What is that hanging off your IV tree...?

It's been a busy week. I had the thrill of being "flocked" again - this time in my office (see picture), so now I have a miniature version on my desk.

I did the talk about cancer with the ninth graders that I noted in my last post. For not having any notes ahead of time, it actually turned out pretty well. Anna - the student who I was making the presentation for, had prepared a short video about colon cancer that served as a good point for me to start from. I started out with a question - "How many of you think I look sick?" Nobody answered. Most people who have colorectal cancers don't look sick, or at least not until they are so far along with the disease that it starts to show, or their chemotherapy treatments make them lose their hair. A few statistics about colorectal cancer in America in 2007 - new cases predicted to be 152,000, number expected to die in 2007 - 52,000. To put things in perspective on the war on cancer - American casualties in the entire Vietnam War are approximately 58,000; number of casualties in Iraq, approximately 3500. Not exactly a successful war effort, eh? But it's not like progress hasn't been made - advances in cancer research allowed me to be able to make the presentation - five years ago, I probably wouldn't have been able to survive more than a few months beyond diagnosis. A student asked me how I found out that I had cancer, so I recounted the surreal week that started me on this roller coaster ride exactly a year ago. More questions about my treatment and how it affects my life, and whether it will cure me - tough questions. To be honest, treatment makes you feel terrible, and statistically my chances of being cured are small. But the big take-home message - my intention has always been to be part of that small percentage that gets cured, and as miserable as treatment makes my life, it is much better to be alive than not. Every day that I wake up is a good day. Some days, it's harder to remember that than others, but I repeat - being alive is still better than not. The final message to the class - while they are too young to probably be at risk for colorectal cancer, they all have parents - parents my age. Don't let them put off getting colonoscopies, particularly if a family history exists. If you love your parents, pester them about it. I ended up having about 25 minutes, and had a fairly attentive and interested audience. I probably wasn't as interesting as the parent who followed my presentation who had an alternative-fuel car to show off. But my presentation was good for me too - sometimes I need a little help remembering that every day I wake up is a good day.

It's hard to keep that mantra going when you don't get a dose of news about progress once in a while. My latest set of marker numbers is still stuck around 8 (five rounds now) - I was hoping to see a little shift downward with the reaction from the last dose of Erbitux (which is starting to show itself again now that the Decadron is wearing off). We'll keep plugging along, one week at a time.

This week also marked the first out-of-the-office field trip for "Loafman". Loafman is "high concept", but the basic explanation is that Loafman is kind of an office voodoo doll where I work. Every time one of us at work has an injury that requires medical attention, Loafman (and I have no idea how he got the name) is modified to reflect the injury. The injured party gets custody of Loafman, to proudly hang in their cubicle until a new injury occurs to someone in our group. Loafman serves as an accumulation of our aches, pains, and owies, and is really a little on the gruesome side if you start looking at all the things depicted - the little green balloons are gall bladders; the little pieces of plastic tubing with knots in them are tubal ligations; the little baby with the bottle of super-glue, the baby that went several weeks beyond due date before being delivered by C-section; and so on. My coworkers decided that it was my turn to have Loafman, so they added a tiny mock-up of my infusion pump (which I have named "Silent Bob"), complete with a depiction of the display on the unit and a tube from the pump to Loafman's chest. I brought Loafman to my treatment last Thursday and showed him off to my doctor and nurse, and to the nursing staff on duty in the clinic. All were amused, and nobody thought I needed counselling or a straight-jacket (so far anyway). Loafman spent the day hanging off my IV tree with the bags of drugs. I'm hoping that the presence of Loafman will have some sort of synergistic effect with the drugs and make the next set of numbers better.

Stable...

