More Seriously...

There are more pressing matters over which I should be blogging than tattoos, Levitical laws, and Protestant/Catholic sensitivities. I can assure you that on the 2nd floor oncology unit of Conway Regional Medical Center, where too many people are facing life and death every day, these topics are uncommon.

Thank you for your continued interest in and prayers for me. I have been in very good condition. If I haven’t declared it boldly enough lately – let me do so again now: GOD IS GOOD. Since round 2 of my chemotherapy began, I have had no debilitating symptoms. My appetite and energy have been good. I have slept better than previously. I have had good visits with friends and family. I have not had to fight nausea, serious headaches, moodiness, or pain as I did at times in the first round. And my heart has been steady and strong! I had another spinal tap today that went very smoothly. I am well aware that very problematic symptoms could be in my future – but I am checking off each day one at a time – and recent days for me have been very good.

I have been contemplating the many things for which I should be and am extremely thankful. There is a long list by now – and I’ve decided that I should try to share some of them with you soon. I need some creative help, though. (This is where audience participation would be helpful!) I would like to title the “thankful” posts with something catchy. I thought of the passage “Rejoice in the Lord Always, Again I Say Rejoice” and came up with the “RITLAAISR posts.” But that’s obviously ridiculous. Ephesians 5:20 says to give thanks always for all things – but the “TAFAT posts” is equally weird, isn’t it?

Help me with a title, and I’ll start sharing about God’s wonderful provisions in my life – some of them huge and magnificent, some of them small and quirky -- but all of them worth mentioning in order to praise the King.

My Tattoo

Here it is.

10 points to each person who recognizes the greatness of this image.

100 points to each person who offers an equally inspirational tattoo possibility.

Death, Be Not Proud

I’m not really a poetry kind of guy. It’s not that I don’t like poetry….. well, ok, it actually is. I’m just not smart enough to follow poems that are more complicated than the roses are red variety. But I’m not so uncultured that I can’t appreciate some poems. Below is the first one with which I ever found a significant connection. I remember discussing this poem in a college class – slowly dissecting it, lingering over the metaphors, and feeling the gravity of its words. It was a meaningful experience for me – someone who still can barely put together a haiku. This remains my favorite poem of all time.

I’m not going to analyze the poem for you. Not yet, anyway. I challenge you to chew on it, sift through it, and discuss it with someone else. I’ll revisit the poem in another post someday.

Death, be not proud – John Donne (1572-1631)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Ink

Round 2 started today - all is good so far.

I've discovered that I have a odd but growing desire to get a tattoo after I kick this cancer.

Any suggestions? I'll take them under advisement until such time my wife vetos the whole matter.

Denials and Updates

I apologize for the delay in posting recently. In this case, no news has been good news.

I had a very good week at home. Too good, perhaps. Once my white blood count was high enough, I was able to resume some normal activities.

Normal. Hmm.

I went to the office to work for an hour or two each day. I was able to pretend life was normal there for a while and that was good. Working at the office reminded me that there is a normal life out there waiting for me after all of this.

I went to Chili’s for some normal chicken fajita quesadillas.

I went to see “The Dark Knight.” The joker wasn’t normal, but my evening was.

I was able to just hang out and laugh with my wife and kids. That was very normal and very good.

I went to Larry’s Pizza for some abnormally good pizza.

And I’ve been living in denial a little bit. I avoided unpacking the rest of my stuff from the last trip to the hospital until today. Honestly, I’ve avoided blogging because blogging reminds me that something is wrong.

Round 2 of chemotherapy is scheduled to start on Monday morning, however, and reality is starting to set back in. I am feeling the weight of what could be a very long 6 months or so. Now that I have 1 round of chemo under my belt, I have a glimpse of what the next 7 rounds might look like – and in some ways I feel like I am mourning the loss of a normal life for a while.

I’ve got some blog posts percolating… some of which I am already looking forward to writing. Posts about God’s timing and God’s provision. Posts about thankfulness, perseverance, and toughness. Maybe another post about normalcy, too. And I’ll do better at updating the blog.

Thank you for your kind words and prayers.

Reality Check: After drafting these words (above) this afternoon, my hair has started to fall out tonight. We were expecting that to occur sometime, so it is weirdly normal.

