It's funny. It's been over two years, as was pointed out by my wife at a brewery earlier this week, since the cancer story wrapped up. That seems like it should be significant, and it is a major part of my story. I refuse to let that chapter define me, to be the part of my story that other people tell. I want it to be a blip on the radar.
Earlier this week, I took a friend to the airport at 4:30AM. After that, I provided 13 hours of therapeutic services, including self-care, documentation, and administrative work. I came home and had dinner. My wife asked me to help her fold laundry and, admittedly I grumbled at her, I took a deep breath and helped her.
I've had so many significant events since the end of chemotherapy that it feels like a lifetime ago.
It's weird to say, but I'm finally content where I'm at. It's not where I want to be forever, but I'm where I feel like I'm supposed to be right now and I'm going to do what I can right now where I'm at.
Who I am is incredibly defined by who I've been. In EMDR therapy we call that Adaptive Information Processing, our past is being lived out in our present.
Who I want to be would not have made the choices I've made, but I would not be who I want to be without the choices I've made. I have the privilege to figure out how to reconcile those two people.
There's a new Macklemore song that almost constantly plays through my head. In case you can't tell, I've linked it for you there. Never let the low points define you, let them enhance you.
"You know I'm back like I never left
Another sprint, another step
Another day, another breath
Been chasing dreams, but I never slept
I got a new attitude and a lease on lifeAnd some peace of mind"
Friday, September 1, 2017
Friday, November 11, 2016
Tilting At Windmills
Just then they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills that rise from that plain. And no sooner did Don Quixote see them that he said to his squire, "Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished. Do you see over yonder, friend Sancho, thirty or forty hulking giants? I intend to do battle with them and slay them. With their spoils we shall begin to be rich for this is a righteous war and the removal of so foul a brood from off the face of the earth is a service God will bless."
"What giants?" asked Sancho Panza.
"Those you see over there," replied his master, "with their long arms. Some of them have arms well nigh two leagues in length."
"Take care, sir," cried Sancho. "Those over there are not giants but windmills. Those things that seem to be their arms are sails which, when they are whirled around by the wind, turn the millstone."
— Part 1, Chapter VIII. Of the valourous Don Quixote's success in the dreadful and never before imagined Adventure of the Windmills, with other events worthy of happy record.
To be quite honest, I've never been able to sit down and read all of Don Quixote. It's long, originally written an an older Spanish, then translated into English, so it doesn't flow great. I've read bits and pieces of it. I've watched a VHS of the Man of LaMancha, and I remember two wooden figurines that my dad had of Sancho Panza and Don Quixote.
The interpretation of this scene is interesting. Don Quixote is clearly mentally ill (maybe a post where I diagnose him would be fun). But that's not the part that gets highlighted with the phrase "titling at windmills".
I, and other people with a lot more experience interpreting and reading classical literature than me, see it as an allegory to promote critical, skeptical, or satirical evaluation of a person's motives. This blog originally started as a way for me to cope and process through being a cancer patient. That is, for the most part behind me. But the world I woke up to on November 9th 2016 is one that fills me with more dread than I can put into words.
Yes, the Democrats lost. I'm fairly certain that they shot themselves in the foot when the elite of the party decided to ignore the working class, writing them off as unimportant and in more than one occasion insulting their intelligence. We now have President-Elect Donald Trump.
Just writing that made me uncomfortable. Here is a man who pandered to the worst of our humanity in order to secure his victory. Yes, not all, not even a majority of his supporters are racists, or sexists, or xenophobes or ... . But he couldn't have won without them, and his words matter.
This is a small, rarely used blog that gets read primarily by my friends and family, its a drop in the bucket. I know that. But its my drop in the bucket. I'm angry. I'm not going to use platitudes like "not my president" because like it or not (and believe me, I don't), DJT is my president. His values are not mine. His treatment of women is not mine. His racist language is not mine. His derogatory mocking of a physically disabled man is not mine. His entitled sense of himself is not mine.
