The dark blanket gently lifts as I begin to awaken. Something is not right. The clock outside of the recovery room I am in is barely legible. As it comes into focus, it makes no sense. How can it be so late after the surgery started? There is no way that clock is telling me the correct time. I stare at the clock, waiting for some explanation to come. I look away, then turn back to the clock. Trying to focus, I feebly hope the clock’s fuzzy hands would make sense to me. They don’t.

I’m locked in this spiraling state of confusion, a grinding roller coaster moving at a hauntingly slow speed. If only I could grab hold of something to stop this spinning. I look away from the clock, seeking a brief moment of relief, loosening its grip on me. Then I look back at it – intrigued by its hold on me and wondering if its hold on me is gone, but it’s not. It grabs me just as tightly. Am I losing my fucking mind? I know this is just a clock, but it is speaking to me, telling me lies about how long I have been in the hospital. It was a 30-minute surgery with some recovery time. What the clock is telling me doesn’t add up. Temporal math is failing me.

The curtains to each side of me limit my view. I cannot see anyone and I don’t have the energy to call out. All I have that connects me to anything is the clock, but it no longer intrigues me – it scares me.  It’s one of those rare moments when I feel I have no control and no way of gaining control. I am being led by something else I don’t recognize in a direction I cannot see. I do not like it and yet I can’t stop it. And then the nurse arrives…

Place

Seeing the nurse burst the clock’s hold on me. She checked some lines and machines connected to me. Then I realized that a lot more wires and accessories were hanging off of me than what I would expect for a 30-minute procedure to remove a cyst. I asked her what was happening. She simply and correctly told me that I was in recovery and that a doctor would be around to see me shortly. I had to wait.

Some layer of normalcy began to wave over me. There was still the question of the time on the clock, but it was now a curiosity instead of frightening confusion. While waiting, my focus shifted to how completely uncomfortable the bed was. My tailbone seemed sore for some reason and no matter how I shifted, any relief lasted only seconds. Trying to make that pain go away kept me focused on something until the doctor arrived. I am not sure how long it took for him to come to my bed as I was occupied with my tailbone. There is not a lot to do in a hospital anyway.

News

His words were blunt but necessary, “You have cancer”. For a little while, my tailbone stopped bothering me, with my focus now on trying to digest those 3 words. There is no right time to hear that message, but there is no wrong time if it is necessary. The lone exception might be when you are coming out of sedation after major surgery lasting 6 hours. If a clock was able to haunt me in this state, this news about cancer had no problem ricocheting through my mind and body.

Sue arrived, with a look of worry and distress. This was understandable given she had been given this news a few hours earlier and had that extra time for it to dance in her mind.

The doctor explained some of the things I could expect. First, he told me that it was neck and throat cancer, but the specifics would not be known until further test results came back. Next, he said that this type of cancer could effectively eat at my throat (my words, not his specifically), and it could lead to me requiring a tracheotomy. He also said that it could lead to damaging my vocal cords. Treva had these procedures so it probably wasn’t as shocking to me as it could have been, but the news was still shitty.

Reaction

My mind was spinning so much I could almost physically feel the gyroscope of thoughts, like holding a heavily weighted, yet delicately balanced top in my mind’s centre. So charming from the outside, yet the grinding of the tip burned a hole where it sat and its unforgiving edges ripped away at whatever it touched. I was numb. Then they brought me a mirror…

Now I know why there are few mirrors in the recovery room. I looked at the mirror and it wasn’t me. The person I saw in the reflection had a dark red, yet stitched-up cut on his neck, running 7 inches from the side of his neck to the centre of his throat. On that same side was a deep cavity – part of his neck was removed. I felt a little sorry for the poor bastard in the mirror for a fleeting, ridiculous moment, then better sense reminded me of the reality. When I went in for the surgery, I expected a small cut to remove a cyst, not this.

They took me to a semi-private room. It seemed they thought I might be in the hospital for a couple of days. This was initially reasonable given the story that the doctor and mirror were telling me. I could barely sleep in that room. My roommate moaned all night. I know it was shallow and inconsiderate of me, but all I could think of is how to get this neighbour to shut up. Plus I still couldn’t get comfortable because my tailbone was still painful. Odd how the ass in the bed beside me and my ass in the bed with me were keeping me awake.

Next Morning

The daylight of the new morning brought some needed clarity. My neighbour had left and a quieter roommate arrived. The curtains were kept closed between us. Some places call out for the need to be outgoing and personable – this was not one of them.

Sue was at home, having left the hospital the prior night. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. I have known Sue long enough to read fatigue and emotional wear and tear in her eyes. As much as she tried to hide it, the outward reflection in her eyes showed her inside state very clearly. We did not know what would be happening the next morning, so it was important for the both of us to get as much rest as possible.

The ENT who did the surgery came into my room at 9:20. Up to that time I was tossing back and forth in the bed, vainly seeking a comfortable position. My reprieve was a couple of bathroom breaks, which simply presented another set of challenges being hooked up to monitors and an IV pole. I had a good rapport with the ENT doctor, and his first line upon entering the room was “what happened here?” I shot back some retort about coming in for a simple snip and getting a lot than I bargained for – or wanted.

We shared a quick warm smile to warm the air, then he explained what happened. He discovered cancer cells in my lymph nodes and had to remove a lot of these nodes and surrounding tissue. He then told me that the procedure he gave was called a neck dissection. What the fuck was that? I had never heard the term and seeing the results in the mirror the prior night, the term seemed to fit.

Then he handed me use a mirror to explain the results. He discussed the 7-inch incision coming down the middle of my throat and how he did his best to follow natural lines on my throat. He pointed out the additional 7-inch incision on the left side of my neck, running from my ear to my collar – which I didn’t even notice until then. Again, what the fuck was that? What other surprises were to come?

Going Home

This was a Saturday morning and from experience with numerous hospital stays with my daughter Treva, getting released on weekends can be tricky. I asked Dr. Jackson if I could go home. I just simply said that there is likely not much more they could do for me at the hospital that I couldn’t do at home. He agreed and my release was set in motion. Tubes were disconnected and I was given a crash course on looking after the surgery site and drainage.

Sue picked me up. Between the pain, recent sedation, and no ability to shoulder check, I was not in a state to drive. She drove moderately slow avoiding any quick stops or starts. Even the gentle bumps on the road that we never usually notice sent shock waves through me.

We got home. The place where we would endure months of cancer care and treatments.

Let’s fast forward to today …

Today

Much has happened since that night. So many things have changed.

My wife had been wanting a pool in our backyard for years. I resisted because I was nervous about the safety aspect. I wasn’t sure how well I would sleep, awake at night worrying about pool safety. That mindset shifted when cancer knocked on my door and I unknowingly opened it. I started to think that life is much too short not to enjoy it fully – not just for me, but also for the people around that I love.

Later that year, a pool arrived in our backyard. We have enjoyed it immensely. It is not only ourselves but also for the people we love sharing it with.

That change in my thinking brought on by cancer opened an opportunity for our family and friends to share laughs and plant the seeds of memories. Ironically, in some ways, cancer helped me to live more fully.

Healing

The recovery from cancer was also a reflection of my recovery from emotional damage and addictions from my past.

The years I spent drinking in an attempt to fill holes within eventually started to take its toll – eating at me psychologically and physically, piece by piece – akin to cancer’s insidious growth. Then making the decision that finally put the cork in the bottle was like ringing the bell at the hospital when I finished the final cancer treatment – an opportunity for a brighter future. Then as time passed, I was able to step into the light of this brighter future. Recovery from alcoholism and cancer both left scars that I can readily see and feel, but living with those scars is a pleasant, very acceptable alternative to living with the diseases.

Today, my scars from the cancer are much less noticeable. The scars on my neck are not as visible. My neck twitches and spasms daily (sometimes many times a day). I have very little feeling under one side of my chin. One side of my mouth has a mind of its own – not exactly moving in sync with the other side, causing me to talk like an English version of John Cretian! And I don’t care. I am glad to take all of this and more because I have been cancer-free for nearly 2 years.

Oh – and my tailbone? It’s still sore and I’m quite sure it’s not a result of radiation on my neck! But like the other lingering side effects, I can live with this sore ass over having cancer.

Two years post-cancer – life just keeps getting better …

The post The Day That Changed My Life appeared first on Randy Bassett.

