Chemotherapy: Day One

I know I’ve mentioned that chemotherapy is a poor spectator sport, but I can now tell you that even for the participants, it is pretty banal and relentlessly boring. Suddenly the concept of watching corn grow seems truly exciting. Or paint drying, now that would be an amazing time!

But here I sit in the infusion ward at the Providence Cancer Center, with my sister keeping me company. It is a beautiful day; we can see the sun out the window.  I would like to be out in the sun, enjoying the fine day. But no, instead I am forming an intimate bond with cisplatin and etoposide, the two poisons I get to take in today, along with baggies of water (spiked with potassium and some other really fun minerals or vitamins or whatever) and a couple of anti-nausea medicines.

If all my calculations are correct, I should be about half way done with today’s extravaganza. Today is the longest of my chemo days, as I get both of the meds. Tomorrow (and the rest of the week) I just get etoposide. Etoposide is the more benevolent of the two chemo meds. It stands alone. It doesn’t require bags of water or anti-nausea medicine. Next Monday, I just get the cisplatin, but it does come with a baggy of water and the two anti-nausea meds.

And then I am done until Day 29. I’d tell you how to figure out which day is day 29, but frankly, I haven’t a clue. It is one of those mystical formulas that are used to forecast random dates, like Easter.

And tomorrow I begin radiation. It may not be any more eventful then chemo, but it is mercifully faster.

I know. You’re all jealous. You’re all thinking, “Damn that Mac, he has all the fun!”

It's true. I do have all the fun, and I'm not even blond!

Inventory complete!

I have just finished a complete inventory of my coffee cup collection. Turns out, it is not as impressive as I once thought. Once the duplicates, the blanks, the banal and the memory-less cups are weeded out, I have only 136 left. Goodwill is getting a generous donation of totally worthless coffee mugs. (I suppose you could drink coffee out of them, but why?)

This cup has been waiting for the damned cup fairy since 1995.

In 1994, Wayno and I flew to Boston, rented a car and drove to Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island and back, using different routes. (Yes, this is the same trip that brought us Eastport and Maine.) We both fell in love with Charlottetown and PEI as a whole. We stayed at a Best Western close into town, and Charlottetown is small enough, we hoofed everywhere instead of driving. People were so friendly and down to earth. And I recall having a good dinner.

And more important; there was a mirror in our room at the Best Western, that, well what can I say. I’ve never looked that good before and will never look that good again. At that time, at that moment, I was at my apex. I spent the best day of my life on Prince Edward Island. I miss that fleeting moment.

But the mug is trash.

I will return to Charlottetown to get another mug.

Wow, it’s almost like I’m starting a bucket list!

How many catfights have started under these exact circumstances;

empty bottle of tequila and a blender drained of its margaritas.

I called 911. 

They brought more booze. Crisis averted.

It’s always hard to say good-bye to broken icons of the past.

I put the cups in storage broken. I hoped that the cup fairies would come and restore the cups to their original glory. Well, the cup fairy (and it is singular) is so overworked that it will be at least September of 2022 before he gets to these mugs.

They’re toast.

Eastport was a favorite of Wayno and mine on our trip back east in 1994.

And as a whole, we loved Maine.

Riot like it's 1969

45 years after the Stonewall Riots!

 I did throw a couple of Molotov Cocktails this morning, but with me weak arm and lack of any skill in throwing, I did no damage.

1998: Richard's migration to Hood River

It was the slog we have all done. If not here, then elsewhere.

You hit the pedal to the metal at Fargo and hope you don’t have to stop until you have passed Beach. (Or, vice versa, of course.)

Richard and I lunched in West Fargo, where I bought this mug. We only stopped one other time in North Dakota. I don’t remember the name of town, but we bought gas and I rammed the U-Haul into a post. There was no damage, so we moved on quickly.

We spent the night in Wibaux, MT, barely across the border.

I think I need to spend a more thoughtful and explorative trip through North Dakota. It just seems like the right and salutary thing to do.

That’s while wreaking havoc in every small town I pass through on my Harley. Yeah, us tattooed studs do things like that.

