“David Foster's Kicking Kidney Cancer’s Arse”

Sometimes "Ah Phooey" Just Doesn't Work

    Perhaps you already know this, but Samuel Clemens (Mark Twain) was a very profane man. He used obscenities at most every opportunity and considered the occasional vulgarity the highest point of making a point. But for all his vulgarities most people (and remember, this would be the peak of the Victorian Era) tended not to notice. They were just descriptive words delivered by a master of the language without anger or for exaggerated effect. His wife, however, hated it and one day decided to speak exactly as he did to prove what a disgusting habit it was. As he came down the steps for breakfast she unleashed a string of obscenities. He stopped at the bottom of the stair and said, "Darling, you have done a fine job of learning the words, but you have no idea about the music."
    Not to disappoint my readers, I am a pretty good cusser as well, not in general conversation, though I don't much care where I toss out a damn or hell. But in the dirty word memory vault of my mind lurk words that would shock the most hardened reprobate. They have come to me over the decades from literature, bad company and looking for new ways to speak directly to a crisis. I, like Mr. Clemens, have done a lot  of public speaking and one of my "tricks" is to slip in a vulgarity or two just to see if anybody notices. Nobody seems to and they continue to invite me back. Music is so important.
    My father admonished me about my cussing habit at a very early age (about 8) and told me a man who had to resort to vulgarities to make a point  lacked intellectual depth. My father was somewhat right. However, sometimes a well-placed epithet just fits the situation and with a force no other word in the English language can match. That is especially true in writing. The trick is to play it to the music of the mind--and never, ever over do it.
    Now I go on about this because I have done more cussing than normal since I learned I have cancer. When my feet hurt because of Sutent I did not say "shoot, dang or durn," but instead resorted to stronger language just to let the cancer know I am more than mildly irritated. And to make myself feel better. And I generally think it helps. We had the nice debate Monday and Tuesday between Bart and Manuel on what to call our tumors as we all need some real target in our minds and not just an idea or abstract. I call mine sons-of-bitches and generally put a less than socially correct adjective or two before son.
    There  is a reason why such speech is so common. Sometimes it is the only way to make a point and really let the frustration out. Otherwise, folks wouldn't cuss at all.
    So I get this e-mail from a lady whose husband has taken a downturn.  She wrote that sometimes she feels like cursing but is ashamed to. Well, go ahead, let a few go. Not necessarily in public, mind you, but if the need to speak to your troubles through the inelegant art seems necessary, have at it. There is more than one psychologist who believes cussing can help people cope with their issues, because it allows a true release of their anger, frustration or sadness. Sometimes "ah phooey" just doesn't work, nor does a soft-bellied pity party. You may have to speak to y0ur ills in the strongest way possible to really get those feelings out. And I don't much think the Lord would hold it against you for damning tumors that are trying to kill you.
    This does not mean I suggest anybody launch into real profanities, but instead resort to a little good old cussing. Profanities are about the business of taking the Lord's name in vain, while good old fashion cussing (like sons-a-bitches)  is, well, just not fashionable. Big difference.
    I cuss my cancer a little bit (sometimes a lot) every day. And I hope the miserable sons-of-bitches feel my enmity. Whether they do or not, I feel like I am making a better connection. And how you feel about this whole business is as important as how you are physically doing. Old Sam might be proud. My wife? Three lectures a month at minimum. At least she  has never tried it herself. Well, I say that in some ignorance. We have three bathrooms and one can do a lot of private cussing in that much space. Maybe I oughta try that myself. Nah, old habits are hard to break. Damn it.

   

It is Still a Beast

(Yesterday I posted reader Bart Mitchell's take on what to call and how to psychologically fight the tumors that lurk within our bodies. I, however, until I read his e-mail, had considered "the beast" to be a pretty good description, though I have never used it. I think I go with monster more often than not. Anyway, I asked reader Manuel Lopez, who may be the creator of "the beast," to respond to Bart. Below you will find his take.--DCF)

Dave,

Bart's post was very eloquent. I admire his thinking. I looked up the word "beast" in Merriam-Webster. It is defined as follows:

 

1 a : a four-footed mammal as distinguished from a human being, a lower vertebrate, and an invertebrate b : a lower animal as distinguished from a human being c : an animal as distinguished from a plant d : an animal under human control
2 : a contemptible person
3 : something formidably difficult to control or deal with

 

Now this is just my opinion but it seems to me that cancer in any body part is "something formidably difficult to control or deal with" and more than qualifies for that handle. I agree that the cancer cells are incompetent as far as doing their job and, again in my opinion, they should be killed off for their incompetence.