Satchel Paige was a legend in baseball. He played in the 1940’s during the time when black baseball players were first allowed to play in the major leagues. Jackie Robinson is recognized as the first black player to play in the majors, but Paige was instrumental in paving the pathway for Jackie and others.

In 1948, Paige was called up to help the Cleveland Indians in the pennant race. He was a pitcher who spent a number of years crafting his fastball in the minors. He became the first black pitcher in major league baseball.

His feats are amazing, but his age was even more interesting to me. He became a major league rookie at the age of 42 – the oldest man to ever debut in the majors. In reference to age, Paige simply, yet eloquently stated:

“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?”

– Satchel Paige –

Upon hearing that line recently, the student (me!) was ready, likely due to the health challenges over the past 6 months.

In My Youth

When I was in my teens and 20’s, this would have been a meaningless quote. As I have touched on in earlier blog posts, there were low moments when I considered suicide and even acted upon those thoughts. Those moments were not filled with questioning my mortality, but they were filled with a driving need to escape the engulfing emotional cyclones.

Fortunately, most moments were not filled with such thoughts. I was a young man, doing things that make the present-day me wonder how I made it through it. After all, I was invincible and immortal – I was going to live forever. At least I lived like that was my mindset. I simply would not have understood Satchel Paige’s quote and I wouldn’t have bothered trying to.

As I Aged

With age, I have acquired some bits of wisdom, even though most of it is not Earth-shattering. For me, wisdom would arrive at those flashes when cute words, quotes or concepts would move from the outer layer of awareness where I selectively care about things to the inner layers of deeper understanding and emotional awareness.

Like the moment when I realized that I won’t be around forever. Sure, when I was younger, I had an intellectual awareness of the idea, but the wisdom came when the concept slipped through the superficial periphery into my inner being. It was at that moment that I started to appreciate the gift of life, and how brief how time really is.

I was more ready for Satchel Paige’s quote, but I still didn’t think about mental vs physical age very often. For instance, when I was 55, I would often think “I know I am 55, but from my memories of 55 year-olds from when I was younger, I don’t look or feel like that!”. Yet I never really thought to assign myself another age.

The Quote

I was listening to a CD series in my car a while ago called “Dreams Don’t Have Deadlines” by Mark Victor Hansen. On one CD he discussed Satchel Paige and posed the question “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?”

I was hooked. The student was ready. The idea pierced my exterior and entered my inner knowing. I then started assigning the age I felt and compared it to my calendar age, and they did not always match up!

Just Before Cancer

I had already accepted my mortality and began accepting the aches and pains that time bestows upon us. I learned that I had to adapt to new normals or get them fixed. For instance, I fully recognized that I could not run as fast as I could when I was 25, but that is from lack of running more than age.

My kids have helped me to blur mental and chronological aging even further. They help bring out the playful side in me, giving me cause to be a little boy again, but it causes me to get tired a little quicker – feeling old and young at the same time.

I didn’t know what 58 was supposed to feel like, but I felt much younger than that – in mind, spirit and body.

I felt more like 40 than 58. So maybe 60 is the new 40.

Cancer Diagnosis

Being diagnosed with cancer caused my mental evaluation of my age to cycle wildly, sometimes feeling 40, other times much older.

Besides the physical impact of the surgery, I still felt younger – but now trapped in a time continuum rather than a point in time. My mind was trying to hang on to the thought that I am still much younger than whatever 58 is supposed to be, but being pulled in the opposite direction with cancer reminding me that years are advancing.

At any point on time, could feel anywhere from 40 to well over 60.

Cancer Treatments

When chemo and radiation therapies started, I still felt strong – age 40. I was at work, functioning very well. I was getting increasingly tired, but it was still highly manageable.

After 2 weeks of treatment, I seemed to have aged 15 years. I was moving slower and eating less. I was more irritable, but trying to smile and keep up a strong front.

After another 2 weeks, I aged another 15 years. By this time I was eating very little. I was in bed by 8:00 most evenings. Still working, but much slower now. The growing fatigue was more obvious now and I had the decreasing ability or will to hide it.

After another week, aged at least another 10 years. I wasn’t eating at all and I had a g-tube in place to stabilize my weight and give me the nutrition I needed. I stopped working. I was too tired to properly focus on anything. I also felt impaired, like I was constantly stoned, but not enjoying any highs. I decided not to drive because I knew my reflexes were slower. I didn’t care about not having the freedom to go where I wanted because I simply didn’t want to go anywhere.

Because I was I was so mentally distant and physically tired, I was not connecting well with my family. I was dependent on others to help more than I had been ever in my life and I was fortunate that people were there to give me the help I needed.

End of Treatments and Recovery

For a week or so after the treatments ended, I felt even worse – more tired, fatigued and sore. I felt much older than I ever felt. By this time, I felt 85 or older.

I had gone from 40 to 85 in less than 2 months.

During 2nd week after treatment stopped, I started seeing signs of recovery. I was feeling more rested. I started to be able to tolerate some food.

After the third week I went back to work. I was still a bit foggy, but I felt it was better for me to get back to work. Since I was still a bit tired, I asked some co-worker friends to drive me back and forth to work, which they graciously did.

Over the course of a couple of months, I was eating fairly normally and driving myself around just like before.

The clock was starting to roll backwards.

Now

I am now dealing with cancer treatment side-effects, which is still much better than dealing with cancer itself. I am still not at 100% energy that I had prior to treatments, but I understand that it is completely normal for that to take a long time to recover.

I also have some side-effects that I was not prepared for. For instance, I have frequent dizzy spells and neck spasms. I am working with a number of professionals to determine the cause. These lingering side-effects are the reason why I don’t feel 40 again – yet!

Regardless, I would say I feel 45 – 50. I am now slimmer, I have more energy (90%) and I am sleeping normal (although my normal is shitty, it is still my normal). I just turn a blind eye to the mirror and the reflecting wrinkles that want to dampen my mental age-meter.

Why This is Important to Me

I have come to the realization that calendar age is not a prescription for physical or mental condition. Due to cancer and the treatments, I went from 40 to 85 back down to 50 in 6 months. I don’t want to say “I can’t because I’m too old” (unless it involves gymnastics or kindergarten). I don’t want to link limits to aging.

I would prefer to say “I choose not to do that” or “I choose to do that” and leave age out of it.

My Recent Lessons

What I can and cannot do now are a sum of the choices I have made up now. I can’t do karate now, not because I am 59, but because I did not choose to keep myself in the necessary physical condition to be able to do karate now. There are a lot of folks practicing karate in their 60’s and beyond.

As “Mark Victor Hansen” said, Dreams Don’t Have Deadlines and cancer has reminded me of that.

So what are my next dreams? I now have a longer list than I had even 6 months ago. Besides activities and things for the betterment of my family, my top dream is to become a best-selling author. I want my words to get out there with the hope that they will make a positive impact on many.

I have many other dreams on the list that I want to pursue with the passion and energy of the 40 year-old that I am inside. It will mean that I will be winding things up when some people may be winding things down. It also means I will be starting new adventures and opening new doors rather than embracing complacency.

Cancer has taken me through a wild aging cycle, but it has also reminded me that I am here to wear out rather than rust.

And I am always just beginning.

Now I ask you …

How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?

The post How Old Would You Be… appeared first on Randy Bassett.

Tests, Tests and More Tests

Most tests I recognized at the time of testing. I have sat through hundreds of tests and exams through school, most of which I knew about ahead of time. Yet there was one time in grade 13 biology when I arrived in class, took my normal seat and watched the girl beside me fumble through some notes. Finally, she closed her books, put them in her desk and said “If I don’t know it now, I never will”. That was my first hint that I was just minutes away from writing a major genetics test with no preparation. That was exciting. It was also the exception.

Some tests have been more subtle, almost invisibly wrapped up in other qualities such as trust. This is aptly demonstrated whenever we are barreling down a two lane, undivided highway at 80 Kph, and we pass someone going the opposite direction at the same speed, with only a few feet between us. We are constantly testing our faith that they will remain on their side of the road and this is neatly disguised as a blind trust that they will stay in their own lane. They also have that same trust in us.

The cancer journey has been filled with new tests as well. Many medical tests, of course, but there have been a number of other tests.

