An Open Letter to My Wife

Shanda,

Writing a letter like this is much more than just nerve-wracking. It feels impossible. But as I near the end of my treatment, I want to publically (and quite inadequately) express my love and appreciation for what you’ve done for me the past six months.

From the very beginning you have been my rock. When I had my colonoscopy and the doctor told us I had a cancerous tumor, you kindly and calmly explained to me the results several times as my head cleared of the anesthesia and I tried to understand what was happening. As we talked to Dr. Reid about my kind of cancer and what the treatment was going to be like, you asked the important questions and took notes as my head was swimming. In the beginning, you drove me to all my appointments and hospitalizations and stayed with me to be sure I was OK. Toward the end, you let me drive myself or you dropped me off at the curb of the hospital and then let the church choir tease you about it. When I had a scary reaction to the immunotherapy (like crazy shivering and passing out), you held my hand. When I had the worst headache of my life and just couldn’t stand it anymore, you came in the middle of the night and brought me one hot wash cloth after another until we got it under control. When I was in the critical care unit for a ridiculously low heart rate, you were there to reassure me that everything was going to be OK. During my hospitalizations you brought me decent food every chance you had. You gave me my neupogen shots at home when I needed them and flushed my hickman catheter lines. When I felt like I was falling apart, you sat and held me and offered words of encouragement and hope.

You managed our three boys at home without much help from me. You kept them fed, got them off to school, and did all the hard work of raising a newborn. You gave them good experiences during Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas (for all of which I was absent). You were instrumental in Parker accepting Jesus as his Savior. You kept track of our insurance coverage and bills, even when it was exceedingly frustrating. You’ve done precious little grumbling or complaining when my treatment caused you more work and created chaos in our lives. You’ve made many sacrifices the past six months for my sake, some of which I know about and others that I’m sure I don’t. There’s much more to be said, but when it comes down to it, you gave me tremendous strength and you kept our family together.

I couldn’t have survived these past six months without you.

I will do my best to express my gratitude privately and for a long time to come, but right now I want my small, public world of blog readers to know what a wonderful woman I think you are. While you deserve the accolades of a Proverbs 31 woman, I’ve stumbled over my words and offered only a meager statement of appreciation. While you deserve the greatest of rewards, what you’ll end up getting is a trip to Larry’s Pizza.

Thank you, Shanda. There just aren’t enough words to express my love and appreciation for you. I’m sorry I can’t be at home with you and the boys this Christmas, but I’m looking forward to spending many, many more Christmases with you.

I love you more than I can say.

An Open Letter to My Nurses

To my nurses at Dr. Tsuda’s and Dr. Reid’s offices and to my nurses (& nurse's aides) on the 2nd floor at Conway Regional Medical Center:

Writing a letter like this is a bit nerve-wracking. I’m afraid that just as soon as I get started, I’ll forget someone or something important. But I cannot wrap up my treatment without expressing my gratitude to you all.

With the exception of 2 or 3 weekends, I’ve spent time with you (either at the clinics or at the hospital) every day for the past 6 months. Some of you I’ve gotten to know better than others – but I have enjoyed the company of all of you. As you heard stories of me and my family, you let me get to know you as well. Some of you love your kids and grandkids so much it oozes from you. Some of you almost burned your house down recently. Some of you laugh really loudly. Some of you have mended your marriages. Some of you like cookies and a good energy drink. Some of you are looking for a church to attend. Some of you never miss an episode of Heroes or The Office. Some of you have cool disco shoes and some of you have Batman earrings. Some of you have been oncology nurses for a long time and some of you are just getting started. Some of you have taken care of my milk jugs (you might need to read this post to understand). Some of you enjoy deer hunting with your husbands and some of you really, really love Christmas.

All of you have been both professional and yet personal in your care. Cancer is scary and hospitals are not particularly fun. You all have done an exceptional job in easing my worries, answering my questions, and tending to me through my chemotherapy.

Simply saying “thank you” doesn’t seem enough. But I’m not sure how to elaborate much more. Please know that I am extremely grateful for what you’ve done for me.

May God bless you all richly.

A Hospitally Christmas

Yes, I know “hospitally” isn’t a real word. My spell checker tells me so. But it looks like that’s the kind of Christmas I’ll have this year.

I was admitted to the hospital yesterday with a fever and I’m getting some much needed platelet transfusions, blood transfusions, and antibiotics. And I’ll likely be here until after Christmas. That makes Shanda and me a little sad, but it’s all going to be OK. Maybe it won’t be so different than being home….

Instead of the boys waking me up at 6:00 am to open presents, the nurses will wake me up at 6:00 am to draw blood and get my vital signs.

And instead of hearing annoying, loud, and beeping toys for Cooper, I’ll hear annoying, loud, and beeping IV pumps by my bedside.

See, just the same as being home.

But as I’ve said before, I’ll willingly spend this Christmas at the hospital if it means I get to spend the next 50 at home.

Today's Headline

MY CHEMO IS OVER!
MY CHEMO IS OVER!
MY CHEMO IS OVER!

I'm still in the hospital tonight getting a blood transfusion. And I'll likely end up spending some more time in the hospital before and/or during Christmas - getting more blood or platelets or antibiotics or some such.

But today I'm celebrating......

MY CHEMO IS OVER!

The Home Stretch Gets Ugly

Grumble.

Nothing witty tonight - just an update as I try to knock out these last few days of treatment.

If you read my post on Monday, you know I got a bonus day in the hospital because Shanda and 2 of the boys had some kind of stomach bug. Well, Monday night I spiked a fever here at the hospital. Again, fevers are NEVER good for cancer patients whose immune systems are already taking a pounding. So, I got to stay in the hospital another day. In addition to the fever (that now has gone away), I've had a pretty persistent headache the past two days. That was a bit of a concern for my doctors, so I got to have a consultation with a neurologist and they did a MRI on my brain. (Good news - I have a brain and the MRI looked OK.)

Other people have those kind of headaches regularly. But since I've never really had a two-day headache before, the doctors were a little concerned. I get to have another MRI on my spinal column tomorrow. Then I get to have a spinal tap.

If things go as planned tomorrow and if the next few days go as they have in previous rounds, then here's how my near future looks....

I'll get my LAST - yes my very LAST - spinal tap tomorrow. That will be 16 since this summer and it will mark the end of my chemo treatment. Then after a few days, my white blood cell count will plummet and I'll get sick or run a fever or something and end up back in the hospital again. I'll be in the hospital to get antibiotics and stuff for several days and I'll be cutting it very close to get back out before Christmas. In fact, we are half-way planning on me spending Christmas here at the hospital. We'll just have to see, I guess.

So, I've tied a knot at the end of my rope and I'm hanging on for a little while longer.

Hope Deferred....

…..makes the heart sick (Proverbs 13:12)
…..makes the heart want to watch more UFC.
…..makes the heart want to eat more Snickers with Almonds.
…..makes the heart want to scream wildly at the top of his lungs and he would except that it would scare the other patients and upset the nurses and they might come running and inject him with Ativan or something to calm him down and if he kept screaming they might call security or try putting him in restraints.

I was scheduled to go home today. BUT, I have a house full of sick people. Two of the boys are just getting over some sort of stomach bug and Shanda just came down with it last night. I was a little concerned about going to a home steeped in germs and/or viruses, so I mentioned it to my doctor this morning. She recommended that I stay in the hospital another day to help avoid getting sick myself.

Did you catch that? Stay in the hospital. To avoid getting sick. That just seems weird.

But I understand. So I get the joy of at least one more day in the hospital. We are just going to play it by ear tomorrow. My last spinal tap is scheduled for Wednesday, so I suppose it is possible they will keep me until that is done. But if it is any longer than that, I’m gonna need the restraints.

How Many Shopping Days ‘Til Christmas?

Click here - Stupid Cancer

Resolutions

I am definitely NOT a New Year’s Resolution kind of guy. I don’t like setting myself up for that kind of failure. Plus, it just seems a little cheesy.

But I can’t help being a little reflective these days as my last round of chemo wraps up. I can’t help but think about the kind of life I’ve been living and wonder if any changes need to be made. I dunno – maybe that’s more related to a mid-life crisis than cancer.

(No worries – I have no plans to grow my hair long and buy a red convertible.)

And I have no real plans for major overhauls. But here are a few thoughts I’ve had lately, in no particular order. This isn’t an exhaustive list – I’m still contemplating.

