Two years ago, I announced on this blog that I had been diagnosed with advanced melanoma. I decided right away that I was going to blog about my story and experience as honestly as I could. Throughout the ordeal, I have made more friends and encountered more expressions of selfless support than I thought was possible.

While a variety of different drug treatments have kept me going this long, it looks like the ride may be coming to an end. The latest reports from my doctors suggest that I have a very short amount of time left to live, and my doctors are basically out of ideas about what to try next.

As a last resport, I will be trying a drug called Ipilimumab tomorrow. It is a very promising drug for some people with advanced melanoma. The bummer though is that only about one in ten people repsond to the drug.

After that, it is only a matter of time.

Okay, if I’m going to get this blog going again, there are a few things I want to get out of the way first.

Most important is that I want to give my friends and readers an update on my health situation. The short answer is that things are going very well. If you want more detail, see below. But I want to say right here that because things are going so well, I certainly don’t intend to turn this blog into a “Jim’s Cancer Update” blog. There are a lot of things that I want to write about and share. But I know many of you will want to know the latest health news, so here it is... Read More...

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

Yes, this blog has been very quiet lately. That is simply a reflection of how quiet my life has been. I'm continuing to go through my medical treatments and things are improving dramatically. I am back working and I see my children every day after school. Days feel pretty normal right now.

If you are missing regular Depot Dad updates, all I can do is direct you to the archives at the bottom of the right hand column. Maybe there are some posts you haven't discovered yet. Its all I have to offer right now. Whan my life stops being so dull, I'll be right back here with an update. But to tell you the truth, after the year I've just been through, dull is just where I want to be right now.

Frequently people say to me, ”Jim, you are such a fighter.” Or, “Jim, you are so courageous.” And I take these statements to be the remarks of support and kindness that they are. I am grateful for them.

However, when I take a moment and dwell on these comments literally, I find that I don’t know what they mean. Take, for example, the idea that I am a fighter. This seems to me to be patently untrue. I can’t think of a single time in my life where, presented with some antagonistic obstacle, I didn’t cut and run instead of battling it out. The only reason I can even say that I am “battling cancer” is because I don’t have a choice. You can’t run away from the fact that it is becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.

And just how does a person “fight cancer” anyway? Its not like I can put on boxing gloves and kick its ass. All I do is show up to doctor’s appointments on time and take the little blue pill or the little red pill as the doctor dictates. In other words, I’m being a good little soldier. I’m simply following instructions. This does not strike me as a particularly fighty attitude. I’m just going along for the ride.

The same can be said for crediting me with courage. I’m not so sure. Courage, it seems to me, is what you muster when you have a choice between doing something difficult or not. It is courage that helps us take the difficult path. But here too, it seems misplaced, simply because, again, I have no choice in the matter. I am facing my possibly imminent mortality only because it will not get out of the way.

But, of course, it is a mistake to analyze these comments in this way. What people really mean when they say things like the above is, I don’t want you to die, I like you, and I hope you will get through this.

And here I have to say that it is the people who have a choice about facing cancer, in other words, all the people around me in my life, who really show their courage. It would be very easy for people to drift away from me while I go through this. People can distract themselves in a variety of ways so as not to have to confront a very scary topic. But I have found that, though some acquaintances have drifted away, other friends have moved to the front lines. They are the ones who have made the courageous decision to help me get through this, by opening their homes, helping me around the house, keeping me company, feeding me, and giving me rides.

These people all had a choice in how to respond to my illness. They are the ones who show real courage, and it is to them that I feel the humblest gratitude. Simply put, my friends kick ass.

But continue at Yellow Alert.

I must say that the team at Marin General scared the HELL out of me. But after meeting with my oncologist yesterday, I now understand that my condition is not as dire as the Marin General docs would have me believe.

Yes, things have gotten more serious for me, but that only means I have to get more serious!

There are two issues going on right now. Fluid build up around my lungs (which hurts like hell) and the additional cancer nodules found on my right lung after the CAT scan at Marin General Thursday night.