Total transformation!

I went to Portland a meek and mild mannered, upper-edge of middle-aged gentleman.

I came home a tattooed stud! Yeah, you know it. The type guy your mother warned you about. The one you were told to steer clear of. The one who is nothing but trouble, and I mean bad trouble.

Next step is to get me a Harley. I’ll just look up on the internet for the closest dealership and I’ll be there tomorrow. That step is a breeze.

But now, deciding which biker gang to join is a tougher decision. I checked online are there are more gangs than you can shake a stick at.

Are the Hells Angels still the dominate gang? And do I want to join an established behemoth of a club, or an upstart group with a smaller, more intimate membership?

I really would prefer not to have to sell heroin at the street corner to middle school aged kids. So I’m kind of trying to stay away from those kinds of gangs. It’s just that I find sales kind of sleazy and demeaning. I have no problem with the barroom brawls and the turf wars, just don’t make me do sales. It will send me over the edge.

I’m hoping I can find a society, that when all the fighting and vile, horrific devoirs are complete, every one comes back to the clubhouse for a spaghetti feed and to play some pinochle.

So, if anyone has any leads on such a gang, let me know!

VROOM! VROOM!

Explore Montréal with us.

 It is an amazingly friendly big city with a French flair. But it’s not an easy place to practice your high school French. People break into English as soon as they sense you are struggling!

And come trod the cobblestone streets of Ville de Québec with us. It is an amazingly European city, with its old town high on a bluff overlooking the Fleuve Saint-Laurent. Ville de Québec is much more tourist-oriented than Montréal, and as such, loses some of its friendliness late in the season. But it’s the closest thing to Europe on this side of the Atlantic.

And don’t forget Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré and its basilica. I never quite understood the significance of Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré. I’m not sure Richard even knew its significance, but it was a shrine that his mother had always spoken about visiting. And it was only 30 miles out of the way. So, we went. I had planned to spend an hour lounging in the summer sun, but it was pouring, so I voluntarily attended mass. Bernadette Sloan Parker was not forgotten that day.

Oh, and a minor game changer!

I got a call at about 8:30 this morning. It was from the Radiation Department at Providence Hospital. It seems that Dr. Seung would like me to come in earlier tomorrow, so that they can map me and give me those adorable tattoos (I’m going for the bald eagle, or maybe the sexy female outline… you know the one you see on mud-flaps for semis. That would be so apropos!) And maybe even give me my first treatment.

I wasn’t born yesterday. Chemo and radiation have to start on the same day. Chemo has to start on a Monday. Hence, radiation can’t start on a Friday. It just ain’t possible, unless you break one of the rules.

But I think this means that my chemo and radiation will start on 6/30 instead of 7/7. As logical as it seems, I can’t swear to that until after my appointment tomorrow.

There is a reasonably good chance that the next 6 weeks start on Monday!

Look who has the audacity to be caught on the bed in broad daylight!

Could this be the beginning of the end of Max’s reign of terror? 

And this morning I traveled again.

Bremen, Germany: it was the summer of 2008. Every time we turned around, we stumbled upon another statue in Bremen. I remember one, on whatever street we were walking down, with three little pigs, just kind of walking down the street. I got down and rubbed their bellies. They were so adorable. Richard acted so embarrassed. He probably was a little embarrassed. Germany is pretty rigid and conforming. And none of the locals were making goo-goo eyes at the pigs. 

But he took my picture. He knew what to expect from me. And he loved me anyway.

This morning, I just had coffee.

Even though the mug was from one of my favorite places, I felt no desire to travel. It’s not that I felt somber or depressed. It was more that I was focused on the day. I didn’t want to go backwards.

I made it to my 11:15AM appointment with perfect timing. I had just finished completing the paperwork as they called my name. My weight was up (even more than the weight of my sandals and jeans) and my blood pressure was low. (By low, I mean good!)

Dr. Sanborn was great. It was good to see her again. She is just a warm, compassionate woman who I enjoy talking with; even when I don’t enjoy the subject we are talking about. I swear there were times when she got misty-eyed when we talked about Richard. She seems to have truly enjoyed Richard.