I'm not going to sit down for this one, there's too much at stake. Not for me, I'm white, a man, well-educated, decently well off (in the grand scheme of things), straight, and cis-gender. But people I care about, people I love are very afraid. I won't stay quiet.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Slightly Less Than One Year
I'm 28 days shy from the year anniversary of the beginning of all of this cancer nonsense, and now seems to be as good of a time of doing some retrospection as any.
It's odd, how clear my memory of December 28th, 2014 is. It was a Sunday, and my plan was to make it a lazy Sunday. My wife had to work so I had the house to myself for most of the day. I wasn't doing anything of consequence that day. Three times I lay, prostrate, on my floor in what would become the second most intense pain of my life. The third time lead me to realizing I needed to go to the emergency room.
I arrive at the ER. The next 24 hours seemed to pass in a blur. I remember the ER doctor having the most kind and polite bedside manner imaginable. A syndicated episode of Family Guy was on the room TV as he sat, a gentle hand on the bed, as he told me that they had made a back-door appointment with a Urologist for the very next, or what was the same, day.
I walked into the first specialist appointment I had ever been to in my life. The doctor walked into the small, un-decorated room. The first thing he did was ascertain that the woman who was with me was my wife. Then he asked me to drop my pants.
I did. With the keen insight of a man who had been working at his craft for at least 20 years he remarked, "well, you aren't going to get rid of him that easily," to my wife. Then he looked me in the eyes and said, "that testicle has to go." I knew better than to ask any questions.
January 9th. I'm in a hospital gown, lay-sitting in a bed, prepping for surgery. In walks my pastor-with-an-earring and my wife. We chat, and my pastor-with-an-earring makes a joke/comment that he hasn't had the opportunity to do very many hospital visits for people who are sick because, God be praised, our congregation is having a lot of babies and not a lot of health problems.
I emerge. A week later I'm back to work. Three weeks later I'm sitting in an Oncologist's office. She order's a scan that is initially denied by insurance, unfortunately this is my first conflict with the American health insurance system. We fight, it gets approved. While we still caught it early, the cancer itself probably metastasized to my lymph nodes. Yay! Chemotherapy for Jon!
A Port is placed in April. I become a Cyborg, my childhood fantasy in the middle of my adult nightmare. The support from friends, family and strangers is surprising. Offers for food and company come pouring in, and of course, I accept. It would be rude not to.
Chemotherapy begins in May and is prolonged until the middle of July. I'm sick and tired for almost three months, but it sure beats the alternative, an incredibly slow and eventually very painful death. I start rock climbing and begin to assemble the equipment to brew beer in my garage as I spend three months on my couch playing video games, watching TV, being nauseous and sleeping.
During my chemotherapy treatment I have one of my most profound spiritual experiences to date as I dangle forty feet off the forest floor and, in that moment, start to feel a profound call towards creation-care as vocation that I haven't quite figured out yet.
I finish chemotherapy and I get to ring that bell that I've heard so many people ring before me. It is a liberating experience. I'm bald, sick, overweight and tired, but I'm liberated. It's the end of July.
I return to work as my strength and endurance slowly return. I begin to feel more and more myself. My hair returns, I can grow more and fuller facial hair than ever before. I'm alive.
A moment that sticks with me is a concert I went to recently. The music of Matisyahu has been a companion throughout this year. I find his spiritual journey mimicking my own and his latest album was on repeat during my chemotherapy. He was coming to Cincinnati and I dropped the money for gold-level tickets to see him. My wife and I arrive at the venue and are shown to our seats. I'm literally in the best seat in the house. I wouldn't trade that experience for anything.
This Friday, my port gets removed. Less than a year after this journey first began. I feel as if I did a lot of growing this past year, in more ways that I'm even aware of.
To my friends and family who offered words of support, thank you. To my Mom, who had to watch her son fight a disease that laid low too many of her siblings to count, thank you. To my Dad, who I know wrongly blames himself for what I went through, thank you. To the friends and family that brought food or gave me rides to the cancer clinic, thank you. To my dear friend Laura, who rode 50 miles on a bike in my honor, I owe you one. To anyone I may have missed in my blanket statements of thanks, you've mattered to me in the last year. My last thank you, belongs to my wife Renee. I honestly do not know how I could have made it through this last year without you.