The fluid will be drained on Tuesday. Until then, I am supposed to just rough it. I found that I get some relief when soaking in a bath, so that means I might be a wrinkly prune by Tuesday.

After that, I’ll be starting some intensive drug treatments that will require lengthy hospital stays. The doc says I’m young and strong so he’s going to give me everything he’s got.

I’m ready.

Good morning blog readers.

I got some very bad news yesterday. It is news that I have every intention of blogging about. But first I need to make contact with members of my family.

I’ll be back soon.

In the early 1990s, My friend Phill and I made a drive up the northwest Pacific coast. The photograph above was taken during one of our many roadside stops on the Oregon coast. Thirty seconds before the picture was taken, I was balancing on a narrow outcropping of rock that rose out of the wet sand a few feet below. The next instant a wave came up from around the large rock you see on the left and suddenly water rose in all directions around me. In just a few seconds, I saw the water rise too quickly towards my shoes. I stepped up to the highest part of the narrow rock, but the water kept climbing. I realized I had no options. It is a little misleading in the photo, but the bit of rock on the bottom of the photo is actually quite a distance away from me. I was unable to jump to it. All I could do was wait and see what fate had in store for me.

I looked to Phill for some assistance, or at least some advice, but he was too busy laughing and reaching into his camera bag.

At the speed the water rose around me, you might have thought, as I did, that I was a goner. I was going to get very wet. But with less than an inch to spare, the water crested and then slowly dissipated leaving me once more balanced on a narrow rock over wet sand. I jumped down and ran higher up the shore.

Phill sent me this picture tonight and I thought it served as an excellent illustration of the year I have just lived through. I really do feel like I’ve been balancing myself on a narrow outcrop of stone as forces beyond my control swirled up around me. All I could do was ride it out and hope for the best. And once again it appears that I escaped by an inch.

----

Things have been very quiet in Depot Town lately. Consequently, there hasn’t been a lot of blog worthy things to write about. But I want to let my readers know that I am doing just fine. I’ll be back soon enough.

I just returned from my latest visit with my oncologist. He told me that the spot on my lung did, indeed, test positive for melanoma. However, my doctor did go on to say,”Since the surgery was successful and the portion we removed had clean edges, it is quite possible that you are disease free right now. However, we will have to watch it very closely in the coming months.”

He also added,”The tumor board met to discuss your case yesterday and we discussed it at length. We reviewed all aspects of your case. Under the circumstances, we feel it is best to hold off on the interferon treatments, until such time that there is clear evidence that the melanoma has regrouped.”

I almost fell out of my chair when I heard that!

The idea of getting off of interferon, before the eleven month deadline, has caused some concern for friends and family who want to make sure that EVERYTHING that can be done is being done. But my doctor explained it to me this way. “The fact is that since December, almost half a billion units of interferon have been put in your body. And whatever benefits interferon was going to deliver to you, they likely have already delivered. But we must also understand that this spot on your lung developed WHILE you were taking the interferon treatments, and it could very well be that interferon was not a good solution in your particular case for holding the melanoma back. So with that in mind, the tumor board has suggested that we simply wait and closely monitor your situation. And if the melanoma does return at some point, there are alternative drug therapies and trials that we can explore.”

So now you know everything I know. My next PET scan is scheduled for late June. If that comes back clean it will be time to PAR-TAY! In the mean time, I’m going to have a few preliminary celebrations this week.

Just the idea that the serious suckage known as interferon is out of the picture for me now, is reason enough to dance dance dance.

EDIT-slightly expanded first paragraph with additional details.

You know, in my last post, I contemplated how to follow up my incredible run of bad experiences. Well, I found my answer and it is detailed below.

I should first warn the reader that what follows is a particularly graphic rendition of one of my experiences in the hospital. It includes incompetent nurses, mismanaged catheters, and a great deal of urine. If you don’t want to read about such things, (and really, why would you?) you should just stop here now.