Getting Tired

When I started the treatments I was told that I would start to get tired and eventually fatigue would settle in. I couldn’t imagine that. How is possible to sleep more than usual and still be tired all the time? That has only happened in short periods of time when I have been sick in the past, but not often enough to even remember all that well. Within the first week or two of the treatments I was feeling a bit tired, but it was not an issue. I thought to myself “I got this”. It turns out that I didn’t.

I was still working during the 5th week of treatments, but I was also going to bed by 8:00 at night and sleeping much more than normal. It took an extra boost of energy just to stand up. I started to feel a constant mental fog that made me feel increasingly uncomfortable to even drive. Between the 5th and 6th week, I decided to throw in the towel. I told work that I needed to stay home to recover properly, which they supported whole-heartedly. I hung up my car keys and became a passenger for many weeks.

And I slept a lot.

Pass the Syringe, Please

For the past few years, I have had a goal to weigh 250 lbs by my birthday. I have not even come close to that goal. I have not been that weight for over 20 years, since before I met Sue. A week before the treatments started I weighed 285 lbs. Just over five weeks later, I hit my 250 lb goal, but not in a way I imagined.

Regarding eating, the cancer treatments had hit me from a number of directions. The radiation was doing a great job annihilating my taste buds, ensuring everything  had no taste at all, or if it did, that it tasted like it was flavoured with powdered dog crap. The radiation was also taking a toll on my throat, making it difficult to even swallow sips of water. I simply couldn’t eat. Sue was trying to get me to eat or drink anything. I know I was frustrating her, but it would take me 30-40 minutes to eventually drink one can of Ensure. It was not going well.

I had lost a lot of weight and the staff at the cancer clinic were rightfully concerned. I knew I needed the energy more than ever, but traditional eating with a fork, spoon or even a sippy cup wasn’t the answer. We agreed that getting a g-tube to eat would help fend off this downward spiral.

My weight stabilized immediately once I started using the g-tube. I was still fatigued and sleeping a lot, but now the lack of nutrition was no longer a contributing factor.

I go through a psychological test frequently with the g-tube. Quite simply – what will I wear today, so that the tube is not too noticeable. For brief moments I wonder what will others think. Will they have unasked questions? Will they think I am somehow disabled? That train of thought quickly slips away when my better senses kick in to remind me that I don’t give a shit what they think. This g-tube is for my benefit and that benefit trumps whatever I might imagine what others think, if they do at all.

No Longer Intrigued

I was told about the possible side effects of cancer treatments before starting them: fatigue, ability to eat, dry mouth, painful throat, hearing loss, chemo fog and more. I found it a little intriguing. How would this be possible? Even within a couple of weeks I still found it intriguing. I was seeing early signs of side effects such as taste for a lot of foods changing, but it wasn’t too bothersome.

It didn’t take long for the intrigue to disappear.

I had chemo as well as radiation in the fourth week of treatments. I was getting more tired and I was starting to dread each of the radiation sessions. I wouldn’t feel noticeably more drained after each individual session, but I knew the accumulating effects were mounting up high.

Intrigue had been replaced by a disdain of the process, however necessary it was. This shift put pressure on my ability to keep a positive outlook near the end of treatments. I would put on a positive mask when I left the house, answering “good” or “just a bit tired” whenever anyone asked how I was. I am sure the mask I wore was so thin that many people could see right through it if they chose to.

It was a test to keep positive that I feebly passed in public, but failed frequently behind closed doors. Thankfully Sue was always there to help me with my cycling psyche.

The Ultimate Test

Even a day before finding out I had cancer, my health was a certain level. I wasn’t the same as I was when I was 25 years old, but in some ways, I may have been even healthier, 33 years later. Regardless, that level was my current baseline.

The day I found out I had cancer I also had major neck surgery which took its toll. I never fully recovered from neck surgery when the radiation and chemo therapies started, so I did not return to that pre-surgery baseline.

Then the radiation and chemo treatments started, which dragged me down physically even more. This necessary, but seemingly barbaric medical process was kicking the shit out of me. It was dragging me even further away from my health baseline.

By the time the treatments are done and for a couple of weeks after, I was feeling worse as each day wore on. The pain in my neck was there almost constantly, with intense flare-ups occasionally. Energy was a dream more than a reality.

But then I started seeing signs of recovery – more energy, less pain, slowly eating more. From all those in the know, it might be months before all of this completely clears up and it is only a memory.

So over a 6 month period, I have been beat up physically, just to return to the my health baseline the day before the surgery. No bonuses like an enhanced libido, just back to where I started.

This is the ultimate test through this journey. Enduring the intense impacts of the treatments and have these linger for months, with no obvious gains, but with the knowing that the procedure will enhance my life going forward, not having those particular cancer cells within me.

To me, this is the ultimate test of my faith in the system and people that work their magic in dealing with cancer.

The post The Ultimate Test appeared first on Randy Bassett.

Some are exciting – like the first time I road a two-wheeler. I was 5 years old and I decided to try my older cousin’s bike at my grandpa Bassett’s house. Something just clicked right away and I was able to ride almost effortlessly. Although I didn’t recognize it at the moment, I was experiencing the thrill of riding a bike and the rush of new-found freedom. Unfortunately, these were quickly replaced with physical discomfort when my cousin pounded me after discovering I was using his bike. But it was worth it!

Others are nerve-racking. There’s a little stretch of road in Hamilton called the Sherman Cut. The first part of this road is in a section that was sliced out of a rocky escarpment. The roadway is quite narrow. I recall the first time I drove up that roadway like it was yesterday, even though it was nearly 40 years ago. I was by myself, scared and keeping a white-knuckled grip of the steering wheel. The whole stretch took less than 10 seconds to travel, but my nervousness transformed into a feeling of exhilaration, like I was flying, not driving. I was legally stoned, however briefly. I haven’t felt that same rush on that stretch of road since.

Others are stunning. When I was 16 my eyes saw perfection in the form a brunette beauty named Melody. We actually lived together in a group home, so it was easy getting over the hump of simply talking to her without babbling. It was a little trickier digging up the nerve to ask her on a date. I had never asked anyone out for a date before. When I finally had enough courage, I asked her and to my shock she said yes. She eventually ended up breaking my heart into 1,000 little pieces, causing me to sing Barry Manilow songs for days, but since she was my first love, she will always have a special spot inside me.

Yet others are simply shocking. Like hearing the words “you have cancer”.

The cancer treatments started a few weeks ago and over that time I have experienced a few more “firsts”.

The First Chemo Session

The chemo session was the first treatment I received on day one. Sue came with me and stayed the whole day. After first checking in with reception, we were asked to sit in the waiting area. The room was 3/4 full of people and I noticed that every patient had someone with them. Some patients looked a little rough and it seemed obvious that their companion was there to help them get around. Many patients looked quite good, and maybe their companions were there for support and to keep them company. Since I hadn’t received anything yet, I was in the latter category.

We eventually got into the chemotherapy room and I got hooked up to an IV. The whole infusion took 4 hours – 2 hours of saline to  ensure I was adequately hydrated, followed by 1 hour of the chemical, then another hour of saline. I must have been tired because I told Sue that I wanted to take a nap and upon closing my eyes, I was snoring loudly within a minute, much to Sue’s embarrassment.

After the infusion was completed, I left to go downstairs for radiation treatment. I didn’t feel any different than when I arrived which I was quite happy about. They left the IV in place because it was used to deliver saline for 4 hours a day, five days in a row at home – to make sure I had enough fluids on-board. The only medications I was given were to help fend off nausea.

The only side effect that I noticed was an increase in ringing in one of my ears. I know that hearing can be impacted for up to one year after chemo, so having my hearing effected so quickly worried me. I knew I needed to get good quality hearing protection.

The First Radiation Session

Sue and I went 2 floors down to the radiation wing after leaving chemo. This hallway has 4 different radiation machines, each with their own waiting area. My area was at the end of the hall. About 10 minutes after we settled into the waiting area, I was called to go into the radiation room. Upon entering I scanned the room quickly. There was a bed built more for function than comfort. The head of this bed was positioned for the bed to move into the circular machine – the machine which delivers the radiation.

