point A to point B caused a considerable amount of pain. Triage, if you could call it that, consisted of my giving them the information they already had, having my vitals checked and allowing them to do bloodwork. Never mind that I had a readout from the imaging center across the street. I needed to sit and wait. And wait. And wait.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that a blood clot in the leg could break loose and head for my heart, putting it out of commission. The clot could have bypassed the heart and headed to my brain, giving me a stroke.

Still waiting.

Carol came by with a friend to give me aid and comfort. She was there for a couple of hours before going home to relieve Filbrix.

Finally, after a shift change, I was seen by a doctor. After what seemed like another hour or so of back and forth with more imaging, I was told that I indeed had blood clots, but the solution would be to put myself on a blood thinner until the problem went away… hopefully within a few months.

I got an initial dose of Eliquis and was told that I should have a prescription to pick up later the next day. With the drug came the instruction that I could no longer shave using a blade and shaving cream. (Sorry, Harry’s. You had to be sidelined.) I also had to be careful not to cut myself. This was, indeed serious.

I made it home nearly twelve hours after leaving the house. Much of that time spent waiting in the ER waiting area for them to call me in to see a doctor. I hate to think about what might have happened if one of the clots broke loose while I was there. Nearly a week later, a friend of mine had a bout of acute appendicitis. Went to the same ER and waited. And waited. And waited, until he passed out and hit his head on the floor.

Passing out and hitting his head got him sent to the head of the queue. Could have killed him. Thrombosis could have killed me.

I thought that I would be out of the woods once I got home. After another night of pain and restlessness I looked forward to Carol going over to the local chain drugstore to get Eliquis.

Once again, the chain had nothing available.

Time for plan “B”.

A call was made to the locally owned and operated apothecary in what passes for Downtown Princeton Texas. They didn’t have the full prescription available, but the pharmacist had enough to get me through the weekend until he could restock.

Guess where I am telling my doctors to send any future prescriptions!

There were a couple of other considerations having to do with my leg. Carol decided that I could get around a little better if I were to have a wheelchair at my disposal. Next day delivery from Wallyworld.[1]

I decided not to risk cutting myself with the Harry’s razors I had been using, so, I ordered a Norelco rotary shaver through Amazon. It came overnight.

I was in pretty good spirits when the wheelchair arrived, and I adapted to it relatively easily. By the time Sunday rolled around, I was confident enough to go to worship with Carol… telling people that I was only using the wheelchair to garner sympathy.[2] By the following week, the wheelchair mostly sat idle. Crutches were available, I was adept with the things to the point that I was able to go most places with little problem.

Two weeks after surgery and three days after my little trip to the Emergency Room, I had my follow-up with my Oncologist to find out about the next step in my journey.

[1] My term for Wal*Mart, even though two of my stepchildren are employed there.

[2] The line about using the wheelchair to garner sympathy was recycled from the Canadian TV series SCTV. The “Station Manager” used a wheelchair to get around, even though he could walk perfectly well – telling people that the reason he used the wheelchair was to garner sympathy.

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