If, however, you feel a slight tinge of relief when you hear about horrible things happening to other people and not you (and I’m told the ancient Greeks actually had a word for this momentary feeling of relief) then read on. Read More...

If you ever wondered what it is like when you are diagnosed with cancer, you might want to visit this page...

There you will find an amazing video collection of the best roller coasters in the U.S. The “Tetsu” actually had me feeling seasick. Imagine a roller coaster where you hang from the track and lay flat like Superman flying through the air. It looks amazing and it is so strange to be flipping through the air and not be able to see the track or anticipate what is coming. Awesome!

At any rate, the whole point here is to let you know what my life is like right now. Ups. Downs. Corkscrews. Inversions. And the ever present risk of barfing.

Read More...

I had a very nice evening with a good friend last night. In the course of the evening, she let me know, very gently but also directly, that maybe, just maybe, I might have a tendency to give in to things just a little too easily. And I agreed. Her message basically was, there is no reason I have to accept what is happening to me gracefully and with resignation (and I admit that I often believe this is the path of courage and maturity). She wouldn’t go there with me.

She made it clear that I can also decide that this isn’t what I want and start believing in alternate destinies.

What a good friend.

You know, it is one thing for me to bring my codependent tendencies into relationships, but do I really have to be co-dependent with the universe too? Of course, the answer is no.

If the universe hands me bullshit, I have every right to slap the universe in the cheek with a cold dead fish.
“F*** You, Universe! You think you know what is going to happen? Well watch this!”

I just got off the phone with the results of my latest PET scan. It is not good news.

The little nodule on my lung, which has been small, innocuous, and has always been on the back burner, is now on the front burner. It got larger, and it is showing uptake. (Uptake is the term for lighting up on the cancer scan).

I will now begin a new battery of tests, biopsies, and examinations. If it turns out to be melanoma, I will be in a very serious situation.

More news as I get it...

Early last summer I made a new friend, a single mom who lives in the East Bay. We met online and for a long time our friendship was entirely based on email. We kept trying to meet up, but for whatever reason, we never could get our schedules to work out. We continued emailing throughout the summer and, later, when I was diagnosed with cancer, our friendship developed in a very wonderful way.

Read More...

20 million of these bad boys three times a week for 48 weeks

On the nights that I have to give myself interferon, like tonight, I get sick to my stomach as bedtime approaches. Now when I rip open the little alcohol pads that I use to sterilize the needle, I get a whiff of the alcohol and have to suppress a feeling of nausea. I really hate that smell now, because it is a precursor for what is to come. Like some Pavlovian hound, I’ve been conditioned that the smell of rubbing alcohol now means that I will feel absolutely horrible for the next eighteen hours or more.

There is nothing to be done about it, so I have learned to go through the routine of self injection as quickly as possible. If I slowed down to think about it, I would likely pitch the whole thing out the window. Then there is nothing to do except post a short blog entry and crawl under the covers.

My friend, Phill, told me the other day that when this is all over, we are going to have a celebration like no other, and that I will have permission to indulge in anything that makes me happy. That was a pleasant thought. I honestly had not been thinking that there would actually be a day when all of this would be behind me. It seems like melanoma has dominated every day of my life since last September. While it is true that I will have to watch for reoccurrence for the rest of my life, this medical procedure has an end. So Phill is right. I should keep my eye on the end result. And although I will struggle through these next ten months, I know things are going to be SO GOOD on the other side.

Well I saw my radiologist today. I wanted to talk to her about some sores on my neck and jawline that appeared shortly after radiation treatment in November and they have shown very little sign of healing. She examined me and I got a new prescription to help it. But it will still be slow going because, also today, my interferon kit arrived via UPS. And, as my oncologist told me, interferon basically brings all skin healing to a stop. So will I have these sores for the eleven months I will be taking interferon? Time will tell.

My radiologist also told me that, since I still have not regained control of my lower right lip by now, it is unlikely I will ever get control of it again. This is only a bummer for me because it means I will have a lopsided smile for the rest of my life, and I will continue to bite it when opening my mouth to eat sandwiches and stuff.

