The day started out great.  The email from a Ms. Sandra Johnson, who addressed me as her "Dear Beloved in Christ," told me she was the recipient of her late husband's seven million pounds sterling currently deposited in a London bank and she was giving it all to me.  Wow!  I couldn't believe my good luck!  Then, in the next paragraph, she told me she was in a hospital in the Netherlands being treated for "esophageal" cancer and her doctors told her she "has numbered days to live."  Damn.  In two paragraphs she sent me soaring at the thought of seven million pounds then into a crash landing by bringing up her own mortality.  Why did she have to point out she is dying from the same cancer I have?  Of all the cancers in the world, why did she pick esophageal?  What a downer.  I decided not "to fund churches, orphanages and widows" as Ms. Johnson enjoined me to do and concentrate on my own mortality.  You would think when diagnosed with a potentially fatal illness, and at my age, one would think a lot about death.  Strangely, I don't.  I find myself really living in the moment, the right now.  It is a delightful experience so why muck it up by thinking about death.  I'm sure one day I will give some thought to the philisophical, theological, metaphysical and mystical aspects of dying, but not right now.  The day ended on an upbeat note.  I got an email from the Federal Ministry Finance telling me Dr. John Idika has been personally appointed to handle a payment of $4.1 million to me.  Wow!

My cancer is in the throat, esophageal cancer to be specific.  Therefore, I have to refer to it as pain in the "neck", because literally and figuratively that's where it is.  I would like to refer to it as a pain in somewhere else, but that description rightfully belongs to those with colon, prostate and rectal cancer.  Cancer gives you lots of things to complain about.  After a while, you develop a hierarchy of complaints.  So here, ladies and gentlemen, is my top ten list of complaints about my cancer: No 10—Trying to keep track of which medicine to take when.  No. 9--The "port" implanted in my chest just below my right collarbone.  It looks like a big, permanent, ugly boil. No. 8--Driving 80 miles round trip to Jacksonville for radiation five days a week for five and a half weeks. No. 7--Dry, itchy skin on my back, hands and arms with a little crispier on my chest. No.6-- Falling asleep for up to three hours in the middle of the day.  No. 5--Being attached to a drip bag of chemo chemicals in the clinic for five hours every three weeks. No. 4--Wearing a chemo pump on my belt and pajamas 24 hours a day, seven days a week to pump even more toxins into me. No. 3-- Constipation (I will not even describe what agony this can bring.) No. 2--Radiation induced sore throat and swallowing pain (somewhat above constipation). No. 1--And the number one complaint I have with my cancer is...chemo induced Mouth Sores which even can exceed swallowing pain and keep me up all night.

I can’t eat, I can’t drink, I can’t talk. For those who know me, we are talking this is hell!

This week Time Magazine ran an article that doctors should stop ordering PSA (prostate specific antigen) blood tests for men because they don't do any good.  True, prostate cancer is slow growing and there is something to the old saw, "You don't die of prostate cancer, you die with it." However, in my case a PSA test may have saved my life.  So here, as Paul Harvey would say, is "the rest of the story."  A little over two years ago I had melanoma (the worst skin cancer) in my left cheek.  On leaving the doctor's office after a routine visit he asked "Anything else you want to check?"  I told him I had this little lump on my face that seemed to be getting larger.  (Lesson:  question everything that just doesn't seem right. Everything.)  Biopsy positive, surgery successful, no more melanoma.  The experience was no worse than a root canal and I thought that was the end it.  At my last routine visit about five months ago the routine blood test also included a PSA reading of 9.8 (normal is 4 or below).  Only at that point, after two years of my PSA trending upward did my doctor order a biopsy.  Biopsy positive but early and small.  Easy to handle with a radioactive seed implant.  But...  The prostate radiology oncologist said with a history of melanoma maybe I should have a full body PET scan.  Bingo.  That's when they discovered the esophageal cancer!  Hopefully that can be stopped before it spreads throughout my body.  Here are two cases where doctors had good reason to order tests: a prostate biopsy and a full body PET scan.  Politicians are charging that doctors push up health care costs by ordering too many unnecessary tests.  If these tests on me were not done, next year I might be dead.  Is there a moral to this?  I don't know. What do you think?  It seems that what we firmly believe about medicine today will be negated by some study tomorrow whether it's about how we administer health care or how we deliver it. What if my doctor had said forget about the PSA?  The PSA test did not find my esophageal cancer but led to its discovery.  Is that luck or just good medical practice.  That's "the rest of the story."  I hope the end of the story is "happily ever after."