I want to be more generous. Shanda and I have been EXTREMELY blessed by the generosity of others the past 6 months. We’ve had friends and family give, sometimes sacrificially I’m sure. And we’ve had Christians we don’t know from places we barely know give as well. In both cases, we have been reminded of God’s love for us through the love of others. And we have learned much about God’s provision through the generosity of others. I want to be a part of ministering to the real needs of other people like that.

I want to be slightly more spontaneous. Some of the best times I’ve had were born out of spontaneity. Frankly, spontaneity can drive Shanda crazy, so I have to be careful. But I sometimes like getting caught up in the moment and flying by the seat of my pants.

I want to splurge more – on the small things. I’m not a fan of wasting money or spending it frivolously. But I’d like to upgrade to the New York Strip when I go to Outback Steakhouse, you know?

I want to give more hugs. That sounds weird. But I grew up in a very affectionate home and I’m finding this desire to give more people more hugs these days. Maybe that’s just because I’m wrapping up chemo and I’m anticipating saying “good-bye” or “thank-you” to a good many people – health care providers and others. So if you find yourself getting a big hug from me anytime soon and it weirds you out, please just humor me.

I want to go to a Duke / North Carolina basketball game someday. Yes, this is pretty specific. But this is the ultimate sporting event for me. (BOBBY! COME ON, MAN!)

And I want to eat more Snickers bars with almonds. Because, dude, those things are really, really, good.

10-15 (Revisited)

So… for a while now I’ve been able to forget about the whole recovery rate thing. I’ve just assumed that I’m going to be cured of this stupid cancer. Honestly, I don’t know how much of that was/is faith and how much was/is burying my head in the sand like an ostrich. But ignoring it has served me well – it reduces the stress of worrying about things I have little to no control over.

But now that I’m in my last round of chemo, I’ve started thinking about my odds again. Surely my odds are at least slightly better than the 85-90 percent typical for Burkitt’s Lymphoma since I’ve had good results from chemo so far. That is, within that 10-15 percent of folks who do not make it, some of them probably do not get good results from the very beginning. That I have tolerated chemo well and haven’t had any symptoms has got to be a good sign. Still, I wonder who finds themselves in the 10-15 percent. And I wonder if I could be in that group.

The end of round 8 marks the beginning of a very long waiting game. And if you have followed my journey at all, you probably recognize that I’m not good at waiting – even through delays that last only a few days. I will have my first major set of scan 6 weeks after round 8 is over. Then, if memory serves me correctly, I’ll have scans at 3 months, 6 months, 1 year, 2 years, and 5 years. Each of these are milestones – and I’m not sure I’ll feel like I’m really out of the woods (or out of the 10-15 percent) until 5 years is up.

So in a feeble attempt to give new meaning to the numbers 10-15, I’ve decided to come up with a list of alternatives. Here’s my list. Be ready to give me your ideas.

10-15 = percent of readers who “got” all of my 80s songs/milk jug references.
10-15 = number of months my doctor has said it will take to gain all of my strength and stamina back. I’m gonna cut that down to 6 months, though.
10-15 = percent of body hair I have left after 8 rounds of chemo.
10-15 = total number of hospital meals I’ve eaten. All other meals have been
brought in from the outside.
10-15 = number of requests for poop references. Weirdos.

OK. Your turn. Redefine 10-15 for me……….

The Home Stretch, Again

My lab results were good this morning! So I'm off to the hospital this evening to start my last round of chemotherapy - for real this time, I hope. I told my doctor today that I'm glad to not have to wait a week. As it is, I felt a little like I was running a race and having just turned a corner and laid eyes on the ribbon at the finish line, I was made to stop and wait.

It sounds odd to say I'm looking forward to going to the hospital and getting chemo, but I am. The delay will mean I'll be in the hospital on my birthday, but like my doctor said about being in the hospital on Thanksgiving Day, I'll gladly be in the hospital that day so I can spend the next 50 at home.

Ready, Set, WAIT

Well, I was admitted to the hospital yesterday evening to start round 8. Unfortunately, when they did labwork this morning, my white blood cell count was too low. So my chemo has been delayed at the very last minute. I’m back at home now – hoping that my white blood cells rebound enough so that tomorrow I can go back in. If they don’t, then the doctor will start me on some medication for a week that will boost my white blood cells. I don’t like being delayed for a day – let alone for a week. But I suppose some delays are inevitable and should be expected. Pray that my white blood cells will get their act together by tomorrow morning and pray for me to have patience if they don’t.

One other item…..

What do you get when you add one NC State basketball coach wildly looking for someone to celebrate with after he won the 1983 National Championship and over $80 million for cancer research? You get the JimmyV Foundation.

The Home Stretch

I am going to the hospital tonight to start round 8 - my LAST round of chemotherapy. And there is much rejoicing in the land. Will post again soon.

Home Sweet Home

I'm home again. I love home. I'm feeling well and looking forward to a few good days before I head back to the hospital for my next (*ahem* - LAST) round of chemotherapy.

6 Random Weekend Observations

(1) I started taking humongous dosages of steroids yesterday (this is in addition to the regular steroids I sometimes get). It was a little hard to fall asleep. And I woke up wide-eyed at 5:00 am with my fingers playing percussion on my mattress to the tune of “Brick House” by the Commodores. If that offends, don’t hold it against me. I’ll try to wake up to some good and wholesome Gaithers next time.

(2) There is nothing very good on TV on Sunday mornings between 5:00 and 9:00.

(3) Speaking of Sunday TV…. I’ve discovered the formula for being wildly wrong and yet wildly popular at the same time. 70% name-it-claim-it-positive-thinking-pop-psychology-mind-over-matter-health-and-wealth jibberish. 25% sweet disposition, boyish good-looks, and sincere personality. 5% eye blinking like on the verge of a seizure. Voila – you are tickling the ears (and pocketbooks) of people with half-truths and Scripture taken out of context with no serious exegesis. It’s actually worse than that, but I’ll reserve my more scathing comments for some other day, when I’m not on steroids perhaps. (Thom, your parents have influential contacts in Houston. Can’t they DO something about that nonsense?)

(4) Humongous dosages of steroids might make a person want to eat like a horse, but they do not make hospital food taste any better. I wonder if pizza places deliver to hospitals.

(5) Having family visit me in the hospital is always good. But it was a little disconcerting to have my mother suggest to my sister that she pluck the few hairs I have left on my legs. My sister actually did. She’s got a weird thing for popping bubble wrap and stuff, so I shouldn’t be surprised, though.

(6) I love BCS chaos.

Thanks for checking in on my blog. I’m feeling much better than I did a few days ago. It looks like I MIGHT be able to go home in the next day or two.

Enjoy my early morning tune below….

Do They Serve Tofurkey at the Hospital?

Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone!
You know that Norman Rockwell painting where the mom is setting a huge turkey down on the table in front of dad, who stands ready to carve it while the other family members look on in anticipation of the coming feast? Well, it's looking a little different than that around our house today. Aaron woke up early this morning with a fever and was admitted to the hospital about 10: 30. We were told to expect that this might happen...his immune system is just shot...and it isn't anything to worry too much about. They'll treat him with IV antibiotics and between that and the shots he's taking to help his immune system rebound, he'll be feeling better in a few days. He's not thrilled about spending the holiday in the hospital, but as the doctor said this morning, he'll miss this one so that he can celebrate the next 50! My mom and I weren't sure how long I'd be at the hospital this morning, so we decided to wait until this evening to have our "feast" here at home. One of the small groups from church brought us a deep-fried turkey, all the side dishes, and a couple of desserts yesterday and we are looking forward to that! Even though it has turned out to be unlike any Thanksgiving we've ever had before (in fact, this is the first time EVER that we haven't gone to Kansas!) we have many, many reasons to give thanks!
Shanda

Tofurkey

I have been intending to write a Thanksgiving post before now. I'm not sure if there is such a thing as a "typical" Thanksgiving post, but I certainly have much to be thankful for and I would like to share some of those things with you.

The problem is that I just don't have the strength or energy to get it done right now. My body has taken a pounding for 7 rounds of chemo and I'm just not able to muster enough sustained focus to get the post written right now.

I will get it done, though, eventually. For now, you should know that I am thankful to be home with my family and getting some rest in my own bed. I am also thankful for all of you who stop by to read and leave your encouraging words!