But it is all a matter of perspective in the end. And I am not complaining. My radiologist told me today that there was a woman who was diagnosed with pretty much the exact same thing I had and at the same time. Actually, my radiologist had just come from an appointment with her. And the fact of the matter is, she is not likely to survive the week.

Knowing that that could have been my fate this week is a sobering realization to say the least.

. . . . . . . . . .

Okay, it’s a new year, and I’m ready for my own fresh start. And I’m starting with my poor neglected blog.

I’ll start with a story of how amazingly lucky I am, and yes, I think this will be the last time I mention my medical treatments in December.

I realized early on in the treatments, that this was, in fact, a rare opportunity. I mean, when was the last time I was told to sit in a chair for three hours and do nothing? And I couldn’t foresee the next time this would happen again. So for many of the days, I brought along my drawing supplies and made great progress on the latest Oliver and Amélie comic. It made the time there go a bit faster.

But on the last day I was just done. I didn’t want to draw, I didn’t want to chat with the other patients. I closed my eyes, pushed my reclining chair fully back, cranked up my iPod and simply waited for the time to pass. Well, about fifteen minutes later, there was a tap on my foot. I opened my eyes to see the entire nursing staff of the infusion center standing around my chair. They presented me with a signed card, a bottle of champaign, a photograph of the team, and too many kind words.

It turns out that when you spend a little bit of every day sticking needles into someone, it becomes a kind of grounds for intimacy. And the truth is, I grew very fond of the staff at UCSF. And, it turns out that they felt the same way about me.

I was an unusual case for them. You see, most patients at the infusion center were getting doses of chemotherapy. And they came in one day every three weeks or so. So it was unusual for the staff to see someone every single day for a month. And even after only just a few days, I already felt like part of the family there. I used to joke that I should start picking up my mail there.

And I really will miss seeing them. They are the most extraordinary people working every day with patients who were much worse off than I was. So thank you Michelle and Pauline and Bruce and Marisa, and everyone at UCSF. I’m a lucky guy to have been helped by such an amazing team.

Every night I think, “Okay, I’ll post a few words after the kids go to bed,” and every night I am turning out the lights after saying goodnight and realize I don’t have enough energy to turn on my computer, let alone compose cohesive sentences. Interferon literally is an energy robber. Its hard to explain. Its like feeling the same effort you make when you’re running a hundred yard dash and then looking down and seeing yourself take a baby step. You think, “Geez, is that all I’m doing? I was sure I was going a hundred miles an hour.”

Well, I’ve been back on it since Wednesday. The tongue medicine was the cause of the high liver enzymes and it was easy enough stopping that. Now it is on to Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Christmas off, then Friday and Saturday. Then Sunday off, and finally Monday and Tuesday and it will be OVER.

And then I fully intend to let other things occupy my mind. I just want to keep my head down and push through this last push.

There was a strange development yesterday. I had gone into the hospital for my treatment and had just finished the two hours of hydration (two hours of filling me up with fluids before the interferon), when the nurse came back to me and said there would be no treatment today.

It turns out that my blood tests came back and showed triple the normal levels of enzymes in my liver. Heck, I have no idea what liver enzymes are, but apparently they are high enough to call off my interferon treatment until Wednesday. No one can say why my enzymes suddenly peaked compared to last week’s normal reading, I suspect it has to do with the drugs I was taking for my tongue fungus. Oh joy!

So I’ve stopped the tongue drugs and am now waiting until Wednesday to see if my enzyme levels return to normal.

So now I’ve finished ten interferon treatments. Today I have number eleven. I sure have appreciated having the weekend off, but the effects still linger. I feel like I am living on a planet with double gravity. It takes so much effort just to move about. I have never felt so weak.

There are some other side effects that my doctor warned me about. One is depression. Of course, this means a level beyond just the usual joys of having cancer. It came on me yesterday, wave after wave of feelings of sadness and despair. I recognized it as the effects of the meds, but it was still a rough ride. The main feeling is one of hopelessness, as though all of my efforts will come to nothing. I keep telling myself that I have to fight each day, one day at a time. I can only hope that when the twentieth and final treatment is over, that some feeling of hope will return.