On Sleep and Sovereignty

I did not get much sleep during my first round of chemotherapy at the hospital. This is just a little ironic since the overwhelming majority of my time was spent in a bed. Here’s what I had to work with…. nurses constantly taking my vital signs and giving me medications, IV pumps beeping in my ear, using the bathroom every 45 minutes (from all the fluids in those beeping pumps), moaning patients next-door, tubes and wires running from my chest in all directions, 24 hour on-camera surveillance, scurrying personnel during the occasional code blue, and startling myself with my own snoring since I was always lying on my back. If that doesn’t paint a good picture, then think of being thrown into a large fish bowl and cabled down to a bed that looks more like an instrument of torture than a Tempur-Pedic. Your background noise is more annoying than a Nancy Grace marathon and you have the constant urge to pee. Night-night.

I teach my psychology students about the importance of sleep. In fact, study after study has demonstrated how sleep relates to other areas of life. The third of your life that you should spend sleeping has profound effects on the other two-thirds of your life; in terms of alertness, energy, mood, body weight, perception, memory, thinking, reaction time, productivity, creativity, and safety. And this is just a short list.

I’ve often wondered, however, why God would design us so that a third of our lives would need to be spent sleeping. Seriously – that’s a huge part of our life.

I don’t have a full answer to this question. But I had a significant moment one night in the hospital that I thought I should share. I couldn’t until now because it was too difficult to discuss even with Shanda until recently. Since I’ve said transparency is the name of the game, here it goes.

You’ve read by now that I was moved to the Critical Care Unit for a while because my heart rate had dipped into the mid thirties. (Normal heart rate is 60-80 beats per minute, by the way). I have to confess that I was more than just a little nervous about going to sleep my first night in CCU. My heart rate was being constantly monitored, and the number was just above my head. I could check it anytime I wanted –and I checked it often. As long as I was awake, I could figure out ways to get my heart rate up – tense my muscles, stretch, get out of bed, breathe fast, hold my breath, etc. Honestly, I was unsettled about “letting go” and sleeping. My heart rate was hovering in the 40s I had no assurance my heart rate wouldn’t drop again to even more critical levels if I let myself drift to sleep.

No man likes to admit this, but I had a small crisis that night. I was scared.

Then something remarkable happened – something hard to verbalize, so hang with me. Through a few of my tears that night, I offered a pretty feeble but sincere prayer: “Lord, I gave my heart to You years ago and You saved me. Tonight, I give my heart to You again – literally – and I trust You with it. Make it beat however You want.”

I surrendered control. I gave up my heartbeat. I even gave up my family. I thought of Shanda and the boys and turned them over to Jesus. I visualized Jesus’ hands holding and massaging my heart. And I slept.

Over the next few days, I reflected on that experience and on sleep in general. I wonder if God designed us to need sleep as a way of reminding us of our dependence on Him. We work ourselves like crazy during the day to maintain some semblance of control over our lives. But each night we have to give it all up. For those of us who claim that God is in control, going to sleep each night is an opportunity to thoughtfully practice what we preach.

It’s not that we shouldn’t work hard and make good choices each day. We should. We should work to take care of our families and faithfully carry out whatever tasks God has given us. But at the end of every day we have a chance to give it all back to the One who is ultimately in control – and truly find rest.

One Down...

.... seven more rounds to go.

There's so much to say. First, I can't even begin to explain how important your emails, phone calls, and blog comments have been to me. I have not been able to respond to everyone individually - though I wish I could - but each one has been a blessing to me. Thank you! Please continue - your words do my heart good.

Speaking of my heart.... Ugh. My first round of chemo was thrown for a loop when my heart rate dipped into the mid 30s. We still aren't sure what the story is, but let me tell you that hospital staff get a little frenzied when you start having cardiac trouble AND you are on chemo at the same time.

I was able to complete my first round of chemo, just with a few delays. Other than the low heart rate, my heart seems good and strong. (Well, there is also the issue of me passing out about 4 times in the oncology clinic, but I'll save that embarrassing story for a later post. For now, let's just say it is the weirdest thing to be sleepy/dizzy one minute and waking up with 6 nurses and a doctor in front of you screaming your name the next. Sheesh.)

The overwhelming majority of my time in the hospital was spent in bed, though I assure you the hospital is NOT a place of rest. So I've been doing some thinking, as you might expect. Hopefully, I'll be able to share some of my thoughts with you soon. My next post might be about my developing theology of sleep - just in case you are interested.

My condition now is good. I am fatigued a good bit of the time. But I had a good appetite today, was able to play with the boys some, and I haven't lost my hair. Yet.