Bart might also have considered the greater meaning of Warrior:

 

: a man engaged or experienced in warfare; broadly : a person engaged in some struggle or conflict <poverty warriors>

 

And the word Hero:

 

: an illustrious warrior...one that shows great courage.

 

Bart, all the people he mentions and you, my Friend and all the others fighting The Beast are all Warriors and Heroes in my book. Shouldn't The Beast and The Warriors be recognized for what they are?

 

Manuel

( Thanks to both Bart and Manuel for this little debate.It has been meaningful and in some ways kind of fun. In essence I guess it comes down to who we are and our take on the world and our disease. Bart and Manuel are both dealing with RCC from their very separate points of view and neither of them is "wrong." This little debate has taught me one very important lesson. When it comes to RCC the Warrior's take that works for him or her is the right take. Unless that take means an early psychological surrender to the incompetent beast. Now that one, I gotta say, is just wrong. Though sometimes it is so difficult not to have it.)--DCF

They Are Not "Beasts," Just Incompetent Cells

(I got this e-mail from Bart Mitchell, a warrior in New York, about his approach to the fears and victories over kidney cancer and how they relate to so many parts of his life. The boxing analogy is beautiful.  I thought it very appropriate for the blog. Tomorrow I hope to have a response from Bart's take on "the beast." How wonderful it is to have a friendly debate on our unique approaches to this disease. --DCF)