As my readers have no doubt noticed, this also saps my energy for blogging. I do have a few things going, like my next Depot Bell article and a long diatribe about the role of religion in my life during this time, but they’re not ready to share yet. I wish I had something funny to share with all of you. Please just be patient. I don’t know how much more I’ll be posting over the next two weeks.

This drug sucks, pure and simple.

This post is coming to you right from the UCSF Infusion Center. I’m sitting here with an IV in my arm and thought this time was as good as any to update you all.

As you know from my last post, I was in a funk from all of the side effects I’d been enjoying. Well, it turns out I am terrible at self diagnosing, and in this case that is good news. Specifically....

My cough is not an infection or anything serious. It is a reaction to the interferon. It stimulates my lungs and makes them think there is something to cough up. But there isn’t. My doctor says we can manage it with cough syrup until my body gets more used to the interferon. It should go away in a few days.

My radiologist gave me several different lotions to put on and around my ear. The weeping and crusting has stopped and the swelling has gone down considerably.

As for my missing taste. My doctor found that in fact I have a fungal infection on my tongue! This was causing the bad taste, not interferon. Because my surgery removed a large part of my salivary gland, and due to the radiation I received, the PH balance in my mouth is way off. This created the opportunity to get this fungus. Ugh. The good news is that it is curable with about five days of medication. I can taste things again already.

So you see, all of my conclusions as to what was causing what were all wrong. I sure am glad there are paid professionals nearby, because if it were up to me, I would have killed the patient long ago.

Just a quick update today. I’m not feeling very well. In spite of a promising start on interferon, I’ve actually been having worse symptoms as days have gone on. For example, I have a persistent hoarse cough, not sure if this is due to the medication or if it is something I caught. My muscles constantly feel like I’ve just finished a twenty mile run. My right ear has swollen up and the skin on and around it has turned scaly. Oddly, the skin around my ear scrapes off in thick chunks like warm wax. Geez, if this were a comic or a sci-fi movie, my exposure to radiation would have given me some cool mutant super powers. But here, I find that I have been converted into Big Melting Ear Man. And that is just plain not cool.

Shall I go on? I did not sleep one minute last night. That isn’t a figure of speech. I mean I laid in bed all night waiting to sleep and then my alarm went off. And now this morning, I find I have lost all sense of taste. Everything tastes like sand, except for a green apple I tried. It tasted like poison.

It is taking all of my will power not to fall into despair. And I’m trying to find some humor in the situation, but damn. This just isn’t funny.

I had my first interferon treatment Tuesday. I went in to the hospital and got hooked up to an IV. The procedure took about two and a half hours. My nurse, Michelle, was great. She explained what I might expect when I got home and for the next few days.

“Since this is your first treatment,” she sad,” your response tonight will be the strongest. You will get a fever and chills. Don’t be surprised if your fever reaches 104. But it will pass, and should be gone by the time you wake up the next day.”

I went home, filled my bath with cool water in case i needed a quick dunk in the middle of the night, and went to bed. The high fever never came, but what I did get was serious chills and shakes. I was shaking uncontrollably for almost two hours. Then it settled down.

The next morning I had muscle aches. It felt like I had just run a marathon. I could go about my business, but was moving at about 2/3rd normal speed. The second night after treatment went about the same way, but the shaking lasted for only an hour. Hopefully each day will be a little bit easier.

I remember my oncologist saying a while ago that when it comes to interferon, about one third of people tolerate it fairly well, about a third have to manage it with some lifestyle changes to accommodate the symptoms, and about one third are basically bed ridden for the year. So far it looks like I am in the first group and I couldn’t be happier about it.

I’m still feeling wiped out, and I don’t doubt this will be a challenging month, but after December 27, my dosage gets reduced to 1/3rd of what I’m taking now and I only have to take it three times a week instead of every day. At that point, I’m feeling like I can resume a relatively normal life and get back to work. This is really good news.