I'm honestly still trying to bring this last year into perspective and get my thoughts and feelings on "paper". This is only the beginning.
It's odd, how clear my memory of December 28th, 2014 is. It was a Sunday, and my plan was to make it a lazy Sunday. My wife had to work so I had the house to myself for most of the day. I wasn't doing anything of consequence that day. Three times I lay, prostrate, on my floor in what would become the second most intense pain of my life. The third time lead me to realizing I needed to go to the emergency room.
I arrive at the ER. The next 24 hours seemed to pass in a blur. I remember the ER doctor having the most kind and polite bedside manner imaginable. A syndicated episode of Family Guy was on the room TV as he sat, a gentle hand on the bed, as he told me that they had made a back-door appointment with a Urologist for the very next, or what was the same, day.
I walked into the first specialist appointment I had ever been to in my life. The doctor walked into the small, un-decorated room. The first thing he did was ascertain that the woman who was with me was my wife. Then he asked me to drop my pants.
I did. With the keen insight of a man who had been working at his craft for at least 20 years he remarked, "well, you aren't going to get rid of him that easily," to my wife. Then he looked me in the eyes and said, "that testicle has to go." I knew better than to ask any questions.
January 9th. I'm in a hospital gown, lay-sitting in a bed, prepping for surgery. In walks my pastor-with-an-earring and my wife. We chat, and my pastor-with-an-earring makes a joke/comment that he hasn't had the opportunity to do very many hospital visits for people who are sick because, God be praised, our congregation is having a lot of babies and not a lot of health problems.
I emerge. A week later I'm back to work. Three weeks later I'm sitting in an Oncologist's office. She order's a scan that is initially denied by insurance, unfortunately this is my first conflict with the American health insurance system. We fight, it gets approved. While we still caught it early, the cancer itself probably metastasized to my lymph nodes. Yay! Chemotherapy for Jon!
A Port is placed in April. I become a Cyborg, my childhood fantasy in the middle of my adult nightmare. The support from friends, family and strangers is surprising. Offers for food and company come pouring in, and of course, I accept. It would be rude not to.
Chemotherapy begins in May and is prolonged until the middle of July. I'm sick and tired for almost three months, but it sure beats the alternative, an incredibly slow and eventually very painful death. I start rock climbing and begin to assemble the equipment to brew beer in my garage as I spend three months on my couch playing video games, watching TV, being nauseous and sleeping.
During my chemotherapy treatment I have one of my most profound spiritual experiences to date as I dangle forty feet off the forest floor and, in that moment, start to feel a profound call towards creation-care as vocation that I haven't quite figured out yet.
I finish chemotherapy and I get to ring that bell that I've heard so many people ring before me. It is a liberating experience. I'm bald, sick, overweight and tired, but I'm liberated. It's the end of July.
I return to work as my strength and endurance slowly return. I begin to feel more and more myself. My hair returns, I can grow more and fuller facial hair than ever before. I'm alive.
A moment that sticks with me is a concert I went to recently. The music of Matisyahu has been a companion throughout this year. I find his spiritual journey mimicking my own and his latest album was on repeat during my chemotherapy. He was coming to Cincinnati and I dropped the money for gold-level tickets to see him. My wife and I arrive at the venue and are shown to our seats. I'm literally in the best seat in the house. I wouldn't trade that experience for anything.
This Friday, my port gets removed. Less than a year after this journey first began. I feel as if I did a lot of growing this past year, in more ways that I'm even aware of.
To my friends and family who offered words of support, thank you. To my Mom, who had to watch her son fight a disease that laid low too many of her siblings to count, thank you. To my Dad, who I know wrongly blames himself for what I went through, thank you. To the friends and family that brought food or gave me rides to the cancer clinic, thank you. To my dear friend Laura, who rode 50 miles on a bike in my honor, I owe you one. To anyone I may have missed in my blanket statements of thanks, you've mattered to me in the last year. My last thank you, belongs to my wife Renee. I honestly do not know how I could have made it through this last year without you.