All my life I have been able to listen to music in my head.  This predates walkman and MP3 players.  It is not particularly unusual.  If you want to waste time Goggling it, you will find terms like:  "musical ear syndrome," "earworm," "musical imagery repetition," "involuntary musical imagery." I can call up Gershwin’s entire “Rhapsody in Blue" at will. But now this unique ability has backfired on me.  Almost every night I fall asleep involuntarily listening to "Cheeseburger in Paradise."  Then I wake up in the morning hearing a lot of finger snapping and..."I like mine with lettuce and tomatoes, Heinz 57 and French fried potatoes..."  During my afternoon nap I hear:  "a big warm bun and a huge hunk of meat..."  There is definitely a reason for this--I have not eaten solid food for over two months!  These are culinary hallucinations! I have learned there is a big difference between nourishment and ingesting real food.  Nutritionally I am doing fine—holding steady at 192 pounds after dropping 14.  My friends say I look good, bald head notwithstanding (Cancer doesn’t necessarily make you look like hell, just feel like it). For a guy who has subscriptions to Food Network and Fine Cooking magazines, getting esophageal cancer is the cruelest cut of all.  I can’t swallow solid foods.  The last time I tried a steak in March it felt like swallowing ground up river rock.  My doctors sternly told me I had to keep up my nutrition especially with lots of protein.  The alternative to doing it myself was punching a hole in my abdomen and attaching me to a liquid feed bag.  I would have preferred river rock. So to deliver that protein punch in the morning, I created, Peanut Butter Eggs. Here is the recipe. On one slice of whole wheat toast, spread three tablespoons of peanut butter. (Do it while the toast is hot so the peanut butter melts and softens the toast.) Then make two fried eggs over easy (runny yolks) and place them over the peanut butter toast. Serve with a glass of non-fat milk.  Calories 810, fiber 8 grams, protein 34 grams. Okay, before you say anything, consider a hole in your abdomen.

Now that my blog has been going for a couple weeks, I am getting interesting reactions. Several friends have said they hesitate to say they "enjoy" the blog but they appreciate the things I am saying about my adventures in cancerland.  It is perfectly all right to "enjoy" what I am writing because I understand what you're thinking.  I’m getting my point across.  I do not "enjoy" having cancer, but I won't deny it.  I can't just make it go away so I think the best thing to do is whack it head on.  Like a mosquito. Do you remember that old saying that used to show up on t-shirts, coffee mugs and office bulletin boards:  "Non illigitimus carborundum" (Don't let the bastards get you down)  That rather sums up my approach to this rather distasteful experience.  So keep reading the blog and let me know what you think. I enjoy reading you comments.

Flash update:  Since I posted my picture yesterday in all my baldness, my friends are dividing into two camps:  Savalas or Willis.  Which one do I look like?  At the moment, Willis is winning.  Cast your ballot today! (Could be a generation gap.  How many remember the fat, bald, lollypop loving detective?)

Now that I have a two-week respite from chemotherapy and they have stopped dropping the atomic bomb on my esophagus, I have time to reflect on things philosophical like what terminology does one use when discussing cancer.  If you have never had cancer you probably never thought about what words to use to tell people you are cancerous.  (No, you wouldn't use that word which makes it sound like you're infectious. "Watch it! I'm cancerous!)  The most acceptable declaration is, "I've got (or have) cancer."  This is generic and can apply to anything from a common cold, the flu, small pox or leprosy."  It is the all-purpose sickness response.  You can't say, for example: "I've come down with a cancer."  "Well, I caught a cancer last week."  "Oh, I've got a touch of cancer." My preferred answer is "I have been diagnosed with cancer."  That sounds more classy and dignified.  It implies somebody extremely smart and well paid, based on scientific evidence has established that some of your cells have gone berserk and are unmercifully destroying your body from within. Now, that's class. You would never say "I have been diagnosed with dandruff." So you see, not only do you have to put up with all the miserable crap cancer bestows upon you, you also have to figure out a way to talk about it.  (More about this when I discuss the "war" on cancer in a future blog.)

Cancer prognosis is like predicting the weather in Northeast Florida.  You really don't know what you are going to get until you actually see it through the window.  The good news for me is that I have been taken off chemotherapy for two weeks.  The bad news is that we don't know if frying my throat to extra-crispy and flooding my blood stream with toxic cell-killing chemo drugs has actually done anything to the cancer.  So yesterday the doctor told me we want to "get my strength back," "gain some weight (I lost 14 pounds)" and then take a look at the cancer and start some more chemo.  In other words, we'll give your system a couple weeks rest before we know what's happening and zap it again with the chemo bomb.  One of the more gloomy habits I have take up is to read a couple of cancer blogs each day (I will post my opinion of cancer blogs in the future, don't miss it).  Some bloggers write about their chemo going on for years!   I can't think of anything worse.  So we have to deal with one of the most aggravating things about cancer treatment: uncertainty, what’s happening?  Tomorrow’s forecast:  "40 percent chance of thunderstorms."  Maybe it would be better to express it as 60 percent chance of sunshine.