         David, I am trying to teach my sons to embrace your approach (or based on my reading what I think it is any way)--that is, to give no power to the negatives: pain, fear, etc.  I tell them that every time they say, out loud or to themselves, "it hurts" or  "I'm cold" or "I can't", they are just reinforcing that negative, giving it "power," and making it harder to overcome. Which brings me to one of my kidney cancer pet peeves.  I subscribe to the kidney cancer (ACOR) list serve.   Every morning I turn on my computer at work and I have 20 - 30 e-mails from warriors and  caregivers.  Well every once in a while someone refers to kidney cancer as "the beast."  Inevitably, a few other people will repeat the term.  That makes me crazy.  I can think of a lot of bad names to call kidney cancer, (I will not enumerate them so as not to offend anyone’s sensibilities).
     But I cannot understand why anyone would elevate kidney cancer from what it is and give it a powerful, intimidating, “anthropomorphic” nickname.  I am not sticking my head in the sand here.  Kidney cancer may possibly kill me. But it is not a wiley animal.  It is not a demon.  It is not an opponent who, by virtue of ability and character, has earned respect as a "worthy adversary.”
      Kidney cancer is a bunch of cells too “stooopid” to do their job.  Their job ?  It’s simple, they should just look at the cells in front of them, beside them, and behind them and just do what they're doing.  Which, if I remember from my son’s biology homework, is to sit there and absorb healthy nutrients through their semi-permeable cell walls , a process that does not actually involve “doing” anything, and then die (apoptosis)  at the designated time.  Apparently, while literally billions  of cells around them are successfully following the game plan, cancer cells fail.  They are not "beasts"--they are "incompetents."
        I have mentioned to you before that I have done some boxing.  I am pretty much a hack, but have been drawn to boxing from an early age. I think it's because I always admired bravery--something, as a younger person I felt I didn't have in sufficient supply.  I grew up in the Bronx and spent a fair amount of time trying to avoid getting "jumped", beat-up, mugged, etc.   I actually got into a numerous fights, but I felt my fear of fighting, of getting hit, and hurt, was out of proportion.  I thought I must be much more "afraid" than all of my ' tough  friends.  Wondering how come "no one else is as afraid as me" led me to the boxing gym.  There I could study guys who not only weren't afraid, but regularly put themselves in a position to get punched in the face.  I thought I could maybe get some of that “bravery.”
        I remember sitting in the bowels of Madison Square Garden waiting for a  Golden Gloves bout. I looked around the room at 11 other guys, one of whom would be my opponent.  I wondered: which ones were afraid, which ones weren’t, and why is there a difference? (back then I didn't know, now I do. At some level they all had fear, some were no doubt terrified)
        I find boxing gyms in the inner-city to be fascinating.   Hang out for a while and you will see it all-- cowardice, courage, duplicity, nobility, etc.  Some of the most dysfunctional human beings I have ever met are boxing gym habitues. Including some guys who long ago should have quit the ring.  There were criminals, thieves and/or drug addicts.  Yet those same guys who are abject failures at life outside the gym have courage and character in the boxing ring of which I am in awe.  I have read that all other sports are metaphor--that boxing is the one true contest between men.  For me, it has always been as much about a man against his fear, than a man against his opponent.  In the boxing ring there is no place to hide.  You will get hit and you will get hurt.  Will you quit in the ring?   Will you just cover up and take a beating ?  Will you fight back ?   Never mind the bravado at the press conference.  I have not yet met an honest) boxer who doesn't have fear before he gets in the ring.  Some are tormented by it.  Yet they get back in and fight with heart and courage.
        You know where else I see that bravery.  In the waiting room in the hospital where my oncologist has her office.  People waiting for scan results, people in the midst of therapy that is breaking their bodies down.  In their eyes I see that same combination of fear and grit that some boxers have.  The fear is there, but it's not winning.  Courage is.
        I met my friend Jenny who passed away 2 years ago in my oncologists office.  She was an extremely quiet, older lady who had no family. She worked at a hospital, was very good at what she did, and got satisfaction from knowing her contribution at work made a difference.  She had a few close friends who stayed by her as she fought her battle.  She talked to me about the tremendous fear she battled. She was afraid of everything - of being sick, of pain. of side effects, of dying.   She worried that her fear would overwhelm her and disable her from working and making critical decisions about her treatment.  But it never did.  She always pulled herself together  when she had to. I believe in her last year she taught herself to fight back  against her fear and because of that she had peace in her final days.
        Bob is another warrior.  He has a young family and has been fighting his kidney cancer for years now.  I am embarrassed to admit that I have lost track of the number of procedure's and different treatments Bob has undergone in the past several years.  His is a battle being fought tooth and nail, scan -centimeter by centimeter .  It could overwhelm someone less strong.  Yet every year Bob (and his courageous wife) put aside their struggle for a few months and selflessly throw their energy into a big dinner-dance that raises substantial funds for kidney cancer research. How much more of a sacrifice is it to give away your time when you live constantly reminded of what a precious commodity time is?
         My dad passed away on 12/24/05 from transitional cell carcinoma that started in his kidney.   He was sick for 2 years - but you wouldn't have known it.  Several surgeries, including the removal of a several inches of his right radius, didn't slow or discourage him.  (because of his compromised right forearm his surgeon had forbid him to golf--we were working on a secret left-arm dominant golf swing which was to have been unveiled at the driving range in the spring of 2006.)  Any bad NeWS following a scan was only a temporary setback.  Pain (at the end his bone scan lit up like a Christmas tree) was something he kept to himself.  He was more concerned about not upsetting his wife of 49 years than he was about his need to give expression to his pain.  We knew, and he knew we knew.  No need to belabor it.
         No, cancer is not a beast.  My friend Jenny, a little dumpling of a lady, she was a beast.  Bob, he's a beast.  Dad - a beast.  Tommy - a beast.  Ron - a beast.  You my friend - you are a beast. And cancer is our prey. And like boxers, regardless of your  fears and even your pain, you just keep getting into the ring and try to whip it one more time.

      

"Through" Not "To"...

The last  two weeks of some cancer inspired misery reminded me of what I wanted to complete in my life before (or if) cancer took my soul to the greater writer's hall of mediocrity  in the sky. Or a perpetual copy desk where a sharp eyed and irascible editor found every mistake I ever made and had me correct it...again and again and again and again. Whew, just the thought is enough to inspire me to keep going a while. Anyway, it was the day I learned I had very serious cancer, not what kind, just a ton of it. You know, like mets everywhere. That morning I didn't know I was really sick and suddenly there I was a Stage IV regardless of the kind.  I was sitting on the back deck with Jeb's head in my lap and found myself making some decisions, admittedly not the best time to be doing such a thing.