For the next week or so, I'll be going into the clinic often and as soon as my white blood cell count is high enough, they'll start round two of my chemo. I am so encouraged by your thoughts and prayers. And I have so much to be thankful for. Please continue to pray for Shanda, the boys, and our families. This is tough for them.

Will write more soon!

Days 3 and 4

Just a short update today… I’ve discovered that blogging in the past was an exercise of leisure and relaxation. It was a break from otherwise busy days. Here at the hospital, it is nothing but leisure and relaxation (sort of), and when I have time to do something else, blogging isn’t my highest priority. I want to DO something – something more active, I suppose.

I’ve had a detour with my treatment. Apparently my heart rate has been very low the past few days when I’m resting. In fact, on Saturday night they gave me Atropine to stimulate my heart. And since some of the chemo meds can be a little hard on a person’s heart, they have moved me to the critical care unit at the hospital. I’M NOT IN CRITICAL CONDITION. But this is the best place to continuously monitor my heart, especially while I’m taking some of the chemo meds.

For the praying types – here’s how you can pray. (Craig, figure out a way to keep yours from just bouncing off the walls, would you?)

I don’t like detours. They had to delay some treatment while they figured out my heart thing. I just want to get the chemo going. Pray for patience, please. And pray my heart gets its act together.

I don’t like the critical care unit. The staff here is wonderful, but there is a very strict visiting policy and it gets lonely. In addition, this unit is for very sick people. The rooms and services aren’t designed for ambulating and active patients.

Finally, I’ve been rather weepy the past 2 days. This isn’t like me at all. Our best guess is that this is a combination of several things – not the least being some sleep deprivation and the steroids which can wreak havoc on emotions. Please pray for mood stability and for my sense of humor to return a bit more. I need it.

Thanks to you all!

Sharp Points and No Point

Had a lumbar puncture with chemotherapy today.

Translation: I had a spinal tap. It went well.

1 down.
15 more to go.

I wish I would have asked my doctor if the numbers on his instruments went all the way to 11. But I'm sure he wouldn't have gotten it.

My First Chemotherapy Epiphany

Epiphany: 1): a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something (2): an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking (3): an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure. (Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

When faced with cancer, I am sure most people find themselves reordering their priorities. Some things seem much more important than before, some things much less so.

I made a sudden reordering of priorities today as my boss and a co-working were visiting me at the hospital. We were having a wonderful conversation. I don't really remember what it was, but I'm certain we were exegeting some Scripture or singing some hymns or something. A nurse’s aide entered the room and quietly took my vitals while we were talking and singing praises– there was no problem. Then he asked how my bowels were moving – now there was awkward silence.

During the next few moments I had to decipher at light speed the exact nature of this question. Moving? Moving where? To behind my clavicles? To around my lungs? Where can they go? There’s not really much room for them to go anywhere. So having decided he wanted to know about my bathroom habits, I next had to decide how much information to share in front of these esteemed gentlemen.

Eternity lapses.

Yep, Gary and Chris… I poop. I pooped at 4:00am and then pooped again at 9:00 or 10:00am. Well, I don’t really know how much poop, Mr. Nurse’s Aide Man. It wasn’t much poop either time, I don’t guess. I mean, kept track of the times of my poops but not really the volume of my poops. Sorry, dude. But rest assured – I definitely pooped.

Today’s epiphany: Talking about poop in front of your boss and co-workers isn’t quite as humiliating as you might think.

Why?

So tomorrow I begin chemotherapy to rid my body of cancer. I have a multitude of thoughts swirling in my head, some of which I will write about at a later date. But today, I thought I’d try to verbalize (mostly for my own benefit) some thoughts I have about the “why” question.

Shanda has asked me why I thought this might be happening to us. I told her I didn’t know. I haven’t struggled with this question as much as I thought I might. I am not going to worry about the “why” question because I don’t yet have a good answer for the “why not” question. Why shouldn’t this be happening to me? I have no answer.

Shanda and I did get an encouraging email this week about the “why” question, though. A friend had been reading about Jesus ministering to a widow and raising her son from the dead. (Please go read Luke 7:11-16.)

Here’s what Beth Moore had to say about this situation….

"Jesus ran into a woman in hopeless despair and just reacted with what came most naturally to Him- healing mercy. I believe we possibly have a small glimpse into what Christ would do in every one of our despairing situations if a greater plan was not at stake. I believe what comes most naturally to Christ every time He encounters need is to instantly fix it. Is it possible He exercises great restraint to work any other way in the face of devastation? I think so.

