Spike

May 162006
 
I wrote that last entry about Cancerbaby’s death on the fly. I actually wrote it during a quiet moment at work.

It was a strange day, that Sunday. I really had been fully prepared to have my knees knocked out from beneath me because of the whole Mother’s Day-ness of it all. Learning that Cancerbaby had died was sort of like getting sucker punched. But that’s not completely true because I knew she wasn’t at all well, and that things were coming to an end for her. Still, I held on to hope for her.
I spent the biggest chunk of Sunday at work, and I thought I was sad but basically okay about it.

And then I left work and I started to unravel. I have to say that I did a magnificent job of unravelling.

Today, most of what I feel is confusion.

Several folks have stepped up and have tried to be supportive while I sob or go catatonic. There are so many layers and so many ways I feel bad in this, I don’t know where to begin.

I feel this staggering degree of grief for Mr. Cancerbaby. I try to imagine how he puts one foot in front of the other and I realize that I can’t comprehend what he must be feeling. There is a big bruise on my heart for Mr. Cancerbaby.

And I feel sad and horrified that someone who was so smart and eloquent and so young and who went through treatment at more or less the same time as me got the crappy bend in the road.

Mostly, I am numb and confused and I keep thinking that this should never have happened.

One of the few things that is a good thing in all this is how all the OVCA bloggers have come together and passed the word. I feel like everyone is trying to do whatever sort of tribute makes sense for them.

I dunno.

I remain stunned and saddened, and mostly I just think it is such a spectacular waste and that it is so very wrong that she is dead.

6 Responses to “Flags at half-mast”

  1. Fi Says:
    It isn’t fair at all …
    When one thinks of all the good people that die and the terrible people who go on.
    It isn’t fair, it isn’t right …

    Thinking of you Spike.

    Love
    Fi

  2. tara Says:
    i just got back and am catching up on reading folk’s blogs. i’m sorry for your loss (which doesn’t really capture what i want to say, ya know?), cancerbaby sounds like one hell of a woman.
  3. Liz (suburban girl) Says:
    Cancerbaby’s blog was gutsy and honest. She left her mark on the world, and on me. Here’s to you, Cancerbaby. I wish you were still with us.

    Rock on, Spike
    Suburban Girl

  4. cb’s friend Says:
    Email me if you want to talk.
  5. Amy Says:
    I found you via Cancerbabys blog and damn you if I am not reading your blog from day ONE. You rock. Greetings from Chilliwack BC
  6. another friend Says:
    Spike, I understand the loss. I am looking to be in touch with cb’s friend, know how I can contact them? Thanks….
 Posted by at 4:05 am
May 142006
 
I thought that if I wrote a post today, it would be a little nudge to remind everyone to call their moms.

And you should still do that.

And I just read Cancerbaby’s blog, and, well, she died on Friday.

She was 33.

Thanks for helping me with my journey, CB.

Happy trails to you.

3 Responses to “Adios, amiga”

  1. jawnbc Says:
    I’m so sorry Spike….
  2. Vicki Says:
    She was such a gifted, wonderful writer. She will be missed not only by her real family, but also by her online ovca kin.
    Peace, Jessica.
    Thanks Spike.
  3. Fi Says:
    I have no words … it is so sad …

    Hugs Spike

 Posted by at 9:35 am
May 092006
 
Well, I wrote a post the other night, all about how I went to work the other day and realized well into the day that it was the 2 year anniversary of my OVCA diagnosis. I wrote about how that was kind of weird. And how it also felt a bit like a non-event, and how *that* felt weird. Because, hell’s bells, a whole lot of crap and good stuff has happened in this last two years. I guess I expected to have a larger emotional reaction to it all.

So I wrote a post about that, and it felt not completely spot on, but I posted it anyway.

And then we had a server crash and everything that happened on the website since the last backup of the site, well, that stuff went to the abyss of lost text that exists somewhere in the ether.

So, two years. Holy cow, eh?

Lucky me.

And I do mean that. I know that I got a really good deal in a really crappy situation. I have no guarantees that I won’t have a recurrence. I only have the good thing where the longer I go without a recurrence, the more likely I am to be able to avoid having one, statistically speaking.

Fingers crossed.

That said, I want to talk about the whole crazy world of blogging about having cancer and what that is like.

See, at some point in the past Louise found my site, dropped me an e-mail and asked if she could link her blog to mine. I was delighted to have been hooked up with someone who could understand all the finer, agonizing details of the OVCA ordeal and said “sure thing” pretty dang quick.

Through Louise, I  hooked up with several other women, all of whom were doing their part to dropkick ovarian cancer. One of those women is Cancerbaby. Cancerbaby is a brilliant writer, and, I suspect, a brilliant woman. She hasn’t made many blog entries lately and now, things are going rather crappily for her. And I feel very, very bad about that.

My girlfriend, in her great wisdom, has a belief that people you “know” through the internet but have never met in real life are “your imaginary friends”. The one exception to the imaginary friends rule is the women I have connected up with through our ovarian cancer blogs.

So Cancerbaby’s circumstances have become awful, and I feel awful.

At the same time, I know some part of what it is like to be terribly, terribly sick and how you know that most people actually can’t actually comprehend what you are going through or how wretched you feel. And on that level, I know only a small speck of what Cancerbaby is going through. And while I am grateful for my ignorance, I am very sad that someone I feel that kindred connection with is suffering and having to fight so hard. I am sad that someone has to feel even worse than I did, and to know that she has been feeling worse for quite a long time.

I wish I had some upbeat note I could leave this on, but I am coming up short on that score.

Please send whatever sort of kind and caring thoughts you can to Cancerbaby.

3 Responses to “Comrades”

  1. Fi Says:
    Spike,

    Holy cow, yeah.
    My fingers, toes, eyes, legs, arms … all crossed.

    Anniversary’s are all a bit strange … you never know what to expect and how you might feel or if the day will just go by like any other day … it is all a bit strange.

    While our journeys are very, very different, I hear so many things in your words Spike, that reflect feelings, fears and hopes similiar to mine. Your words cause me to think, reflect, feel and connect with my own “humanness”. That is a very special gift, it helps one shine the light on more dark corners of their own experience and the illumination, although uneasy at first, ultimately can make these corners much less scary.

    Sending out light and healing love to the universe.

    Fi

  2. Vicki Says:
    I was going to respond sooner but just the mention of CB kind of immobilizes me. I feel so bad for her and her family… and then I feel so bad for all any of us with ovca… we live waiting for the other shoe to drop. And yet, reading all our wonderful blogs, thru the highs and the lows our lives go on.. and our lives are fantastic.
    Keep on posting and being your edgy Spike self, gives me alot of LOLs.
    thank you
    Vicki – and my dh, I read almost everything to him.
  3. Gimpy Mumpy Says:
    Hi Spike, I’ve just found your blog and thought “wowie, my 2 year anniversary of my totally screwed up, traumatic spine surgery is next week, how do I celebrate this year?” The problem is that on the one hand I don’t feel that I’ve made much progress physically in the 2 years since the surgery (even though I practically live at the rehab department at the hospital). But then I think about some milestones along the way (this post comes to mind: http://mumpy.typepad.com/gimpy_mumpy/2005/12/the_living_room.html) and think ‘hey! I this deserves a celebration! Right?’