But enough about Richard and the doctor, this is all about me.

I will start chemo and radiation, if all current hypothesis hold to be true, on July 7^th. My chemo treatment will be the same as Richards (or so damn close to the same that it would take a trained professional to tell the difference.) The radiation is still up in the air until I consult with an oncologically-inclined radiation-type person (which happens at 2:30PM on Friday.) I am guessing the 7^th as my start date, as my chemo has to run Monday through Friday and the radiation has to start on the same Monday as the chemo, and I still have to get my tattoos! And Friday is just a consultation. So, do the math. It all works out.

I am losing strength in my right hand. I couldn’t clip the nails on my left hand this morning. Sunday, I realized I had to switch hands to fold my socks. It is a bazaar turn of event… my left hand is more useful than my right.

Drum roll, please!

The test results are rolling in.

PET scan: exactly what they thought. I have a Pancoast tumor in my right lung. All the rest of the crap is just crap. They’re just life’s little abuses of the body. (Okay, I admit I abused my body big time. But Tom is sitting on my lap, and he forgives me. So, the rest of you just get off your big bad ass and deal with it.)

MRI: negatory. Nope, the brain is functioning as good as a fried brain could hope to be functioning. No problem there.

Pulmonary Function Tests: oddly we didn’t discuss these. I’m guessing they are okay. I'm sure I scored high enough on the multiple choice part of the test.

CT assisted Biopsy: There is more refinement to come, but yes, it is malignant. I warned all you Pollyannas.

I have an appointment at 11:15AM tomorrow with an Oncologist. Once again, it should be no surprise that I know Dr. Sanborn. She was Richard’s Oncologist.

And this morning I return to Provincetown.

It was April in one of those years near the turn of the new millennium. Could be ’99 or ’00 or even ’01; the precicion of my memory is somewhat flawed on this detail. (The precision of my memory is flawed on many, many details.)

In summer P-Town is a wild resort town, welcoming the gay community. In April, it is a quiet town on Cape Cod Bay, one that is still welcoming to the gay community. Hmm… maybe I should spend time there in the summer. Then I could really let my hair down!

And this morning we go deep into the Heart of Dixie.

Enterprise, Alabama: where five silly siblings stopped to pay tribute to a cotton devouring menace, before continuing their rampage through the south!

And now I wait, again.

While I’m thinking the results from my PET scan, my MRI and my Pulmonary Function Test are probably in, it could be 3-5 working days before anything comes back on my CT assisted Biopsy.

There is little hope for better news than my doctors predict. Oh sure, all those well-trained professionals might be totally off the mark and may come back with, “Our bad. Hangnails, that’s all it is. Get a manicure and all will be right with the world."

But for all my disassociation with reality, even I don’t expect that outcome. I really just want to get started. I want to get the process moving!

And this morning I return to Paris.

It was 2006 and it was Richard who noted a Starbucks just off of Rue de Rivoli (our main drag for exploration.) It was he, not I, that thought bringing home a Starbucks mug would be the perfect memorabilia from Paris. I didn’t argue. And we have both loved it for years. We’ve returned to Paris again and again over the years.

A favorite memory from Paris in 2006: having dinner at Auberge de la Reine Blanche on Île Saint-Louis. It became our favorite restaurant; the only restaurant we returned to on our next visit. I don’t remember what I had for my main course so many years ago, but I remember having the Pâtė de Foie Gras and une (ou deux ou trois ou quatre) coupe(s) de champagne. And all the champagne could explain why I don’t remember the entrée! The Pâté and the champagne were incredible. Ahh, to dream of tasting them once again!

Deer out the piano room window!

Ain't she the cutest thing?

She's been by to visit a number of times before. This is the first time I was quick enough to get her picture!

This morning's coffee was spent in Dublin

I remember well crossing the Ha' penny Bridge from the north bank of the River Liffey to the Temple Bar district of Dublin.

Happy Summer!

Party like it is 2014!

Of course I am okay

Wadda you mean you think I look crazy?

