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.

Given the current events swarming us, gobbling up all of our attention and cloaking us in multiple layers of fear, it may seem odd to say that world is wonderful, but let’s look at it a little closer.

Two Years Ago

In early 2018, I thought I was flying high. I had my own small business. I felt healthy. I was helping to run a local charity. My son and I were hanging out occasionally, going to movies, having a bite to eat or just chatting. My wife and I were stronger together than ever.

I thought that having a small business was the ticket to success – at least that is what so many well-meaning (or self-serving) coaches told me. I had made some decisions in the business which made sense at the time. Those decisions were about to clip the wings of the business and I didn’t even see it coming.

Healthy? Who was I kidding. I was tricking myself into believing that, supported by the mirages fueled by short-term memory. My weight was cycling between 285 and 300 pounds. I had promised myself for years that “this was going to be the year I would lose weight” – just to reset the timeline of that goal each New Year’s Day. My cholesterol was high enough for the doctor to discuss medications to help bring it down. My blood pressure was always just above the high end of normal.

Little did I know that my son was entering a challenging time of his life that would change our relationship. Our relationship was going to be tested in many ways that I didn’t see in 2018.

My wife and were sailing along in our career choices. We were there to support the children and keep them as strong as we could. Yet we also had late nights spent separately because of outside commitments and very few daytime moments connecting together. We were strong in many ways – individually and collectively. But as a married unit, the strength of the bonds were under fire and being tested.

Sure, I thought I was flying high. What I didn’t notice was that the blinders I was wearing were hiding the cliff I was heading directly towards.

One Year Ago

At this time in 2019, I had just found out I had cancer and was starting radiation and chemotherapy. The delusion of the state of my health was unraveling. Medical tests were going to be frequent, as were the mental and emotional tests. I was no longer feeling healthy. But I had made strides in the prior year. I had made some adjustments to my diet, which brought my cholesterol into the normal range for the first time in years, but this was over-shadowed by the cancer diagnosis.

A year or so prior, I had decided that I would focus my business on helping non-profits and charities with their websites. After all, I knew website development and I ran a charity for years, so I knew the challenges that charities faced. It seemed like such a natural direction to take, but it proved to be extremely difficult to market. So many charities couldn’t see the value in a quality website and many simply didn’t have the proper funding. However strong it was on paper, this direction wasn’t flying.

What looked like a potential failure actually helped me to open my eyes and embrace another opportunity. I decided to wrap up my business and take a position with one of my clients. It turned out to be a brilliant move.

My son and I were going to the movies less frequently. Our interests were quite different. It was getting harder for me to parachute into one of his electronic game-playing sessions and play with him. He was so far ahead of me in any game, that I was more of a nuisance, bordering on pathetic! Our discussions seemed to be drifting apart too.

Prior to  my cancer-diagnosis, my wife and were still sailing in our own directions, occasionally bumping into each other. These bumps would sometimes cause us to pause and say “Hi”, other times it would annoy the shit out of each other. Once the cancer diagnosis came, there was a shift. We dusted away some of the external distractions. Necessary light and water were being sprinkled on our bonds, allowing them to grow stronger.

The cancer diagnosis was traumatic, but it was also starting to inject some much-needed reality checks into my life.

Today

I am pleased to say that I am now cancer-free and I truly feel healthier than I have in many years. Ironically, I know I am in much better health now than I was two years ago, even though the Randy back then would have told you otherwise. I am not without ongoing challenges from cancer – it certainly has a way to leave its marks behind. I still have painful neck spasms many times a day and that will likely be my normal for a long time. But I will gladly take those daily disruptions over cancer.

Besides the fabulous support from so many people, especially my wife Sue, what carried me through the cancer journey was my mindset. I knew I was going to come out on top, although there were many times when I had to force myself to keep that mindset in place. This was not always perfect. There were many times when I fall into a salt-bath of self-pity. Why me? Why my family? When was this bullshit going to end? But my strong inner knowing that I was going to be okay would eventually prevail.

Atticus and I are now reconnecting in other ways. I know a lot more about Rap music than I ever thought I would. He tells me about the music and the artists, because this is what is important to him. He is a teenager turning into a young man.

The greatest joy in my life is watching him grow, yet my biggest heartache is also watching him grow. I had to accept that he is growing and needs me less, or at least, he needs me in different ways now. His changes were a natural result of him growing up. In order to adapt to this transition, I needed to change the way I looked upon our relationship. Simply put, my mindset had to change and it did.

As the time demands of the cancer treatments began to subside, Sue and I started to resume our normal cycle of work and looking after our family. But something changed. We continued to spend time together in the evenings. Sometimes it was huddled around the table discussing Opening Hearts or how to keep a half step ahead of the kids. Other times it was just quietly watching TV together. This seemed to be a healthy side-effect of the cancer.