    Hope this message finds you well.

 Posted by at 3:39 am
May 022006
 
Mother’s Day is fast approaching and with its approach comes a whole whack of crap that has been stuck in my head for, oh… about the last two years.
I am apprehensive about posting this and to some extent, I envy the OVCA blogging amigas who can remain anonymous. I think there is a lot that can be gained from that. But my blog is only semi-anonymous at best. But I think it’s time to just say some stuff that has been, well, you know, torturing me for the last couple of years.
And if you feel compelled to make a comment on this post, try to be kind, eh?
I’m just talking, I ain’t asking for anyone’s advice.

Part one of the whole David Copperfield thing of me and ovarian cancer goes like this, in a nutshell.
A bunch of doctors decide I need surgery.
I say okay.
Meet with surgeon who says,”Yes, let’s cut you open.”
“Okay,” says I.
“Unfortunately, the nurses are about to have a job action, check back when that’s all dealt with, eh?,” says he.
Nurses strike ends on a Monday. On the Friday of that week, I am in the hospital, in the first of many ugly blue gowns that really show off my ichial tuberosity.
Anyway, here’s the punch line you all have been waiting for. Doctor says, “Hmm, cancer. You’ll have to do this, and this, and then this. And this is a new doctor, go see him.”
Actually, my surgeon was great. I think my circumstances would be way different without him.

All this shite happened on the Mother’s Day weekend of 2004.
That’s how I remember when it all happened.
Lance Armstrong says he doesn’t celebrate his birthday anymore. Instead, he celebrates the day he was diagnosed with cancer, because it did so much to make him get off his ass (?) and do more with his life (?) and make the most of every day. So, for my buddy Lance, who I do actually hold in high regard, being diagnosed with cancer and everything that came from that was a good thing.
My own personal feelings on the matter are a bit more ambivalent. (But then, I didn’t invent those little yellow bracelets, did I?)

But the day is approaching and, at the very least, requires a bit of reflection on my part.

The second part of my David Copperfield OVCA story goes like this.

This is the part that I don’t actually talk much about.

Mother’s Day is also the time when we are supposed to pause for a while from the crazy pace of our crazy lives and give some attention and love and admiration to the women who birthed us.
Now, it’s my understanding that Mother’s Day was originally a day of political protest, when mothers rallied to protest their sons being sent off to die in the World Wars.
And then Hallmark got ahold of it and neutered (spade?) it and it became about carnations and breakfast in bed.
But I digress.

I think almost every mother deserves *at least* a day a year to get the reverence she deserves.
And I would be happy to steer some of that in my mom’s direction, but that’s a bit of a meaningless gesture these days.

My mom has had Alzheimer’s for several years now, and by the time of my diagnosis, really couldn’t be left alone in the house. As a result, my mom never knew that I, the youngest of her kids, had this god awful disease. My mom has no idea who I am when I visit her and can no longer put sentences together.

I think very, very highly of my mom. As much as she contributed to the ways I am neurotic, she also contributed to the ways I attempt to be fair and ethical and trust-worthy. She taught me that racism and anti-Semiticism were wrong, way back in the early 60’s. There were no other caucasian people around me who said things like that, or dared to say, “That joke wasn’t funny, it was cruel and racist.”

She spanked me too often. She taught me that it is important to be polite. She was, more than anyone else I am related to, interested in ideas and how the world was changing, and she was always excited when I got to experience something that hadn’t been available to her when she was my age.

Of her three kids, I was the one who was the least like her in many ways, and yet when I grew up a bit, I always had the feeling that I was her favorite.
And in a weird way, I could also see ways that my brother was her favorite. And the ways that my sister was her favorite. And all of that was really nice. To get that groove that she ended up really liking all of us, in different ways, but liking us. That was great.

In short, I miss my mom.

I miss my mom pretty much every day. Something comes up, and there is an ache in my chest and I miss her.
When I was diagnosed, there were times I wished she could *know* and be my mom and do the mom thing and try to make everything okay.
And, in my less selfish moments, I was kind of glad that she didn’t have to know that her baby was in this dog fight with cancer. Because it would have broken her heart and there was nothing she could really have done to fix it, and so maybe it was really best that she never had to know.

So, Mother’s Day is looming and I always feel like I should *do* something around all that and all the various layers involved in all that.
I expect what will happen is I will go to work and come home and probably spend the night hanging with myself, trying to make it all as normal as can be.

I guess I will let you know once I have done it.

And to you all, don’t forget to call your Mom. I’d consider it a personal favour.

10 Responses to “Mother’s Day.”

  1. Sheena Says:
    Your words always touch me – you make me smile and laugh and think. This time you made me cry. OK, it’s not the first time I have cried reading your blog, but I get how you’re feeling.
    Mom stuff goes deep – deeper than we know until it’s gone from our lives.
    I think you have *done* something around Mother’s Day; your words are a beautiful snapshot of your Mom.
    Thanks for sharing.
  2. Dreamer Girl Says:
    Your story is very touching and sad and I kinda know how you feel but I’m not saying I do completely though. I was adopted when I was three and so I havn’t seen my birth mom or dad at all for ten years : (
    I hope you are ok and dont ‘t ever forget the good times you had. I’m sorry you have to go through this kind of thing every year during Mother’s Day. I dont know wha much else to say, again, hope you ok
    : )
  3. Spike Says:
    Sheena, my friend, thank you for your support. It matters mucho coming from a gal like you, and knowing that we both know what this sort of heartbreak is like.
    I appreciate that quiet understanding,

    DreamerGirl.

    Thanks for your kindness. I appreciate it. And I’ll be okay. On some level, it feels like huge progress to just admit it out loud or online. I confess, this is about the most I have been willing to say about it in either medium.

    I suppose the other detail I neglected to mention is that my mom has always been the family historian, so could maybe have provided a bit more depth to some of the cancer questions.
    So it goes.

    My hope for my mom is that she actually is lucid underneath it all and she has decided that since we treat her like a gabbering id-jit, she will adopt the mannerism of our crazy-ass gibberish tribe, probably as a courtesy, but under the surface, she is just still as smart as ever, watching her PBS and Knowledge network shoes. And even that crappy Oprah.
    It’s freaky to wonder where the brilliance went. Is it still in there, tired and buried under the worn out grey bits or did it begin to erode and wash away with each shampoo treatment? Or is she just wishing we would get it and that we and the medical profession would stop drugging her into oblivion.

    I could go on and on and on. But I will leave it at that.