Don't worry about me. I am totally sane.

I’m gonna bust a couple of myths for you.

First, a CT assisted Biopsy is not as much fun as advertised. All those brochures you’ve seen with happy, attractive, young people having cocktails poolside while they discuss the pleasures of their CT assisted biopsies: pure lies. They are paid actors; none have ever had a biopsy, CT assisted or not.

Okay, I’m trying not to be bitter. The only reason I stayed for the biopsy was for the cocktail party. Hell, if I would have known there was going to be no poolside interaction with amazingly good looking young men, I would have gone home yesterday. But I stayed, and I learned the truth.

Second, the chicken noodle soup they serve at Providence Portland is not a secret family recipe, unless your family name is Campbell. But damn, it tasted good.

Max and Tom did not totally destroy the house. One of the shades is still functional and the toilet seat still works, so not all is lost. (And if I can figure out what they have done with the kitchen sink, it may still be operable.)

But the hospital made me take off my ring. I tried to argue, but they have their rules. I don’t want to spend another six hours without Richard, ever again.

Another test in my back pocket!

It’s a beautiful Thursday in Portland, Oregon. The sun is shining, it’s something like 75° and I am snugly settled into my hotel room for the night. I try not to think of the havoc that Max and Tom are likely wreaking at home. Some things are better left unimagined.

So, I had my pulmonary function test today. I studied hard, brought a package of #2 pencils, a note pad and some discretely stenciled crib notes. I was really hoping it was a multiple choice test, but was fully prepared for true/false, or even the dreaded essay exam.

Imagine my surprise when I was placed in a glass cubicle with a bunch of hoses and tubes and nozzles and other paraphernalia imposing on my already limited personal space. I wasn’t sure where to put my pad of paper or my pencils.

The kindly technician then explained that I was going to be asked to do some breathing exercises and would be judged on my ability to do all sorts of trick breathing techniques.

I turned ashen and started to sweat. I hadn’t thought along those lines at all. Crap, is it inhale, exhale, exhale, inhale, hold breath, pass out… or is it exhale, exhale, exhale, big breath in, swallow hard… or exhale, inhale, inhale exhale, bow to your corner, exhale again.

But I survived. I have no idea what anything meant, but I didn’t pass out. So I count it as a stunning success!

I took my morning coffee in Cape May!

Richard and I will always have Cape May!

And the first round of medical type crap is done.

Yes, I survived driving to Portland, having a PET scan and an MRI and driving back to the Upper Valley. I really did have a pretty good day, but about half way back to Hood River, my back began to beg for narcotics. My arm was fine, as I took a Gabby at arrival in Portland. Gabby seems to last for a long time, and frankly, I don’t think I was in anyway impaired. But my back was getting a little testy by the end of it all!

The PET scan was pretty uneventful. The MRI was interesting. It was loud and constraining, and I was getting over heated and I was starting to hurt and the rhythms weren’t really soothing and it lasted about 45 minutes and I was glad when it was done. I would say interesting.

I am so glad that Maureen and Susan are taking care of the driving for the next two days. I can pop any pill I want at any time. Yee haw!

The quandary of the little pills.

When this whole sordid affair began, I was using over-the-counter drugs to fight my pain. Many, many Advil and Aleve and Excedrin spent their waning moments doing what they could to relieve my ache. Despite their best efforts, they were fighting a losing cause. Dr. Foster was the first to prescribe a narcotic pain reliever for me (something mixed with Tylenol.) She started me at the lowest dose that she thought would work, with the understanding that if it wasn’t working for me, to call… we can go up from A to B quickly.

Well, I soon saw Dr. Daniel. When I brought up pain management, he was quick to hand out anything I wanted. I got re-upped on the prescription Dr. Foster had given me, because I thought it was “okay”. Then I got 12hour release Morphine and another medicine, that while not designed for pain management (it was originally for epilepsy), had this amazing side effect of decreasing pain caused the nervous system. (I forget its name, but I call it Gabby, ‘cause the first three letters of the drug are ‘Gab’.) He also suggested I forsake Aleve and aspirin and just use Advil (or Motrin). Okay, I can do that.