A plan of profound importance exists that sometimes overrides the miracle we so desperately desire. But I am comforted to know that instantaneous healing and resurrection power come even more naturally to our Christ than waiting and working through long but necessary processes. The biggest reason why I can trust God in the sovereignty of God is because I am so utterly convinced of the sweetness of God."

Hmm. “A plan of profound importance…”

I don’t think it is mere coincidence that I just taught a Sunday School lesson on what this plan might be. We have been discussing the story of Lazarus in our group for a few weeks. Perhaps you remember the story (in John 11:1-44). Jesus’ good friend is sick and dying. Mary and Martha send word to him to come, but he doesn’t. He delays. By the time he gets there, Lazarus is dead and more than a few folks are asking their own versions of “why” questions. In this story, Jesus repeatedly explains that His actions are for the sake of their faith. (See verses 14-15, 25-26, 40, and 41-42 for at least four such occasions.)

Perhaps Jesus’ first inclination is to rush to his friend and heal him immediately. But He delays and allows Lazarus to die because of something greater – the faith of those who knew and loved Lazarus.

Perhaps Jesus’ first inclination is to rush to my side and heal me quickly and painlessly, if not miraculously. But maybe He’ll delay because of something greater – my faith and the faith of those around me.

So as I start my journey tomorrow – a long 6 months or so, spending a third of my time in the hospital, fighting off fatigue and pain, wishing for time with my friends and family, and mourning the loss of a “normal” life – I cherish your prayers. But in addition to these temporary and earthly concerns (as valid as they are), please pray for more eternal and spiritual matters. Pray that I will grow in my own faith. Pray that I will be an encouragement to other believers. Pray that non-Christians will be drawn to Jesus.

Thank you!

Here We Go

I don’t know who it was, but somebody out there heard me lament the waiting process and decided to pray that I just wouldn’t have to wait. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that – I’m a spiritual idiot sometimes. Whoever you are – thanks! My oncologist called this morning and asked for us to come for our consultation this afternoon. Pardon the brevity of this update – our heads are still swimming and we have tons to do now.

My cancer is Burkitt’s Lymphoma. It is an aggressive form of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

My cancer is in stage 1, meaning we caught it early. This is very good.

My cure rate is 85-90%. This is also very good.

As far as cancer news goes, I’m not sure it could have been much better.

But here’s where it gets ugly. My chemotherapy and immunotherapy (R-hyper-CVAD) will begin later this week at Conway Regional Hospital. My regimen will consist of 8 rounds of chemo. Each round will begin with 5 days of inpatient treatment. They will be bombarding my body will all sorts of stuff nearly around the clock for 5 days. After my 5 days in the hospital, I’ll be released home. After a couple of weeks (give or take a few days) my body should recover enough to start the next round. For those doing the math – that’s about 6 months of chemo, in and out of the hospital.

The toll it’s going to take on my body is not going to be pleasant. And my time away from family, friends, work, hobbies, etc is going to be difficult to handle. But I’m gonna kick some Burkitt butt with this chemo and that’s what matters the most.

I’ll post more later. Thank you all!

Dave Barry's Colonoscopy

Laughter is good medicine. And I need some good medicine before I start taking the kind that is gonna kick my tail. So I’m offering an article by Dave Barry below.

(1) This is copyright material – so I’ll keep it up here until the Miami Herald tells me to take it down. Maybe they’ll give me some latitude if I give them some love: You can find the original article here and other Dave Barry articles here. (2) Dave Barry's experience was nearly exactly like mine. He's just a lot funnier than I am - and I wish I could write like him. (3) MoviPrep is of the devil.

OK. You turned 50. You know you're supposed to get a colonoscopy. But you haven't. Here are your reasons:

1. You've been busy.

2. You don't have a history of cancer in your family.

3. You haven't noticed any problems.

4. You don't want a doctor to stick a tube 17,000 feet up your butt.

Let's examine these reasons one at a time. No, wait, let's not. Because you and I both know that the only real reason is No. 4. This is natural. The idea of having another human, even a medical human, becoming deeply involved in what is technically known as your ''behindular zone'' gives you the creeping willies.

I know this because I am like you, except worse. I yield to nobody in the field of being a pathetic weenie medical coward. I become faint and nauseous during even very minor medical procedures, such as making an appointment by phone. It's much worse when I come into physical contact with the medical profession. More than one doctor's office has a dent in the floor caused by my forehead striking it seconds after I got a shot.