  4. pat Says:
    Although I am in Ca and my Mom is in CT, in the 19 years I’ve been here we talk almost every day. Even if its for a minute. When I was diagnosed with my OVC and going through chemo, one of the worst things for me was how very much it affected my mom and how much she was hurting for me.
    She is getting older and not very strong physically and the last few months it seems like there are more medical issues. She has never complained if she was hurting herself, only about others. Now once in awhile she will admit she is not feeling well and it just breaks my heart. Especially being so far away. I do see her one or two times a year, last year she even make the long trip here to be with me.
    So, I can understand in a different way, what you are saying. I will be sure to call my Mom with a special call on Mothers Day and I will also say Happy Mothers Day to your Mom from my heart.
    Hope the day goes ok for you.
  5. Jennysue Says:
    Spike, you have me all choked up. You actually made me feel guilty, because there were many times during my course w/ cancer that I wished my mom hadn’t known about it because she was soooo overhwhelmed by it – and therefore overhwhelmed me. But hearing your story, and how you could not tell your mom – I realize that it was wrong for me to think that and I should be thankful that I was able to have her be there for me. My grandmother has alzheimers and I know how hard it is to deal with. But this mother’s day I will make it a big point to make sure I express my appreciation to them both. Thanks for making me think about this – I’m sure your mom would be sooo proud of you if she knew how strong her daughter is.
  6. pat Says:
    Jennysue, At times I though I was the only one who had a mom that was so overwhelmed with my time with cancer and also wished at times that she did not have to know. I know what you mean about being overwhemed because of you Mom. It’s so good sometime to here that we’re not alone in our feelings.
  7. Dee-Dee Says:
    I hope you’re able to spend mother’s day remembering all the good things about your mom…
  8. Sirenia Says:
    Consider it done! This is my second attempt to let you know that your favor will be done by this daughter of a woman who has ovarian cancer. The first time I read this post I fell apart. I dread the Mother’s Day I won’t be able to spend with mine. I agree with Sheena: you have done something just by expressing your love.
  9. Spike Says:
    Thanks.

    And also, we had a little server crash and anything that went up during that chunk of time, well, it came right back down.
    Including a post of mine… which is fine cuz I wasn’t sure I liked it anyway.

    Thanks for trying twice, and say hey to your mom from me.

    Spike

  10. Theressa Says:
    Spike, I’ve been following your “dog fight” with OVCA from nearly it’s evil inception. Every once in awhile I check in to see how you are faring. I love to read your words, they are lyrical and magical and emotional and they make me F****** FEEL! I love that even when it hurts. And this posting hurt. I hurt for myself, I miss my mother too. You, though have the hardest road to walk. I have the luxury of missing a mother who is phsycially dead. I know the words are a bit strange. Using “lurxury” to describe the state of my mother’s existence but it’s true nonetheless. I can’t imagine missing an integral part of your being as if she’s dead yet is she is not. My thought on this….maybe your Mom has trancsended to the next level of human existence and language and she’s just waiting for the rest of us to catch up and catch on! I will remember you the next time I feel like wallowing in pity and missing my mother. I have the comfort of losing her quickly and peacefully, truly I have nothing to complain about. You keep strong. Your courage and my mother in-law’s courage (she died after her 2nd bout with breast cancer) has inspired me. I have been training to take part in the Susan G. Komen Run/Walk for the Cure here in Northern California. It’s coming up this weekend I’ll walk for her, I’ll walk for you and for the struggles you’ve endured while battling against and winning over cancer!
    My Love to you Dear!
    Theressa
 Posted by at 4:06 am
Apr 252006
 
But I will valiantly push on.

I don’t want to do anything that might diminish my rep as a miserable old ratbag, so I worry what the cost may be if I post that things have been pretty downright dandy lately.

For one thing, the weather has taken a lovely turn for the summer-ish side of things, and while it certainly isn’t summer yet, I am happy to sit through the dress rehearsals.

And I had a realization just the other day that a year ago, I was in Kaua’i with my sweetie and a couple of really good friends and I had a spectacular time. Which got me to thinking how great it is to go swimming with tropical fish, and also that things have certainly been hard over the last couple of years, but there have been some really wonderful chunks of time mixed in along the way, too.

Over the last year or so, a lot of my stress has come from ongoing medical issues with my family, and while none of those situations have had a wild and Disney-like recovery, and they never will, none of those situations has gotten any worse recently, and that’s a bit of a relief.

And last week, I wrote my last exam for that semester. And that feels like a great relief, even if I did have a moment of temporary insanity that caused me to register for two classes over the summer. I figure I can still drop them if my inner sloth totally takes over.

It was my birthday last week, and my sweetie gave me a Coleman stove, which is so great because I really love to camp and the stove I bought last year suffered from some defect that caused the pipe to erode and snap open. The pipe that carries the gas from the can to the stove. I came quite close to becoming the English Patient while trying to figure out why my stove, which was two months old, wouldn’t light. So, this year, Elaine bought me the name brand replacement and we shall be off in the woods in no time. And I love that idea more than I can say.

I have also spent a chunk of the last few weeks working in my old job, the job I had right at the time of my diagnosis/surgery. See, at the time I had the surgery, I really just thought that the surgeon would cut out the tumour, which I sincerely believed would turn out to be benign, and I would have 6 weeks off work, from May till July, and then I would go back and everything would be same old, same old.

Clearly things didn’t quite go according to plan. But I had only a couple of days notice before the surgery and and it was all a whirlwind. And after the surgery and nine months of chemo and the recovery from the treatment, I got offered a position with a new project that seemed less stressful. But for this last week, I have parachuted back to the old work site and there I am, just like nothing ever happened. Some people remember me, but there are lots of new faces. In some ways, it really drives home the point that the show just keeps on going and going and going. That helps me stay back at a healthy distance, I think.

But my point is, it’s been nice and it’s been interesting and, in some ways, it’s been gratifying to go back. It’s also nice to know that I have my real job that I will go back to. Still, it’s interesting to feel like I have been a part of something important.

And yesterday, I saw my friendly neighbourhood oncologist who said that my CA125 count is at 7. Elaine and I let out the breath we had both been holding for the last week, since the blood draw, and were giddy with the joy that comes from such news and also from connecting one’s lungs with O2 after such a long period of deprivation. Very, very happy about that news at my house.

And now it’s late and the alarm will go off way too soon, even if it is my day off tomorrow. And just a few feet away from me, my sweetie is sleeping and making sweet little sleep noises and all around her are the cats, and it’s all so sweet and right. So much sweetness.
I guess I am gonna lose some Eeyore points for this post, but what are you gonna do?

3 Responses to “It can be hard to write a blog post with a cat sitting on your mouse”

  1. jawnbc Says:
    yay.
  2. Jennysue Says:
    It’s so nice to hear such good news. Yay for good blood, new stoves, birthdays, and cats on mouses! I love it! Happy belated my friend! May you get lots of good uses out of that stove
  3. Vicki Says:
    With such great news we will forgive you for not posting a really edgy post.. HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY !!! so glad it was a nice one. you deserve it.
    I hope you have some wonderful camping this summer and whip up some great food on your new stove.
 Posted by at 3:41 am
Apr 192006
 

It’s funny how language evolves around an illness.

I bumped into a woman the other day; a woman I used to work with. Actually, a woman who tried to impale me with the forklift when I didn’t do her bidding. That was pretty much the last time we spoke untl I bumped into her at the gas station on Tuesday.
To be true, I didn’t recognize her or I would have laid rubber from here to some distant suburb. I still had the nozzle in the tank when she started talking with me.

I said hi back and made a politely reverential remark about her brand new grey Mustang convertible.

