Potpourri

Three weeks ago this morning I awoke with an infusion pump connected to the port installed under my skin near my collar bone. This has been a tri-weekly occurrence for the past six months to which I am well accustomed. What transpired next – the pissing of blood – was completely unexpected however. Oh, the joy . . .

My first thought was – let’s see – nobody knows about this – what say we just keep it under our hat? I mean, what good could possibly come from mentioning it to the medical staff during the pump decoupling session that was scheduled for later that morning? Well, despite such flashes of brilliance, I often succumb to doing the “right” thing. And that morning was no exception. So I mentioned the event and that led to the collection of a urine sample.

The following Monday I received a call from the LA doctor’s office informing me that my urine tested positive for infection. Not surprisingly, this was incorrect information as the test simply revealed the presence of blood (which I already knew) . . . but no evidence of infection. I continue to be amazed that these people are able to dress themselves each morning.

A follow-up urine test was performed the following week in SB with the same result – blood in the urine, no infection. Were the ureteral stents to blame? That necessitated a trip to the urologist, who examined an x-ray of the installation and said no need to exchange the stents – they look fine and still have at least another half year of utility. So that was good news . . . I think.

About this time I had a mid-cycle blood test performed. Remember the muscle soreness that I experienced two cycles ago due to elevated “CPK” levels? At that time my CPK level was 329 (normal range 25 to 195) and it delayed chemo round #7 by one week. Okay, so this time the CPK reading was 3,850 (three thousand eight-hundred and fifty) or twenty times the upper limit of the normal range. While the SB urologist apparently did not find this particularly alarming (Cecily and I were sent on our merry way after having discussed this with him), when we arrived home the phone rang. It was the LA oncologist’s office in a panic, requesting that I go to the emergency room immediately for hydration and to have the ER doc call the LA doc after getting me hooked up to the IV. So back to Santa Barbara it was. And when the SB doc phoned the LA doc, the LA doc insisted that I be admitted to the hospital for overnight hydration. This of course led to the obligatory two-night stay. Oh, the joy . . . They finally released me (at my insistence) last Saturday morning with a CPK of 700.

Anyway, back to the point of this blog, which if I recall correctly is to keep interested parties advised of my progress fighting cancer. I had a CT scan performed this past Monday at the usual six-week interval. I received the radiologist’s report on Wednesday and the doc hadn’t even bothered to measure or list one single dimension! What a slacker. I phoned the clinic to express my displeasure. An addendum was prepared the following day with all appropriate dimensions measured and listed. The upshot is that over the last eighteen weeks the tumors have shrunk an average of 20% in lineal dimensions – and because volume is proportional to the cube of lineal dimensions, this means an average 50% reduction in volume. My SB oncologist characterized the results during yesterday’s appointment as “outstanding”.

But the chemo is certainly taking its toll. It's like volunteering to be inoculated with the swine flu every three weeks. A discussion with the LA oncologist’s office revealed that the three-week cycle is the most aggressive that’s allowed under the clinical trial protocol and that the cycling can be as infrequent as every seven weeks (now they tell me). So my current plans are to reduce the frequency to about six-week cycles or so, but I haven’t discussed this with the LA doc yet. Oh, the joy . . .

I’ll close this post with an anecdote that occurred before Father’s Day when both sons were staying at the ranch. I had just completed round #7 and was continuing my search for something to address the nausea. I was trying cannabis again at that point. I get about 100 music stations on XM radio and was listening to them all. From country western to bluegrass to whatever, they all sounded great in my altered state. Taylor and Cecily were begging me to keep changing stations, and Brandon was in another room at the computer doing online research. I finally stopped on an Isley Brother’s song from the early ‘70s, and was surprised at the use of distortion on the guitar during the entire song. I remarked to Taylor (a good guitar player) that it had to be one of the first substantial uses of distortion other than the occasional Beatle’s song and every Jimi Hendrix song. Taylor thought about it for a moment and then dropped the bombshell:

“I probably wouldn’t even play guitar if it weren’t for distortion.”

Huh?!?! I’ve been involved with music since I was ten and was always melody driven in my musical interests. It floored me to learn that my youngest son was simply drawn to the art for the noise that could be produced. Oh well, just goes to show how out of touch one generation is from another.

Just about that time Brandon emerged from hibernation, his research session concluded, and asked:

“Dad, do you have any idea how much money you wasted by having two kids?”

Huh?!?! Which one would he have suggested I not have? His parting statement made it apparent he was referring to both kids:

“Biggest f*ckin’ depreciating asset on the face of the earth.”

And with that I began looking for the cannabis again. Oh, the joy . . .