Ugh! What a Week.

I know I've been out of touch with my blog lately -- it's been that kind of a week. The "low residue diet" didn't work so well for me. Apparently, the colon strains to get out what little residue is in there. That leads to painful "polyps" (a politer word than 'roids).  So, I'm on something called a "regular diet," which I haven't experienced for a while. It has protein, fiber AND carbs in it. Meat and vegetables with white potatoes... sounds familiar. I think I achieved that happy balance between watery and solid. Now, if I could just get the rest of my "gluteal fold" pains to go away. The skin is just plain raw. Oxycodone helps.

Dorothy started her 3rd round of chemo this week -- including the Eloxatin that we eliminated in the 2nd round (but still without the steroid). She is noticing no unexpected side effects, but the expected ones are pretty strange. She says that the cold radiates outward from her bones -- an unusual feeling, I'm sure. Also, when she drinks even room-temperature water it "crystallizes" in her mouth. She never ate Pop Rocks, so she can't compare the feeling -- but it sounds like Pop Rocks to me. Other than that, she is tired, nauseated, achy, and has a little headache. Pretty normal stuff for chemo.

We had a nice, low-key (B flat, I believe) holiday. Thanks to Scott and Karen for bringing all the food (those of you who know Karen know what "all the food" means). To be fair, it was less this time than all the food in the world (just kidding). We plan to spend another low-key (C sharp) New Years Eve with Kristen Strader's family (Ryan's girlfriend).

So far, the "food faeries" are working out (I am glad, though, that Dorothy's mother brought corn chowder Monday night -- the faerie didn't arrive until 8:30 or so).

HAPPY NEW YEAR to everyone. I hope your 2010 is full of good surprises.

Get Out the Fat Pants Again!

It took me years to rethink my concept of food. During that time, I continued to gain weight thinking that I could just lower my fat intake and shed pounds like I did when I was 40. Two years ago, I hit 206 pounds -- 6 pounds over my never-want-to-weigh-that-much upper limit. That was enough, so I tried the South Beach Diet. I took to the diet like a whale takes to water -- extending the 2-week Phase One period to a month long. I did not struggle with eliminating "bad" carbs and processed foods from my diet. A few months and minus-thirty pounds later, I met my "interim" goal. I kept the weight off during last year's holiday season, so I was prouder than ever. This year, it all fell apart.

We ended up in the Northwest Hospital's ER when Dorothy experienced severe stomach pain in late October. Less than a month later, we found ourselves back in the ER after a colonoscopy that found a "small" malignant growth near her appendix and after she experienced more severe pain. I started eating (good) hospital food and other "comfort" food. Dorothy's operation went well to remove what turned out to be a fist-sized mass from her colon (T3N0M0 for you experts). It was 1mm from breaking through the colon wall. Whew! At least Dorothy was able to slim down to less than 150 pounds -- her target weight for a long time. I, however, gained a few pounds.

We thought we were in the clear -- that she would not need chemotherapy -- because they removed all of the tumor. Then came the week of surprises.

On Friday, the oncologist (Dr. K) mapped out a chemotherapy regimen for Dorothy that included infusion every 2 weeks for 6 months. We were quite surpised by this, but Dr. K explained that the narrow margin (1mm), her family history, and her young age indicated that chemo would help. I found out that, without it, she would have an 80% to 90% chance of living beyond 5 years. The chemo will increase those odds to nearly one hundred percent. We ate at Martha and Mary's Restaurant on the way home to comfort ourselves.

On Tuesday, Dr. C told me after a routine colonoscopy that I had a problem and sent me to see Dr. S, the colo-rectal surgeon. The day was like a bad dream, but it only lasted a day. After much prodding and testing, the good news was that the tumor had not spread. The bad news, I suspect, is that it is located near the lower part of my rectum (I wish I could find a better word for that). So, I started chemo plus radiation for 6 weeks to shrink the tumor. To put it bluntly, Dr. S is trying to save my ass.

Dorothy's first week of chemo went poorly and we spent another night in the ER and 5 more days in the hospital. I did what I could to keep my strength up for long days of sitting in the chair beside her bed. Thank goodness the next round went better -- she is generally tired and a little nauseous, but otherwise okay.