So that’s the update. This is a happy Depot Dad signing off for now.

I met with my oncologist this morning. The subject of today’s meeting was to discuss the results of a follow up PET scan I had last week. Specifically, he wanted to see if the mysterious nodule that showed up on my right lung in a test from two months ago has gotten larger. Well, it has. Or so it appears.

According to the new scan, the nodule has increased in size from .8 to 1 centimeter. Dr. Daud admitted that 2 millimeters was actually within the margin of error of what the PET scan could resolve with certainty, but since it erred on the side of getting larger, it would be prudent to have a biopsy. Read More...

I woke up this morning without feeling sick. I felt a bit tired, and yes, still uncomfortable in my neck from surgery. But really, for the most part, I felt okay.

I went on two client appointments this morning and stayed pretty focused. Then I came home to start on the “home sick all week” mess of my household. Soon after I picked up O and A from school and told them we had a mission. We were finally going to give their bedroom some much needed love. Read More...

I just wanted to remind readers, and let new readers know, about the website COUNTERACT, which tracks the medical details of my cancer diagnosis and prognosis. You will also find links there to a calendar of days when I may need assistance with meals or taxi rides to and from treatment.

Also, if anyone if familiar with WordPress, Sylvie is having a heck of a time trying to get the comments section there to not require a WordPress account to leave a comment. We’ve both looked over all of the settings and can’t find the option anywhere. If you know where we should be looking, please leave a comment here or email me. There must be a way to unlock comments to anyone. Thanks! Read More...

For the past few days I’ve been down with some sort of stomach flu, nausea, fever, etc. Wouldn’t you know that the last few days I have to feel well before my year of treatment, and I get sick!

Tomorrow I finally begin radiation treatment. I’ve been going back to the hospital for several days to do trial runs. Now the fun really begins.

Curiously it looks like several other single parent bloggers have been under the weather too. Here’s hoping we all return to good health soon.

And if you think this is the most boring post you’ve ever read on Depot Dad, you’d find I agree with you.

I found a cancer website that listed several blogs of people who have been diagnosed with melanoma. I visited every one. I kind of wish I hadn’t because, except for one, they all end with bad news. Read More...

I guess I should say right at the outset that if you are one of my readers who is ready for me to get back to my normal single parent blog, I’m going to disappoint you. In fact, I’m likely to disappoint you for some time to come. So if you are ready to get over this whole cancer thing, and switch subjects, then it would probably be a good idea to visit some other blogs. The fact is is that cancer is dominating my waking existence, and though I tried to think of other topics to blog about for today, I kept coming back to one incontrovertible truth: most things that people occupy themselves with, and worry about, and argue about, just do not seem very important to me right now.

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Well, it has been four days since my last post, longer than I usually take. And there isn’t anything here today either. I just wanted to let everyone know that I am fine.

Apparently I pushed myself a little too fast to “get back on the horse” and it caught up with me. I’ve been exhausted the past three days. I’ve been resting and will continue to take it easy over the weekend. So thanks for your patience and I’ll be back soon.

...more face to wash.

I have to say, I am pleasantly surprised by my new look. I hope my readers agree.
When the skin graft fully heals, things should look even better.



By clicking on the “Read More...” link below, you will be taken to a page with more detailed “before and after” photos of the cancer diagnosis and the haircutting process.
WARNING: Some of the pics of the surgical area are a bit intense. View at your own discretion. Read More...

I’m going bald, baby. Read More...

I went to see my doctor yesterday. He removed the pork bun bandage from the side of my head. As he was cutting the stitches, he warned me,”Now prepare yourself. This is going to be quite a change. There will be a sizable dent here.”

He lifted the bandage and inspected the area. The good news? The skin graft took 100%. No dead skin at all. The area will heal nicely. Read More...