Once  they have told you have cancer, they give you your "premiums"--a beautiful, inch-and-a-half thick cook book and another slick 68-page book called "Eating Hints-- Before, During and After Cancer Treatment."  (Compliments of the U. S. Dept. of Health and Human Services, National Cancer Institute.)  The cook book gives you recipes on delicious meals to prepare when you have diarrhea, constipation, low white blood count, and other equally distasteful conditions. The other book provides amplifying information such as why your throat hurts like hell, how your feelings affect your appetite, mouth sores, vomiting, etc.  Of course, all of the advice includes avoiding alcohol.  Now this is like telling me to avoid one of the basic food groups.  They also say no carbonated beverages.  So much for beer.  At a certain point it became apparent I could no longer enjoy my preferred evening cocktails (Manhattans and Rum & Cokes) or wine with meals.  Booze began burning like molten lava, so I decided to seek a throat friendly cocktail and invent my own custom libation that might ease the pain. Thus was created:

The Amelia Island Moonbeam

2 oz dark rum (you can use light if you wish)
1 Tbsp real maple syrup (U.S. Grade A Dark Amber)
Mix them in an on-the-rocks glass and add ice cubes to the top.
Fill with milk (whatever you like from skim to whole)
Stir and garnish with ground nutmeg

 I found this drink quite pleasant, really smooth and it actually worked until the swallowing pain got so unbearable I had to eliminate any irritant.  As soon as the pain subsides, the rum returns.

There are lessons to be learned from chemo onset baldness. If you are the one whose hair has fallen out you tend to be embarrassed about the way you look.  If you are a friend of one whose hair has fallen out you tend to be embarrassed because you don't know exactly how to react when you fist meet after the falling out.  It really is a bit uneasy for both sides because you can't ignore your shining head and your friends can't pretend they didn't notice.  There is that awkward moment when neither of you knows exactly what to say.  Your friend does not want to acknnowledge that you are really, really ill (after all, nobody gets chemotherapy for a sprained ankle) and you know that what you say will upset your friend.  You learn in that instant your friends truly care about you and you care about them, something you don't think about often enough. Once that moment has passed you both try to lighten it up:  "Nice haircut, great for the summer."  "Hey, it looks good on you." "It's not that bad." “Maybe you ought to keep it like that” (yeah right!)  One of my favorites: "You know you have a nice shaped head."  One I haven't heard yet: "Boy, I bet you save a lot of money on shampoo."  Does anyone know if Bruce Willis could use a stand in?

When you suddenly lose all you hair, it becomes difficult to hide the fact that you have cancer, although I probably could have gotten away with it.  In the small island town where I live, I have appeared on the local community stage about 25 times over the last 17 years and have acquired a reputation for being a decent actor.  So it was not uncommon, when I walked into Publix, the town’s supermarket and social hub, to have people stop and ask me in all sincerity and seriousness if I were preparing for a new role! Really.  Several specifically asked if I were doing the King and I somewhere . It would have been very tempting to strike a theatrical pose and say "yes" but, unfortunately, I had no voice which would have been a dead give away.  Throat cancer radiation treatment does that to you. So I fessed up and said the dreadful word "chemo" and judging by the expression, I probably ruined that day for a friend of mine.  Sorry I didn’t mean to.

Many people who have contracted cancer figured it would be a terrific thing to write about.  From what I have gathered about these writings they swing from the inspirational "I shall overcome" variety to "this is really ghastly so I want to share my misery with you."  I guess I'll fall somewhere along that spectrum.  So this is the first of "adventures of the Cancer Guy."  Please note, I am not a cancer "victim," I am not a cancer "sufferer," and God is not "punishing me."  For those of my friends who do not know it yet, I am a guy who has throat cancer and is entitled to all the rights and privileges pertaining thereto.  Now that I have been into cancer treatment long enough, I have acquired a sufficiently sour disposition; I decided it was time to start this blog.  Since cancer may not give me enough to gripe about, from time to time you will find my opinions on politics, religion and any thing else that is annoying me on any given day.

The Cancer Guy