“Oh, yeah. My dad killed himself a couple of years ago and I bought this with my inheritance.”

Oh, golly. I have a crazy and sometimes brutal life and that is one of the chilliest things anyone has said to me in a long long time. And if you take out the times when I get paid to listen to horrific stuff, it’s been a really super long time.

“Sorry about your dad,” I say.

“Oh, it’s been a couple of years now; I am okay with it.”

“Oh,” I think.

“I heard you were sick.” says the gal who once tried to kill me.

Now, ironically, I have just come from my bloodwork appointment and still have the wee band-aid on my arm.

“Yeah,” says I, “I was sick” (Because in case you didn’t know, sick is a euphimism for any dastardly disease that makes your life more complicated than other people’s.)

“How are you now?”

“I dunno,” I say, pointing at my fresh pink band-aid, “I’ll find out next week.

It still strikes me as odd that we say “sick” to mean the flu or cancer.

I think this requires more thought.

There is more to say about all this.

4 Responses to “I heard you were sick…”

  1. Vicki Says:
    Very interesting thoughts. I also notice that when people ask how I am I try not to be too negative – I don’t want to make them feel bad. ?. How backward is that – I want them to feel okay?
    Take care Spike.
    Vicki
  2. jawnbc Says:
    You could have said “was it because of you?” But how spiritual would that be?

    Euphemisms are invariably designed to respect boundaries. Even freaks use them without knowing why.

  3. Jennysue Says:
    Hey Spike
    I too have had some run-ins with pre-cancer life people. They too said some pretty dumb things. What can I say, some people are not as considerate, wise, and aware as us!
  4. Gimpy Mumpy Says:
    Brilliant post. People feel they have the right to come up and say the strangest, often offensive, things to me but this lady takes the cake!
 Posted by at 3:43 am
Apr 092006
 


I have an exam I should be studying for, and if I was going to thumb my nose at higher learning, there is a bed I should crawl into because I have to work in the morning, but whatever.

I got lots of feedback and such for that last post about trying to be grateful while feeling really pissed off and ripped off and more than a bit confused.
Oddly, it seems to be all cancer survivors who wrote to say anything about that post. And really, I think that is both fine and cool.

I think it is really interesting that I am not the only one who is just fantastically pissed off about having gone through this nasty cancer episode. It’s good for me to know there are other folks out there who are a bit pissy about the whole thing, because, as I mentioned, I *feel* like I should be ever so happy to have made it through, this far, to the other side.
And, as I mentioned, I am.
And I also really miss the person I was before cancer came in and bleached a whole lot of sunny emotion from my life.
I don’t really want to say that you can’t understand unless you have gone through something similar. But I think most people actually can’t. I am not trying to be all precious and unique.
It’s just totally weird.
And it happened, and I would like to move on.

Here’s the flipside.
Here’s the sunshine head episode. People who know me in real life may need to walk away now.
But here’s what I have been thinking lately.
I know this cranky man through my work. Being cranky is his day to day approach to life. If a crisis comes up, he has a variety of different personas, most of which are friendlier and easier to be around, and he opens the bag and lets some other aspect of his personality come to the forefront, and it’s very interesting.
It’s very interesting to me to realize that being cranky is a choice he has made and it is his default position.
It’s interesting to me to see how he is happy being unhappy.
And I don’t want to be that beast.
And that’s part of what is freaky about the whole ‘pissy apres cancer’ scene. When does the crabbiness stop being reasonable and when does it start anchoring itself on to your soul and make every day an Eeyore day?

Okay, so anyone who really really knows me should really really turn away now.
Cuz the sunshine is about to become blinding.

Here’s the thing of it.
And this is a message to myself way more than it is a message to anyone else.
Every day we wake up and, to some extent, we get to influence what sort of day we are going to have.
I think the most important thing we can bring to any day we have above ground is some degree of compassion and caring for the people around us.
I think we all have to decide who we want to give our compassion to, but really, that stuff, those fluffy emotions, are the things that make us human and it is those things that we do for each other that make life worth living.

So, there you have it.
The sunshine episode.

Don’t get me wrong; I ain’t got any of this down yet. But it is on my mind.
I guess my point is, I think we have every right to be angry and grumpy and confused and testy and anything else we may feel.
And at some point, I think we have to swim back and join the school we came from, even if we did get pulled up on the deck of the boat. For whatever reason, we got kicked back in the ocean and we got another chance.

So maybe we still got the wound from the fish hook, but it’s way better than being surrounded in mayonaisse and sourdough bread.

We have a second chance and we gotta get swimming.

5 Responses to “And another thing…”

  1. Liz (suburban girl) Says:
    I will never look at a tuna fish sandwich the same way again. I agree with the fish analogy. By the way, I think I can compete with you in the longest scar (fish hook wound) competition and I’m learning to accept that too.
    You spoke the truth in your sunshine episode. Love is all there is.
    Sending love your way(oops forgot to tell you to shield your eyes)
    Suburban Girl
  2. jawnbc Says:
    Dare I quote it…..OK I dare

    “the grouch and the brainstorm are not for us. They are the dubious luxury of so-called normal men, but for us they are infinitely grave. They are, in fact, poison.”

    You have every right to be pissed off. Doesn’t mean it’ll make your life any better. Being angry and being a crabby assed mo’ fo’ arent’ the same.

    And for you to be miserably cancer-free? Better than dead, but by how much?

  3. Spike Says:
    Jawn, jawn, Jawn…

    I don’t know how to explain it to you. Honest, I don’t.
    I would be infinitely pleased to have a burst of joy wash over me. I put a lot of effort in to trying. Most every day.

    And if I could just wish it away, I promise you, I would.

    I am putting all my extra energy into getting my life back on track. Sometimes that is frustrating, sometimes it’s tiring, sometimes it’s annoying to see how I fell behind on things I planned on doing and I have to scramble now.

    I actually think it can’t make sense to someone who hasn’t done this.

    But I appreciate that you pay attention. I really do.

  4. Dee-Dee Says:
    hmm… was that jawn’s attempt at tough love?
    jmho- after everything you’ve been through you have every right to be angry and crabby..
    I could never understand it all exactly because I’ve not been through it- but it almost seems like post-traumatic stress syndrome (there’s even a name for it!) Many people are diagnosed with it after a traumatic event in their lives. (think- person who is critically injured in car crash- greatful they made it but stunned from the whole ordeal) Many soldiers are diagnosed with it when they come home from war.. You, my friend, fought the war valiantly and won. Give yourself time…
  5. Liz (suburban girl) Says:
    I’m 9 months out from finishing chemo and after the initial post-traumatic stage, my life gradually leveled out to a “new normal”, a term my counselor coined. By the way, counseling and pharmaceuticals, specifically Lexapro and the occasional Ativan, helped alot.
    My counselor also said that when cancer patients feel better they often want to do so much they end up leading a frantic life instead of a full, meaningful one.
 Posted by at 9:29 pm
Apr 052006
 


Ah, another late night post, filled with that sweet insanity that comes from a long day at work and a flash of introspection.
I got an e-mail from an old friend this last week, and it got me thinking about a few things, and also motivated me to actually post about a few notions that have been brewing in my head for a bit.
First of all, I’m not the sort of dyke who wants to sit around and tell you what a positive influence cancer has had on my life and how, knowing what I do today, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I am not sure what’s up with the folks who say such things, except maybe those folks have never been weaned off their pain meds. I really don’t know.