Anyway, one of those decisions was to see my daughter Alex through college. At the time she was a junior in high school and I couldn't bear the thought of her mom and her having to get the project done without my help. So I said, out loud, to the Lord: At least let me get Alex through college.

Well, last week, she matriculated at the University of South Carolina, changed her major on the first day and just having a good old time. I, on the other hand, was one sick puppy, they believe from pressure on the brain from a recently radiated tumor. Whatever, for a while I wondered once or twice between the woozy head and weak body if Red Fox and Elizabeth were waiting for me at the Pearly Gates. Interestingly, while I have suffered all the side effects of Sutent and Nexavar and surgery and my doc has told me I am off the "bell curve" for kidney cancer, the day Alex started to school I felt worse than I have since my diagnosis.

And I thought, hell no, this ain't going to work. I had made a resolution to, at the least, get Alex through college as well as write some pretty good stuff along the way and do what I can for my family, company, fellow warriors and friends (not necessarily in that order). When my time comes, it will be on my terms, not that of some swollen edema lurking around in my brain. Besides, being sick, at least this sick, was no way to kick cancer's arse and if I have to kick anything, cancer is a perfectly fine target. Not that I enjoy it, but I in no way am gonna let it sucker punch me like this again. I have forgotten, or overlooked a time or two, that cancer is just as determined to kick my ass and has most of the cards.

So last night, all wrapped in my sheet, almost asleep a thought hit me. Could the fates have thought I said until Alex gets to college instead of through it? That had me sit up with a start. Now I can understand how a mixed message can be sent by  a fellow with a Southron drawl that would make Miss Scarlet sound like a Yankee, but Lordy, we gotta fix that one.

So I called up my three mental allies for a Council of War. Perhaps you remember them from earlier posts: Intellect, Emotion and Intuition. My question was direct: So what the hell is going on? Did somebody not get the message? I said through, not to. We are not surrendering a damn thing now and I know I said through not to. Intellect said it distinctly remembered me saying through, but Intellect can be such a suck up. Emotion just rolled around in the pit of my stomach not knowing what to say, which for it is a major admission of being out of touch, which is really a good sign. If Emotion isn't all over you with some kind of fear, then things are probably not as bad as you think.  Intuition, however, rolled its imaginary eyes and said, "it's a coincidence. You got sick, it ain't gonna kill you and you are as much responsible as the tumor, so let's go back to sleep."

You think? "Yeah, I think or so I intuit as I am not capable of thought. That's what Intellect is for, but for the life of me he doesn't seem to get it every once in a while. Now, think back to that same moment on the step. You were convinced you were at death's door, Emotion was already digging the grave and Intellect was just dumbfounded. You remember that?"

Yes, so what's your point? "I remember pulling your skinny little ass up by your moccasins and telling you that we will kick cancer's arse, that we have a lot of life to live and neither the fates or you have the power of such misunderstandings when it comes to the ways of life. So far I have been right. So stop whining. For many cancer warriors three years is a long time and here you are with one little down tick and you're reading silliness in the tea leaves. Through and to? Give me a break."

Dying is not silliness, thank you. "No, its a very serious subject, unless you aren't dying and certainly not over some silly idea of gobbled messages to heaven. Now, can we go to sleep?"

Yeah, but this kicking cancer's arse is  tough business.

"That's why we call it kicking and not loving it to death. And  if cancer has any kind of consciousness it is just reveling in this debate. And you are too tough a warrior to let it feel that kind of weakness. So show me some backbone and the old college spirit and go to sleep."

Yes sir!

At Least Neither of Us is Colonel Grierson

It was a hot day in June, 1781. Actually June 7. This tragic event is believed to have taken place in a small, but two-story log home here in Augusta. It was  just two days after the British under militia Colonel Thomas Brown, commander of the King's Rangers, surrendered his garrison at Fort Cornwallis to a small army of Rebels under Light Horse Harry Lee. Among the prisoners was Colonel James Grierson, a youngish, good looking blond Scotsman who had served the King and Brown well. Perhaps too well.

