Cancer and Superstition

I remember watching baseball games on tv as a kid and firmly believing that in order for the Mets to score runs, I needed to sit on the floor. This being the Mets of the late 70s (who were even more abysmal than the Mets of 2013), they needed quality hitters not  superstitious juju to score runs and win games. But that didn't stop me from following the ritual.

A rational mind, I know, would look at superstition and scoff. Show me the scientific proof that a broken mirror produces bad luck, or knocking on wood prevents a jinx from erasing your good fortune. It just doesn't make sense.

Still, here I am with good news about my recent visit with Dr. L and I'm hesitant to write about it. And I know I'm not alone. I know many other survivors who fear that talking about how well they're doing tempts fate too much, almost inviting bad news to follow the good.  

I was reading a story recently about a Parkinson's  patient who confided in his therapist that he was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. His therapist told him, "You have Parkinson's. The other shoe dropped a long time ago."

Five years or five months from now, I may have to write a post that talks about how my lymphoma has returned. But that post will happen regardless of what I write today. The more I think of it, the more it seems that avoiding the positive news, or couching the positive in conditionals and wood knocking is giving in to the natural anxiety that comes with a cancer diagnosis. It puts the emphasis on all that can go wrong, instead of what's gone right. 

It's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

So I'll share the good news. After CT scans, bloodwork and an appointment with Dr. L, I remain free and clear. In fact, we are not going to do another scan for a full year. And, on top of that, the Red Sox, my adopted team since the late 80s have clinched the AL East. The Mets, on the other hand, didn't have nearly enough juju this year.

--michael

Just for fun, here's the link to Stevie Wonder's great song, "Superstition"

Is It Strange to Look Forward to a Visit with your Oncologist?

This is my third attempt to post a new entry. I'm tempted to say it's writer's block, but it's not. It's just that the thoughts I've been having are worthy of about a line or two and not a full post, so I'll do what all good bloggers do when they can't connect the dots from idea to idea -- I'll use bullets. 

• I've been looking forward to my upcoming visit to see Dr. L. But then I often find  myself looking forward to my quarterly visits. That seems strange. It's not the Crystal Light flavored contrast agent; or the pre-scan fasting; or the bloodwork. Part of it is that it's an opportunity to be another 3-months clear. As much as I try not to live scan to scan, there's always that mental calendar that's hard to turn off. Each post-chemo visit from now until whenever may carry the anxiety of the lymphoma returning, but it also brings with it the opportunity to have as close as we get to a clean bill of health.

• The other part of the anticipation is because of the way I'm always treated at Dana-Farber when I replace my employee ID with my patient bracelet. There's a feeling of welcome and belonging that permeates the place and for cancer patients who can feel vulnerable and full of a sense of otherness, not to mention just plain sick, this big bear hug of a feeling helps.

• I'm also looking forward to our trip to NY to the Lymphoma Research Foundation's National Education Forum. But I have to admit, it's just odd to be looking forward to attending a forum for cancer patients. As we say, the cancer patient/survivor club is the nicest club that no one ever wants to join. It will be good to hear the latest on lymphoma research and treatment, maybe connect with a few other follicularians (that's my new word for follicular lymphoma survivors) and to get away for a weekend. (If you're going to NY for this event, let me know!) 

• The longer it is between posts, the harder it is to post. 

• I was surprised the other day to feel a passing wave of nausea. But if you believe what you read on the Internet, that's pretty normal even 6 months post-chemo. As a friend of mine said, I shouldn't be surprised given all the chemicals that were pumped through me. It's happened on occasion since treatment finished, but it's manageable and well short of the need for medication to manage it.

• Our less processed life continues. It continues to surprise me with how much artificial stuff is in supposedly good-for-you foods.

• As I introduced myself the other night to my new editing class, I was thinking: I wonder if any of my students Googled me, and if so, what they found. As an adjunct professor, there's not a lot of official info on me on the Emerson web site, but Google is an open book, so to speak. Two or three years ago, it would have been an innocuous search that would have revealed a French chef, and a corporate bio or two or me. Now, it's a different story. Cancer is inexorably part of my identity. It's not what I wanted, but I'm good with it.

--Michael

p.s. - It's taken more than a week between writing and posting. It's just going to be a busy fall, with work, teaching, sports, and other commitments. So while I aim to post more regularly, it may be a quiet blogging fall -- both for writing and reading. So to all my fellow bloggers out there, hope you're doing well.  

Finding the Fun

Can you look forward to a doctor's appointment?

How about an oncologist's appointment?

As my appointment with Dr. LeCasce draws near, I'm finding that I'm looking forward to it. And then I'm finding that I feel something close to guilt for looking forward to it. Clearly I think too much.

But it's true that I'm looking forward to the appointment, and I think I know why. Yes, part of is that there's always that part of me that denies that I'm sick -- that part that believes this will all be written off as a lymph node or five run amok. The more rational part of me knows that's not the case -- that I may be leaving with the beginning of a treatment plan (and I'm getting to be okay with that but more on that in a future post). When you get right down to it, though, as an eternal optimist, a doctor's appointment to me is always the opportunity for good news of any kind.

 There's also a more tangible reason for the anticipation. This being a six-month appointment means that along with the blood work comes CT scans. Beyond the added joy of drinking some cherry-flavored beverage and going from 6 am to 10 am without food or, more important, COFFEE, it means that Stacy comes along for the ride -- and that when we're done with appointments, we can have lunch in Boston.

 It may seems little trivial (and if I had the chance to pass on the doctor's appointment and just have lunch with Stacy in Boston, I would gladly do that) but I think that it helps at least in a small way to find ways to have fun, even in trips to the oncologist.  Maybe we'll even take some pictures. -


michael

All's Well

I do like when the word "perfect" comes out of Dr. LaCasce's mouth, especially when it's prefaced with: "Your bloodwork is." That's the word from today's visit. We chatted more about lakehouses and summer houses (rent vs own, sebago vs winnipesauke), cats (siamese that cry vs. domestic short hairs that cry), sports and kids (she has a six-year old boy), our agency search (she's on the committee) than how I was feeling. 

So all clear until next visit in July - blood, scan, check up. 

This was my first visit since returning to DFCI and I did feel a bit incognito sitting in the waiting room with my ID bracelet tucked inconspicuously under my shirt sleeve. Outside my department, few people know that I'm also a patient but that my change. I think I'm going to come out, so to speak, via a blog post on our external blog 

Here's the theme: watch and wait.

Or wait and watch. It's a rehash of some of what I've been writing here, but it's a point that coalesced a bit today. See, whenever I told someone that I'm watching and waiting, I usually hear how difficult it is. Even Dr. LaCasce said that some people have a hard time with it because when you hear you have cancer, you want to GET IT OUT OF YOUR BODY. So the notion of sitting around waiting... and watching... and waiting, can seem stresful. But here's the deal: once someone tells you have cancer, you will always be watching and waiting -- whether you're waiting for a relapse, or waiting for a clean scan result, or clean blood work. Whether you're 20 days or 20 years out of treatment, you're still going to be watching and waiting. If I had treatment tomorrow and was cured in a week, or a month, or a year (not an option in follicular lymphoma), I'd still be watching and waiting. 

Which is kind of where I am now.

So let's recap. I feel great. (No longer tired now that I've kicked the little coldy thing I've been fighting). Nothing remarkable or palpably growing in terms of lymph nodes. Bloodwork perfect.