But I *do* know that there were some good things that happened because I had cancer. As I think I have mentioned here before, some old friends came pouring out of the woodwork.
This is good, especially when you bear in mind that other, relatively new, friends ran for the hills.

And actually, I am not even mad about it. It taught me some things about the importance of showing up when people you care about are having a hard time, rather than just talking about what you think you might do or what you should do or what you are thinking about doing.

But I digress.

I was chatting with this old friend, and I was thinking lately, about my overall level of crankiness in this post-chemo time in my life and how I feel this pressure to be happier and more grateful. I can’t quite identify where that pressure comes from. Maybe it’s just from inside my own fuzzy little head.

But I think it’s bigger than that.

But that part isn’t what I wanted to write about today. I wanted to write about the draft.

I want write about how it feels to be less than delighted, all things considered. And don’t get me wrong. I am plenty happy that, so far, I am on the right side of the ground. Happy, happy, happy about that.

I think a bunch of things happen when you are trying to wrestle cancer to the ground.

1) It totally screws with your head.
How could it not? Some folks who read this blog will know full well how completely bizarre it is to have a stranger in a lab coat tell you that your chances of staying on the daisy side of the dirt, instead of the ‘pushing up’ side of the dirt, are less than spectacular. If you have never had this conversation, just trust me that it messes with your head. And I don’t even mean to be ironic when I say it’s life altering.

2) I don’t know about anyone else’s approach to their illness but mine. And I decided, in the times I felt well enough to remember that this was my strategy, that I was going to fight this mo-fo the entire way. And that even though the statistics for making it were freakishly bad, the statistics actually do prove that some people make it. And I had to set my sights on being one of them.

And what happened with that is I took the stubborn component of my personality (which is really quite small in day to day life. Just really a wee speck of a thing, it is) and let it run the show. You know that saying about “it isn’t the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog”? That’s how I felt. I let the fight in me take centre stage.
I think that was good. But it meant I came out of the gate swinging, even when I didn’t need to.

I am still learning how to undo this one and respond like a dog that might be allowed in the house.

I realize the following comment is going to doom me to geek status, but coming out of chemo-land, I felt a lot like Buffy in season 6. Like I have been pulled back from the dead and that I may have become a bit anti-social while I was away, and meanwhile everyone thinks I should be so happy. And I am happy. Really, truly, I am. But it’s more complicated than that. Happy is one emotion I feel. I also feel confused and a bit lost. I feel scared in ways I can’t even talk about and I am not sure anyone wants to hear about, anyway. I feel angry, though less and less as time goes on. I feel completely stunned that something like that happened to me and on a day when my denial skills are particularly sharp, I can pretty much convince myself that it didn’t happen. Until I see the 12″ scar on my gut. And I think, “Oh for the love of Pete, Spike, terrible things happen to people all the time. You in no way have the market cornered on this, and, for a totally shitty situation, you couldn’t have had better results along the way, so shut up and get on with living your life.”
And I get freaked out that the world kept chugging along and now I have to run like hell to catch up. It’s a totally grab bag of emotions. I’d advise gloving up before your ram your hand in there, cuz some of these things are corrosive.
And the reason I write this is not to complain about anyone, except possibly myself. People have been very good to me, and very kind. Really, at this point in time, I hope that maybe I can help other people who are wading through this bizarre territory and maybe make them feel less isolated if they are having mixed emotions.

So, it’s not that I am ungrateful. I’m just trying to help.

6 Responses to “It’s not that I am not grateful”

  1. Jennysue Says:
    Hey Spike, YOu could have copied and pasted that post to a dialogue bubble outside of my head….(that is a funny image) because I have the exact same struggle with all the emotions that come along w/ cancer. It is hard to digest, and to explain. But you did a good job getting some of your thoughts out there. I am with you my friend, I am not sure how grateful I am either.
  2. Nicole Says:
    Hey Spike,

    Like Jennysue said…you really gave the thoughts in my head a voice tonight. I spend as much time telling myself I should be grateful, happy, thankful as I do feeling angry, frustrated and afraid. Unfortunately I also spend a lot of time feeling guilty as well because I feel so isolated from my friends. I haven’t felt the same level of support from all my friends and family in this and it makes me feel like maybe I shouldn’t be feeling anything at all about all this cancer stuff. Maybe I’m just over reacting. I know everyone means well but at the end of the day, most of my friends have sent me one maybe two emails, and of the family I’ve heard from (my father excepted who has been nothing short of amazing) it was basically one phone call before treatment started and then nothing.

    Am I horrible person for not wanting being the one that has to call their friends and family and ask for a little love? I feel like I’m just supposed to be grateful for the support I do receive – and I am – but I also feel sad and alone more often than not.

  3. pat Says:
    and the two of you are not alone….Spike, thanks for being able to put it into words….I’ve had many of the same thoughts in my head but have not yet shared them with anyone because I don’t think they will understand.
  4. H in NC Says:
    Hi…I stumbled upon your blog right after my OVCA dx on 2/1/06. I found it so refreshing being from the lesbian point of view. I have only had 2 of 6 tx and can already relate to many of your thoughts/feelings. My girlfriend is from Toronto, living here in NC, and is a Godsend! She has been so dear in all of this muck. Thank you for sharing. It really does help those of us in various stages of our journey. I wish you longevity with dancing w/ NED’s sister. :-)
    H in NC
  5. Liz (suburban girl) Says:
    Spike,
    You are such a talented writer. You expressed the “just finished chemo heaven/hell” perfectly. I think it is a stage everyone on the daisy side passes through.
    I wanted to help people too, so I made a clumsy blog that no one seems able to find. Then I realized I didn’t want to be thinking about the “pushing up through the dirt” side so much and took a big hiatus from the internet.
    I am helping one other woman with ovaCA undergoing chemo and that seems to be enough right now.
    As for the genderbender treatment issue, I’m glad you feel a sense of entitlement and don’t let other people’s initial awkwardness get to you as much. Enjoy the daisy side! Ignore the statistics and maybe let the fighter in you to stand at ease for now.
  6. Vicki Says:
    Hey Spike,
    Welcome to geeklife – I’m so glad that you mentioned Buffy.
    It’s the one show that I can watch when I’m chemo sick… I know all the shows by heart, but I watch them because somehow I imagine that as Buffy and gang are kickin a** on a demon/monster that’s what I’m doing to the chemo cells and I love it.
 Posted by at 3:44 am
Mar 202006
 


Coretta Scott King, Martin Luther King Jr.’s widow, died of ovarian cancer recently.

Perhaps because she was relatively famous more women will be aware of OVCA and fewer will have to go through this ordeal.

Perhaps.

But really, right this second, when I think about ovarian cancer I am filled with a mixture of anger and fatigue.

So many great women, being consumed by this terrible disease.

I am sad and furious and exhausted.

And sometimes terrified.