I'm honestly still trying to bring this last year into perspective and get my thoughts and feelings on "paper". This is only the beginning.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Built to Survive.
In just a few short hours, I get to celebrate 25 years alive on planet Earth. That shouldn't be significant, plain and simple. The last 12 months alone have been dramatic.
12 month recap: Be inspired to change the world, try hard to change the world, turn 24, be pulled in another direction, fight the pull, see a therapist, leave a job I thought for sure would be a career, start a job your swore to yourself you'd never do, change lives (probably save lives), fail, go to the emergency room, be diagnosed with CANCER, have surgery to remove a testicle, still fight and work to change the lives of children and families, be more successful than you could imagine, start chemotherapy, have someone ride 50 miles on a bike in your honor, finish chemotherapy, start to reconcile calling and profession, turn 25.
Getting here was not an easy task. From birth, two months pre-mature, to now has been a struggle. There have been more opportunities for me to die than the average person should ever experience. And yet, I'm still here. Call it a divine plan, call it luck, call it being too stubborn to die, I'm still here. And I'll be damned if I'm going anywhere.
My first 25 weren't exactly the easiest lived years, but they were great years. I pushed and was awarded a national award for delivering news papers, best in the United States of America for 2009, I graduated college with an Associates Degree before I graduate High School. I'm not done yet. I've stumbled in the last few years, but I'm about to hit my stride and nothing will be the same.
12 month recap: Be inspired to change the world, try hard to change the world, turn 24, be pulled in another direction, fight the pull, see a therapist, leave a job I thought for sure would be a career, start a job your swore to yourself you'd never do, change lives (probably save lives), fail, go to the emergency room, be diagnosed with CANCER, have surgery to remove a testicle, still fight and work to change the lives of children and families, be more successful than you could imagine, start chemotherapy, have someone ride 50 miles on a bike in your honor, finish chemotherapy, start to reconcile calling and profession, turn 25.
Getting here was not an easy task. From birth, two months pre-mature, to now has been a struggle. There have been more opportunities for me to die than the average person should ever experience. And yet, I'm still here. Call it a divine plan, call it luck, call it being too stubborn to die, I'm still here. And I'll be damned if I'm going anywhere.
My first 25 weren't exactly the easiest lived years, but they were great years. I pushed and was awarded a national award for delivering news papers, best in the United States of America for 2009, I graduated college with an Associates Degree before I graduate High School. I'm not done yet. I've stumbled in the last few years, but I'm about to hit my stride and nothing will be the same.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
"What Do We Say to the God of Death? Not Today."
Real talk for a second here. I have cancer, in case you didn't know. And hearing those dreaded, cliched words, "you have cancer," was tough to say the least.
I've watched family members die from cancer. The initial shock of the diagnosis lead to a few dark days that were initially filled with thoughts of anger, fear, pain, suffering, and yes even my own death. In the essence of full disclosure the second day of my diagnosis I purchased and ingested a 30 pack of fine, high-quality Pabst-Blue Ribbon. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I didn't do it, that's just not my style.
Through force of will, I pulled myself out of the funk. And, as I am so inclined to do, I became obsessed with learning as much as I could about what exactly was going on. As I've written before, I learned that Lance Armstrong had the same exact type of cancer, and he's still ticking (even with the assistance of performance enhancing drugs). Then I came across the morbidity statistics. At it's very best, I was looking at a 98% 5 year survival rate. In reality that number is probably closer to 100%, and that's pretty damn good odds. At the very worst, well I'd be dead.
Leading up to the start of treatment I realized that I had a choice. Statistics are important, they provide us a way of understanding the world that is fairly translatable in most conversations and settings. But, particularly in the field of cancer research, statistics are constantly in flux and the numbers currently available are usually about 5 years behind current research, simply due to the nature of data collection and reporting in cancer studies.