He came to Augusta about 1772 to trade with the upcountry Indians for pelts (mostly deer skins, clothing much in vogue in Europe at the time) and to run a small a plantation outside of town. He had achieved wealth and, among the Tory population, great respect as a soldier for the King. Before the seige of Fort Cornwallis, he led  a raid into the north country to punish Rebels for a failed attack on Augusta in September , 1780. And under "no quarter"  orders from Lord Cornwallis himself, that meant hanging or imprisonment for  anybody who did not have a valid allegiance pledge to the King.  Nobody knows exactly how many back-woodsmen, farmers, women and even children were killed in this raid, but history does record that several were and American rumors  drove the numbers to ridiculous heights, creating a blood lust, not so much for Grierson, but his commander, Col Brown. So when Fort Cornwallis fell the Rebel authorities took Brown immediately as a prisoner of war to Savannah. For reasons nobody today understands, they  left Grierson in Augusta under house arrest, it was assumed (and perhaps rightly so) that leaving Grierson in Augusta was little more than a death sentence without trial. A feeding of the mob kind of thing.

That proved to be correct. On the morning of the seventh, only three days after George III's birthday, two militia men went into the log house and shot James Grierson dead, the last fatality of the Revolution in Augusta. And nobody much cared. Everybody in Augusta knew who shot him down, but none came forward even to claim a reward.  The "pest" was dead and that's what mattered,  though official records of  abuse never matched the rumors  that swirled in the back country.

So, you ask, what has this got to do with kidney cancer? James Grierson may have been a scalawag though there is nothing in the record to prove it. All we really know is that he was a patriot to his king and country. We also know that the American militias did things far worse to the Tories. The Revolution in the South was more an insurgency than a fight between organized armies..and in its own way much more nasty than the war in Iraq.  But in my mind James Grierson is something of a metaphor for all the honorable men and women through history, including our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan, who have volunteered life and limb to stand up for what they think  is right and how many of them, almost too many to count since the American Revolution, have left widows, widowers, small children thrust into orphanage to stand up for a political cause, right or wrong. And died instant deaths doing it.

We are able to fight our war with cancer on the backs of all of those people who never had the lives we have had.  That march of war has been terrible, but it has also helped allow us to build a civilization that can offer the kinds of therapy where a battle with cancer is no longer the same as the death sentence carried out on Colonel Grierson. I think about that when I am having a tough day. Just a thought through the day, a little thank you to all those people who fought--and are still fighting--for what they believe is and was right and lost their fortunes and lives in the process. It is a humbling thought.

Some documents indicate James Grierson's two surviving children grew up orphans in Savannah and never returned to Scotland. However, other documents say his son Martin did return to Scotland and lived a very successful life. Son George (Georgee) died at age 19, where I do not know.

I think James Grierson would have preferred kidney cancer even in 1781. It would have killed him, but he would have died a gentleman's death. Not that of a red herring caught up in the passions of war.

Zowweee-Baby

Well, another day another shaky hand. But not nearly as much as yesterday and that less than the day before and that less than (well you get the picture). Boy, all the comments from you guys have made my week more than bearable, Thank You, Thank You, Thank You. And a big old TY  and a wet dog kiss to Sherry. Even Alex, the sullen 18-year-old now newly minted and matriculated university student (bet you didn't think I knew that word, huh?) called me last night to see how I was doing--and to tell us after one day she has changed her major to business. Much better'n basket weaving. The dogs are getting particular close at meal times, which lately have come willy-nilly but they know they will either get a piece of whatever, or, if I just can't face nutrition, the whole thing. There is no finer capitalist in the entire world than a dog. Dogs have an amazing  sense of what's in it for them. And we are happy to provide it. But they can also be wonderfully giving. Gracie  lays down with me and in a position where I can hold one of her paws as I would a person's hand. I know it is hot for her, but she does it anyway. So I guess while capitalistic to the core, they are also giving to the core as well. Good that more people were thusly inclined.

Housekeeping: The post for Saturday (Let's Back Up a Bit) did not post (the one right behind this one), so it went up today, which is why it may sound like I have lost my mind or something weird has happened in the mean time. However, I feel sure it can be confusing and may just take it down. Hard to make decisions when your head feels like it's in a swimming pool while the rest of you is crossing a desert. I think that's a warrior thing.