After a very quick prep, I laid down on the bed. The 2 staff members put my fitted mask on me and positioned me perfectly for the treatment. The mask didn’t allow me to easily open my eyes, so I kept them closed during this first session. The staff members told me it was going to start and they left the room. I heard some humming of machines during the treatment. Then in less than 5 minutes, the staff were back in the room, telling me we were all done. I was surprised how quick the treatment was.

Just like after the chemo, I felt fine. Nothing odd or unusual – which, again, I was happy about.

I didn’t really expect any side effects that soon. Unfortunately, the side effects did start kicking in sooner than expected.

I’ll Pass on the Bacon

I am receiving radiation treatments every weekday for 6 weeks. I ate quite normally for a few days into the radiation. On the Thursday night of the first week I was settled in my bedroom to watch Game of Thrones. I was tethered to an IV pole for 4 hours, so I thought I would catch up on some TV and maybe enjoy a small bowl of chips. I’m in my chair, the show is on, I grab a chip and take a bite. What the hell was that! It tasted like a wood chip. Maybe I got a dud. I tried another – still wood chips. I quickly realized that my taste buds were already changing. I was told this could happen, but I did not expect it so soon.

On Saturdays we often have pizza/movie night as a family. I love those nights. We found a pizza place that served real bacon, not just bacon crumble or bits. I got comfortable on the couch with my TV tray, staring down a couple of slices of hearty pizza with real bacon. First bite – WTF – more wood chips. Second bite was the same. I didn’t finish the first slice.

I lost my appetite at that moment. It’s obvious that taste drives hunger and appetite, but it becomes abundantly clearer when most everything starts tasting different or just plain crappy. Over the following couple of weeks, the tastes of foods deteriorated even more. Now it’s not a matter of finding something that tastes great, it’s more of a matter of finding things that taste less shitty.

I was told that I should avoid foods that I love during this treatment process, otherwise I run the risk of permanently associating lousy tastes to that food. I have therefore decided to avoid bacon until a couple of months after treatment ends.

To Make Matters Worse

Imagine the radiation machine as being a very expensive suntanning bed. The only difference is that suntanning beds affect the outside, potentially burning the skin if left too long. The radiation machines dig a little deeper than just the skin level. The radiation I am getting is 360 degrees around my neck. My spinal column is not being radiated, but a lot of my neck is, including my throat. Over the course of many treatments, my neck is becoming red (cue the redneck jokes!) – it is effectively becoming burnt gradually. But so is my throat. It’s like having a sunburn from the inside out.

Within a week and a half of the start of the treatments, my throat was extremely sore. Unfortunately, I couldn’t simply rest my throat because it gets used much too often. I was (and still am) spitting up blood from my throat frequently. Every bite has pain to it. The intensity of the pain fluctuates, but it is constant. Even drinking water hurts to varying degrees.

There is a certain irony to this process. The treatments are wearing on my body, so I need more protein and calories than normal to help the healing, but the treatments take away your want and ability to eat. This is the first time in my life that I simply don’t want to eat. I am eating out of duty to my body, not out of desire. I now see why people lose weight during cancer treatments.

People Staring

On the Sunday after the first week of treatment, I took Treva out on one of our dates to Wimpeys. I was already experiencing changes to my taste buds, but I could still enjoy a few things. The restaurant was closing within 30 minutes of our arrival, so there weren’t a lot of customers. In a cubicle next to ours sat an older lady. Treva had her back to the lady, but I could see the lady quite easily past Treva. After a short while, I noticed the lady was staring at me. It wasn’t just a passing glance, but rather, it was a locked-in gaze. Most people look away if they get caught staring, but not her. Eventually she broke away and started looking around elsewhere.

Then she started again. I am fairly secure, but she made me very uncomfortable. What the hell was she looking at? I was simply trying to enjoy a nice daddy/daughter date. Finally, I had enough and simply asked her “Why are you staring at me?” She fumbled around, obviously feeling awkward, and left the restaurant a minute later.

I know my look has changed – the nerve on the one side of my mouth still isn’t working quite right and my neck is red from the treatments. I am sure I get more subtle looks from others that I don’t even notice, nor do I care about usually. This was the first time I can recall feeling singled out because I was different.

The Eyes Hold Secrets

The eyes tell so much. Not like the older lady in the restaurant staring at me, but sometimes just as revealing.

I went to an event recently and I met with some people I haven’t seen for a while. Nearly all of them knew beforehand that I have cancer and I am going through treatments. In some people’s eyes I could read a surprised look that I was actually there. In others I could see a sadness pointed my way. Both viewpoints seem to come from a thought that cancer means you are on a crippling path to your maker. Sure the treatments are very challenging, but I’ll be around for quite a while yet.

I spent time with some of these folks demonstrating that I’ll be okay. I am a little banged up right now, but I’ll be okay. By my showing them that cancer doesn’t have to be a terminal death sentence, it seemed to make them feel more at ease.

I know that other people are dealing with my cancer in different ways. Sometimes I need a helping hand, but sometimes so do others. My job sometimes is to remind people that this is all temporary and I (we) will be beyond it in due time.

Upcoming

Tomorrow I start my second half of the treatments. My second chemo session. My 15th radiation session. Truthfully, I am not looking forward to this week. As the oncologist said, the treatments are the same, but I am different – especially with the cumulative effects of 3 weeks of radiation. I have already had a taste (pun intended) of how these treatments can impact me, so I am a little concerned about what this week will bring.

So many firsts are behind me now, but I understand more firsts could rear up over the next little while. Although I think I am ready for them, I also am blessed to have so many people who have volunteered to help me should I need it. Many people have reminded me they are only a call away for help.

I just might be calling.

The post So Many Firsts appeared first on Randy Bassett.

The dance with cancer is different. I can’t simply choose to elect a simplified dance and force my partner to tolerate it. Everything is so new. I don’t know the tempo. I don’t recognize the style of music. I can’t feel the intensity of the rhythm. Hell, I can barely hear the music. Right now, cancer has the lead in the dance.

PETs Allowed

As the doctors probe a little deeper, they use different scanning tools to see if cancer is showing anywhere else. I had a CT scan of my chest which showed nothing “remarkable” – a term I’ve grown to love. There were no signs of any lung cancer and given the smoking I’ve enjoyed too much over the years (even though I quit quite a while ago), that was good news.

The next level of testing is the PET scan. This is used to scan for active cancer masses over a large part of your body. For me, they scanned from my knees to the top of my head.

The PET scan appointment took nearly 3 hours. After the usual checking in, I was asked to slip into one of the hospital gowns. In the world of “one size fits all”, I am an outlier. The nurse then put an IV line in my arm to prep for the test. I was then asked to drink some room-temperature concoction of water and sawdust. Okay, it wasn’t actually sawdust, but it held the same appeal. After a few minutes, the nurse wheeled in some large cart. She connected a line from this contraption to the IV line in my arm. The device was used to inject some radioactive elements in my body for the scans to detect.

I was mildly radioactive. That explained the sign I saw in the bathroom advising people to sit for all bathroom activities – to minimize radioactive spray. Really? I turned off the light in the bathroom a couple of seconds before opening the door to see if there was even a slight glow in the bathroom… nothing.

I had to wait for a while to let the radioactive elements to settle into my system. I then had to drink a little more of the nasty drink and then go the scanning room.

The PET scan looked like a bigger version of a CT scan. A big donut with a bed that slides back and forth through the donut. It was nowhere near as tight as an MRI machine, which I was happy about. I was asked to lay down on the narrow bed that could have easily doubled as a balancing beam.

The machine scanned a (roughly) 4-5 inch section of my body for a few minutes. The bed would then slide down to allow the machine to scan the next section. No noise, no flashing lights. It took about 40 minutes, with the last 25 spent trying not to think of how badly I had to go to the bathroom

The Results

I met with my radiation oncologist 3 days later. As the appointment drew nearer I found that it took more effort to rid my mind of the nervous chatter – what’s he going to say? Is there anything else to deal with? What are the next steps? Fortunately, I had my work to help me keep my mind focused on the now.

The oncologist simply told me that the PET scan did not reveal any active cancer tumors. I was happy to hear that. Then he went on to summarize all the findings to date.

The cancer cells analyzed in my the lymph nodes removed from my neck were “poorly-differentiated”. He explained how cancer cells evolve in someone’s body. Each normal cell in our bodies have differentiated – a heart cell looks and acts differently than a nerve cell. In the early stages of a cell becoming cancerous, the features of the original cell are still identifiable – still differentiated. At these stages, cancer can be more benign.