Okay, Gabby is great. It doesn’t seem to do anything for the pain in my back, but it does amazing things for my arm. It does make me drowsy, but the drowsiness is short-lived compared to the relief. I just need to do the math to make sure when to take it.

The stuff Dr. Foster gave me, Norco, isn’t bad as long as I don’t take it as much as they say I can. It does take away pain but it makes me sleep like a baby, in two to three hour stretches. It is great for the night time, but during the day its effects are less than stellar. Well, unless I want to sleep for 24 hours on end, in which case it is really good.

And 12 hour release Morphine is an absolute last resort. It does knock out the pain, along with all common sense and all decorum. And the lapses of conscious thought come and go in waves. You never know what may happen.

Advil helps. It does its mightiest scenes reinforcing the other meds. I am totally cool with that.

I’m feeling that a short week after this whole mess of drugs started, I am starting to gain control. I’m gaining a rhythm. Finally!!!

Four times a day, I just throw all the pills on a table, close my eyes and pick three. I wish I would have thought of this months ago!

Basic, blind medication tests; they are so much fun! And refreshingly simple!

Happy Father's Day!

Thanks for the memories!

I finally have my appointments for my tests.

Wednesday, June 18^th.

Check-in at Noon for my PET scan down in the Nuclear Medicine Center in the basement of Providence Portland's Oncology Center. I am then scheduled to have my MRI at 3PM. I can’t have food for 4 hours before my PET scan and I can’t have caffeine for 24 hours before. The MRI has no such rules, so if I get done with the PET scan quickly, I can have a cup of coffee before the MRI. I should be done by 4PM and I can drive myself.

Thursday, June 19^th

Check-in at 1PM for my Pulmonary Function Test at Providence Milwaukie Hospital. (No, I have no real clue where the hospital is, but Milwaukie is a south suburb. I am sure I can find it.) No medicines or caffeine for 4 hours prior. I should be done by 2PM and can drive myself.

Friday, June 20^th

Check-in at 6AM for my biopsy at Providence Portland. I check in at the main hospital, not at the cancer center. No food or drink for 4 hours prior. This one they won’t let me drive myself. From start to finish, the procedure takes about 5 hours, so I should be done before noon.

I haven't processed the information yet, but at least I have a clue. Somewhere to start building my plans.

Hi! It’s Tom!

Don’t worry, Mac is safely tucked in for his late-morning, drug-induced catnap. You know, I for one am glad he lost that lard he had put on lately. I had quite a struggle dragging him by the scruff of the neck and putting him to bed at his current weight. I can’t imagine what it would have been like with 20 extra pounds!

We had a nice chat this morning. I sat on his lap and he petted me like good humans do. He really is such a lovable person. I explained to him that his post from yesterday evening was a tad over-the-top. I made it quite clear to the dullard that when he is on morphine, he doesn’t always think things through as thoroughly as he would if he were sober.  I think he finally understands that he needs to use some decorum in his communications, lest people think he was giving up. He is not giving up. He just had one of those evenings.

He asked me to apologize to anyone he disturbed. Then he fed me and changed my litterbox, so all is well in Tommytown!

Kind of an update

A wise man, who I love and respect, once thanked me for being honest in my blog. I never really thought of myself as honest, just thought I was screaming out what I felt at the time. I think there is a difference, but maybe there isn’t.

You want the brutal, ugly truth, here it is.

Most of you know that Richard and I want back east last fall. I don’t really know what I thought, but I certainly didn’t think it was the end. But the three key people we visited; Chris, his lifelong friend from college, Gail, his co-worker at CUA and his cousin Agnes all sent me correspondence after Richard died saying they knew it was his farewell tour. Am I the only dumbfuck who had no idea it was a “farewell tour”? How fucking stupid and naïve am I?

In the last year and a half, I have lost Ralph and Trixie, Tillie and Spike and Richard. People tell me I need to fight the cancer. Okay, what am I fighting for, the right to be lonely and despondent for as long as possible? Don’t get me wrong, Max and Tom are great cats, (I just wish they got along). Despite my claims of Max being the second cousin of the devil once removed, the truth is he is a good cat. And Tom is a sweetheart, but… What am I fighting for?