Well, I ain't running around any blocks today. Am eating more, if you call half a sandwich more. I've met a fine man (not for courtship for goodness sake) on line who has been fighting different kinds of cancers (now RCC) for years. His name is Richard and his story makes me almost ashamed to complain about anything. Anyway, we agreed that when we get this crap finally kicked we would meet at the finest restaurant of our choice and have a glass of iced tea or coffee (anyway you want it) to celebrate kicking cancer's ass. Now this is not a closed invitation. I don't think I can start setting a date now, but over the next year or so, well, I am committed. And any Warrior or Knight who cares to celebrate with us, man, come on down. As Richard pointed out in his e-mail, we are a community and we are fighting a war. And Richard's right,  we, each of us, warrior, knight and distressed friend and relative deserve a victory dance in company of the rest of our team. Yea! Wouldn't that be way cool?

Well, nappy time again. Seems like all I have done is sleep since Saturday. Oh, that is about all I have done. But the doc is convinced (though at times I have not been) this is going to pass. Exact cause, nobody knows, but high suspected is brain swelling from that last gamma-knife, and he still thinks I am having dehydration issues. But when we have our big old glass (or cup) of tea (or coffee) at our victory celebration, I am going to sing "Here we go Loopty Loo" because I now have that one down pat.

You know, I really do like that idea. A victory celebration. Not a therapy or a feel good thing, but an honest to God victory celebration. Even if we ain't quite whipped it yet, I gotta feeling it would pump more than a few of us up. Hell, I'm pumped up already.

I hope now you are little pumped up with me.

Let's Back Up a Bit

As you may know, I have not had a good week. Remember all those fluids? Two sacks full. Well, came home last night from sack number two and just could not get my mind on anything. I sat out on on the back deck pretending I was smoking a pipe, but after a while just headed for bed. And was up and down all night, maybe 10 or 11 times. Once, Jeb and I sat up watching late night television (slice, dice and do your hair for only $14.95). I would wake up in the middle of weird dreams, all of them having something to do with water. What little sleep I did get  came in one hour spurts. Lord that was frustrating. I would feel as if I had been off in real la-la land, only to wake and see I had  been "asleep" maybe five minutes. It was disgusting.

This morning I rose with the rooster and went outside to read the newspaper, see if I could wake up. I did wake up, like two hours later, with the newspaper still folded in my lap. So I went into the house and lay back down and sleep just rolled over me, deep, happy, so deep I felt I was in a hole with no desire to climb out. All I wanted was more sleep. Sleep, sleep, sleep.

About noon, with all the energy I could muster, I crawled out of bed and headed for the television room. My thinking was that if spent all day sleeping tonight would be a repeat of last night. I do not want to repeat that. Ever. But I just fell asleep again in chair. Another two hours in sleepy land. One thought crossed my mind when I woke up: What the hell is going on? During my entire experience with cancer I have never gone through anything like that.

Dr. Shlaer is out of town, but the on-call physican suggested that I back off the Sutent for a day or two. Happy  to do that and did not take any last night. Can't tell a fig's worth of difference.

I no longer think any of this is heat related. Maybe I am finally having some cumlative effects from the Sutent. I do know that last week I was feeling some SE's, especially in my hands,mouth and feet. And that wobbly head just makes me miserable. Yesterday and today, I learned a whole new meaning of the words fight cancer. Or, as a warrior wrote me a few months ago when I had similar reactions: Welcome to the team. Now, get out there and kick cancer arse.

Well, There You Go

(Thanks for the nice comments about my current malady and sorry I have yet to answer each and every one. I hope by Thursday morning I will feel a lot better and get on with catching up the correspondence. Below is where we (the Foster family) are today. DCF)

After having spent almost three days under somebody's medical scanner (including an MRI--BAM, BAM, bang, BAMMMMMMMM, bang, toot,toot, toot) the determination is: I need more steroids. The MRI showed that one of the brain mets they were particularly worried about is shrinking, but the edema is swollen more than they would like. Also, since I've had two gamma-knifes in the last six months there might be some radiation issues here as well, like the palsy or shakes or whatever the hell it is that makes just typing this post so damn hard (please, no letterrs to the editor abot typs).

Oh, it might take weeks for my physical self to get righted. And this two weeks before I am supposed to be in Colorado with Gracie 0n the first bird hunt of the season (you think I'm bummed, if she knew the real story she would be beside herself, in that quintessetial doggy sort of way). The one thing I have noticed on the doggy side is that both she and Jeb have become full-time nurses. Jeb for the second time. Staying close and checking in often with aa big old wet muzzle. There is nothing, in my mind, more comforting than the dogs, Gracie in bed and Jeb on the floor. What  patience they have.