As these cells transition into more a more cancerous form, they increasingly lose the features to identify where they came from. At the latter stages of this cellular evolution, the cell’s origin can no longer be determined. They are now poorly-differentiated.

From what the oncologist described, these cells are the dangerous ones. They are much freer to travel elsewhere in the body and trigger cancerous growths.  Because of the nature of the cells found, he strongly advised that they treat the cancer aggressively to minimize the likelihood of future challenges with cancer.

The Plan

The plan prescribed is a combination of radiation and chemotherapy. Radiation would occur daily (M-F) over 6 weeks. Chemo would occur on 3 days – the first day of treatment, and 2 other days later within the 6 weeks. That all seemed fairly straightforward, that is, from my purely academic, sweetly naive viewpoint. Already within a couple of weeks of that appointment, some things have happened to dent that naivety.

The Mask

I quickly came to appreciate how important it is to keep a patient’s head during the procedure. Nobody wants a patient to pop up and ask for a glass of water while radiation is being beamed in. In order to lock my head in place for radiation, I had to be fitted for a mask. It is basically a plastic meshing which is warmed up and formed over my face, with a frame on 3 sides which is used to hold me in place.

I was asked beforehand if I was claustrophobic. Generally, I am not, but I am not really a fan of tight spaces. This mask does impose a sense of being in a tight space, feeling constricted. The one thing that makes me feel more comfortable with this mask is knowing that each of the individual radiation treatments is quite short.

I Hear You

I was told that I needed to have a hearing test done prior to any of the procedures. I just thought that since the radiation would be occurring in the neck, that there was a chance that neighboring areas such as the ears could be affected by any radiation scatter. Maybe the hearing test was just a formality and that potential impact of radiation on hearing was very low.

I was wrong.

I did the hearing test on the morning that I was to see the chemo doctor. The hearing tests showed some minor hearing loss, nothing too abnormal for a person my age. But the audiologist also told me that the chemo could make my ears much more susceptible to hearing damage for over a year after the chemo treatments. No one had ever mentioned this side effect.

She gave me a lengthy listing of noises that could prove to be damaging over the next year. No surprise: rock concerts and jackhammers. Surprising: blenders, barking dogs and vacuums. She emphasized how important it is for me to wear hearing protection over the next year.

When I met the chemical oncologist, he said the drug being used to treat the cancer I have will definitely make my ears more prone to damage. He said that the chemical will get flushed out of my body within a couple of days – except in the ears. The chemical camps in the “hearing” part of the ear for over a year. 20-40% of patients can experience some hearing loss.

Since I want to be part of the 60-80%, some things will change. I won’t be going to any hockey or football games. I won’t be going to see Blue Rodeo in concert (which we do annually). I won’t be listening to music with my headphones on. This last one seems like no big deal, but it is a huge one. For 40 years, I have found great therapeutic value in putting on headphones and losing myself in a local concert of my choosing. Depending on where I am, I often decide to help the lead singer. From Meatloaf’s “Bat Out of Hell” to Harry Chapin’s “Cats in the Cradle”, I can cover it all. This will have to put on hold.

The Final Piece to the Plan

After finishing with the audiologist, I went to see the chemo doctor. Sue joined me for this visit. The first thing that hit me was the number of people in the waiting room waiting to see a specialist.

The chemo doctor was much younger than I expected, but I could tell quickly he knew his stuff. He had a quirky sense of humor, which I liked. It also gave me the green light to joke right back with him – yet still have this obviously serious conversation.

He told me about the chemical they were going to use. We discussed various dosing options – either smaller doses more frequently or larger doses less frequent. There wasn’t enough research to show which approach was better, so I chose less frequent visits, figuring I could spend less time cooped up in the hospital.

He also told me about the impact on my hearing. This one bothers me, but I have to trust it’s for the greater good. He also told me that I will need to have a nurse come into my home for each of 5 days after each chemo treatment to administer some fluids to ensure I remain properly hydrated. Another new piece to this cancer treatment regime.

He also said that I will likely only need 2 doses of chemo – one less than first thought. That I am okay with.

Some Final Prep Steps

After the oncologist left, a nurse came in a few minutes later with a detailed schedule for the next 6 weeks. The chemo/radiation combination is starting May 13th. The whole day is scheduled for the infusion followed by the radiation part of the day. Before the actual radiation, I will be fitted for a guard for my teeth. I think is to help protect my teeth from the radiation, but it is also meant to minimize radiation scattering that might bounce off any of my fillings.

The nurse took me on a tour of the chemo treatment wing. Again, the number of people being treated and waiting for treatments was heart-stopping. So many people having to deal with cancer, and this was just a small subset of the grand total of patients at the Juravinski Cancer Centre.

The last thing to do before leaving the hospital was to buy my 6-week parking pass. That was the easy part of the day.

Nothing Now But Waiting

So now I seem to be filling in time waiting for Monday morning. Happily, it is Mother’s Day weekend so there are some visiting and festivities to help pass the time.

I am waiting on Monday morning with an odd mix of intrigue and apprehension. I am intrigued to see all the equipment and processes – how things work, learning new things. I am a little intrigued as to the side-effects of this treatment – what will happen, when it will happen. This is also where the apprehension comes in. Some of the stories regarding side-effects (short-term and long-term) scare me. I keep telling myself that this is payment on an insurance plan for a healthier future.

Cancer Has the Lead – For Now

As the treatments get going, I will start to see how I am reacting. Currently, my mind is sharply focused on keeping the bumps on this journey to a minimum, but this is all new. I have no experiences to judge how my body will react to these intrusive procedures.

Because of these unknowns and uncertainties, cancer has the lead in our dance together. I cannot even pretend to lead when I can’t even hear the music or see what is on the upcoming playlist.

But I do know that with time, I will know how I am reacting to the treatments and what to expect. As that time slowly unfolds, I will begin to hear the music. Eventually, I will choose the songs. I will take over and lead this dance with cancer.

Until then, patience is my friend and ally.

The post The Dance Begins appeared first on Randy Bassett.

I work in the IT world. When investigating computer issues I often ask what has changed. The response I almost always hear is “nothing”. Whether or not the person I am talking to is aware of it,  if something is different, something had to have changed.

Humans aren’t so consistent. Same input, variable outputs. A beautifully challenging reality.

I am fully aware that I sometimes react differently to similar or seemingly identical situations. Sometimes when someone cuts me off on the road or highway, I really don’t notice or care. Other times I care too much and start lighting up the horn and my language, swearing at someone who can’t hear me and who couldn’t care less.

Since being diagnosed with cancer I have been more prone to these inconsistencies. It seems to take more effort to remain optimistic and keep a strong front.

Uncertainty

We all live with a level of uncertainty that we are comfortable with, what we have adapted to. There are some people who live pay-to-pay and don’t mind at all. On the other hand, I am sure there are some affluent people who would be very stressed out if their bank account balance fell under one million dollars.

My level of uncertainty prior to my diagnosis was probably fairly normal – wondering what the future holds for my kids, how long will my car hold up, will the interest rates be low when I renew my mortgage, etc. Most of the time these thoughts would come to mind, I’d consider them, then tuck them away again – while not expending a lot of emotional or mental energy on them. I have noticed that this has changed since the diagnosis.

The prior uncertainties haven’t changed. In fact, they seem to have faded into the background because they haven’t even come to mind. But the uncertainties around cancer dash in and out of my mind with relentless persistence. A bolt of fear and doubt spikes from a bout of uncertainty, triggered from a medical report, a Facebook article, the worried look on someone’s face … or simply from a song. I do my best to clean up the emotional debris left behind by one of these bolts. I then sit down, waiting for the next one. For instance…

Medical Reports and Tests

I am not completely new to working with medical professionals since we have been dealing with them quite regularly since Treva was born. But somehow it seems quite different with this bout of cancer, either because I am the patient now or this is simply the adult health care system. Upon my first visit to the Juravinski Cancer Clinic, the oncologist arranged for me to have a CT scan. I didn’t ask any more questions, because this seemed like a normal procedure. A week and a half later, I was at St. Joe’s preparing to have this scan.

