In a Funny Place
October 24, 2009 08:24 AM Filed in: Cancer
It is strange.
A little over a year ago I was diagnosed with an advanced stage of melanoma and my life went topsy turvy. Upon hearing the news for the first time, I felt a strong compulsion to share everything about what I was about to go through. I did that. I blogged here about all of the major factors of my treatment.
I will never be able to express how vitally important everyone's feedback here has been to me. I remember laying in bed last December with severe shakes from interferon and scrolling through all of the comments of love and support. It helped me pull through when I had no one else to rely on.
That has been the power of this blog for me, because it got me in touch with so many remarkable people from all over the country. These people checked in regularly and became family to me.
That support continued through my spring surgery and drug treatments.
But then, last July, things got difficult.
In a matter of weeks, the cancer had spread to both of my lungs, my kidneys and my liver. Sensing that my life was about to be over, I felt compelled to make a few video entries here. I wanted to share my favorite stories before I left you all. I wanted to share something of my spirit here, so that maybe someday my children might find it here.
In July, my doctors were very concerned. There were not a lot of standard treatments that could reverse the spread of melanoma. They offered one alternative. There was a new drug being studied at the research hospital. If I wanted, I could participate in it. There was no guarantee it would help and there was also the real possibility that I would get a placebo. Knowing my odds with standard treatment were very poor, I chose to participate in the study.
Within days of taking the medication, my symptoms became less aparent. The problems I had with massive fluid build up around my lungs just simply stopped. I was encouraged.
Two weeks ago I had my first CT scan since I started the medication. The results were startling. The cancer on my kidneys had disappeared. The cancer on my liver was now almost undetectable. The masses on my lungs shrank by about 50%.
One scan image raised the possibility of a blood clot in one of my lungs. This required another CT scan the following week. That scan showed that a blood clot was unlikely, but a surprising bonus was to see that the cancer had continued to shrink even in just seven days. Amazing.
This has been nothing less than a miracle for me. I have no doubt in my mind that if I had not started those drugs just three months ago, I would no longer be here. This has been the most humbling realization of my life.
But since then, a curious thing has happened to me. In a few short weeks my thinking has already changed from "living in the next ten minutes" to "living now mindful of a possible future." And this is a very strange change of thinking I can assure you.
It has also left me with an overwhelming sense of privacy. I can feel myself turning inward, just as I had turned outward at the beging of my diagnosis.
This second chance at life is a huge gift, and one I do not take lightly. Sure I am hardly out of the woods yet, but for the first time in a year, things look hopeful, and that is a feeling I have not had in a long time. And if I am able to keep this beast at bay for a few more years, or even many years, there is one thing that I feel strongly in my heart.
I believe it is the duty of everyone who survives cancer to do something for everyone who didn't survive it. And by that I mean to put some energy into finding a cure for this damn disease. I don't know what form that will take yet, whether it is walkathons, volunteering time and assistance or what. But it will be a part of my life from now on.
In the mean time, I ask my wonderful and supportive readers to let me go into my insular space. I want to start this second chance at life in quiet reflection of what I might do next and what a man might accomplish.
As of today, though I will keep it live for some time, the DepotDad blog is now officially closed.
With warmest affection to everyone who stopped by,
Jim
A little over a year ago I was diagnosed with an advanced stage of melanoma and my life went topsy turvy. Upon hearing the news for the first time, I felt a strong compulsion to share everything about what I was about to go through. I did that. I blogged here about all of the major factors of my treatment.
I will never be able to express how vitally important everyone's feedback here has been to me. I remember laying in bed last December with severe shakes from interferon and scrolling through all of the comments of love and support. It helped me pull through when I had no one else to rely on.
That has been the power of this blog for me, because it got me in touch with so many remarkable people from all over the country. These people checked in regularly and became family to me.
That support continued through my spring surgery and drug treatments.
But then, last July, things got difficult.
In a matter of weeks, the cancer had spread to both of my lungs, my kidneys and my liver. Sensing that my life was about to be over, I felt compelled to make a few video entries here. I wanted to share my favorite stories before I left you all. I wanted to share something of my spirit here, so that maybe someday my children might find it here.
In July, my doctors were very concerned. There were not a lot of standard treatments that could reverse the spread of melanoma. They offered one alternative. There was a new drug being studied at the research hospital. If I wanted, I could participate in it. There was no guarantee it would help and there was also the real possibility that I would get a placebo. Knowing my odds with standard treatment were very poor, I chose to participate in the study.
Within days of taking the medication, my symptoms became less aparent. The problems I had with massive fluid build up around my lungs just simply stopped. I was encouraged.
Two weeks ago I had my first CT scan since I started the medication. The results were startling. The cancer on my kidneys had disappeared. The cancer on my liver was now almost undetectable. The masses on my lungs shrank by about 50%.
One scan image raised the possibility of a blood clot in one of my lungs. This required another CT scan the following week. That scan showed that a blood clot was unlikely, but a surprising bonus was to see that the cancer had continued to shrink even in just seven days. Amazing.
This has been nothing less than a miracle for me. I have no doubt in my mind that if I had not started those drugs just three months ago, I would no longer be here. This has been the most humbling realization of my life.
But since then, a curious thing has happened to me. In a few short weeks my thinking has already changed from "living in the next ten minutes" to "living now mindful of a possible future." And this is a very strange change of thinking I can assure you.
It has also left me with an overwhelming sense of privacy. I can feel myself turning inward, just as I had turned outward at the beging of my diagnosis.
This second chance at life is a huge gift, and one I do not take lightly. Sure I am hardly out of the woods yet, but for the first time in a year, things look hopeful, and that is a feeling I have not had in a long time. And if I am able to keep this beast at bay for a few more years, or even many years, there is one thing that I feel strongly in my heart.
I believe it is the duty of everyone who survives cancer to do something for everyone who didn't survive it. And by that I mean to put some energy into finding a cure for this damn disease. I don't know what form that will take yet, whether it is walkathons, volunteering time and assistance or what. But it will be a part of my life from now on.
In the mean time, I ask my wonderful and supportive readers to let me go into my insular space. I want to start this second chance at life in quiet reflection of what I might do next and what a man might accomplish.
As of today, though I will keep it live for some time, the DepotDad blog is now officially closed.
With warmest affection to everyone who stopped by,
Jim