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.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
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.
Friday, October 17, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
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!
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!
Saturday, October 4, 2008
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
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
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