And, so far, I am one of the luckier ones.

It’s all a bit much to make sense of.

This entry was posted on Monday, March 20th, 2006

 Posted by at 3:50 am
Feb 282006
 

My life has involved way too many medical appointments lately.

There was the trip to see Dr. On-call-ogist a few weeks ago, which all went smashingly well.
And then there was the ultrasound last week, to find out why my belly feels like some part of me is sneaking over the fence to see what’s up in the rest of my gut.
And today I had a visit, my first, to the High Risk Clinic, here in my town.
Tomorrow, I will go see the opthamologist and see if I need new glasses. I hear some women find glasses sexy and I am looking to accessorize, if that’s what’s needed.
Next week, on my days off, it is my fervent hope that I do not spend time with anyone who owns a lab coat. Also, I want no alarm clocks anywhere near my sleeping head on my days off next week .
Is that so much to ask?

Last week, when I was sitting in the full to bursting waiting room, waiting for my name to be called so I could have my ultrasound, I started thinking about

a) how completely phuqued the world is around gender issues

and

b) how that general phuque-ed-ness can create barriers to people like me which means we are reluctant to seek out the healthcare we need and deserve.

See, the ultrasound is sort of a small scale version of the problem, but I can tell you with great confidence that the folks who work at that lab don’t really know how to deal with someone like me.

It starts when they call my name in the waiting room, and I jump up enthusiastically while they are staring at my girlfriend or someone else who is more clearly pitching her tent in Camp Estrogen.

They don’t know how to deal with the overall butch dyke-y-ness of me and it makes them get very cautious about everything.
They get very anxious about touching me, and they get more than a bit freaky in their hesitation to commit to a pronoun.
People like me get referred to as “this person”, quite a bit.
It’s kind of unpleasant, feeling like a leper in the 21st century.
And, here’s the thing.
The world, in many places, has softened its hatred of gays/lesbians/quees. But the gender thing is still a pretty hostile world.
One of the wildest things about doing chemo and being visibly sick, (and essentially sexless and therefore harmless in the eyes of the world), was that for the first time in my adult life, people didn’t treat me with that hostility. It was so shocking. And it was strange to think that it took chemotherapy to make people stop being nasty on principle to me.
So, I made a decision during chemo that I wasn’t going to ride at the back of the bus anymore, and when I got better, I was going to walk around with a sense of entitlement that most regular don’t even realize they have.
So far, it’s been interesting and I have been pretty successful.

But I still think that many of us, many people like me, don’t seek out appropriate healthcare because it is just so emotionally gruelling. By people like me I mean the great big group we call genderqueers.
For any genderqueers, or lovers of genderqueers, who are reading this, let me just say, don’t let that crap stand in your way.
Please.
For one thing, we will never change the system if we don’t stand up and rock the boat.
And for a much more important reason, it could mean you don’t find out important medical information in a timely fashion.
It’s hard enough for most of us to get the care we need. Let’s not make it any easier for our needs to be neglected.

And to put a sunny finish on this tale, today we went to visit another oncologist at the High Risk Clinic.
She and I didn’t do so well when we first met. I think there were some things about me that she found freaky and I, about 10 days after surgery and my diagnosis, didn’t have a whole lot of stretch for a doctor who couldn’t cope with some of the parts of me.
So we got off on a bad note.
But today I had to see her again.
Today she was sweet and great and attentive.
I think I was just a small step on her interpersonal learning curve, so that’s a good thing.

The other good thing is that she said that the results of the mammogram and the MRI are all good and I don’t need to see her again till the summer.

I’ll take it.

 Posted by at 10:39 pm
Feb 152006
 

It was suggested to me that I actually, you know, post something and let people know what the deets are from the latest visit with the dude in the lab coat.
Bad Spike strikes again.

Okay, so how it went is like this.

End of January, went and had the blood draw.
Beginning of February, go see Dr. Labcoat.
Now, historically, that week between the blood draw and the visit with Dr. On-call-ogist has been brutal. The world seems to take on a real nutty flavour, which doesn’t subside until we skip, relieved and yet emotionally exhausted, down the hallway to the parkade, delighted again to have good test results.
This time, things weren’t so nutty. I am not sure if this is because everything has been so all-around generally nutty that I am now completely calloused and can’t tell when any new nuttiness has been added, or perhaps I reached my nuttiness quota and the added bits just fell off me with nowhere to stick, or maybe we are getting used to this drill, or well, really I have no idea.

But the day came and there we are, in my little examination room, me in my stunning blue gown that really brings out the crack of my ass, when the nurse from the clinical trial came in and we all had a loverly little jaw wag because she wasn’t there last time so there was much blah blah blah and catching up and all. And then she looked at me sternly and said, “Where is your blood work?”
And let me just say, that got my attention.
We assured her that there had been the required trip to the lab the week prior and that it must exist somewhere.
She left and came back with the results.
Soon, Dr. On-call-ogist came in and told me I am brilliant.
I like it a lot when he says this. What he means is that my test results are brilliant. He isn’t speaking about my Mensa potential, which is sorta sad, but really, I’d take good test results over a Mensa membership, any old day.
For those of you following along at home with your CA-125 score card, the results are at exactly the same place as 3 months ago, which is the lovely, friendly, sign of infinity, number 8.
That’s good enough for me.

Soon, I get to go have my first visit at the High Risk Clinic.
I am hoping they have a gift shop or something because I would like a t-shirt.
Anyway, I have to go speak to them because I am a mutant.
That ain’t happening till later in the month.
And I also get to go back and have exactly the same ultrasound at exactly the same place that I had my “welcome to the wild and action packed world of ovarian cancer’ ultrasound, about two years ago.
See, I think I have some sorta hernia or something because I get some pretty weird feelings in the spot where they sewed and stapled me back together. Maybe they left a scalpel in there or something. I dunno.
But it’s weird and it feels kind of wrong in a ‘do yerself an injury’ sort of way, not in a ‘oh, another honking big tumour is living in your gut’ kind of way.
Still, returning to the scene of the crime like that is a bit unnerving.
Plus doing the distended bladder routine that the ultrasound requires is a bit sick and twisted.
But it beats the alternative.

So, that’s me and this month’s health tidbits.

More as it happens.

 Posted by at 1:49 pm
Jan 112006
 

You know, there are people who update their blogs daily!
Is that not amazing!
I am gobsmacked, personally.
In fact, I stumbled upon one brilliant site which is written by a woman who is in the ring taking on the evil breast cancer right now. This is one of the best blogs I have ever read. You should check it out….
I just listed her site in the links section.
And for reasons I don’t understand, the code I punched in below doesn’t open her page in a new window….rat bastard piss me off.

So finish up here and then slide on over to visit with Twisty, eh?
But finish up here first.

The site can be found here.
How can you help but adore a woman who knows how to blame the patriarchy?
I can’t help myself.
But aside from all that, she is brilliant and you should make good use of all that time you waste on the internet and go have her shake up your brain a wee bit.
Off you go, but don’t leave until you finish visiting with me.