I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving Day!

P.S. Tanner saw a cooking show the other day and afterwards suggested we have tofurkey for Thanksgiving dinner. We're gonna pass.

Yesterday and Today

Uh oh. I failed. I promised to post every day – and I missed yesterday. Here is a list of possible excuses (er, I mean, explanations):

(1) Chemo brain. This is a real condition. Don’t believe me? Look it up. Would the Mayo Clinic lie? I don’t think so.

(2) I was on Benadryl yesterday during my blogging time. They give Benadryl before blood transfusions and it seriously knocks me out.

(3) I was busy compiling a list of honorable mentions for classic 80’s tunes with the words milk jugs mixed in and lost track of time.

(4) I got distracted watching Arrested Development, The Office, and Heroes.

The great news, though, is that I am getting discharged today. I’m feeling pretty good as of right now, but I am very tired. I haven’t been getting much sleep (outside of my Benadryl coma). So I am looking forward (as usual) to getting into my own bed soon.

Thanks for your thoughts and prayers!

Tumor Rumor

The Conway Cancer Foundation has a newsletter they publish periodically - The Tumor Rumor. The next issue is going to highlight issues of religion and faith as they relate to cancer and treatment. I have been asked, along with a couple of other gentlemen, to submit a short article describing my own experience. I am going to post a draft below for your your review. You have one day to offer any suggestions for improvements or corrections - I don't want to teach any heresy.

First let me share my purpose in writing. I am NOT attempting to lay out a plan of salvation for readers, nor am I attempting to make a defense of the Christian faith compared to others. Those are appropriate activities, just not here in The Tumor Rumor. My goal is to encourage readers to examine their own faith journey and perhaps plant some seeds. I want to encourage dialogue amongst people struggling with their faith in the midst of cancer. Having said that, read the short article below and tell me what you think (and remember I had a word limit- which I have already exceeded).

For most of the twentieth century, folks in my field of study have been hostile towards religion and spiritual faith. Many early psychiatrists and psychologists believed that religion was a cause of mental disturbances or that only those with mental disturbances turned to religion. This has always been at odds with patients and clients who have described their faith as a healthy and sustaining factor in the midst of their ailments. And it has only been in the past two decades that researchers have noted the positive role of religion in both general medicine and mental health. Allow me to very briefly describe how my own religious faith has sustained me in the midst of my cancer and chemotherapy.

My faith has provided me with a healthy perspective on life – my past, present, and future. My faith reminds me that nothing I’ve done previously in life gives me a pass from sad or painful conditions. It’s not like I should be exempt from bad things. In fact, if anything, I deserve far worse than I ever get. And whatever I have to deal with in the midst of my cancer and treatment, there are others of faith that have persevered in the face of situations monumentally worse than mine. My faith also reminds me that my current hardships can prove to be beneficial. The Scriptures tell us that we have to suffer in order to develop perseverance, that we have to develop perseverance in order to develop character, and that we have to develop character in order to live a life of hope. And I desperately want to live a life of hope. Finally, my faith gives me perspective on the future. My worst case scenario is that I do not survive the cancer and I get to be with Jesus. I understand fully that this would be tremendously difficult for my family to deal with. But I also know that God loves my family more than I do and He knows how to care for them.

My faith has also provided me with a quiet strength to deal with the stress and strain of cancer and chemotherapy. Hearing and reading God’s Word helps me to dwell on things that are true, honorable, right, pure, lovely, of good reputation, excellent, and worthy of praise. Dwelling on the negative is not productive or healthy. God’s Word also reminds me that nothing at all (not even cancer or death) can separate me from His love. I sense God’s presence when I pray – reminding me that He is with me, not necessarily removing pain, sadness, heartache, and grief, but walking that journey with me. And I feel my spirit lift when I sing songs that honor and worship my Creator.

Finally, my faith has kept me connected to others in deep and meaningful ways. I believe that we are created to be a part of a community. Not a neighborhood or a club, but a group of others into whom we can pour our lives and to whom we can open up for their own pouring. We are created for rich and significant relationships with other believers. My faith has allowed me to be ministered to in countless ways. I have visitors nearly every day – most who know how and when to cheer me up with humor, to check on my spiritual walk, to inquire about my family, and more. We are blessed with friends who bring meals to us 2 to 3 times each week. We have friends who watch our children whenever we need them. We have been especially blessed by close friends as well as Christians we don't yet know who have given thousands of dollars to help us meet our real and practical financial needs. These folks pray for and with us. They care about us. They love us. And this has made all the difference in the world.

Obviously this is not an exhaustive list of the benefits of faith. And others would describe their experiences differently, I’m sure. But these three areas of faith – perspective, strength, and connection – have proven to be anchors for me. And whether we are living in the midst of the chaos of cancer or the regular routines of life, we all need anchors to keep us steady.

A Day in the Life...

At the end of this round of chemotherapy, I will have been in the hospital for 30 of the last 41 days. I’ve done some Geraldo-like investigative research and some sophisticated statistical analysis. My conclusion? That is just a lot of time to spend in the hospital. So for your own education (and perhaps in a lame attempt to gain a little bit of sympathy), here’s a day in my life at the hospital.