And I am the caregiver, not one who is taken care of. I am not in a state of mind to ask for help. I should be able to help myself. But the months are coming where I won't be able to help myself.  This isn’t how it suppose to be.

And my insurance company has yet to approve any tests. So I wait.

Ain’t summer vacations grand!

I went to Portland today to see my thoracic surgeon (who, coincidentally was Richard’s thoracic surgeon.) Actually, it isn’t coincidental. Other than the final outcome, I was very happy with the treatment that Richard received. My primary care physician, Dr. Foster made it possible, and Dr. Daniel, the thoracic surgeon, was happy to take me on. Dr. Daniel remembers me, which I find a little amazing. It was a year ago. I barely remember any of my customers from a year ago. But Dr. Daniel was able to answer all of my questions… “In comparison to Richard’s…?” He is pretty mind-boggling.

And my self-diagnosis was spot on. I have a Pancoast tumor in my right lung. And if you’re going to have a tumor in you lung, a Pancoast, while possibly the most painful, is also one of the most treatable. And Dr. Daniel has a plan, which could change depending on all sorts of variables, but…

I will need to have a PET scan to make sure the other little nodules and verities are what he believes them to be (scars of life), an MRI of my brain (I think this is just to ease everyone’s mind after Richard’s experience), a CT guided biopsy (I need that for my cancer insurance, and they need it just to be sure, but the doctor gave virtually no hope of any other result than cancer) and a lung function test. None of these are scheduled yet. They have to get approval from my insurance company. I should know more tomorrow.

Assuming all those tests come out as he strongly expects, I will then have 5 weeks of radiation and chemotherapy (a variety much more benevolent than Richard’s), 3 to 5 weeks of recovery, then a less invasive surgery to remove the tumor, 3 to 5 weeks of recovery, then another dose of chemo and radiation, which will be largely dependent on my status.

One truly bright note: Dr. Daniel said that there is a 60% chance I will still be here in 5 years.

A special thanks to Susan, for taking time out of her day to be my Portland sister.

Oh, and I scored big on the pain pills: two new prescriptions and a refill on my old one. I may have formed my last coherent sentence for a significant period of time. But the chemo and radiation should shrink the tumor, lessening my pain. And right now, being out of pain will be a major victory!

Sometimes, I’m mad at Richard for not being here now. But, in truth, I am glad he didn’t have to go through this. He didn’t need this weighing on his mind.

And have I told you lately what a good cat Max is? He met me at the door with slippers and pipe in hand and offered to catch vermin for dinner.

I respectfully declined. 

Happy Donald Duck Day!

80 years ago today, Donald Duck made his debut in a bit part in The Wise Little Hen.  The rest is history.

Oh, did I mention that Max, who is such a good cat, protected the house last night from a herd of vicious vermin? I wasn’t awake for it, but that is what Max said when he woke me up at 3AM. He is one amazing cat.

Howdy, folks

Just stopped by to let you know what a good cat Max was last night. There was no blood shed and no police reports to fill out.

Yes, he is a good cat!

Tom and I had a good chat last night.

He sat on my lap and purred like good cats do, and for some odd reason Max didn’t attack.

I told Tom there was a chance I would have to be away from him for a while, but that he shouldn’t worry, because I’ll make sure he is well taken care of.

“Mac, you silly human, I read your blog and your medical chart. You have no secrets from me.” He purred sweetly and butted my chin, nearly knocking me out. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. I’m such a lovable cat that you’ll have people begging you to let them take care of me. It’s Max I worry about. Who in their right mind would want to come take care of that dastardly cat?”

I really hadn’t thought about that side of the equation.

But fortunately, Tom had a plan. We’ll be implementing it soon.

Just a favorite memory.

Richard and I are at the train station in Nîmes. It is my job to buy tickets for the train to Le Grau-du-Roi, a small town on the Mediterranean (Le Mer Méditeranée).