Anyway, here we are on a new year, and I guess I should say something about that.
Let’s see…
I am completely prepared for 2006 to be better than 2005, which was somewhat better than 2004, but not quite as spectacular as I had hoped.
2005 was its own wild ride, I just spent less time on the nasty end of an IV line. But I still rode the wave of a ridiculous amount of bizarre and intense stuff and frankly, I am ready for some good old fashioned boredom in 2006.
Here’s hoping.

And to update folks on one of 2005 intensities, my dad has bounced back in a way that is kind of incredible. Especially when you bear in mind that some folks were kicking the words ‘palliative care’ around at one point. He is back at home, dragging his little can of oxygen around behind him, and all things considered, he is doing remarkably well. He won’t be running the Boston Marathon this year, but he is no longer in the hospital and he back to his old crabby self and everything seems about as normal as pie for right now.

Beyond that, I am back in school. I suspect this semester may come close to killing me. I am taking only two courses this semester but one of them is on the fascinating subject of cataloguing.
I have a hundred dollar textbook that simply shows all the Anglo-American Rules for Cataloguing. And when I downloaded the first week’s class notes and sent them to the printer, I ended up with a stack of approximately 75 pages. And that is just the instructors lecture notes.
How could there possibly be that much to say about cataloguing?
Ask me again in April.

On other fronts, I had a “you know you’ve gone through a prolonged serious illness when…’ moment when I went to the clinic that my GP works from.
I am heading out of town for a couple of days and I had a prescription that was running low.
It was running low because I learned that it is unwise to have a cat in your lap while you are dispensing your daily tablet into your dirty little hand. The cat nudged me in just the right way to send my arm, and a goodly portion of the pills in the bottle, flying skyward towards the heavens and then on to the floor.
So, I went to my clinic to get a short top up.
But I walked in the door and the receptionist looked up at me with great confusion, because, of course, I didn’t have a doctor’s appointment.
I just pointed towards the pharmacy and she seemed to understand.
And then, after shooting the shit with the pharmacist, I realized that everyone who works there said, “Goodbye, Spike,” as I walked out the door.
I am not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.
I think it’s a way of making a good thing out of a bad thing.

Okey dokey, I have a road trip coming up and I just can’t visit one more second.
Go on over and learn some better blaming the patriarchy skills, why dontcha?

Thanks for dropping by and don’t be any stranger than me.

Rodger Dodger, over and out.

 Posted by at 11:58 pm
Dec 292005
 

I found this article through my Bloglines.com account and thought I would throw it up here for a few more people in the world to see.

And yes, I have been extremely bad about blogging lately.
I will do a real post sometime soon, maybe even before New Year’s.
You see, I have been crazy, crazy busy and I thought finishing the semester and taking a week off work would slow things down, but that wasn’t the case, at least so far.
More on all that soon.

In the meantime, fresh from the NY Times.

The url, for those wishing to backtrack is:

http://tinyurl.com/8bud5

Here is the text.

Discuss….

Slowly, Cancer Genes Tender Their Secrets
By GINA KOLATA

Jay Weinstein found out that he had chronic myelogenous leukemia in 1996, two weeks before his marriage.

He was a New York City firefighter, and he thought his health was great.

He learned that there was little hope for a cure. The one treatment that could save him was a bone marrow transplant, but that required a donor, and he did not have one. By 1999, his disease was nearing its final, fatal phase. He might have just weeks to live.

Then, Mr. Weinstein had a stroke of luck. He managed to become one of the last patients to enroll in a preliminary study at the Oregon Health & Science University, testing an experimental drug.

Mr. Weinstein is alive today and still taking the drug, now on the market as Gleevec. Its maker, Novartis, supplies it to him free because he participated in the clinical trial.

Dr. Brian Druker, a Howard Hughes investigator at the university’s Cancer Institute, who led the Gleevec study, sees Mr. Weinstein as a pioneer in a new frontier of science. His treatment was based not on blasting cancer cells with harsh chemotherapy or radiation but instead on using a sort of molecular razor to cut them out.

That, Dr. Druker and others say, is the first fruit of a new understanding of cancer as a genetic disease. But if cancer is a genetic disease, it is like no other in medicine.

With cancer, a person may inherit a predisposition that helps set the process off, but it can take decades – even a lifetime – to accumulate the additional mutations needed to establish a tumor. That is why, scientists say, cancer usually strikes older people and requires an element of bad luck.

“You have to get mutations in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Dr. Druker says.

Other genetic diseases may involve one or two genetic changes. In cancer, scores of genes are mutated or duplicated and huge chunks of genetic material are rearranged. With cancer cells, said Dr. William Hahn, an assistant professor of medicine at Harvard Medical School, “it looks like someone has thrown a bomb in the nucleus.”

In other genetic diseases, gene alterations disable cells. In cancer, genetic changes give cells a sort of superpower.

At first, as scientists grew to appreciate the complexity of cancer genetics, they despaired. “If there are 100 genetic abnormalities, that’s 100 things you need to fix to cure cancer,” said Dr. Todd Golub, the director of the Cancer Program at the Broad Institute of Harvard and M.I.T. in Cambridge, Mass., and an oncologist at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston. “That’s a horrifying thought.”

Making matters more complicated, scientists discovered that the genetic changes in one patient’s tumor were different from those in another patient with the same type of cancer. That led to new questioning. Was every patient going to be a unique case? Would researchers need to discover new drugs for every single patient?

“People said, ‘It’s hopelessly intractable and too complicated a problem to ever figure out,’ ” Dr. Golub recalled.

But to their own amazement, scientists are now finding that untangling the genetics of cancer is not impossible. In fact, they say, what looked like an impenetrable shield protecting cancer cells turns out to be flimsy. And those seemingly impervious cancer cells, Dr. Golub said, “are very much poised to die.”

The story of genes and cancer, like most in science, involves many discoveries over many years. But in a sense, it has its roots in the 1980’s, with a bold decision by Dr. Bert Vogelstein of Johns Hopkins University to piece together the molecular pathways that lead to cancer.

It was a time when the problem looked utterly complicated. Scientists thought that cancer cells were so abnormal that they were, as Dr. Vogelstein put it, “a total black box.”

But Dr. Vogelstein had an idea: what if he started with colon cancer, which had some unusual features that made it more approachable?

Colon cancer progresses through recognizable phases. It changes from a tiny polyp, or adenoma – a benign overgrowth of cells on the wall of the colon – to a larger polyp, a pre-cancerous growth that, Dr. Vogelstein said, looks “mean,” and then to a cancer that pushes through the wall of the colon. The final stage is metastasis, when the cancer travels through the body.

“This series of changes is thought to occur in most cancers, but there aren’t many cancers where you can get specimens that represent all these stages,” Dr. Vogelstein said.

With colon cancer, pathologists could get tissue by removing polyps and adenomas in colonoscopies and taking cancerous tumors in surgery.

Colon cancer was even more appealing for such a study because there are families with strong inherited predispositions to develop the disease, indicating that they have cancer genes that may be discovered.

So Dr. Vogelstein and his colleagues set out to search for genes “any way we could,” Dr. Vogelstein said. Other labs found genes, too, and by the mid-1990’s, scientists had a rough outline of what was going on.