9:40 a.m. – Admitted to the hospital for round 7
10:00 – Nurse takes vital signs (blood pressure, temperature, heart-rate, respiration rate, pain level) and reviews orders for this week.
10:30 – Since one of my chemo meds can be terribly hard on a person’s bladder, another drug (Mesna) and LOTS of saline fluids are started to neutralize those side effects.
10:40 – I watch a little bit of college basketball on ESPN’s 24 hour marathon. Penn has a decent match-up zone defense, but Drexel looks to be too much for them.
11:00 – Anti-nausea medication and steroids are started through my IV. If I just had some weights here, I could lift and get ripped. But then I might get ‘roid rage and stab a nurse with a syringe. That wouldn’t be good for my care – so I’ll skip all that.
11:15 – I write and post something short to my blog. I promise something ridiculous like “I’ll post something every day.” What was I thinking?
11:45 – Penn is keeping the game close.
11:50 – I have to use the restroom. They make me collect my urine in a modified ½ gallon milk jug so they can measure my inputs/outputs. It’s weird. And a little gross, I guess.
12:00 noon – Lunch is delivered. Chix-n-dressing. Eeewwww.
12:05 – Jayme stops by before she grabs lunch. We had a nice visit. I’m letting the chix-n-dressing get cold. On purpose.
12:15 – Mo is my hero. He calls and then delivers a Big Mac meal for lunch. We visit for a while, too.
12:30 – Cytoxin is started. Cytoxin is a good chemotherapy drug for my condition, but it has an unfortunate side effect of possibly raising the risk of other kinds of cancer months to years later. Additionally, here are some side effects I am supposed to be aware of and watch for: nausea/vomiting/diarrhea, hair loss, darkening of skin/nails, pink/bloody urine, unusual decrease in the amount of urine, mouth sores, unusual tiredness or weakness, joint pain, easy bruising/bleeding, infertility, existing wounds that are slow healing.
12:30 – I try not to think about all the possible side effects while the nurse takes my vitals. I distract myself by listening to some classic 80’s tunes on my mp3 player.
12:40 – Nurse takes my vitals again.
12:55 – Nurse takes my vitals again again.
1:00 – Kyle and David stop by. Kyle is the Discipleship Pastor and David is the Chairman of the deacons at church. So we spend our time singing some hymns together and translating the original Greek found in the book of Romans. We definitely do not waste our time cutting up, telling jokes, and sharing funny stories.
1:45 – I have to use the milk jug again.
1:55 – My IV pump starts beeping and I have to call the nurse to check it. It could be out of medication, have air bubbles in the lines, or something else. Who knows.
2:00 – I surf the web, update my facebook page, and check email.
2:30 – Greg stops by for a short visit.
2:50 – I try to avoid thinking about my spinal tap that is scheduled for tomorrow.
3:00 – I watch a couple of episodes of NCIS on cable. Gibbs is cranky but cool. DiNozzo is crude but funny. David is pretty but scary with her crazy ninja-skills. McGee is likeable but goofy, kinda like Gilligan. Ducky is British and long-winded with obscure stories. Abs is cute in a creepy-Goth kind of way. It’s one big happy dysfunctional family and it’s a good show.
4:00 – Milk jug.
5:00 – Dinner is delivered. Ham sandwich, Lay’s chips, and chocolate chip cookies. Although I requested this instead of the meatloaf, I’m not really going to eat it. Shanda will bring me something later this evening. (By the way, the two words “meat” and “loaf” should never be used together.)
5:20 – I surf some more.
5:30 – I decide that my next blog post should be a “day in the life” post and begin writing. I’m sure I’m forgetting some things, but I keep writing anyway.
5:40 – Beeping IV pump. Call nurse.
6:30 – Shanda calls and agrees to bring some Taco Bell. This is good because I’m getting hungry. 2 tacos, 2 beef meximelts, and a baja blast. Mmmm…. fake but good Mexican food.
6:35 – Milk jug me, Amadeus.
6:40 – Fall asleep until Shanda gets here. Dream of playing the keytar in the studio – laying down some tracks with M.C. Hammer.
8:10 – Although Shanda and I are enjoying each other’s company and catching up on the day’s events, I have to kick her out of the room because the North Carolina Tarheels are playing the Kentucky Wildcats and she isn’t too interested in college basketball.
8:15 – I’m glad that the game is being played in the Dean Dome and not Rupp Arena. Kentucky isn’t that good this year (yet), but Rupp Arena is a tough place to play and Psycho T & Ginyard aren’t in the game for the Tarheels tonight.
8:30 – I think about why I am a Tarheel fan. Dad was stationed at an Air Force base in North Carolina when I was born. He raised me to be a Tarheel fan ever since then. Thanks, Dad, for not raising me to be a Duke fan instead. *Shiver.*
9:05 – Check email and facebook because the game is getting out of hand.
9:20 – Tarheels 45. Wildcats 29. 17:10 left to go in second half. Barring injuries, I’m watching the 2009 National Champions.
9:25 – The Sharif don’t like it. Rock the milk jug. Rock the milk jug.
9:35 – Work on this blog post, mostly by googling for a good picture of a keytar.
9:37 – Wonder how some words like Google get turned into verbs. Who gets to decide that?
9:55 – Vital signs.
10:05 – Since the game is still out of hand, I walk my 21 laps around the hallways and nurse’s station (this equals 1 mile). My legs get tired and a bit wobbly. I feel a sense of accomplishment that is short-lived, because, really,… what kind of accomplishment is walking a measly 1 mile? I’m tired of feeling weak and puny and I’m ready to get back into shape when all of this is done.
10:45 – Watch some SportsCenter and check email/facebook.
11:00 – My pump is beeping. Call the nurse.
11:05 – Gonna rock down to milk jug avenue.
11:20 – Watch last week’s episode of NCIS that I missed. Netflix is awesome.
12:00 midnight – Get ready to go to bed. Sweet dreams (are made of milk jugs.)
12:30 – I fall asleep.
2:00 – Nurse comes in to take vital signs and start another dose of Cytoxin. I’m awake for quite a while. I don’t really know why, but this has happened at the beginning of some other rounds and it could be due to the steroids. I was a little wired and couldn’t turn my brain off.
2:15 – Vital signs again.
2:20 – 99 Luftmilkjugs.
3:00 – Still awake and thinking…. about my next blog entries, about an article I have to submit today to a local newsletter about faith and cancer, about Shanda dealing with a broken refrigerator at home, about my spinal tap tomorrow (darnit), about whether my student posse will visit me Thursday night, and a whole host of other random events/ideas.
3:30 – Finally fall back asleep.
4:30 – My pump is beeping. I call the nurse and she checks to see if Cytoxin is almost finished running. I’m awake for just a little bit, but not as long as before. I’m amused as I fall back asleep because I remember the time a few rounds ago that I called a nurse in the middle of the night (and in a half-stupor) and told her that “my bump was peeping.” There was some awkward silence on the intercom, but she eventually came. I have no idea what that phrase means, but it sounds funny.
5:15 – My pump is beeping again. Nurse comes in again. Cytoxin is finished. Nurse takes vital signs again.
5:20 – Owner of a lonely milk jug.
6:00 – Nurse comes in and draws several vials of blood for morning labwork.
7:15 – I wake up for good as the sun rises over the building next door and starts beaming directly into my eye. I turn the TV on and surf the sports and news channels.
7:50 – Nurse’s aide takes vital signs.
7:55 – Karma Chamilkjug.
8:30 – Doctor makes rounds and checks me out. I get a good report for the day.
8:45 – Work on this post, which has become far too long and tedious.
9:20 – Wash up in the bathroom. I only take regular showers every few days because it is quite the hassle to tape my chest all up with waterproof plastic and tape. Otherwise I use soapy water in a basin and a washcloth to get clean. I miss my showers.
9:30 – Since I shouldn’t walk much this afternoon or evening (after my stupid spinal tap) I put a few laps in this morning.

That’s a day in my life (while at the hospital). Now that I’m finished, I’m not sure what purpose it served, really. But there you go.

I Can See the Light

I'm sorry it has been so long since my last post. I am now back in the hospital for round 7 and that means I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I have just one more round after this one.

I have not been very productive my last couple of hospitalizations. (Unless getting completely caught up on every episode of "The Office," "Heroes," "24," and "NCIS" counts as productivity.) So, for the sake of actually DOING something while I'm here, I've decided that I will post every day while I am in the hospital.

This last month or so of treatment could be rough. My immune system has taken a pounding and it seems like I have more complications and delays the longer this whole thing goes on. But I am in good spirits because the end is finally in sight! Thanks for your continued prayers! Stay tuned for more posts each day.

Choice Words

I'm not a cussing man. Really, I'm not. My pastor and employer will both be glad to know this. But doggone it if I couldn't let loose with a couple of choice words today.

I just got out of the hospital on Monday - I was in for 2 full weeks and I nearly went insane. And today I'm BACK IN THE HOSPITAL AGAIN. I started running a fever and went to the clinic this afternoon. The doctor decided I should be admitted for IV antibiotics because I have some sort of infection. I say "some sort" because Oncologists don't wait around for cultures and labs to come in before they give antibiotics - especially with patients with little to no immune system. They give antibiotics first and ask questions later. We are hoping this stay is only for 3 or 4 days, but we'll see.

So please pray for the infection to go away ASAP and pray for Shanda as whe wrangles 3 boys at home by herself for a few days.

On a lighter note, my previous 2 week stay in the hospital helped me rediscover a few things...
- I had forgotten how nice fresh air is. Hospital air, not so much.
- I had forgotten how gorgeous Arkansas trees are in the fall.
- I had forgotten that eating oatmeal is what I imagine eating a hot bowl of snot would be like.

I'm sure there's more, but I'm on Benadryl right now. They give that as a standard "pre-med" before blood and platelet transfusions. I'm fighting off the sleepiness, but find myself staring blankly at the computer screen. I'll take that as a sign to stop and post something else later.

Bonus Days

Well, many of you know that I've been in the hospital since Monday. The problem is that I had a couple of sores on one leg that needed antibiotics before chemo started. The doctor wanted those to be good and healed before chemo started messing with my immune system and thereby risking the infections returning. So..... I've gotten 5 bonus hospital days this round. YIPPEE. Chemo will start tomorrow.

I'm afraid that this extra-long hosptial stay may have me bouncing off the walls before I get to go home. I need to find some things to do to pass the time. I haven't been very creative so far. Mostly I watch TV. But there's only so many reruns of NCIS and episodes of SportsCenter that a man can watch. ((Although I think I've set the record for the number of "The Office" episodes a person can watch in two days - Netflix is awesome.))

So I need some suggestions from my peeps on how to pass the time while stuck here for another week. The nurses won't play Texas Hold 'Em with me and I'm not good at making prank phone calls. Help a brother out.

Getting Fired

Giant sequoias are enormous trees. In fact, I’m told they are the largest living things to ever inhabit the earth. They grow to over 300 feet tall, over 40 feet in diameter and can live for over 3000 years. Their root systems can spread out over half an acre. That’s impressive.

But giant sequoias have difficulty reproducing. Seeds are trapped inside the cones, which stay attached to the tree without opening for up to 20 years. Trapped, that is, unless subjected to wildfire.

When a wildfire burns around giant sequoias, hot air rises and dries out the cones – allowing them to release the seeds. The fire also burns off the top layer of soil below and adds nutrients most favorable for giant sequoia seeds to germinate.

Giant sequoias need the fire in order to grow.