Whenever I meet someone new in the medical arena, I try to create rapport – joking around or asking about them. The nurse I met who did the I.V. for the scan was an amazing lady and we were like old pals within a couple of minutes. She told me what the requisition from the oncologist said and 2 different things triggered flaming flashes of uncertainty. First, she told me the CT Scan was flagged as “urgent”. Urgent! A cloud of questions flooded into my mind upon hearing that word: What the hell do they mean by urgent? Is there more shit going on that they are not telling me that makes this test urgent? Why didn’t they tell me it was urgent? And on and on …

Then this awesome nurse explained to me that they were scanning my chest. Seriously? It was pretty obvious from the still-healing scars on my neck where the area of concern was. Why were they not scanning my neck too – at least? Were they looking for stuff and not telling me? Was this even the right requisition (even though I knew that question was fairly stupid)?

These questions and others that were part of the mental mob just added to the uncertainty.

When I was at that appointment, I saw a poster that advertised a service that allows patients to get scan results and reports from the hospitals. I took down the number and signed up. A week later I read the results of the CT Scan on-line. I read a lot of words like “unremarkable” and “normal”. I enjoy those words. Then I read a part that bothered me: “ a 3.3cm x 2.7 cm mass in the lower left pole of the thyroid, unchanged since prior scan … a complex cyst.” A cyst? Isn’t that what they went in to remove in the first place which caused them to find cancer? Didn’t they remove the cyst along with the collection of lymph nodes? That makes no sense. Wait … this is on the thyroid. That is lower in the neck, whereas the cyst we seemed to be focusing on was just below my jawbone. Is this a different cyst altogether? Why didn’t anyone say anything about this earlier?

Another mountain of questions to fuel the uncertainty. I simply have to wait to see a doctor for some answers. Waiting …

My Guard Drops

When I am in my car or working at my desk, I like listening to music. I have a lot of songs from the 60’s to the 80’s on my music devices, many carefully crafted into playlists waiting to address my desire or mood at the moment. I know most of these songs very well. They can carry me to moments in time or bring into focus faces I haven’t seen for years. Most songs are fairly predictable in how they will hit me at any given moment. But occasionally a song will hit me in a surprising way.

A couple of weeks ago, I was driving back from doing some errands. On came a song I had heard at least 100 times before: “I Will Take Care You” by Amy Sky. But this time was mysteriously different, because tears filled my eyes. This song wonderfully portrays the circle of life through a woman’s eyes, where she sees her mother requiring care after being the caregiver for so many years. It seems that this shift from being a caregiver to being cared for, even if temporary, is a challenging transition for me.

In public I have noticed people staring at me sometimes. Most of the time I couldn’t care less and I barely notice. Sometimes I don a veil of exaggerated confidence and think, smiling to myself, “who else is there better to stare or look at right now in this room!”. Yet there are times when I shun away, internally cowering, externally trying to find a place to hide. It seems I don’t have the strength in those moments to fend off the perceived negativity. Mental and emotional fatigue settle in. Same situations, different reactions.

Sue has been wonderfully supportive throughout this cancer journey. When we are one-on-one, we can be sounding boards for each other, venting to release and then giving each other support when needed. When I am voicing concerns or worries about this journey she will aptly remind me to “think positive”. Most of the time that quick reminder allows my truest, optimistic nature to return and regain internal control. But there are moments when I simply can’t easily think positive. My optimism is simply too tired. The short journey with cancer has been forcing me to more actively keep up my optimism, burning energy in the process. Sometimes it needs to take a much-needed rest, and it sleeps soundly through any emotional commotion. I simply  have to wait until it wakes up from its slumber, more energized and ready to return me to the state of mind that serves me best.

Building Strength

This journey with cancer has created levels of uncertainty that I have to deal more actively. More frequently I have to push back negative thoughts that creep in. This takes mental and emotional energy that I have not needed to use for years. Most of the time I am very successful at tucking those thoughts away before they hit the surface. This allows me to keep the strong face that most people see me wearing. Much of the time the strong, spirited exterior is in sync with what I am actually feeling, but there are times when that exterior is just a mask, hiding the turmoil within.

Using this extra energy takes work. As with any bout of sustained work, I find myself getting tired. It is in these periods of mental fatigue that I am even more prone to waves of uncertainty and fear overwhelming me.

Yet, like all forms of exercise, this cycling, increased use of mental and emotional energy is helping to build internal muscle. For instance, it bothers me less often if I notice someone staring at me. I am sure there will be more surprises on this journey and I will need this extra strength for those moments.

Consistency

As I mentioned in the opening of this blog, humans, unlike computers, are not overly consistent. Even with the same inputs, we can see different reactions within others and ourselves. This can be a source of awe or frustration, but it distinguishes us from the cold calculability of a computer. Circumstances arise which can cause even more inconsistent, unpredictable reactions, such as my current dance with cancer.

Yet through all of this, one thing has been powerfully consistent. The support and encouragement I have received from so many family members, friends and strangers who have become new-found friends. Interwoven through the elevated mental and emotional ups and downs I am experiencing is this amazing level of support to help lift me when I need it. It helps to ensure that my exterior is more often a reflection of what I am really feeling and not simply a mask hiding inner turmoil.

The support people show for each other like many of you have shown for me is beautiful and empowering.

It makes as wonderfully human.

The post Behind The Mask appeared first on Randy Bassett.

This is not a confession of some weakness, but a simple fact (which applies to everyone, too). In many circumstances I can choose how to spend my energy such as going for a walk or staying at home. Other times, I don’t have a choice such as recovering from major surgery. With cancer, there is and there will be a mix, some I can control, some I cannot.

No Fighting

I am not going to fight cancer. Cancer will go away, but it will not be a fight. At times it will seem otherwise, especially on the surface if future treatments such as radiation or chemotherapy are involved, but it will not be a fight. I will win, my family will win, but it will not be a fight.

I don’t have the energy to waste fighting. I needed it with the ongoing recovery from surgery. The energy was put to better use such as spending time with my family and working, rather than fighting. It still is. There are quiet moments when the waves of worry flow in, bringing fear of what cancer could bring. I need the energy in those moments to deal with the emotional descents, to lift myself back up and settle back into my “knowing chair”. In this chair, I simply “know” everything will be all right.

My Lenses

Except for a small glass of champagne each New Years Eve, I don’t drink. I don’t miss it, I don’t crave it and I don’t want it. I stopped drinking over 20 years ago. I spent way too many mornings over many years trying to perfect a cure for hangovers. When it came time to really quit drinking, a friend recommended AA. I went for a brief time and then trailed away, but I did stop drinking.

Yet there still remained a challenge: how was I going to view this part of me. If I chose to see myself as an alcoholic who couldn’t drink, there would be an internal battle with ongoing fighting. The alcoholic would want to drink, but the “good Randy” would be saying no. I didn’t want to waste energy with that internal struggle. Instead, I am simply someone who doesn’t drink – nothing more complex than that.

With either viewpoint, the results on the outside are the same – no drinking and a healthier family and life. The results inside are dramatically different. Instead of smoky clouds in my internal landscape, billowing from smoldering sites of combats over drinking, the skies in this area are clear. It frees up energy, giving me the ability to deal with other issues more effectively.

And this is how I want it to be like with cancer.

Externally

Regardless of how I look upon this journey with cancer within, the external will look the same. Whatever procedures are prescribed and agreed upon will occur. Radiation and/or chemo might happen. Times of physical exhaustion may occur. I might lose what little hair I have. My taste buds might shift (but I will still likely not want olives!). It will be the necessary steps to encourage cancer to leave.

But this is the only level where I want any perceived battling to occur.

One Choice

I didn’t ask for cancer, but the unwelcome guest has slipped into the party. Maybe some life choices and behaviours have increased the ease of its entry, but I am not going to burn energy on a bunch of “what ifs”. It’s here and it has my attention. Now, what do I do?

I guess I could walk over to it, grab the closest baseball bat and start beating the shit out of it. I could swing and swing, connecting every time with knock-out blows. There is dust rising as I continue my assault. There is hardly a murmur from my victim as I hit with an aim that has pin-point perfection. Eventually, fatigued, I collapse.

As the dust slowly settles, I see the cancer is still there. It might have morphed, but emotionless and unflinching it looks up wondering what the hell I am doing. What is the difference? I am sapped of energy and less able to handle issues emotionally or mentally.