I practiced hard, finally met the ticket agent. “Bon jour, Madame. Il faut que j’achête deux billet pour le train au Le Grau-du-Roi.”

She looked at me dumbfounded. “Je ne comprend pas.”

I was cress fallen, my best French had been spent on deaf ears.

I slowly rephrased the request. “Deux billet pour Le Grau-du-Roi, s’il vous plait.”

She responded, “I understood you the first time, I just have no idea where you want to go!”

Apparently, I don’t pronounce “Le Grau-du-Roi” well.

Richard and I both fell in love with Le Grau-du-Roi. We spoke of retiring there, or in Nîmes.

Le sud de France est magnifique!

Back from my visit to the doctor.

First, I must say that I have the most amazing primary care physician. Anyone looking for a caring, intelligent doctor who is capable of translating medicalese into English should see her. Between Dr. Beth Foster and Clara DeLeon, PA-C, I am well cared for locally; amazing women who know their stuff.

And a Pancoast tumor is more geographic than anything else, so yes I have a Pancoast tumor, but it matters more what kind of cancer it is for the treatment. But as in real estate, location is important. Anyway, I’m done self-diagnosing.

The mass is larger than I first reported. It is 3.7 x 4.6 x 4.4 cm. But what is a centimeter among friends?

And there are a couple of odd nodules in both my right and left lung that may or may not be an issue. There is also a nodule on my left adrenal gland. Could be something, may not be anything…

I will visit with Dr. Daniel, who was Richard’s thoracic surgeon next Tuesday. Until then, it is wait and wait some more.

Fasten your seatbelts, it’s gonna be a rocky ride!

"large right apical lung mass, susp for malignancy"

I’m not sure it’s such a good thing that I can just cut and paste from my medical records online.

But I can, and I do.

Although some may question the wisdom, I can also diagnose my condition online.

And between bouts of wallowing in self pity and beating myself up for being such a dumbfuck, (trust me, it ain’t pretty in my head right now) I have spent much time self-diagnosing online.

My money is on a Pancoast tumor. Okay, I’m not betting the farm, but it seems pretty right:

"Although a Pancoast tumor is a lung tumor, it rarely causes symptoms that are typically related to the lungs (eg, cough, chest pain).

The initial symptom is pain in the shoulder, inner part of the scapula (large, triangular, flattened bone that lies over the ribs on the back), or both.

The pain may later extend to the inner side of the arm, elbow and the pinky and ring fingers.

The associated pain is severe and constant, often requiring narcotic pain medications for relief." 

Okay, I won’t say I don’t have a cough, but it really is minimal compared to my cough of a couple of years ago, and I have no chest pain. 

It all started with pain in the back and elbow (but I do have some extenuating conditions in my elbow), then the numbness in my hand, mimicking carpal tunnel.

And yes, I scored big with some narcotic pain pills. I’m not going to take one until after my 2:30 doctor’s appointment. I’d kind of like to be there for that appointment. 

I have lost another level of virginity.

I will never again have my first CT scan. 

I’ve been deflowered but a huge donut in the lower level of Providence Hood River Memorial Hospital. Oh, and trust me, after a horrid four hour fast spanning some of my prime grazing times, the donut shape was noted. It was noted with a great amount of interest. However, it is not true that I tried to take a bite out of it. Where do rumors like that get started?

I know nothing now that I didn’t know this morning. That isn’t true. I know why they took the “A” out of a CAT scan. But I am sworn to secrecy. I don’t want to get my CT scan artist in trouble with the authorities. Apparently information like that is on a need to know basis. Just remember, that is another tidbit of information that I know and you don’t. But I will never hold it over your head.

The CT scan was quick and moderately interesting, but truthfully, I would have rather been at Gulfoss. Or a few thousand other places besides the lower level of PHRMH. My CT scan artist was great. She was the first medical practitioner I’d spoken to in a week that didn’t give off airs of pending death. She even let me see my CT scan, which is probably against the rules, but it gave me hope. I didn’t see any huge masses. I also have no clue what I was looking at. But, I feel oddly buoyed.