After five days of having a skilled hospital staff provide for my every need, it is something of a shock to arrive home and find that I actually have to, you know....DO stuff.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t use a little ingenuity to make my recovery go a bit smoother here. Read More...

Embedded pork bun to be surgically removed on Thursday.

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Well, I just walked in the door from my five days in the hospital. Everything went well and I have a few tales to tell, but I’m just too tired to write about it tonight.

The surgeons were happy. They felt they got out all of the bad stuff. Of course we won’t know for sure what that bad stuff is until we hear back from the latest pathology report, due in about five more days. Meanwhile, I feel I have a new lease on life, as they say. It is the new and improved Depot Dad 2.0.

Right now I’m happy. I had excellent care at UCSF, and indulged in serious low brow television marathons. I mean when else was I going to watch Dumb and Dumber, followed by Joe Dirt, followed by South Park in one go? The giggles did me good. More details tomorrow.

I’m enjoying this clip tonight of Richard Pryor in a prison hospital.



not appropriate for the workplace,
um, unless you have the volume down really
low and snicker into your coffee cup.

I’ll be back early next week.

You know, I’m just vain enough to wonder about what effects my Friday surgery will have on my appearance. My doctor tells me that I will likely have a permanent bald spot on the right side of my head and a permanent depression on the right side of my neck after the removal of the lymph node as well as a fairly prominent scar.

It seems to me that, as long as I am unconscious anyway, and since there will be lots of knives flying, and since I won’t be able to do anything about the results I just mentioned, why not take the opportunity to fix the things that can be fixed, right? Like what? Hey what guy wouldn’t want to wake up after surgery and look in the mirror and see George Clooney looking back at him? Read More...

Cancer is good for your hit count, but I wouldn’t recommend it.

When it comes to web statistics, I intentionally remain innocent. I am well aware of the fact that I could engineer my site better to increase my traffic and, presumably, any trivial income potential of the site. But the truth is, I just don’t care. I would continue to post here even if the only feedback I ever got was the sound of crickets.

But I got curious about my statistics the other day when I was listening on my car radio to an interview with an aspiring comedian. My ears perked up when he made the comment,”Look, anyone can draw a crowd by standing up and saying ‘I have cancer,’ but try and draw a crowd by standing up and telling jokes!”

Later I laughed in agreement when I decided to check out my stats and found this... Read More...

Ok, so this is the day I’ve been waiting for for a long time. I finally met the melanoma specialist and also the surgeon who will perform an operation on me. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Here is what happened...

Sylvie drove me to the UCSF Medical Center in San Francisco where we met with Dr. Kashani, a melanoma specialist. Dr. Kashani examined me, looked at my test results, and informed both of us about what we could expect in the coming months. This included two operations. One small one to remove whatever is left of the mole I had removed over my ear. Dr. Kashani said that they would like to remove a larger area around the location of the mole. Secondly, and more importantly, there would be an operation to remove the cancerous lymph node(s) in my neck. Read More...

Amélie is about to lose her first tooth. She is very proud and showing everyone.

Oliver is doing great in Soccer so far this year. I’m looking forward to attending as many games as I can.

The school year is also off to a great start. Awesome teachers all around. God, I love good public education and educators. Read More...

Okay, not really. But I do want to announce that Sylvie has set up a really awesome website to track the more technical aspects of my cancer and to be a staging area for volunteer coordination and scheduling.

 http://counteract.wordpress.com

You can expect this site to become much more active once I get my final treatment plan in the coming days. Then the real work begins.
UPDATE: I’ll ask Sylvie to unlock the comments there later this morning.

Thanks, Sylvie. You are an awesome Cancer Team Captain.

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Jim has nothing on his mind and nothing in his brain either.

This morning I got the results of the MRI scans that I had last week. They verify that the cancer has not moved to my brain.

So now I can chalk up this cancer as just another entity, in a long line of them, that does not want my body.

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I always loved this line. Now I love it even more.

C. MONTGOMERY BURNS:
“I call this enemy, the sun.
Since the dawn of time, man has yearned to destroy the sun.
I will do the next best thing; blocking it out.”