Maybe now I’ve found a metaphor that works.

In his letter to the Romans, Paul says we need the fire, too. It’s amazing how much more sense this makes to me now compared to just 4 months ago. Here’s Paul’s formula…

1 – We have to suffer in order to develop perseverance.
2 – We have to develop perseverance in order to develop character.
3 – We have to develop character in order to live a life of hope.
(See Romans 5:3-4)

I’m just glad I know the Refiner.

The Melodramatic and the Mundane

The Melodramatic…
I’m being tortured. Sort of. Remember the Chinese water torture? During this procedure, water is slowly dripped on the forehead of an immobilized person – the inescapable repetition rendering them insane. I’m suffering from another sort of inescapable repetition: visiting the hospital or oncology clinic.

Since my treatment began in July, I can count on ONE HAND the number of days I have NOT been in the hospital or clinic for some sort of treatment. You already know about my inpatient stays. Each lasts about a week. But you may not know that in between each of those rounds of chemotherapy, I visit my oncology clinic nearly every day. This is usually for at least 1-2 hours, seldom less, sometimes more. This is necessary to run labwork, give me injections or other meds, get transfusions, etc. Taking a couple of hours out of your day for the doctor is no big deal when done occasionally. Taking a couple of hours out of EVERY day is driving me loopy. Pray for my sanity.

The Mundane…
My tubes are back. I had them taken out as a precaution when I got an infection. But I had another Hickman catheter put in today. The procedure went well. I’m a little sore, but that’s about all. Shanda hasn’t told me any funny things I said coming out of the anesthesia, so that’s good. I’ve been known to ramble off weird comments in that twilight stage.

I went to “P.E. with Parents” at Parker’s school on Wednesday. It was embarrassing. I couldn’t keep up with a room of 1st graders. On the upside, all the kids thought my bald head was cool.

I’ve lost nearly all my eyebrows and eyelashes by now.

I’m looking forward to a good weekend. Parker has a soccer game Saturday morning. We are leaving the kids at home with a cell phone and a twenty dollar bill (and grandma) and heading out for a steak dinner on Saturday night. I’m planning on going to church Sunday. It should be good around here. Round 6 of my chemo starts in the hospital on Monday. I’ve got Season 6 of “24” from Netflix ready to go while I’m there.

Thanks for all your comments on my last post. I needed them. I’ve given Shanda open access to the blog from now on. She’ll be able to give updates if I’m too far into my foxhole some days.

From the Foxhole

DISCLAIMER: This blog post has been swimming around in my head for about a week – and I’ve even tried to write it once already. I just haven’t gotten it to work. I’m determined to finish within the next hour while I am at the clinic getting IV meds this morning, though. Please pardon the rambling mess – but here it is.

I love metaphors. They have a unique way of communicating ideas quickly, but with rich and vivid details. They speak to our emotions, to our guts. Metaphors are great.

The problem is that I don’t have many great metaphors for my life lately.

When I began this journey, I was reminded of the marathon metaphor. I knew that this would not be a sprint, but rather a long and grueling race of endurance. I even use this metaphor with my students often toward the end of each semester – encouraging them to “finish strong” – pushing them to end their coursework with a kick at the end rather than coasting. The problem is that my own metaphor is failing me now. I don’t know if I’ll have a kick left at the end of my treatment. I remember an Olympic marathon runner during my childhood that entered the stadium staggering. She was barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Her head hung low and one shoulder seemed to be drooping so much she would topple at any moment. She seemed to have lost coordination of her major muscle groups and dehydration was taking its toll. I feel more like this marathon runner than someone who is going to finish strong. The marathon metaphor is no good for me now.

Another popular word picture comes from the world of boxing. In fact, there is a well-known cancer treatment facility here in town that advertises “taking the fight to cancer” with a picture of someone in boxing gloves. I appreciated this metaphor for a time, too. I was in a battle – and while I knew I would take some heavy punches – I also knew in the end I would KO cancer. I would jab my way with some humor. My blog would show how I could float like a butterfly and sting like a bee in the middle of a heavyweight bout. I might end up with a black eye, but I would stand over cancer at the end, flexing my muscles and roaring in triumph. But this metaphor is failing me, too. I feel more like a boxer who is taking a pounding and can do nothing more than try desperately to cover up his head with his hands and pray for the bell to ring. My eyes are swelling shut, my nose is bloody, my legs are weak, and I don’t care as much about victory as I do about just surviving to fight another day. The boxing metaphor is no good for me, either.

Still unpleasant, but perhaps more accurate for me these days is a wartime metaphor. For a while I was fond of WWII movies and video games (like “Band of Brothers” and “Call of Duty”). From them, I learned that in the midst of an approaching aerial attack, sometimes the best course of action is to dig a bunker and settle in until it is over. I have definitely developed a bunker mentality. This is somewhat literal – spending more and more days in my home-bunker, as my immune system stays so low for longer periods of time, preventing me from visiting any public places.

But it is much more than that. I have developed a sort of cognitive and emotional foxhole, too. For a while, I described this as a “narrowing of my focus” to my wife, but that sounded too weird. I explained to her that I could tell I was letting go of more and more things that I used to care about. I just didn’t have the emotional energy to invest in my usual interests. I was developing a sort of intellectual and emotional tunnel vision. And by now I’ve reached the point that while I may peek out of my foxhole every once in a while, I mostly stay hunkered down, just waiting, hoping, and praying for this all to end.

Blogging, reading, watching good tv shows and movies, returning phone calls and emails, church, politics, reaching out to my friends, Taco Bueno and Zaxby’s, teaching and Department Chair obligations, writing thank you notes… all these things and more have been pushed to the side as I sit in my foxhole, concentrating what little I have left of myself on this ridiculous cancer and the chemotherapy (which at times feels more like a second enemy than an ally.)

I’ve also learned from these WWII movies that some people don’t survive their foxhole experiences too well. After the bombardment is over, they don’t get out. They are shell shocked. Their world is spinning out of control, seeming to go too fast and in slow motion at the same time. Their senses are all out of whack – hearing is shot and vision is fuzzy. Nothing makes sense and what they need is for another soldier to come over and pull them out of their foxhole to get them going again.

I wonder what kind of man I’m going to be after this is all over. I am beginning to imagine that I could very well end up quite shell shocked like this. I may be just a shadow of the person I once was. I could end up in pieces by the time treatment is successful. I may be a broken man when this is done.

But there is hope.

God is in the business of putting pieces back together.

My pastor in Texas once remarked that he always asked potential ministry staff during interviews to describe a time in their life when they were broken. He went on to explain his conviction that God has a unique way of using people who have been broken and it was these kind of people he wanted on staff with him. I’ve taken some comfort in this idea lately. Rather than trying to avoid the inevitable brokenness, rather than trying to fake it, rather than denying that this experience is bigger than me, I’ve decided to take what comes and let God put the pieces back together when it is over.

I also take comfort knowing that I have many people that will come to my bunker and pull me out when it’s over. I trust that my students will be there to put me back together into a good teacher again. I trust that my friends will drag me out to On The Border and Larry’s Pizza. I trust that the guys will get me out for some basketball and movies. I trust that my colleagues will bring me back into the CBC fold again, catching me up on all the happenings and inside jokes. I trust my church family to provide gracious and healing relationships if/when I need them. I trust that all my friends and family members will help me build a normal life again – something I miss terribly.

Please continue to pray for me and my family. And while I’m not posting as often (here in my foxhole) please know I appreciate your thoughtful words. I’m fortunate that about 90% of my blog readers are folks I knew by first name before they left their first comment – so your words of encouragement mean all the more to me.

That’s enough for now. I have a few other items, but I’ll post them another time when I peek out of my bunker. My hour is almost up at the clinic!

Round 5 Update

Hello, everyone!
I'm updating for Aaron today...he's tired and not up to blogging right now, but he did want you to know how things were going. This morning he is finishing up Round 5 of his chemo and he should be discharged in just a couple of hours. He is looking forward to being home. Aaron experienced a couple of bumps in the road this week. Due to the infection he had last week, Dr. Reid thought the safest course of action would be to take out Aaron's Hickman catheter ("the tubes" as Aaron affectionately refers to them) and put a PICC line in his arm temporarily so that they can continue to administer medications, draw blood, etc. He had those procedures done yesterday. He'll get IV antibiotics every day for the next week and then sometime before Round 6 begins, he'll have surgery to put in another Hickman. All of these things are relatively minor and you'd think we would know to expect the unexpected by now, but they still seem to cause a little anxiety. Other than those issues, Round 5 went fine and we are glad to be able to say we have fewer rounds in front of us than we have behind us now! Thank you all for your prayers and words of encouragement!
Shanda

Round 5

I'm back in the hospital tonight - starting round 5 of my chemo. I'm feeling good - almost like I'm catching my second wind for the second half of this journey.