In 1997, when I turned 50, everybody told me I should get a colonoscopy. I agreed that I definitely should, but not right away. By following this policy, I reached age 55 without having had a colonoscopy. Then I did something so pathetic and embarrassing that I am frankly ashamed to tell you about it.

What happened was, a giant 40-foot replica of a human colon came to Miami Beach. Really. It's an educational exhibit called the Colossal Colon, and it was on a nationwide tour to promote awareness of colo-rectal cancer. The idea is, you crawl through the Colossal Colon, and you encounter various educational items in there, such as polyps, cancer and hemorrhoids the size of regulation volleyballs, and you go, ''Whoa, I better find out if I contain any of these things,'' and you get a colonoscopy.

If you are as a professional humor writer, and there is a giant colon within a 200-mile radius, you are legally obligated to go see it. So I went to Miami Beach and crawled through the Colossal Colon. I wrote a column about it, making tasteless colon jokes. But I also urged everyone to get a colonoscopy. I even, when I emerged from the Colossal Colon, signed a pledge stating that I would get one.

But I didn't get one. I was a fraud, a hypocrite, a liar. I was practically a member of Congress.

Five more years passed. I turned 60, and I still hadn't gotten a colonoscopy. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I got an e-mail from my brother Sam, who is 10 years younger than I am, but more mature. The email was addressed to me and my middle brother, Phil. It said:

``Dear Brothers,

``I went in for a routine colonoscopy and got the dreaded diagnosis: cancer. We're told it's early and that there is a good prognosis that they can get it all out, so, fingers crossed, knock on wood, and all that. And of course they told me to tell my siblings to get screened. I imagine you both have.''

Um. Well.

First I called Sam. He was hopeful, but scared. We talked for a while, and when we hung up, I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy. A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis. Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner. I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, quote, ``HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BUTT!''

I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called ''MoviPrep,'' which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America's enemies.

I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous. Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor. Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons.) Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because MoviPrep tastes -- and here I am being kind -- like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.

The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, ''a loose watery bowel movement may result.'' This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.

MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but: Have you ever seen a space shuttle launch? This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.

After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep. The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage. I was thinking, ''What if I spurt on Andy?'' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that? Flowers would not be enough.

At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the hell the forms said. Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked.

Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their MoviPrep. At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. You would have no choice but to burn your house.

When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point. Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand. There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was Dancing Queen by Abba. I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, Dancing Queen has to be the least appropriate.

''You want me to turn it up?'' said Andy, from somewhere behind me.

''Ha ha,'' I said.

And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like.

I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, Abba was shrieking ``Dancing Queen! Feel the beat from the tambourine . . .''

. . . and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood. Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that it was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. I have never been prouder of an internal organ.

But my point is this: In addition to being a pathetic medical weenie, I was a complete moron. For more than a decade I avoided getting a procedure that was, essentially, nothing. There was no pain and, except for the MoviPrep, no discomfort. I was risking my life for nothing.

If my brother Sam had been as stupid as I was -- if, when he turned 50, he had ignored all the medical advice and avoided getting screened -- he still would have had cancer. He just wouldn't have known. And by the time he did know -- by the time he felt symptoms -- his situation would have been much, much more serious. But because he was a grown-up, the doctors caught the cancer early, and they operated and took it out. Sam is now recovering and eating what he describes as ''really, really boring food.'' His prognosis is good, and everybody is optimistic, fingers crossed, knock on wood, and all that.

Which brings us to you, Mr. or Mrs. or Miss or Ms. Over-50-And-Hasn't-Had-a-Colonoscopy. Here's the deal: You either have colo-rectal cancer, or you don't. If you do, a colonoscopy will enable doctors to find it and do something about it. And if you don't have cancer, believe me, it's very reassuring to know you don't. There is no sane reason for you not to have it done.

I am so eager for you to do this that I am going to induce you with an Exclusive Limited Time Offer. If you, after reading this, get a colonoscopy, let me know by sending a self-addressed stamped envelope to Dave Barry Colonoscopy Inducement, The Miami Herald, 1 Herald Plaza, Miami, FL 33132. I will send you back a certificate, signed by me and suitable for framing if you don't mind framing a cheesy certificate, stating that you are a grown-up who got a colonoscopy. Accompanying this certificate will be a square of limited-edition custom-printed toilet paper with an image of Miss Paris Hilton on it. You may frame this also, or use it in whatever other way you deem fit.

But even if you don't want this inducement, please get a colonoscopy. If I can do it, you can do it. Don't put it off. Just do it.