We have been fortunate to have food delivered by the Food Faeries over the past few weeks. We have eaten well -- thank you, Lisa and the Food Faeries. Too well, if you ask me. They are weighing me weekly now and I am up to 190 pounds!

I am starting to experience some problems "down there" and I am now on a low-residue diet. Do you know what that means? White potatoes, rice, pasta -- all the things I trained myself not to eat while on South Beach! It is the Anti-South Beach Diet. The radiation oncologist and others want me to maintain my weight throughout the treatment. If I knew that, I would have kept a low baseline (maybe 180 pounds). They tell me that I will end up losing weight when all is said and done. I hope so -- there must be some silver lining to all this.

In the meantime, I still have my fat pants.

Proud to be a Del-Ray

I played the trumpet for 20 years, until I was in my late twenties. Symphonies, quartets, funk, jazz, blues, concert bands -- I enjoyed playing whenever someone gave me the chance. I enjoyed it, but it seemed to take so much work keeping my emboucher (that is, lip) in shape. I switched to guitar at that time -- it was more forgiving.

Not long ago, I subscribed to a musician's page in my area in order to find people with whom I could jam. I was surprised to be approached by the Del-Rays -- yes, that's right, the Del-Rays.


First of all, that is the coolest name I ever heard for a band. It reminds me of the surf guitar player Dick Dale. Jack, the former-bass-player-turned-keyboardist, contacted me and gave me their history -- they played the Baltimore circuit from the late 60s into the 70s, broke up, and recently reformed. They found all the original members -- Jack, Frank, Paul, and Dick -- except for the trumpet player and the sax player. He asked if I would play trumpet for them. I said, "Sure," and started practicing.


They played a great mix of music -- from Joe Zawinul to Sam and Dave to Wilson Pickett to James Brown -- it sounded great to me. I listened to arrangements and wrote out horn parts for me and the soon-to-be-found sax player. After a few weeks, we were ready for our first practice.


We had a great time, although the drummer Dick just had a cardiac catheterization. He wasn't allowed to drum, so we tried using programmed tracks from the keyboard. It didn't work so well, so Dick drummed with his good side -- he was not bad for a one-sided drummer. I learned that I was the youngest member at 55 years old. The others ranged in age from 61 to 72! I felt like a kid, and I knew who would be carrying most of the equipment.


We haven't been able to practice again. We set a date soon after Dorothy returned home from the hospital, but Jack's stomach problems got worse. We set another date, but my cancer treatments might get in the way. What a group we are!

I propose a new facility, called "The Del-Ray Convalescent Center and Concert Hall." We could all move there and get care for our ailments as we need it. When we are healthy, we could wheel over to the concert hall for practice. Everything would be set up for us. The entire facility would be funded by having big-name acts play at the hall -- Chicago, Hall and Oates, Simon and Garfunkel. It would be safe for them -- medical assistance will be readily available. (By the way, that's not Jack in the photo on the right.)

One day we will practice again. Who knows, we may even play a gig. Of course, it would need to start at 7:00 and end at 9:00 so we can get our rest. We're not getting any younger.

Bittersweet

Today is December 12 and it is bittersweet. It is Michael's (Dorothy's brother's) birthday and we try to get our holiday tree around this date. So today, we will have fun and go tree hunting. It is also a sad day because Michael died almost 2 years ago in a motorcycle accident. He was working in Texas to provide for his family, who was living in Georgia. Bittersweet.


I am also a bit down today. Last night's gig at Ze Mean Bean in Fells Point went very well. Gerry and I (Blue Moon Revue, see us at www.myspace.com/heartherevue) sounded good. Jack, from the Del-Rays, came to listen and said that we sounded better than the Everly Brothers. That's quite a compliment (more on the Del-Rays later). 


I joke about the chemo pump and its complications, but I am realizing that the pump and I will be attached to each other until mid-January. This is the path I chose -- to wear the pump continuously throughout the radiation period. The ultimate goal is to reduce the tumor so that, when Dr. S operates, I will not need to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of my life. I am trading one inconvenience for another.


It reminds me of my father, who spend his final years attached to an oxygen tube. The kids and I joked about the "tssst" sound made by the regulator and how Granddad could never sneak up on people. I have tubing attached to me and my pump makes a sound every 2 minutes or so (I finally traced it -- it is the sound an automatic toilet makes just before it flushes). I can sneak up on people if I do it quickly.