My life is ultimately mine. I suppose if I truly wanted to tempt the fates, I could have denied chemotherapy and just watched to see if the masses that had spread to my lymph nodes would get any larger (spoiler alert, they did but still remained just over a millimeter in size even after 3 months of observation by my oncologist.)
My best shot at a life free of at least cancer, was chemotherapy. I chose chemotherapy because it works. The treatment for testicular cancer (normally 3xBEP) is incredibly effective, backed up by research, and temporary. It sucks, believe me, between the time I've lost sitting in a chair, sleeping, and feeling fatigued almost constantly for the last 3 months I understand that I really have lost a small period of my life.
But, I've resolved to somehow pick those three months up and make sure that they weren't used up, to save my life, in vain. I want to create something, to change the world, to try to leave the earthly plane just a little bit better than I found it. I guess I always have, its a pretty common life goal. But, my life means so much more to me now that I had that brief opportunity to stare death, and my own mortality, in the face and say, "not today."
I've watched family members die from cancer. The initial shock of the diagnosis lead to a few dark days that were initially filled with thoughts of anger, fear, pain, suffering, and yes even my own death. In the essence of full disclosure the second day of my diagnosis I purchased and ingested a 30 pack of fine, high-quality Pabst-Blue Ribbon. I'm not proud of it, but I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I didn't do it, that's just not my style.
Through force of will, I pulled myself out of the funk. And, as I am so inclined to do, I became obsessed with learning as much as I could about what exactly was going on. As I've written before, I learned that Lance Armstrong had the same exact type of cancer, and he's still ticking (even with the assistance of performance enhancing drugs). Then I came across the morbidity statistics. At it's very best, I was looking at a 98% 5 year survival rate. In reality that number is probably closer to 100%, and that's pretty damn good odds. At the very worst, well I'd be dead.
Leading up to the start of treatment I realized that I had a choice. Statistics are important, they provide us a way of understanding the world that is fairly translatable in most conversations and settings. But, particularly in the field of cancer research, statistics are constantly in flux and the numbers currently available are usually about 5 years behind current research, simply due to the nature of data collection and reporting in cancer studies.
My life is ultimately mine. I suppose if I truly wanted to tempt the fates, I could have denied chemotherapy and just watched to see if the masses that had spread to my lymph nodes would get any larger (spoiler alert, they did but still remained just over a millimeter in size even after 3 months of observation by my oncologist.)
My best shot at a life free of at least cancer, was chemotherapy. I chose chemotherapy because it works. The treatment for testicular cancer (normally 3xBEP) is incredibly effective, backed up by research, and temporary. It sucks, believe me, between the time I've lost sitting in a chair, sleeping, and feeling fatigued almost constantly for the last 3 months I understand that I really have lost a small period of my life.
But, I've resolved to somehow pick those three months up and make sure that they weren't used up, to save my life, in vain. I want to create something, to change the world, to try to leave the earthly plane just a little bit better than I found it. I guess I always have, its a pretty common life goal. But, my life means so much more to me now that I had that brief opportunity to stare death, and my own mortality, in the face and say, "not today."
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
If You Don't Want To, You'll Never Walk Alone
Day Two of Lessons Learned, and this was a big one for me.
The support, in forms of prayer, good thoughts, cards, rides to and from the cancer clinic, meals, visits, and likes on Facebook have been simply overwhelming. Even total strangers have made the last 11 weeks much more bearable and simply saying thanks just doesn't feel like it cuts it. The support has meant more to me than I have words to express, and if I can ever find a way to pay it back or pay it forward (let's put a pin in here for later) I definitely will.
It started the day I went to the hospital in December and just never stopped.
When I went to get my hair shaved in anticipation of losing my hair the woman who cut my hair was just doing her job and making simple small talk with the person who sat in her chair that day. She asked me if I was cutting it for the summer, I wish. I decided to be frank with her, "no, I start chemotherapy on Monday and I don't want to watch my hair fall out." She didn't charge me for the shave.