Be sure to stress that you want the non-Abba version.

Being Transparent is Healthy

At least that’s what I tell my students. Are there limits to this transparency? I’m sure there are. What should be the limits of my own transparency in the midst of my cancer? I’ve lost some objectivity and I'm not so sure. So I’m following my gut here – which is terribly ironic since it is my gut that has gotten me into this trouble. But I’m trying to be as open and honest as possible here on my blog these days.

I know I’ve promised not to make this all about me. And someday, as things settle down, I’ll reduce the cancer posts and write on other stuff. But enough of you have asked for updates that I feel compelled to keep ya’ll current. (And honestly, I cherish the idea that so many people are thinking of and praying for us.)

We are in a holding pattern until around Thursday next week. I’ve had a slew of tests, exams, pokes, and prods. And I have a few more to go. All of the results will come in around mid-week and then I’ll have another consultation with my oncologist. I am looking forward to that day in nervous anticipation – as I assume that’s the day I will get some numbers; something concrete to wrap my mind around. I’ll get the stage of my cancer (how far it has progressed) and I’ll get a cure rate. I want to know (1) my stage number and (2) the likelihood that I’m going to survive. I want the numbers. And waiting for them is hard. So if you are looking for specific ways to pray in the next few days – pray for patience and peace and we continue to live with the unknown and we have to wait.

And pray for this…..

This is hard enough to hear rattle around in my head – let alone verbalize it to Shanda (which I’ve done) or write about it on my blog (which I’m now doing). So bear with me.

I know that I can handle anything that happens. Seriously. I’m in God’s care. I can handle the pain and side effects that will occur as a result of my chemotherapy, which is probably going to be pretty brutal. Maybe you’ve already read my take on these things: I don’t deserve any different. Others have suffered incredibly more than I will. God loves me and nothing can separate me from His love. It will be hard, sometimes very hard, but I can handle it. That’s not self-centered pride (I don’t think). That’s the assurance and hope I have in Christ.

I also know that if treatment does not go well and I don’t make it – the alternative is being with Jesus. See? I’m going to be OK.

But I’m having a hard time thinking of my family – particularly my sons. Shanda is a strong woman and while it would be incredibly hard for her, she would be OK, too. But I’m struggling with the idea of my sons growing up without a father. If I let those thoughts linger - for even a moment (like now) - the weight of them nearly crushes me. Even though I know in my head that God loves my family far more than I do and would take care of them, in my heart I can’t bear the thought of my sons growing up without their dad. Please focus your prayers as I try to live out Philippians 4:8 and as I seek the promise of Philippians 4:6-7.

Ugh. That wasn’t fun. But it was transparent. Your prayers are a lifeline for me. Thank you all!

Breaking News

Thanks again to everyone who has commented or emailed. I appreciate your kind words more than you know.

Here’s a brief update….

My cancer is one of two different subtypes of B cell lymphoma. I like having a name for it. I now know what I’m battling against.

I also get to keep my guts. The oncologist today said that colon surgery is not necessary. That’s the good news.

The bad news is that I am in for some pretty rough chemo starting soon. (Probably Hyper-CVAD for the curious.)

While my oncologist was very helpful, I didn’t get as much news as I would have liked today. He still doesn’t know what stage my cancer is in. And that means I don’t know the exact success rate of treatment. We will know all of that within the next week or so after I have a battery of more tests.

Speaking of tests – I have a bone marrow biopsy Wednesday. I hear those aren’t any fun.

That’s the short story. I don’t really know what to make of these changes yet. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it all. I’ll post more soon.

Thanks again for your encouragement and prayers!

Nailed Down

Nailed down.
Written in blood.
Carved in stone.
Written on the bathroom stall with a sharpie.

OK. So that last metaphor wasn’t appropriate. But you get the idea.

I’m seeing the oncologist today and I’m preparing myself for what he may have to say. I imagine he will be much more specific than my other doctors – more specific about the type of cancer, about the course of treatment, and about prognosis and life-expectancy. The less specific the details were until now, the more I could just assume that all was good. But I’m a little unsettled about what I might hear today. So I’m driving some stakes into the ground. No matter what news I get – I know without any doubt or reservation...

(1) God is in control and He loves me.
(2) God loves my family more than I do.
(3) Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from God’s love (Romans 8:38-39).

Thanks to all who have commented and emailed their encouraging words. I have not been able to repsond to everyone - but please know I appreciate you all.