Thanks for your continued thoughts and prayers!

I've Got a Fever...

Well, at least I did have a fever. It’s gone now. It’s been a rough couple of weeks – but many of you got that idea already from my recent posts. Last week my neck swolled up like I had the gout and I started running a fever. Running a fever when your immune system basically non-functioning is NOT good. Once the fever hit 101, my doctor admitted me to the hospital for some close monitoring and heavy duty antibiotics.

I am doing much better now. My fever has resolved and my neck is normal. My energy is good and appetite is returning. And I should get to go home very soon – as early as tonight – as long as some labwork returns OK.

I’ve been reminded lately of the value of laughter. Proverbs 17:22 says, “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength.” So it is only fitting that I close with this funny and classic reference to someone else’s fever. For those unfamiliar with it – I wish you could see the whole skit, but apparently NBC won’t allow YouTube to post it.

Bedrock Theology

Sorry for the delay in posting... This has been the roughest week in my treatment so far - mostly because of the fatigue that I mentioned in my last post.

But I'm hanging in there. And I'm reminding myself of three foundational truths....

(1) God is good - He always has been.
(2) God is in control - He always is.
(3) God loves me - He always will.

That's good stuff - even if you don't have cancer, right?

Tired

Back during my Labor Day Q & A, Stephen asked what has changed the most as a result of my cancer and wondered what we might do better to minister to other families in similar situations.

(Stephen’s profile says he is a student in Afghanistan. I still can’t believe people actually READ my blog, let alone people in on the other side of the world. Whoa.)

This may not be the most comprehensive answer…. and it may seem trivial, actually… but doggone it – I’m tired. I’m weary, worn-out, fatigued, drained, and run-down. I’m pooped. (Brett, that last one was for you – and anyone else that giggles at the “p” word.)

This exhaustion comes in 2 main forms. First, there is just the sheer physical tiredness. I thought I was prepared for being a little worn down. And most days aren’t too troublesome. But after each round of chemotherapy, there are about 3-4 days of feeling an extreme tiredness. “Sleepy” isn’t the right word, though I do sleep a lot. This is body-dropping exhaustion. For example, I was discharged from the hospital Friday afternoon. I came home and slept from 4:00-6:00, was up for a couple of hours and them slept 12 hours straight from 8:00-8:00. After a couple hours, I took another 2 hour nap that morning, a nap that afternoon, and then went to bed at 9:00 that night.

It is now Sunday evening and I’m starting to feel better, but I’m beginning to hate the weariness. I told my son I couldn’t go to his first soccer game on Saturday morning and felt a little bit like a loser for doing so. I’m not doing much to help around the house and I didn’t go to church this morning – all because, well, I’m tired. Combine all that with a decrease in overall stamina for physical activities, and I start to feel like a weak, incompetent person. That’s been a struggle.

This leads nicely (if I do say so myself) to the second kind of tiredness. Looking ahead makes me emotionally drained. I have found this ironic, because I am actually half way done right now. This should be cause for celebration. I’m half done! But there’s been no streamers, no confetti, no balloons, and no cake – nor should there be. And I can’t keep myself from thinking I’m only half-way done. The road still looks long to me, and it makes me tired. I’m tired of hospital food. I’m tired of the hair loss. I’m tired of injections in my belly and spinal taps in my back. I’m tired of playing the role of sick person in my family. I’m tired of the weird routine I’ve established for my life and I’m tired of this ridiculous cancer.

Wow, I just reread my words and they sound a little heavy. I hope I don’t come across as an emotional wreck. I’d go back and delete half that stuff, but then I’d have to work at something else to write. And as I’ve explained, I’m too tired for that. Stephen asked what has changed the most – and it is the weariness.

He also asked about ministering to other families. I’m going to save that for another post. I have much to share about God’s blessings and provisions and how He has used others to minister to us.

For now, I’d like to make yet another request of ya’ll. I have a handful of verses that have been especially meaningful to me as they relate to tiredness/strength, etc. But I’d like to know from you…. what Scripture helps you the most when you are tired and you have a long road yet ahead?

Medications and Petitions

Like all medications, my chemotherapy medications follow a dose-response curve. This means that at low levels, the medications do little to no good in treating the cancer. There is a minimum dosage needed for the medication to be effective. This also means there is a maximum dosage of the medication beyond which there is no more increase in effectiveness. The area in between this minimum and maximum dosage is the therapeutic level of medication. Click on the picture for a larger graph of a typical dose-response curve.

Some medications have wide therapeutic levels, others are very narrow. Whatever the therapeutic level, it is critically important to find it. Not enough of the medication and you don’t beat the cancer, it beats you. Too much of the medication and you beat the cancer alright, but the medication beats you as well.

I’ve noticed that some very well-meaning folks think that prayers work on a dose-response curve, too.

I am very blessed. Seriously. I have an untold number of people praying for me. My family. My church. My parents' and in-laws' friends. My parents' and in-laws' churches and Sunday School classes. My friends from college and seminary – and their churches. My co-workers – and their churches. And this is just the beginning. There are people I’ve never met that are praying for me.

I’m honored that so many people would petition our King on my behalf. I’m floored, actually. I don’t deserve the attention. But I am encouraged beyond words. It is very hard to get too discouraged when I know so many people around the world are praying specifically for me. I believe in the power of prayer.

But I sometimes detect in conversations with others a belief that God must be answering these prayers for my healing because there are so many people praying. And I wonder…… Does God answer prayers on a dose-response model? Is there a minimum number of people that must pray before He decides to answer? If Shanda was the only person praying for example, would it matter? On the other hand, is there a maximum number of people praying beyond which it doesn’t make much of a difference?

Does God count votes? Do more prayers by more people require God to be more active? I don’t think so.

But now my head starts to hurt – because I WANT as many people praying for me as possible. I see the value of our church prayer lists – not just for me, but for everyone who is hurting and in need. And I believe that God answers prayers.

So here’s your chance for reader participation again. (Actually, I ALWAYS invite reader participation.) Help me sort through this issue. Do numbers matter? Why or why not?

Identity Theft

As a professor and a blogger, it is inevitable that my own words sometimes come back to haunt me. In what I consider to be the first post related to my cancer, I made some rather bold statements. And more than a few folks have reminded me of them. Consider these words…

“My life will not revolve around or focus on my ailment.”

“You won’t read much about my condition here in upcoming days and months.”

“Whatever it is – even if it is really bad – it isn’t significant enough to take center stage in my world.”

Oh brother. Reading them now makes me wonder what world I was living in. Cancer has a way of taking over your life – at least temporarily. Nearly everything I do revolves around it. It is THE reference point for my life’s activities and decisions. Am I well enough to do this activity? Do I have enough energy? Am I going to be in the hospital? Will my immune system withstand it? Will I be at the clinic or doctor’s office? The list of questions goes on.

My life is in one big time out. And my cancer is more than taking center stage. It is the only show in town for me.

But the main point of that first post still stands. Now consider these words…

“No matter what the condition is, I will NOT let it define me.”

“It will not become a part of my identity.”

I am still committed to these words, though sometimes this is easier said than done. But this is why I don’t wear the ridiculous hospital gowns. They identify me as a sick person. This is why I don’t participate in online support groups or discussion boards for people with cancer. As helpful and worthwhile as they may be, I’m resisting being identified as a cancer patient. This is why I don’t like having a bald head. I’m not at all vain about my appearance, but I feel like I might as well be wearing a neon sign that announces “CANCER PATIENT” up there.

Several items in my life have already had their identity stolen. I have some shirts that I now call my “cancer shirts.” Though they are perfectly normal and nice looking shirts, we bought them just for me to wear at the hospital and I can’t even imagine wearing them elsewhere. They are identified with my cancer. I also bought some crocs to wear while at the hospital – but they are quickly becoming my “cancer crocs.” As comfortable as they are, I may have to burn them once my treatment is over. Their identity has been taken over.