Several people who are near and dear to me, though my wife certainly takes the cake, got up early, drove to the North Side of Columbus to pick me up and drove me to the clinic.
After my surgery I had more food than I knew what to do with, and unfortunately ended up having to toss out some delicious baked oatmeal, after making a valiant effort to down the two pans provided. I still have some containers I need to get back to people.
My favorite perhaps were the home visits. People coming into my home and hanging out with me, weather that means taking me to Buffalo Wild Wings, buying me dinner, and then playing a shooter game that neither one of us were quite frankly very good at or like so many people just sitting and chatting. On the occasion that I felt good enough to go out, it was nice to meet up with people.
I attended three weddings, and will absolutely loath the pictures I'm in for the rest of my life. But, all three were beautiful and it was truly an honor to be a part of such special days for three couples.
On the subject of weddings, I also had the distinct privilege and honor of solemnizing the marriage (yes, I made it legally binding, they're stuck with each other now!) of some of my very best friends, while I drank Wild Turkey - neat - in a tiny apartment in Cincinnati.
And the support from work has been simply spectacular. I had to fill out some paperwork, standard insurance denial stuff, and decided to go in one Friday. Seeing my co-workers was great, taking part (in an unofficial capacity of course) in some of the standard meetings I've been missing out on was a lot of fun, and I can't wait to go back to work, which I will next Wednesday, barring any drastic unforeseen circumstances.
Now for the small piece of paying it forward. I'm not sure how many people actually read these, and quite frankly I don't care. This blog was started as a self-therapy technique and that's all it's ever been. However, I do know that some people read it, and that's enough.
A dear friend, who I really owe quite a bit to, is riding in Pelotonia for the second year. She's riding this year in honor of me, which is pretty humbling. For those of you not in the know Pelotonia is a significant fundraiser for cancer research at the James Research Hospital at OSU. All of the money raised goes towards cancer research at the James, in the form of Fellowship's for doctors and students, Grants, and bringing the top cancer researchers to OSU to work on a cure. As of 9:55AM on 7/7/2015, the 2015 Pelotonia has raised $6.3 million+ and there's just about a month to go before the race.
I'm certainly much more of a prevention guy myself. I understand that it would be far cheaper and more successful to prevent the causes of cancer, a Western diet, ingestion of carcinogens, exposure to chemicals, etc. But, I also don't think that that would completely eradicate cancer, it's a massive classification of disease, and it doesn't change the fact that there are 14.5 million Americans living with a history cancer that were alive as of January 1st, 2014 and that 589,430 people will die from cancer this year ( American Cancer Society ). Make all the remarks about personal choice and responsibility you want, no one deserves to develop cancer, and no one deserves to die from it.
So the meat of the matter. Here is a link to her rider profile , Laura Valentino. If it is within your ability donate to her ride, or if you know someone who is riding in Pelotonia donate to their ride. I did. I donated $50, and if that sum helps find a cure for any type of cancer it's money well spent.
The support, in forms of prayer, good thoughts, cards, rides to and from the cancer clinic, meals, visits, and likes on Facebook have been simply overwhelming. Even total strangers have made the last 11 weeks much more bearable and simply saying thanks just doesn't feel like it cuts it. The support has meant more to me than I have words to express, and if I can ever find a way to pay it back or pay it forward (let's put a pin in here for later) I definitely will.
It started the day I went to the hospital in December and just never stopped.
When I went to get my hair shaved in anticipation of losing my hair the woman who cut my hair was just doing her job and making simple small talk with the person who sat in her chair that day. She asked me if I was cutting it for the summer, I wish. I decided to be frank with her, "no, I start chemotherapy on Monday and I don't want to watch my hair fall out." She didn't charge me for the shave.
Several people who are near and dear to me, though my wife certainly takes the cake, got up early, drove to the North Side of Columbus to pick me up and drove me to the clinic.
