June 29, 2019 — That Boulder in the Road

So, did you hear the one about the two massive boulders that dropped from the sky onto a Colorado highway?

Well, not from the sky exactly. They broke off a nearby mountain and went rolling downhill, completely blocking Colorado Highway 145. No one was hurt. But no one could get through on the road, either, until something was done.

These were no ordinary boulders. They were big. Really big. The largest one was big as a house.

The highway department figured they could dispatch the smaller one — the one weighing 2.3 million pounds — with dynamite. Which they did. Kaboom! Then they bulldozed away the rubble.

The larger of the two boulders — the behemoth weighing 8.5 million pounds — was a different matter. It would have cost nearly a quarter-million dollars to pulverize it. So, State authorities decided to take a different approach. The Governor issued an executive order declaring it to be a monument. They christened it “Memorial Rock.” Then they re-routed the highway around it.

There are at least two different approaches to a cancer diagnosis. Oftentimes, you can blow the tumor up with treatments like chemotherapy or radiation. Bing, bang, boom and you’re done with it. Onward and upward!

Other times, the obstacle is just too dang big. You can build a road around the thing eventually, but it’s always going to be there, a part of your life.

I think it’s creative the way the Colorado Governor declared the mega-boulder to be a memorial. He did it to qualify for some kind of Federal highway funding, but there’s a sort of poetic justice to his proclamation. When something that big drops into the middle of our lives, causing a massive detour, it’s automatically a memorial in and of itself.

So, if you live with cancer, as I do, I suggest you try to make the best of it. Slap a bronze plaque on the thing. Issue a proclamation. Do whatever you have to do to convert your “new normal” into a monument: to something, it matters not what.

Then, the next time you find yourself driving by, give the thing a thumbs-up or a tip of the hat. If nothing else, it’s a memorial to the challenge you rose up to meet, then vanquished.

(Thanks to Sarah Todd, who wrote the story in Quartz that gave me the idea for this.)

May 12, 2019 — No News Is Good News

I’ve been negligent in not keeping up with new posts to this blog. Medically speaking, that’s a good thing. “No news is good news,” as they say.

Actually, that statement’s not entirely correct. I have had several pieces of good news since my neck-dissection surgery at the end of November. I’ve had follow-up consultations with Dr. Boyle, my surgeon; with Dr. Sherman, my medical oncologist; with Dr. Fish, my endocrinologist; and with Dr. Hamilton, who’s following me for my long-quiescent non-Hodgkin lymphoma.

All of them are entirely pleased with my progress. A PET scan on February 26 picked up no trace of cancer in my neck. The surgery was evidently highly successful in removing all the malignancies that could be detected. Dr. Fish’s analysis of my blood work reveals no markers in my blood that would indicate a recurrence.

The PET scan did light up one area in my mediastinum — the area just behind my sternum (breastbone), which I’ve learned is one of the places where recurrent thyroid cancer can travel. But it’s small, has been there for several recent scans and shows no signs of change. It’s not in a location where a needle biopsy is possible, and there’s no other way of sampling the tissue except by means of major surgery, so all the doctors are agreed that “watch and wait” is the way to go on that. The area is small enough, and a PET scan is hard enough to read with precision, that it could fall within the realm of error.

Dr. Sherman tells me there are a number of advanced treatments available, should the anomaly prove to be more than just a smudge on the PET scan image. Some of these are quite advanced: targeted therapies keyed to my DNA. I feel like there’s no sense delving deeply into the treatment particulars before it’s actually needed: things can change, not only with me but also with current research into the most effective approaches. There will be plenty of opportunity to learn more, should it ever be necessary.

I don’t think about my cancer all that often, which is a good thing. I’ve become a real pro at this “watch and wait” stuff. I dutifully report for my lab tests and doctors’ appointments, and take comfort that some very skilled people are watching the results on my behalf.

No news is good news. Really.