The Dance

Instead, I think I will choose to dance with cancer, at least internally. I do not like this dance partner, but I know where it is.

There will be times when it will lead the dance and glide me to emotionally darker regions within. Those areas where fear runs rampant, slicing you ever so swiftly with its stiletto. Cancer has already lead me in this dance, if only occasionally. For instance, waiting for tests to be done and wondering what the results will be. This leaves me more vulnerable to cancer leading me where I don’t want to go.

There will be other times when I will lead and return to the warmth of the sun-drenched regions within. So far, this has been the norm. I lead and I am in control most of the time.

There will be other times when we will take a break from the dance floor and I will return to my “knowing chair”, waiting for the music to cue the next dance with this unwelcome guest.

Redirecting Energy

I took martial arts a number of years ago – taekwondo and karate. The most effective self-defense moves are the ones where you redirect the forward motion of the attacker back onto them. It takes much less energy than sharply blocking and counter-attacking, and can be even more effective. For instance, if someone comes running at you with a knife in hand over their head, you step aside, grab their forward moving arm and redirect into them. Almost effortlessly, you win.

Similarly, I could actively battle cancer emotionally and mentally with forceful offensive combat. Or I could patiently wait for an opportunity to turn its own energies upon itself. My choosing to dance with cancer is my way of waiting for such an opportunity.

The End Game

While going through the physical aspects of cancer, I will continue this dance. It will free up the energy I will need in other areas such as my family, my work and activities just for me. The physical part of the journey may tap into the energy reserves, so it is even more important that I use what I have very wisely.

Eventually, the cancer cells will leave my body. The treatments will do their job and cancer will exit. But what about the dance?

Off in the corner, there is another partner waiting to step up. This is a physically and emotionally healthy part of me waiting to return. At just the right time, after the physical treatments are done, this partner will tap cancer on the shoulder and step in as my new partner.

And then the next dance will begin …

The post Dancing With Cancer appeared first on Randy Bassett.

Post-Surgery Recovery

When I first got home from surgery, my neck and face looked beat up. There seemed to be a large portion of my neck missing. There was a big part of me that simply repeated the truth that it doesn’t matter and there is no need to worry about what other’s think. Yet there was a small part of me that saying “you’re ugly”. The larger voice towers over that tiny voice, but that tiny voice won a couple of times, especially in the first couple of days.

Sue drove me to a nursing appointment on the second day home and afterwards we stopped by Walmart to pick up our pre-ordered groceries. When the person came around to the Sue’s side of the car to discuss the order, without thinking I flipped up the left collar of my coat. That little voice triggered an action to cover my face from view. I realized very quickly how unnecessary that flip of the collar was, but I also realized that I needed to be on guard better for new impulsive actions or thoughts. I let the louder, wiser voice scold the tiny, misbehaving voice!

The modified normalcy of my outward appearance is much easier to bare. Over the first 2 weeks the incisions are getting less noticeable and drains were removed. I have a nerve that is not working properly on the left side of my face. It’s similar to partial paralysis of the side of my face, but it will come back over the next few months.

On the surface of my face and inside my neck, the nerves are a mess. The surface of my face below my left jaw has little or no feeling. This may never come back and it doesn’t really matter. The only risk I see is that Sue could secretly give me a piercing of some sort in that area and I wouldn’t even know (not really a big risk!).

The nerves a little deeper are having unwelcome parties. Some numbness wears off, revealing new pain points previously masked. Twitches and spikes of electricity in the neck. Apparently this is the normal cycle of the healing process. Another normal aspect, but the one I like least, is the tightness and pain in my jaw and throat. This occurs more pronounced when I am eating. I cannot open my mouth too wide and chewing is a challenge, but it’s needed even more because swallowing is no fun. It takes me twice as long to eat half as much. This will get better as well. The bright light is that I am losing weight from this diet (although it is not really a diet I can market!)

Then, as a form of biological mockery, my body decided to welcome an infection around the locations where the drains entered my neck. With better “wound care” and some ballistic penicillin, it is coming under control.

What Was Discovered

I had my follow-up appointment with the ENT surgeon, Dr. Jackson, 12 days after the surgery. I have tried to be very optimistic throughout these initial stages with cancer, but there are moments or events that test the resilience of my optimism. The hours leading up to this meeting were filled with such tests. “I know it is probably just this, but what if… ?” Versions of that question filled any momentary blank spaces in my mind leading up to the appointment.

Sue met me at the hospital to go to the appointment. Dr. Jackson likes to be thorough with his patients, so I knew we would be delayed a bit. Chatting with Sue helped fill my mind while waiting, not allowing the negative “what if” questions to sneak in.

Dr. Jackson came into the room. He read me the medical bing-bing about what was going on in my neck, then he translated it for me. The cancer in my lymph nodes didn’t start there, so it is not lymphoma. They took tissue samples of my tongue and other areas in my neck and none of them came back showing cancer. The tricky part is that he could not tell what the origin of the cancer was, and they may never know.

This diagnosis was confirmed during my initial visit to the cancer clinic a couple of days later. They will be doing a PET scan and a CT scan over the next weeks to fine-tune the diagnosis before they present a treatment plan.

As will be the case on this journey, a few questions were answered, but the answers themselves triggered more questions.

Returning to Work

I am fortunate to have a job that I truly love doing and with people I like working with. My surgery was on a Friday and I was back in the office the following Wednesday. Some people at the office had questions, which I gladly talked about. I knew that I had 2 jobs with the “holy shit, what happened to him” reactions people might have. Job 1: Show that it doesn’t matter to me and that this temporary look will pass. Job 2: Make sure other people were comfortable to approach me and interact with me. I am glad to say I nailed both jobs!

I found out a week later that a couple of people were concerned about my skin tone when I first got back, but that got better.

Some folks questioned whether I was getting back to work too soon. My bosses are very supportive and they reminded that I need to make sure that I look after myself. I took the concerns of others into consideration, and I still felt it was right to go back to work on that Wednesday.

It turns out that I went back at just the right time. I was certainly mentally sharp enough to get back into it. It was physically, emotionally and mentally therapeutic to get back to work. I didn’t want atrophy in any of those areas to slide in.

Tired Much Quicker

One thing that is fairly constant is that hit points of fatigue more quickly and more often than before. I want to keep doing some stuff – work, going to stores and moving around – but then I hit some weird fatigue wall that I am not accustomed to. My mom and Sue both tell me to slow down and relax, but I don’t think I am doing too much (or I enjoy the hen-pecking of my wife and mother!).

There have been nights over the past 2 weeks when I go to bed before 8:00pm. I cannot recall going to bed that early over the past 25 years! The following mornings I wake up feeling wonderfully rested to take on the new day.

I am still finding that right balance between doing too much and doing enough to help the recovery process. I know this is tied to my body working overtime on a cellular level so I am confident this will get better as well.

Connecting With Others

Sometimes Facebook simply sucks. Sorry Mark, it is the truth. Meaningless advertisements that clutter the screen. Friend requests from scantily-dressed strangers with questionable motives. Easier access to info for criminals. Etc.

But – sometimes Facebook is simply brilliant. For example, using it as a means to share my journey with cancer. The outpouring of support has been powerful and very uplifting. It has come from coast-to-coast, literally. It has come from friends and family I see regularly and some I haven’t seen for years.

People have opened up about their own journeys – for themselves or for loved ones. Some have started prayer lines at their churches for further support. Tears were in my eyes frequently as I read the responses.

The result of these connections and responses is a layer of strength. Every message of encouragement and support gets quilted together with the others to form a warm blanket providing just the right comfort at just the right time.

In some ways, we are one big community. We hurt together, then we mend and heal together.

In the Right Direction

Although there are a couple of tests yet to do, I am optimistic that I am on the upward path of recovery. The feedback from the doctors help to make my optimism less naive. Even though it is an upward direction, the path itself is wavy. A moment today may seem lower than a particular moment from yesterday. Conversely, a low moment from yesterday can be splendidly drowned out by a peak today. But overall, the direction is up!

I thank each of you who have called, sent texts, wrote messages and replied to this story. I cannot adequately put into words how important your support means and how much it helps.

Thank you.

The post Cancer’s Initial Impact appeared first on Randy Bassett.