Stable - that's the latest word from my oncologist on my condition. No change in the marker numbers, and nothing new to report on last week's CT scan - no new growth, no shrinkage (and no unusual objects like Jack O'Lanterns, Christmas trees, menorahs, or Valentines that have mysteriously appeared in previous scans). Or as indicated by the good doctor with what must be the international hand signal between oncologists as a horizontal slicing motion with the hands (like the communication between catcher and pitcher in baseball) - to indicate no movement, stay on base. OK, I guess. Better than an increase in marker numbers and new spots on the scans, but not as good as seeing improvement. I have high hopes for this week's set of marker numbers because I'm having a pretty good response from last week's dose of Erbitux - a rash like I haven't seen in a month that maybe will translate into a lower marker number.

This week's opportunity for me to share my experiences as a cancer patient/survivor will be something of a challenge that I'm not quite sure how to handle. I've been asked to speak to a class of ninth graders at a local high school on what it's like to have cancer. It's a favor for a coworker who has a child in the class as part of a term project. I have a relatively short amount of time to offer my viewpoint, and I have to consider the age of my audience and the school setting where I'm presenting this. I can't simply say "It sucks really bad", nor do I want to scare them with the physical and mental drain that treatment offers as an alternative to an early and traumatic death from the disease. Since I haven't prepared a formal presentation, I'm going to wing it - the presentation is tomorrow. It's not like I haven't devoted the time to think about it - I'm just not sure what to say in 5-10 minutes. I'm hoping to rise to the occasion like Elizabeth Edwards and be straightforward and honest, but not scary or maudlin. I guess that it will go something like this: While the treatment does "suck" (OK - maybe not use the word "suck" in school - show some class for crying out loud), I'm pretty happy to be here to even share this. Without the advances in medical research made in just the past few years, I wouldn't be here now. It's the worst thing I can think of to happen to someone, but at least there's more hope everyday that folks like me have a chance. I'll let you know what comes out of my mouth and whether I think I said the right things.

This week's picture is from Pike Place Market in Seattle. I spent most of Saturday at the market while my daughter spent the morning in Seattle taking a college admissions exam. While she toiled away, I browsed the produce (scored some of the first of the Washington cherry crop), local seafood, and assorted crafts. I've always thought the strings of peppers were a wonderful visual treat, and I'm sharing it today.

More to come in a few days when I have new numbers to report, and a reflection on having the first anniversary of my diagnosis - this Friday marks the one year point in starting this journey.

We've been flocked!

One last fling for Relay for Life. Just when you thought it was safe... Our church's youth group raised money for their Relay for Life by parking flocks of pink flamingos on lawns. We could have paid for an insurance policy to keep from being "flocked", but didn't, so someone paid to load our lawn with pink plastic invaders. We could also now pay to have them come back right away and remove the flock, but we kind of liked having the company for a few days. The neighbors were a little worried that maybe we had finally snapped, but I think that they were just envious that they didn't have flamingos.


Last weekend was Memorial Day, and I used the opportunity to not only goof off from blogging (sorry to keep you hanging if you were looking for the post for last week), but to finally catch up with some household projects and some home computer upgrades. Something you learn when you get cancer is that the rest of the world continues on its merry way, whether you have cancer or not. The lawn continues to grow, the weeds still come up in the garden, and the plants that you bought a few weeks ago when you were feeling pretty good still need to be planted. A long holiday weekend is just what I needed to get started with a few things that have been long started but gone unfinished. The lawn is cut, most of the garden weeded, a few more plants have more permanent homes, and the pesky leak in our bathroom shower now a smile on the plumber's face. And there was still time to take a couple of restful naps, which I truly enjoy.

This week's marker number was 7.9, so we're still holding steady for the fourth round in a row. I'll get another CT scan on Wednesday and a chance to look it over on Thursday to see if we're making any progress on the size of my critters. I have a new lotion for my rash that my nurse learned about at a recent conference - it's called Cutivate, which I think is just so.... cute for the name of a medicine. It is a topical solution of the same active ingredient in the allergy medication Flonase (which is a nasal spray). The active ingredient is a relatively mild steroid (steroids - there they are again), which relieves the swelling and itching. I've used Flonase and thought that it worked pretty well as an allergy med, so this is an interesting new application. The lotion seems to work fairly well on my face, so perhaps my modelling career can resume :) . Just another little advance in medicine.