I empathize with my Dad's loss of dignity and why he chose not to venture out with his oxygen (fanny) pack and the regulator that went "tssst."  I know some of the feelings he experienced as medical devices worked to extend his life and mobility.


There is one difference. His glide path was toward that ultimate end that we all must face in our lives. Mine is toward a healthy outcome and many more years before the final trajectory.

Fanny Pack Couture

I reneged on a promise that I made to my children -- to never (ever) wear a fanny pack. Yesterday was my first day of radiation therapy and chemotherapy. When my wife Dorothy received her chemo pump, she had a small shoulder bag that she could wear under jackets, etc. I planned my treatment wardrobe assuming that I would wear the same type of bag. I was shocked when I received a sporty fanny pack instead.

We are being treated for different types of cancer -- hers is colon cancer that was removed about a month ago. Mine is rectal cancer that I still own. Her treatment lasts 2 days, every 2 weeks, for 6 months. It is meant to increase her ultimate life expectancy (she is young at 51). My treatment lasts 6 weeks and is meant to reduce the size of the tumor before Dr. S operates. I will wear the chemo pump during the entire 6 weeks. It is larger than I expected -- hence the fanny pack. (By the way, the person pictured at the right is not me.)

Now I need to rethink my whole fashion spectrum. Firstly, where does one wear a fanny pack? I know the answer should be evident from the name -- it goes on the fanny. But, I see that most people wear it in the front or on the side. Either of those two positions make a statement about the wearer.

Members of Tom Brokaw's Greatest Generation walk up and down the street in front of my home. I assume that is because the sidewalks are too old and cracked for them to use. The men wear fanny packs in the front, because function trumps form to them. A fanny pack is convenient -- it holds their spare glasses, their money, their traveling medications, and their cell phone -- all within easy reach. Go to the store for denture cream or foot powder, take it to the counter, look down, unzip, grab money, get change, put purchase in pack, zip up. It's as quick and as easy as taking a whiz. Functional.

The women, however, carry their smaller fanny packs on the side. Perhaps they are comfortable with side bags because of the purses they carried for so many years. But, if you get behind one of these women in the express check-out line, be prepared to hang around for a little while. Turn, look down, raise bag, rummage, rummage, rummage, hand out money, rummage through coupons, pull out the forgotten coupon, rummage for pennies (all the way at the bottom), zip bag, return it to its proper position, look proud for having exact change, walk toward exit door, go back for forgotten package, take package, walk to exit door, hold up traffic while putting away receipt. Not as functional, but accomplished with great form.

Position is not the only fashion consideration. Should one wear the fanny pack outside or inside the clothing? This one is a little easier. Face it, fanny packs look geeky. Our generation reveres both form and function without sacrificing one for the other. There is no way to hide a fanny pack worn outside the clothing. On the other hand, it is very difficult to disguise one worn under one's vestments.

Yesterday, I wore the fanny pack on my side, under my long-sleeved Red Cross shirt and Denali fleece. It felt like a huge six-gun resting on my hip. I needed to hike the shirt and the fleece over the top, like Doc Holliday. I felt cool -- then I looked in the mirror. Moreover, I was forced to exchange my captain's chair at the dinner table for a chair with no arms -- I was too wide.

Today, I tried wearing it over the fanny in the small of my back. That was much more comfortable. Until I sat down -- too much lumbar support. So, I traded my dining room chair without arms for a stool with no back. That seemed to work fine... until I got into the car. My midsection was so propelled toward the steering wheel that I felt like the world's first pregnant man. So, I slid the fanny pack onto my left side (again). The rest of the day demanded that I move the pack from side-to-back and back-to-side, according to need. I felt most comfortable with the fanny pack under my clothing near my fanny -- until I looked in the mirror. I looked like a male geisha.

I concluded that one cannot hide a fanny pack, nor can one make it look cool. Since I am defeated in my effort to make its presence clandestine, I will go the other route. Flaunt it.

I plan to buy the gaudiest, most tasteless fanny packs money can buy. Hot pink, sequins, rhinestones, faux crocodile. Send fanny packs -- I'll post pictures.