After my surgery I had more food than I knew what to do with, and unfortunately ended up having to toss out some delicious baked oatmeal, after making a valiant effort to down the two pans provided. I still have some containers I need to get back to people.
My favorite perhaps were the home visits. People coming into my home and hanging out with me, weather that means taking me to Buffalo Wild Wings, buying me dinner, and then playing a shooter game that neither one of us were quite frankly very good at or like so many people just sitting and chatting. On the occasion that I felt good enough to go out, it was nice to meet up with people.
I attended three weddings, and will absolutely loath the pictures I'm in for the rest of my life. But, all three were beautiful and it was truly an honor to be a part of such special days for three couples.
On the subject of weddings, I also had the distinct privilege and honor of solemnizing the marriage (yes, I made it legally binding, they're stuck with each other now!) of some of my very best friends, while I drank Wild Turkey - neat - in a tiny apartment in Cincinnati.
And the support from work has been simply spectacular. I had to fill out some paperwork, standard insurance denial stuff, and decided to go in one Friday. Seeing my co-workers was great, taking part (in an unofficial capacity of course) in some of the standard meetings I've been missing out on was a lot of fun, and I can't wait to go back to work, which I will next Wednesday, barring any drastic unforeseen circumstances.
Now for the small piece of paying it forward. I'm not sure how many people actually read these, and quite frankly I don't care. This blog was started as a self-therapy technique and that's all it's ever been. However, I do know that some people read it, and that's enough.
A dear friend, who I really owe quite a bit to, is riding in Pelotonia for the second year. She's riding this year in honor of me, which is pretty humbling. For those of you not in the know Pelotonia is a significant fundraiser for cancer research at the James Research Hospital at OSU. All of the money raised goes towards cancer research at the James, in the form of Fellowship's for doctors and students, Grants, and bringing the top cancer researchers to OSU to work on a cure. As of 9:55AM on 7/7/2015, the 2015 Pelotonia has raised $6.3 million+ and there's just about a month to go before the race.
I'm certainly much more of a prevention guy myself. I understand that it would be far cheaper and more successful to prevent the causes of cancer, a Western diet, ingestion of carcinogens, exposure to chemicals, etc. But, I also don't think that that would completely eradicate cancer, it's a massive classification of disease, and it doesn't change the fact that there are 14.5 million Americans living with a history cancer that were alive as of January 1st, 2014 and that 589,430 people will die from cancer this year ( American Cancer Society ). Make all the remarks about personal choice and responsibility you want, no one deserves to develop cancer, and no one deserves to die from it.
So the meat of the matter. Here is a link to her rider profile , Laura Valentino. If it is within your ability donate to her ride, or if you know someone who is riding in Pelotonia donate to their ride. I did. I donated $50, and if that sum helps find a cure for any type of cancer it's money well spent.
Monday, July 6, 2015
Laughing in Cancer's Face
Once the initial shock of being diagnosed with cancer eroded away, I decided to approach the situation by finding humor where I could. Now as my wife will testify, that doesn't mean I've been a barrel of laughs for the last few months (quite the opposite at times, chemotherapy has caused me to have some really bizarre mood swings). But, finding times to laugh, at myself, at the situation, or simply in spite of everything has been therapeutic.
Having testicular cancer also gives me carte blanche for testicle jokes, and as the 12 year old boy inside of everyone knows, testicle jokes are funny (even if you feel a little juvenile making them).
My sister-in-law gifted me a stuffed testicle. It is giant, mostly anatomically correct, blue, and has a giant smile on its face. Once the "my sister-in-law gave me a blue ball" jokes subsided (who am I kidding, I think its still funny), I found joy in taking the testicle to places (chemotherapy in particular) and watching people react to a giant, blue, stuffed testicle that I use as a pillow. It made going into the sterile environment of the clinic a much more pleasant experience.