But I refuse to let cancer steal my identity. It will not and cannot define who I am.

So while I persevere and wait for the day when cancer will not be center stage, I remind myself of these fundamental truths about my identity…

I am a child (John 1:12) and a friend (John 15:15) of the King.

I am also His workmanship (Ephesians 2:10).

Gearing Up

So my Labor Day holiday from the blog turned into a weeklong break. And it was nice, actually. I've mentioned before that sometimes blogging only serves to remind me of my cancer and treatment. Taking a break is good for me every once in a while.

Just to give you a quick update.... I had a great week. I was able to meet with my classes at CBC and see my students and coworkers. My energy level was good and I was able to get out of the house to do some normal things, including making a trip to On The Border (the best restaraunt around) and a movie in Little Rock on Friday night.

I've been gearing up for Monday when I will begin round 4 of chemotherapy. This will mark the half-way point of my treatment!

I have several blog posts percolating in my head, and I imagine I will be writing nearly every day while I'm in the hospital. Thanks for staying tuned!

Labor Day Q&A

In honor of Labor Day, I'm taking to day off from working up a new blog topic. Instead, this is YOUR turn to ask me anything and everything you ever wanted to know about my cancer, treatment, or whatever. I'll tackle (nearly) any question - from the serious to the silly. It's open Q&A time!

(P.S. - pray for me today, though. The clinic is closed and Shanda has to give me an injection in the belly. She's been waiting a long time to inflict this kind of pain on me, I think.)

GIG #3 - The Hickman Catheter

I’m thankful for Dr. Robert O. Hickman and his 1973 invention – the Hickman catheter. (You can read Dr. Hickman’s short bio here.) I have a love/hate relationship with this instrument. But let’s be clear here at the beginning – this is not the kind of catheter you are currently thinking of. That would be a much less complicated relationship (and would prohibit any blog pictures, I'm afraid). Rather, this is an intravenous (IV) catheter, with tubes running into my jugular vein.

It was surgically placed in my chest before chemotherapy began in order to deliver drugs, fluids, and blood transfusions. It will remain there until my treatment is over. Yes, I have tubes hanging from my chest like in the picture above. This is creepy. And although I don’t think anyone else would really notice the tubes under my shirt, I’m sometimes self-conscious about them and feel as if I need to introduce my tubes to friends and strangers alike. But blurting out, “Hi. My name is Aaron and these are my tubes” will only get me weird looks.

My sons think the tubes are kinda cool, though. I’m like some kind of part human--part machine combo now. Tanner wondered if they made me kinda like a superhero and thought maybe one tube could shoot lasers while the other one could shoot lava. I could be (cue big announcer voice) “Super-Laser-Lava-Robo-Daddy!!” But SLLRD is too long for a superhero uniform and sounds badly now matter how you try to pronounce it. So we just left it at Super Daddy.

Despite the creepiness and periodic hassles, I am thankful that I have the Hickman catheter and have avoided countless needle sticks in my arms. You all already know how much I like those.

Radiology Report

Round 3 is over and I’ve been home for a few days. Until today, I’ve felt pretty crummy. But my energy and appetite are returning and I feel much better. I had a CT scan done yesterday and although I have not consulted with the doctor yet, I did sweet talk my way to a hard copy of the results from the radiologist. Here’s an abbreviated version, just for my readers….




RADIOLOGY REPORT

PROCEDURE:
CT Abdomen and Pelvis

DATE: 08/26/08

COMPARISON: 07/03/08

HISTORY: Burkitt lymphoma

TECHNIQUE: Routine with oral and IV contrast.

FINDINGS:
Marked cecal thickening has nearly completely resolved. Appendiceal thickening and distention has significantly decreased though some persistent mucosal thickening of the appendix is seen. Adjacent lymph nodes are also smaller. Organs of the pelvis are otherwise normal in appearance.

IMPRESSION:
Near resolution of cecal thickening. Significant decrease in appendiceal thickening.


I’m sure my doctor will interpret all of this for me when I visit with him in the next couple of days. But here’s my own interpretation: WOO HOO – THE STINKIN’ TUMOR IS ALMOST ALL GONE!! The cecum is where the majority of my tumor was located (where small and large intestines meet). And that “thickening” is nearly completely gone. There is still some of the mass near my appendix. But this is well within what is expected at this point in treatment.

This is great news, especially considering I’m not yet half way done with chemo. It’s early in the game and I’m kicking some Burkitt butt.

Thank you for your thoughts and prayers!!!!

Just in Case...

…you youths were tempted to tease me…

Click here to read 2 Kings 2:23-24. Then think again.

85-90

85-90%…
85-90%…
85-90%…

That’s my projected total recovery rate – meaning my cancer goes away with chemo and never comes back. I sometimes repeat those numbers to myself, like some sort of lucky mantra.

As far as cancer news goes, that is very, very good. And I am very, very thankful. But somewhere in the back of my mind lingers two quiet questions: “Who is in the other 15-10%?” and “Could I be in that group?” But I choose not to let myself dwell on these questions for long. They are too unsettling.

Throughout this entire ordeal, I can honestly say there have been very few times of fear or anxiety for me. What fear and anxiety I have felt has been related in some way to this 10-15% group. So I deal with it by not thinking about it. I just assume I’m going to be in the 85-90%.

I need your help again. Please put on your theological thinking caps to ponder this question – Is it a sin to be afraid? It seems a normal and natural reaction in a situation like this. But is normal and natural the same as being OK and right? Is it a sign of weakness, of failing to trust God?

This is important. Because it is within the realm of possibility that God’s plan for my situation is to allow me to be in the 10-15%. I need to take this possibility into some consideration. If you have followed my posts, you know I don’t worry about myself, but I worry a lot about what would happen to my family – my sons in particular. I always know in my head that God loves them more than I do and will take care of them. I just don’t always feel it in my heart.

So help me. (This is my plea for reader participation.) What do I do with the fear and anxiety that will come if I consider being in the 10-15%? Ignore it? Deny it? Accept it as normal and natural? Work though it? (If so, how?)

Whoa. I just realized how heavy my past few posts have been. I’ll try to lighten it up a bit soon by writing about poop or something.

Hootie and the Blowfish and Me

Do you remember Hootie and the Blowfish? They were a phenomenon of the mid-1990s. Every college student (including me) owned Cracked Rear View. We belted out with Darius Rucker the lyrics to songs like “Hold My Hand,” “I Only Wanna Be With You,” and “Let Her Cry.” That album went platinum 16 times and still ranks as the 12th best selling album in music business history. Most people don’t know that Hootie and the Blowfish have continued to crank out albums. But none of them have reached anything close to the heights of Cracked Rear View. I don’t know if we can classify them as a one-hit wonder since they had several hits from that album. But they definitely have only had one album achieve worldwide success of any magnitude.

I saw Darius Rucker interviewed on Vh1 of something like that not long ago. He was reviewing the history of the band, and discussing the success of Cracked Rear View compared to other albums. He said that they enjoyed the wild success of that album and all the big venues and recognition it provided. But he also said they have been content with their subsequent albums, too. They are playing smaller venues, receiving less recognition, and making less money. But they are satisfied. They are not bent on trying to relive or recreate the glory days.

I would much rather be like Hootie and the Blowfish than some other bands always trying to achieve their previous success.

If, and this is a monumental “if,” this time in my life turns out to be part of a plan of profound importance, I am much more comfortable being a one-hit wonder. I don’t think I can sustain prolonged profoundness. I am amazed, even bewildered, but extremely honored that people read my blog and have found a little bit of encouragement, hope, and inspiration. Thank you for your kind words to me. Please know it’s all about God, not me.

But I have to tell you, I am looking forward to the day when my life isn’t, well, profound. I enjoy prolonged periods of normal and quiet stability. Is that wrong? A friend of mine a church mentioned in our Sunday School class this week that he desperately wanted to do big things for God. Just for one example, he wants to be like the missionary to cannibals who accomplished great things before being martyred. He wants to be a part of a profound plan.

And I caught myself thinking, “Man, I’m not so sure I want to sign up for that.” I want to have a solid Christian walk, but I’m not sure I want a life of magnitude. I don’t think I’m up to that challenge. I want a quiet life again. I like the idea of being a one-hit wonder. Seriously, is that wrong?