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I wish I had made up that headline, but it is actually one of my favorite Homer Simpson quotes.

Frankly, it is how I am feeling today. I did a stupid thing. I read about melanoma on the internet this morning. It’s a miracle I haven’t until now, but now the damage is done. After yesterday’s brief light, I find I am right back down in the funks. According to the website, Melanoma International Foundation, I have stage III melanoma. Treatment looks like it is going to be a serious bitch. At least a year long, and it says I’ll be feeling pretty much like serious shit the entire time. And then there are no promises. Melanoma sucks. Read More...

Depot Dad’s blood tests come back clean!

This means that the cancer has NOT travelled to my liver (a common destination for advanced melanoma) or anywhere else. [UPDATE: Let me be more clear: My blood tests show none of the tell-tale signs that the cancer has spread.]

FInally some good news! I just know it is because of all of the positive vibes coming over the blogosphere! Please keep ‘em coming. More news as I get it.....

The war is not over, but at least the battlefield is smaller than it might have been.

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I spent the day today at a medical imaging center. I was strapped to one of those tube shaped scanning machines. The first one was used to scan my head. They placed a plastic mask over my head, about an inch over my face, then they slid me into the scanning chamber which is about one inch higher than the mask. I had a small slit to look through, but just kept my eyes closed the whole time. I never felt so claustrophobic in my life.
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Well, as you might expect, things don’t always go exactly as you expect when your life is in complete turmoil. Nevertheless, I am making progress. Or rather, I should say, we are making progress. “We” because I have assembled my cancer team and I’m also bringing all of you along. Read More...

The news is not good for Depot Dad, I’m afraid. In fact the news is very serious.

I have been diagnosed with melanoma, skin cancer (I refuse to honor it by capitalizing the words) . It has been in my scalp, so I have not noticed it.

It has travelled to my lymph nodes which is very bad indeed. Tomorrow I will see a cancer specialist who will let me know if the situation is either very bad or hopelessly bad.

I intend to keep this blog updated every step of the way. I know my blogging family will not mind if I turn my attention from single parenting to cancer for a while.

I am spending the day calling friends and family and letting them know what is going on.

I am very scared.

But now I have some facts, at least. And my treatments will likely begin tomorrow. If I am one of the lucky few who can beat this, than this will be the darkest day. And it will only get better from here.

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Um. Well. No news today. Rats.

I’ll be calling the doc in the morning.

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There’s nothing like having a bunch of doctors say,”Tsk tsk,” and,”Hmm,” and, “Uhhh,” to make you wake up and smell the roses.

After seeing a client in downtown San Francisco yesterday, I went for a meandering walk back to the parking garage. I turned onto an unfamiliar street and walked into this... Read More...

Ok, so I went to have my biopsy today. Pretty simple. Look the other direction, poke once, poke twice, all done.

I tried to infer any kind of information from the facial expressions of the doctor, but of course they are all trained in perfect poker face. All she said was,”Well, I can tell you it is not normal, and we are going to find out what is causing it.”

Um, ok.

Because of the holiday, they said I’d get a phone call on Tuesday. Dum dee dum dee dum dee dum. Is it Tuesday yet?

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Nothing much to add today. I saw another doc today. He did not give me a biopsy but is sending me to the hospital tomorrow to see another specialist. I’ll have the biopsy there. Sheesh! Another day of waiting.

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Well, I debated whether I should post this. But the thing is, I don’t have any family around that I can talk to really, and I’m starting to get a little nervous. I’m sorry to dump this on you, my blog family, but I have to talk or I’ll start freaking out.

You see, a few weeks ago, I noticed a small lump in the right side of my neck. Its a swollen lymph node. I saw the doctor today and he is sending me in for a biopsy tomorrow. It could be something. It could be nothing.

What I do know is that I can get carried away by my imagination and that is usually not a good thing. I’ll let you all know what I find out at the doctor’s tomorrow, although most likely I won’t hear anything back for a few days.

What a drag.

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