I've also been to my local hospital a lot more than I ever thought I would, mostly because of the cancer and related tests. It's not a place that I'd ever choose to go, if I wouldn't have felt like I needed to go or had to perform some test I would have gladly never have darkened the door. My favorite experience at the hospital was when I was getting my port placed for chemotherapy. It's a pretty basic outpatient procedure, in and out of the hospital in just a few hours. I got to replace my pair of hospital socks and finally figured out how to tie the hospital gown without getting stuck in it AND feeling as if my backside isn't hanging out for the world to see. As I was taken into the operating room the surgeon was playing some classic rock over the sound-system. I chatted with the doctor and nurses as they were prepping. The time finally comes to get the anesthesia. The song had changed. Led Zepplin's "Stairway to Heaven" would be the soundtrack to my port placement. That song could have been the last thing I heard, and how fitting it would have been.
Even today, finding humor in the situation has made it much easier to deal with. Today is my last long day of chemotherapy. The last day I should ever have to have Cisplatin and Epotoside pumped into my body. My heart rate, resting at 7:30AM was 144 beats per minute, I could have been running a marathon. Yes, I understand the seriousness of a resting heart rate of 144. If anything was going to happen to me, it was going to happen to me anyway, I might as well have gotten some jollies out of the situation. I made jokes with the nurses about how excited I was to see them, and that I just wanted to make my last long day of chemotherapy extra special (and 2 extra hours long!). One of my nurses remarked to me that I was handling my elevated heart rate remarkably well.
Finding a reason to laugh doesn't mean that the seriousness or the gravity of the situation isn't understood. For me, it meant not losing sight of the temporary nature of my situation. I'm not going to be in chemotherapy forever, I'm not going to have cancer forever, I will forever only have one testicle (free testicle jokes for life!). I might as well laugh at it while I get the chance.
Having testicular cancer also gives me carte blanche for testicle jokes, and as the 12 year old boy inside of everyone knows, testicle jokes are funny (even if you feel a little juvenile making them).
My sister-in-law gifted me a stuffed testicle. It is giant, mostly anatomically correct, blue, and has a giant smile on its face. Once the "my sister-in-law gave me a blue ball" jokes subsided (who am I kidding, I think its still funny), I found joy in taking the testicle to places (chemotherapy in particular) and watching people react to a giant, blue, stuffed testicle that I use as a pillow. It made going into the sterile environment of the clinic a much more pleasant experience.
I've also been to my local hospital a lot more than I ever thought I would, mostly because of the cancer and related tests. It's not a place that I'd ever choose to go, if I wouldn't have felt like I needed to go or had to perform some test I would have gladly never have darkened the door. My favorite experience at the hospital was when I was getting my port placed for chemotherapy. It's a pretty basic outpatient procedure, in and out of the hospital in just a few hours. I got to replace my pair of hospital socks and finally figured out how to tie the hospital gown without getting stuck in it AND feeling as if my backside isn't hanging out for the world to see. As I was taken into the operating room the surgeon was playing some classic rock over the sound-system. I chatted with the doctor and nurses as they were prepping. The time finally comes to get the anesthesia. The song had changed. Led Zepplin's "Stairway to Heaven" would be the soundtrack to my port placement. That song could have been the last thing I heard, and how fitting it would have been.
Even today, finding humor in the situation has made it much easier to deal with. Today is my last long day of chemotherapy. The last day I should ever have to have Cisplatin and Epotoside pumped into my body. My heart rate, resting at 7:30AM was 144 beats per minute, I could have been running a marathon. Yes, I understand the seriousness of a resting heart rate of 144. If anything was going to happen to me, it was going to happen to me anyway, I might as well have gotten some jollies out of the situation. I made jokes with the nurses about how excited I was to see them, and that I just wanted to make my last long day of chemotherapy extra special (and 2 extra hours long!). One of my nurses remarked to me that I was handling my elevated heart rate remarkably well.
Finding a reason to laugh doesn't mean that the seriousness or the gravity of the situation isn't understood. For me, it meant not losing sight of the temporary nature of my situation. I'm not going to be in chemotherapy forever, I'm not going to have cancer forever, I will forever only have one testicle (free testicle jokes for life!). I might as well laugh at it while I get the chance.
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