This was shaping up to be a fabulous year. One of my long-standing clients decided to bring me on as a full-time employee. Great career shift – doing challenging work I love and with people I love working with.

On the home front, Sue is making a positive mark in all the work that she is very passionate about. Atticus is doing well with school and he just found out he has a summer job as a camp counselor – a job he loves and does very well.  Treva is settling into high school. There are a few growing pains with a 14-year-old teenage girl with special needs. Given the challenges she has come through over the years, even when she is blasting me, I still see a miracle.

The Lump

Nearly 2 years ago I noticed a lump in my throat. I was very diligent in getting it checked out. Over the course of a few months, I went through a number of tests: biopsies, an MRI, ultrasounds and whatever else. Every test showed that the lump was not cancerous and that it was merely a cyst.

I spent way too much time on the Internet in those early days researching cancer, specifically lymphoma. Like all “Google-researchers”, I went through the process of experiencing something that I didn’t actually have. Emotionally and mentally I lived through having cancer.

The ENT (ear, nose and throat) doctor decided to wait and see what this cyst will do over time. No worries, no problems.

Let’s Get It Out

Early in 2019, I had a follow-up appointment with Dr. Jackson, my ENT specialist. I could still feel the lump, but it wasn’t big enough for most people to even notice. Dr. Jackson suggested that he remove the cyst, just to minimize any future challenges. This made sense to me.

The surgery was scheduled for March 8th. I did the pre-op process a few days earlier – all health signs such as blood pressure and heart tests were very good. March 8th was a Friday, so I figured I’d have the weekend to rest and be back to work Monday.

At least that was my plan.

Day of Surgery

The surgery was scheduled for 2:30 and I was to arrive at 12:30 for processing. The plan was for a one-hour surgery, some recuperation time from general anesthesia and then home by 6:30 or so. Just some fine-tuning to the plans for the day.

The hospital staff wanted to ensure I had someone responsible to take me home after surgery. Sue decided to come with me and stay at the hospital while I was in surgery. I told her that she didn’t really need to stay and that she only needed to be back to the hospital by 6:30. She insisted that she would stay, which turned out to be a better decision than we even realized at that moment.

When I arrived at the client I was told that Dr. Jackson’s prior surgery was a no-show, so they were able to get me in as soon as possible. Great, I’ll be home even earlier!

I was guided back to the prep room where I changed into an unflattering gown. The little sheet I had on top of me was my thin protection from pure humility.

After meeting a couple of doctors, joking around with the nurses and kissing Sue, I was taken to the surgery room. I was transferred over to the surgical bed which felt more like a padded balancing beam. After a few minutes, they told me I was going to sleep now. Not this time, I thought. There is no way that I am going to fall aslee…

Waking Up

When I awoke, things seemed too foggy. I had minor surgery a few years prior, but I recall being very alert quite quickly. But not this time. It was hazy and dark. I couldn’t focus on anything. I couldn’t read the clock just outside the recovery room. I wasn’t panicky, but I was eerily uncomfortable. Then a doctor (let’s call him Dr. Recovery) came into the room and although I don’t recall the exact words, his message was very clear:

“The surgery took much longer than we thought, Mr. Bassett. We found cancer in your neck.”

Even with a drug-induced stupor, my head instantly filled with questions. How can this be? What did they do in surgery? Where is Sue?

I asked for a mirror – I wanted to see what was done. I was shaken to see that a large portion of my neck was gone from one side. Simply gone. I was in disbelief. When the day started, I expected a small incision to get the cyst out, but not what I saw. Within hours of its discovery in me, cancer had already made its mark.

Dr. Recovery then proceeded to explain a lot more stuff than what should be explained to a patient in my mental, post-op state. This information would be clarified the next morning by Dr. Jackson. The most pressing issue to me at that moment was “where is Sue?”

Through Sue’s Eyes

As I slowly started to come around, Sue was eventually allowed in the recovery area. Although she held it in, I am sure she was shocked to see my condition. Between that evening and the next day, I found out her journey through the surgery.

She was in the waiting room, doing what you are supposed to do – simply wait. But this seemed like a longer wait than she anticipated. After a long while, Sue was asked to meet with the surgeon in a small room. This is rarely a good sign. He explained to her that they found cancer and that they needed to do additional surgery right then. Through tears and with shaking hands, she signed the necessary forms.

Having this bomb fall upon her, she quickly decided to call closest friends and family, thereby triggering the start of the support network. One of her closest friends came to the hospital to sit with Sue and comfort her. It was exactly what she needed.

That First Night 

Sue joined me in the recovery room and shortly thereafter they took me a semi-private room, telling me I would be in the hospital for a day or two. Knowing I needed some rest, Sue left shortly after I was moved upstairs. She needed to get home to rest as well. It was a long, emotionally-draining day for her.

The nurses did their routine checks on me. As much as I needed and wanted to sleep, I only slept a couple of hours that night. Between lingering anesthetics and the news of the cancer, my mind was spinning and it kept spinning for most of the night. Plus the wires, monitors and catheter hanging off me made comfort elusive.

And then there was my neck. I used the selfie feature on the phone as a mirror. Swollen, distorted and with an incision running from below my neck to the middle of my neck. I discovered a puzzling combination of pain and complete numbness. There was a dull, throbbing pain throughout my neck that sharply spiked whenever I moved my head.

Yet I was more concerned and mystified by the numbness. I could feel absolutely nothing on my neck, especially under my jaw where stuff was removed. I touched my neck and the only sensory feedback I got from that poke was from the tip of my finger.

Things were changing and I had to start adapting.

The Next Day

The night was long, but it gave way to a new day of hospital activity and the opportunity to find out more. After the nurses did their shift-change routine someone brought me breakfast. It wasn’t prize-winning, but since I hadn’t had anything to eat for nearly 36 hours, I happily ate it all.

Dr. Jackson, the surgeon who performed on me the day before, stopped by my room. He has a wonderful sense of humor, which I connected with when I first met him 18 months prior. He asked me, “What happened, Mr. Bassett?”.

I jokingly replied “You tell me. I just came to get a cyst out and all this happened!”. After a brief light-hearted exchange, he explained briefly what he did. When he went into my neck, he was concerned about what he saw – cancerous cells in the lymph nodes. He conducted a “neck dissection”, which I soon discovered meant he removed glands, lymph nodes and other tissue from my neck. Samples of the tissues were sent away for testing and I would have a follow-up with him in a couple of weeks.

Although the ability of my mind to absorb anything was better than the previous night, it was still limited. We had a short discussion which was just about what all I could take in. Then, with a comforting beam of his smile, Dr. Jackson left.

Going Home

Dr. Recovery stopped by and I voiced my desire to go home. I didn’t think there wasn’t anything more the hospital could do that we couldn’t do at home. He wholeheartedly agreed.

Sue returned to the hospital, bringing me a fresh set of clothes. After a few hours of removing wires, catheters and making sure my bladder was working, Sue wheeled me to the car to go home. She drove home slowly, doing her best to avoid bumps along the road. The pain in my neck was amplified with any change in the direction of the car. I didn’t care – I was going home.

When we pulled up to the house, I slowly wrestled my way out of the car and shuffled up to the door. I have always loved our home. Over the years, all the serene moments and the wildly hectic moments have worked together to weave a blanket of warmth that I cherish whenever I step in the door. When I walked through the door this time, I felt that comforting warmth. But there was something subtly different. This was day one of this unfolding cancer journey…

What’s Next?

Quite simply – I don’t know.

There will be follow-up tests and appointments with Dr. Jackson. At that time I will find out more about the cancer and the suggested treatments, if any.

Writers like to create outlines whether they are for books, poems or blogs. Outlines give the writing process structure and guidance. I cannot write an outline of this cancer story. I don’t know enough to even try. I barely even know how the story began.

As this story reveals itself, I will share it. I believe there are lessons to learn about the journey with cancer and there is a purpose for me to be on this path. But these lessons and purpose will not be served with a silent pen. I know I will have some bumpy moments upcoming, but I feel a driving need to share the story – not to garner attention, but to help others better understand what a cancer patient goes through.

Even though I do not know the details of the story, my belief and faith are unwavering:

I will be around to personally write the final chapter of this cancer story.

The post Cancer Comes Calling appeared first on Randy Bassett.