Why? (part 3)

I’ve mentioned a couple of times already (here and here) that I am not wrestling with the “why” question like I thought I might. Even in the middle of round 3 of chemotherapy that continues to be true. But I’ve decided that I might want to distinguish between at least two different kinds of “why” questions. First, there is the “why” question that is laden with anger, bitterness, sadness, or most of all, entitlement. This question has the person as the center of attention: “God, of all the people in the world, why did this have to happen to ME?” Whether by denial, self-righteousness, or God’s grace, I have not been struggling with this question. Compared to a perfectly holy, righteous, and just God, I actually deserve worse than a fight with cancer. I am a blessed man.

Second, there is the “why” question that is an honest, non-blaming search for God’s design. This question has God as the center of attention: “God, what are you trying to accomplish through and in me during this time? How would you have me live my life in the midst of this situation?” (Perhaps, then, this is actually a “what” or a “how” question.) I think I should be giving THIS question more thought.

There is a story in the Bible of a man with his own major life crisis – he was blind from birth: John 9:1-3: As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" "Neither this man nor his parents sinned," said Jesus, "but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life.”

Jesus’ disciples approach him and ask the first kind of “why” question. Why is THIS man blind? Is it his own fault or that of his parents?

But Jesus answers the second kind of question. God intends to use this man’s situation to demonstrate something about how He works.

I suppose the same could be said of my situation (and yours someday). God wants to use it to demonstrate to, both to me and to others, something about how He works. And even as I type these words, I feel the gravity of responsibility. I need to be thoughtful and diligent. This is serious business. There could be a plan of profound importance at stake.

Honestly, I’m not sure I like that. I don’t know that God can rely on me for that. I’m not sure that I’ve ever done much that is “profound” in my life.

Pray for me through the rest of my treatment that I will be more purposeful in my behavior. Pray that I’ll have good conversations with my nurses and nurse’s aides. Pray that I’ll make sense in my blog posts. Pray that I’ll have a positive influence on my students and any others who are watching what I say and do these days. But through all of that, pray that I won’t try to do it all on my own power – pray that I’ll allow God to do His work in me.

Good News, Bad News

The good news – I’m not a wimp for passing out (more than once) at the oncology clinic. I remembered something about a reflex that works in some people from my Abnormal Psychology textbook. So I looked it up. There is a case study of a woman named Judy, who fainted during a movie with graphic scenes of blood in it. Here's an excerpt from the book:

“We now know that more is involved in [this reaction] than just [wimpiness and early childhood experiences]. Physiologically, Judy experienced a vasovagal syncope, which is a common cause of fainting. When she saw the film she became mildly distressed, as many people would, and her heart rate and blood pressure increased accordingly, which she probably did not notice. Then her body took over, immediately compensating by decreasing her vascular resistance, lowering her heart rate and, eventually, lowering her blood pressure. The amount of blood reaching her brain diminished until she lost consciousness. Syncope means “sinking feeling” or ‘swoon’ because of low blood pressure in the head….

A possible cause of the vasovagal syncope is an overreaction of a mechanism called the sinoaortic baroreflex arc, which compensates for sudden increases in blood pressure by lowering it. Interestingly, the tendency to overcompensate seems to be inherited, a trait that may account for the high rate of [wimpiness at needles and blood] in families.”

If you made it through that material, you learned two things. (1) I’m not really a wimp, and (2) It’s my dad’s fault.

The bad news – I did not get to have a CT scan on Wednesday as planned. This would have let us know how well the chemotherapy was working at shrinking my tumor. Unfortunately, my kidneys are getting overworked right now and since CT scans can be hard on kidneys, too, they decided to postpone the CT scan for a couple of weeks. I’m a little disappointed. It would have been nice to get some concrete data on my progress.

The good-or-bad-depending-on-how-you-look-at-it news – I start round 3 of my chemo on Monday. I will probably be in the hospital that afternoon.

Why? (part 2)

Back on July 9th (and before I started chemotherapy), I shared some of my thoughts about the “why” question. I wrote then that I had not been struggling with asking it. I didn’t figure that there was any good reason why I should not get cancer.

Since that time, I think I’ve read a dozen or so articles and a couple of books – and it seems like all of them have addressed this “why” question that haunts many people. Each one of these articles and books described how everyone with cancer (or in some other crisis) eventually asks why. Everyone wants to know why they have to suffer, why they have to experience some particular hardship, why they have to endure disappointment, pain, or loss.

In fact, one article explained that even Jesus asked the “why” question on the cross. In Mark 15:34 we read this: And at the ninth hour Jesus cried out in a loud voice, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?"—which means, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

Dang. So everyone asks the "why" question? Even Jesus??

I began to feel uneasy. Several questions started to swirl in my head. Am I just in denial? Am I burying my head in the sand? Am I being genuine and authentic? Am I faking some sort of self-righteousness? Do I think I’m better than Jesus?

I don’t know. But I still don’t think much about the “why” question. I’m not angry or bitter that I have cancer. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like it. I don’t like the fatigue, the medicines, the strain it is putting on the rest of my family, the interference it is having on my friendships, work, and hobbies. I don’t like it at all. But I figure this is just a part of life – it is part of what it means to live in a world that is tainted with sin.

And I figure Jesus is the only person who ever deserved to have an answer.

The author of last article I read made me feel better. After describing his own struggle with several crises and the “why” question, here was his conclusion:

“If I knew why each of those events happened, I still wouldn’t be satisfied. Comfort doesn’t come with explanations; it comes from the promises of God. And not once did God answer the why’s of Job. Nor did He answer the why of Jesus. What both of them realized at the end of their lives was that compared to the presence of God, the why didn’t matter.”

I liked that.

Why? (part 3) – coming soon.

GIG #2 - Meet the Staff

Since day 1 of this ordeal, every single person – every doctor, every nurse, every receptionist – has been pleasant to work with. There’s not been one person that I’ve had issues with. Now, there are some people that I enjoy more than others due to personality, similar interests, etc. But there’s not been anyone that I’ve thought to myself, “ooh, I don’t really like them,” Of all the things I am thankful for, this is at or near the top of the list. I’m not sure it would be for everyone else, but for a people person like me, this is extremely important.

There’s Dr. Thomas Reid, who shoots straight in his discussions and is accessible, confident, and honest. He makes me feel like we are on a team together, battling this cancer. He credentials are outstanding – like being the Chief of Oncology at Walter Reed Hospital before coming to Conway. And anybody who has both and MD and PhD has got to be pretty smart, right?

You can read an article about him here – http://www.thecabin.net/stories/062908/loc_0629080015.shtml
Or visit his hospital staff page here – http://www.conwayregional.org/body.cfm?xyzpdqabc=0&id=50&action=detail&ref=284

And there’s all the nursing staff at the clinic, too. It is hard to describe how good they are. They all have found the ability to show compassion without showing pity. They are empathetic without being sympathetic. They take cancer and treatment seriously, but don’t take the rest of life too seriously.

There’s Cathy, who was with us when we got the news of the kind of cancer and its staging and who has gone out of her way to educate us on all sorts of things related to cancer and quality of life. There’s Lesa, who says if she were in charge of all my neupogen shots in the belly, she would have done them in a pattern – the tiny bruises giving me a temporary tattoo. There’s Dena, who I know has struggled with cancer in her own immediate family. There’s Laura and Amanda, who usually do my labwork and tease me about passing out while keeping one eye on me just in case I do it again. There’s Sonja, who I found holding my feet up once I regained consciousness from passing out. Next time I’ll see if she’ll massage them while she’s at it. There’s Maria, who I’ve called Marilyn maybe more than once but she doesn’t hold it against me. There’s Darla, Tammy, Amy, and Diane, all who have made me feel welcome and cared for.

Any time you name names like this, you run the risk of leaving someone out. I don’t think any of the nurses know about this blog. But knowing Conway, somebody somewhere will point it out to one of them someday. So I should say, with all honesty and sincerity, that I appreciate every single one of the nurses there. And some day later, I’ll highlight the staff at the hospital, too.

If/when you think of it, remember Dr. Reid and all the nurses by name in your prayers. Thank God for such competent compassionate folks

Status update: My white blood cell counts and anc counts are up (this is a good sign that my immune system is rebounding from round 2). But my red blood cells were getting pretty low. So I am – as I blog right now – getting a transfusion. I haven’t had any trouble with it so far. I have a CT scan scheduled for tomorrow.