Common Theme

The central pattern over the past two years has been my mindset. I needed to know that I was going to pull through my encounter with cancer. I had to change how I looked upon my relationship with my son. I needed to be reminded that my marriage represents the most important relationship in my life.

These shifts in thinking may appear simple, but they collectively helped to give me the light I needed to guide me to where I am now – healthy and happy.

Reflection of the Pandemic

What I have gone though is a small, yet meaningful representation of what we all experiencing with the global pandemic

Prior to the arrival of Covid-19, many of us were flying high, basking in the muddiness of materialism, yet thinking we were winning the race. Just as cancer grabbed my attention very quickly, Covid-19 has stopped many of us in our tracks.

Similar to chemotherapy and radiation to cancer patients, the community at large is experiencing the challenges of trying to deal with this pandemic. We put our trust in the professionals that these demands being placed upon us are for our collective good. We are drained sometimes. We feel alone. We wonder when it will end. Cancer patients feel the same way.

Sadly, many cancer patients die from the disease, just as many people have died from Covid-19. This is a grim part of these realities. Yet is does cause many others to band together to try and save as many people as we can.

Thankfully, many more people do survive their encounter with Covid-19. Although the survival rate with cancer is not as high as with Covid-19, a majority of cancer patients do survive.

Side-effects are very common with cancer. My neck will never be the same – it will twitch and spasm for years to come. I had to learn to adapt to my new normal after cancer. Similarly, the world will have to adapt to the side-effects of this pandemic. The big difference is the uncertainly of what those side-effects will be. Another big difference is that we, as a community, have some choice as to what those side-effects will be. What will we learn from all of this?

Fear Sells

When the doctor first looked into my eyes and said the word “cancer”, fear was the first feeling that overtook me. My lack of knowledge of cancer immediately equated it to a death sentence. After I dodged denial, it took a while for me to learn more about the cancer I had and work my way through the fear. If I focused only on articles on-line that focused on the atrocities of cancer and the number of people dying from it, my fear would have grown. Instead, I focused on a balanced approach – respecting that cancer can have a drastic outcome, but also focusing on how to get past cancer.

Similarly, we are bombarded with fear-propagating messages in the media about Covid-19. Fear sells. Bad news sells. Worry sells. I have read some articles where the sole objective seems to fan the fire of fear. It’s no wonder that fear is a common community emotion right now.

But is doesn’t need to be.

There is absolutely nothing sexy about good news. An article about our friend who made some masks for Sue and our family will never sell a single copy. A story about people ordering groceries on-line for elderly neighbours will never appear on CNN. A news video about families sitting together to watch a movie or play a game for the first time in months (or years) will never go viral. Good news is boring.

And thankfully good news is so common that it really isn’t news. It will be a sad day when good news is so rare that it becomes news. Stories of families, neighbours and communities connecting are everywhere. The number of scientists coming together across the globe to combat Covid-19 is remarkable. The number of good things people are doing during this pandemic is huge and far outweigh the negative. We just need to look for it, because we won’t find these stories on CNN. We’ll find them in our own community.

Mother Nature is Speaking

Mother Nature has a strong voice – sometimes it is silent and other times it booms. But like many mothers, she may have a plan that will help us, even if we don’t understand it. For instance, forest fires can be devastating. A forest fire from 10,000 years ago could have wiped out a large area. Yet in its wake, lush new greenery arose.

Cancer paid a visit to me. It took its toll and forced me to go through a challenging time, but now I am stronger than I was before – physically and emotionally. I just had to pay attention to the lessons cancer was teaching me.

Using a very loud voice, Mother Nature has given our world-wide community Covid-19 to deal with. We are enduring a challenging time, but if we listen carefully, maybe we can hear what she is trying to tell us.

More people are reconnecting with their families and are learning to slow down. Is she telling us to return to a simpler way of life?

More people are saying “Hi” in public, even as we try to keep 6 feet away. Our physical distancing is causing some people to connect in other ways. Is she telling us to build stronger communities?

When the pandemic first hit, people were asked to stay at home to keep themselves safe. It didn’t work as well initially. The message to stay home was more quickly embraced when we were told it was to help keep other people safe. As a community, we seemed to care more about others than ourselves – a stark difference from what seemed apparent pre-pandemic. Is she trying to remind us to be less selfish and to serve others?

Our Choice

Maybe in its simplest terms, Mother Nature is trying to remind us that our world is remarkable, with all its highs and lows, and all its pains and triumphs. We just need to listen to the messages and have the courage to embrace them. And maybe, as we work our way through challenges like cancer or this pandemic, if we remember the messages we are being taught, our world will become even more wonderful.

It’s not just a cliché embossed in glitter on a greeting card. It’s not just an affirmation we tack to our bathroom window. It’s not just the name of a beautiful song written almost 60 years ago. It’s a simple truth wrapped up in 4 elegant words:

It’s a Wonderful World.

The post What a Wonderful World 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.

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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.

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.

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