Other than all that I am OK. Brain still working like it is supposed to and I hope to make posts later this week less sbout me. One thing I have learned all over again is that cancer is a war and you never know where a new front might open. Regardless, we have to fight harder during the step-backs. Then again, that's what makes us Warriors.

You Know? I Just Don't Know

This afternoon I am off to the MRI joint, get a picture made of the inside of my head, see if I am bleeding more from the gamma-knife than I am supposed to be. Reason: Since last week I have had a minor palsy, slight headaches, a fatique like I have never had before, but when they ran all the tests yesterday, they all showed normal. So now the thinking is that something might be going on where I was gamma-knifed two weeks ago. 

But that is kind of a guess as well. Not only do I not know what is wrong with me, the docs haven't got a handle on it either. So they have taken me off the Sutent for the last three or four days, given me three or four bags full of fluids (See "Just South of Stupid"). Still not much to improve my overall well-being. Which means I have had to do some serious cancer arse kicking since Saturday. But I must admit it has done a good bit of kicking itself. Right now I would call it a draw.

Anway, I will give a longer rep0rt in the morning, but wanted to let y'all know why I have not posted since Saturday. I feel sure we are going to work this out, but it has been an odd experience.

Dang, that was Scary

It has not been a real good week for the old DCF (that's me). Last week, if you read the post "A Little South of Stupid" you know I went up to the North Carolina mountains for a bit of R&R, got too hot and they had to pump me up with fluids at the onc's office. But as the week (and the heat) went on I didn't feel a hell of lot better. Monday, I got up and my muscles hurt. Like running a marathon hurt. It was difficult to just lift my arms.

At first, I blamed it all on Sutent side effects coming back. I was right, but for all the wrong reasons. The Sutent was simply working in a body way too dry for efficiency.

So I drank what I thought was a bunch of fluids but the lethargy just got worse. Wednesday I remained in bed, blessed under the blanket of sleep. It was, on the one hand, wonderful, but on the other...hey, I'm a little lazy, but a day of sleeping is not my MO. I rose Thursday and headed back to the onc's office. They found that I had lost another four pounds over the last eight days. They pumped more fluids into my body and one tech even commented on apparent atrophy in my arms. Back home I slept away the afternoon, was in bed early last night. This morning, man, I do forever feel better?

All my life I have heard about the dangers of heat. When I was a young man I worked as a technician in an ICU and watched a man die from heat stroke, but have never given it a thought about something like that happening to me. And this current case of heat exhaustion was not even close. But it sure as heck has gotten my attention. And for us Warriors, we don't need to stand outside to reach the point of dehydration. It can just happen due to the drying nature of air conditioning.

The symptoms are insidious. First, you just think the Sutent is reacting. Then you decide you need a lot of rest. Then your muscles act as if they are about to give up. Then you get woozy and I mean light headed, but on steroids. And then, well, and then you are better off heading for the nearest bag of potassium-laced fluids. With real heat exhaustion, as I understand it now, you are not going to hydrate yourself back to good health easily. Especially if you are an old phart like me and on Sutent and live in a very warm part of the country or, worse, if your part of the country isn't warm and you experience a heat wave. You could actually be in more danger than me, since I do have some  resistance to heat just by living in the South.

If I understand all this correctly, your body is working hard to assimilate the cancer medicines, which are hard on your system in the first place. Toss in a lack of fluids and you could be headed for serious, though not deadly, problems. Colon cancer patients, however, can develop potentially fatal blood clots.

According to my medical team, the best "cure" is prevention: Eight eight-ounce glasses of water a day, every day.

Today, I am going down and get another bag of fluids  (not to metion a good nap in the IV chair; I love to nap in the IV chair) and  will not go straight to bed when I get home because I already feel much better. This one will be insurance.

Then Sunday I am going to have lunch with my daughter at the University of South Carolina where she begins school this week. Yesterday they couldn't have been dragged over there with a chain.

Oh, last but not least, if you get the men's clothing catalog from the Orvis Company, check out the cover. That's Gracie, my little Brittany. She's smart enough to know when to go in the house. Her papa now knows when to do that as well. Think I will go have a glass of water now.