If one thing don't get ya, another will....

You always hear people say "What if you got hit by a bus...?", often as a warning that a random event could snuff you out when you least expect it. I don't personally know anyone who has been hit by a bus, and statistically, I'm sure that the number of people hit by buses is pretty small (in Washington, there are an average of 3.2 fatalities/year involving transit buses - Transportation Research Institute, 2001). In that context, people with cancer know deep down that sooner or later (and hopefully later), the cancer will finally catch up with them. I don't mean to be morbid, but statistically, many cancers and particularly those that reach Stage IV, are ultimately fatal. All of us in that Stage IV category hope to stay on and beat the odds, but there's always that bus out there with your name on it too.

In my case, today it was a car in the supermarket parking lot, and not a bus. As I was waiting to cross the road in front of the supermarket to enter the store, a car behind me that was backing out of a handicapped parking space hit me and knocked me down so that I was partially under the car. Before you panic, I'm OK - I managed to do nothing more than wipe the dirt off the bumper (not as dramatic as the "killer ice chest" episode in the July 1 post - really, I'm NOT an accident prone person!). The driver of the car was an old woman who seemed a bit incoherent, and not at all apologetic about running me over..."What were you doing behind my car...?". "Mam, I was waiting to cross the road - you backed over me...." That was about it for the conversation - she took off out of the parking lot, perhaps grateful that I didn't appear to be hurt. I have a partial on the license plate, but didn't get the make or model of the car, but really, I'm pretty happy that I didn't get hurt and at this point, don't plan on going any further with this (technically, this could be regarded as a "hit and run"). I hope that the woman who hit me has some time to think about today and plan life a little more carefully tomorrow.

You may remember that I'm getting on a plane tomorrow to head off to New York to get my Dad married off and spend a few weeks visiting family and friends there. I've been fretting a little about missing two treatments while on vacation, but my oncologist says I deserve to have a decent break - the two missed treatments will probably hardly be noticeable and the therapeutic value of being away from chemotherapy and cancer will more than make up for it. It seems a little silly right now to have been concerned about missing the treatments and maybe losing some ground against my tumors - after all, things could have been worse today - I could have been hit by a bus...

I'll try to write at least once while I'm away - it will be a different kind of update - no treatment news or marker numbers - you probably need a break from it too.

Waiting for news

No, the picture is not another close-up of my last PET scan. Another July 4th has come and gone in our neighborhood. As usual, our entire subdivision seems to have bought out the pyrotechnic wares plied at our local Native American reservation, making the skies look like invasion night in Bagdhad. It's kind of a semi-controlled chaos that lasts from noon until well past midnight - fun but a little scary.

I'll be enjoying a little break from chemotherapy when I head back to the east coast to be the best man at my Dad's wedding (any help with the "best man's toast" will be greatly appreciated). I'll miss two weeks of chemo, which is a little worrisome for me. My marker number dropped last time (hurray!), but went up just slightly to 5.8 (from 4.6) this past Thursday. With two weeks away from treatment, will they go up more? I have another PET scan scheduled in three weeks - maybe it will look like this:

Getting my marker numbers is always an interesting exercise. When the numbers show an improvement, the oncologist calls me at home on Friday morning to give me the good news. When the news isn't as good, I have to get the information from the nurses at the treatment center when I return Silent Bob on Saturday. They're always a little reluctant to pull up my records, even though I have a right to see them as a patient. I explained how important these numbers are to us when I had a chance to chat with some of the weekend nurses - those numbers are the only way that we can tell if we're making progress, holding the line, or losing ground. One commented that it must be terrible having to wait to get those numbers, and in a way she was right. We want so badly for the news to be good, but that's not always what we get. I can't blame them for being reluctant to give me the lab results - I wouldn't want to have to pass on bad news either. I assured them that after having been through this for a year already, I could take the news - good or bad. At this point, it "is what it is" and I can live with that. I hope I can remember that when I have to wait to get the results of that next PET scan...

A year with cancer & a sigh of relief

This week marks the one year anniversary of my beginning treatment for Stage IV colorectal cancer. It's been a long haul marked with a very good response to treatment early on, and a few ups and downs along the way. For the past 10 weeks, my tumor marker number has been stalled between 7 and 8 and the last measurement was actually just a bit higher at 8.6 (remember that the "normal" range is 0-3 and I started out at 176). When you've gone for what seems like a long time with no measureable progress, you start to wonder if the chemotherapy has finally begun to play out. It's a nagging little voice somewhere in the back of your mind that keeps saying "what are you going to do if the numbers start going back up...?". A little good news would be a nice change - just a little something to let you know you're still in the game. When the phone rang on Friday morning around 8:15, I started to grin...the only time the phone rings on Friday morning between 8:00 and 8:30 is when my oncologist has good news. "Hello?" "Your number is 4.6...congratulations...". Whew. Progress at last. Was it the mojo from Loafman two weeks ago that did it? The continued prayers from everyone? Whatever the reason, I'll take it.


The picture above was taken last Friday from the top of Mt. Walker in the Olympic Mountains. Buoyed by the good news from my doctor, we headed out of town to our annual camping trip to Dosewallips State Park on Washington's Hood Canal. We go every year with a big group of friends to dig clams and oysters and spend the weekend socializing and catching up. We had a lot of catching up to do since last year - I was diagnosed the day before we made the last trip and a lot has happened since then. It was good to be able to share the latest news. And a weekend camping out and digging clams is pretty good complementary therapy for me.

I also learned this week that our local medical first responders can get to my house within two and a half minutes from the time a call is placed to 911. How do I know this? A little accident on Tuesday night which involved the unfortunate collision of a sharp piece of plastic on an ice chest (getting it ready for our camping trip) and my scalp, produced a copious flow of blood that was just a little on the scary side. I'll spare the details on exactly how this happened, but suffice it to say that I feel kind of stupid. I managed to get a compress on it and stopped the bleeding, but felt a little faint. Long story short, Nancy had the common sense to call 911 in case I passed out. We layed a blanket out with a pillow and I laid down to get the blood flow back to my head, and within minutes, the EMTs had arrived. I felt OK by this time (and just a little embarrassed), and after a quick check of vital signs and my recitation of all the medications I'm taking, they pronounced me OK. Never a dull moment at our house. I apologize to all of my neighbors for frightening them with a rescue vehicle visit to our cul-de-sac - I'll try to be carefull with the deadly ice chest in the future. The ice chest was a premium gift from the American Cancer Society for raising a significant amount of money in the Relay for Life - kind of strange quirk to be nailed by an ice chest from the American Cancer Society. I'll stick with T-shirts for premiums next year.