Although there were scores of mutations and widespread gene deletions and rearrangements, it turned out that the crucial changes that turned a colon cell cancerous involved just five pathways. There were dozens of ways of disabling those pathways, but they were merely multiple means to the same end.

People with inherited predispositions to colon cancer started out with a gene mutation that put their cells on one of those pathways. A few more random mutations and the cells could become cancerous.

The colon cancer story, Dr. Druker said, “is exactly the paradigm we need for every single cancer at every single stage.”

But scientists were stymied. Where should they go from there? How did what happens in colon cancer apply to other cancers? If they had to repeat the colon cancer story every time, discovering genetic alterations in each case, it would take decades to make any progress.

The turning point came only recently, with the advent of new technology. Using microarrays, or gene chips – small slivers of glass or nylon that can be coated with all known human genes – scientists can now discover every gene that is active in a cancer cell and learn what portions of the genes are amplified or deleted.

With another method, called RNA interference, investigators can turn off any gene and see what happens to a cell. And new methods of DNA sequencing make it feasible to start asking what changes have taken place in what gene.

The National Cancer Institute and the National Human Genome Research Institute recently announced a three-year pilot project to map genetic aberrations in cancer cells.

The project, Dr. Druker said, is “the first step to identifying all the Achilles’ heels in cancers.”

Solving the problem of cancer will not be trivial, Dr. Golub said. But, he added, “For the first time, we have the tools needed to attack the problem, and if we as a research community come together to work out the genetic basis of cancer, I think it will forever change how we think about the disease.”

Already, the principles are in place, scientists say. What is left are the specifics: the gene alterations that could be targets for drugs.

“We’re close to being able to put our arms around the whole cancer problem,” said Robert Weinberg, a biology professor at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and a member of the Whitehead Institute. “We’ve completed the list of all cancer cells needed to create a malignancy,” Dr. Weinberg said. “And I wouldn’t have said that five years ago.”

The list includes roughly 10 pathways that cells use to become cancerous and that involve a variety of crucial genetic alterations. There are genetic changes that end up spurring cell growth and others that result in the jettisoning of genes that normally slow growth. There are changes that allow cells to keep dividing, immortalizing them, and ones that allow cells to live on when they are deranged; ordinarily, a deranged cell kills itself.

Still other changes let cancer cells recruit normal tissue to support and to nourish them. And with some changes, Dr. Weinberg said, cancer cells block the immune system from destroying them.

In metastasis, he added, when cancers spread, the cells activate genes that normally are used only in embryo development, when cells migrate, and in wound healing.

But so many genetic changes give rise to a question: how does a cell acquire them?

In any cell division, there is a one-in-a-million chance that a mutation will accidentally occur, Dr. Weinberg notes. The chance of two mutations is one in a million million and the chance of three is one in a million million million million.

This slow mutation rate results from the fact that healthy cells quickly repair damage to their DNA.

“DNA repair stands as the dike between us and the inundation of mutations,” Dr. Weinberg said.

But one of the first things a cell does when it starts down a road to cancer is to disable repair mechanisms. In fact, BRCA1 and 2, the gene mutations that predispose people to breast and ovarian cancer, as well as some other inherited cancer genes, disable these repair systems.

Once the mutations start, there is “a kind of snowball effect, like a chain reaction,” Dr. Vogelstein said.

With the first mutations, cells multiply, producing clusters of cells with genetic changes. As some randomly acquire additional mutations, they grow even more.

In the end, all those altered genes may end up being the downfall of cancer cells, researchers say.

“Cancer cells have many Achilles’ heels,” Dr. Golub says. “It may take a couple of dozen mutations to cause a cancer, all of which are required for the maintenance and survival of the cancer cell.”

Gleevec, researchers say, was the first test of this idea. The drug knocks out a gene product, abl kinase, that is overly abundant in chronic myelogenous leukemia. The first clinical trial, which began seven years ago, seemed like a long shot.

“The idea that this would lead to therapy was something you wrote in your grant application,” said Dr. Charles Sawyers, a Howard Hughes investigator at the University of California, Los Angeles. “It wasn’t anything you believed would happen soon.”

But the clinical trial of Gleevec, conducted at the Oregon Health & Science University, U.C.L.A. and M. D. Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, was a spectacular success. Patients’ cancer cells were beaten back to such an extent that the old tests to look for them in bone marrow were too insensitive, Dr. Sawyers said.

Gleevec is not perfect. It is expensive, costing about $25,000 a year. It is not a cure: some cancer cells remain lurking, quiescent and ready to spring if the drug is stopped, so patients must take it every day for the rest of their lives. And some patients are now developing resistance to Gleevec.

Still, Dr. Sawyers says, “Seven years later, most of our patients are still doing well.” Without Gleevec, he added, most would be dead.

As for the future of cancer therapy, Dr. Golub and others say that Gleevec offers a taste of the possible.

Dr. Golub said he expected that new drugs would strike the Achilles’ heels of particular cancers. The treatment will not depend on where the cancer started – breast, colon, lung – but rather which pathway is deranged.

“It’s starting to come into focus how one might target the problem,” Dr. Golub said. “Individual cancers are going to fall one by one by targeting the molecular abnormalities that underlie them.”

And some cancer therapies may have to be taken for a lifetime, turning cancer into a chronic disease.

“Seeing cancer become more like what has happened with AIDS would not be shocking,” Dr. Golub says. “Does that mean cure? Not necessarily. We may see patients treated until they die of something else.”

That is what Mr. Weinstein hopes will happen with him. The cancer is still there: new, exquisitely sensitive tests still find a few cells lurking in his bone marrow. And Gleevec has caused side effects. Mr. Weinstein says his fingers and toes sometimes freeze for a few seconds, and sometimes he gets diarrhea.

But, he said, “Certain things you put out of your mind because life is so good.”

 Posted by at 11:33 am
Dec 202005
 

Damn, time does slip away, eh?

I’m still around, running between work and school stuff, dealing with family and medical stuff and once in a while, trying to have some fun along the way.
But the pace over the last month or so has been more than brisk. I can’t believe how absurdly busy I am.
Whew.

And, much as I can feel kind of conflicted about “this season”, I have noticed over the last few days that one of the things that I like is how people who don’t know each other very well often take the time to wish each other well at this time of year. I like that part a lot.

So, as I throw on my clothes to dash off to work, and then run home and then run to school to buy my books for next semester, and possibly actually buy a present or two, and then the next thing and the thing after that, here’s a wee thought.

I hope you and yours enjoy the next couple of weeks in whatever way works for you.

 Posted by at 7:13 am
Nov 122005
 

A year ago today, I sat down in the big easy-chair for, what I hope very much is, my last chemo treatment.
Anniversaries and the passing of time matter to me, so I have been a bit extra-reflective (suitable for night riding!) lately.

Last year, in the months leading up to my last chemo appointment, all I wanted was for it to end, to get to treatment number 8 and to say adios to the lovely chemo nurses of the BCCA.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, at around treatment number 6, my oncologist was away at a conference so I ended up seeing a different oncologist and I mentioned my hopeful anticipation of the end of chemo.
She mentioned that lots of people suffer a sort of let-down after they finish their treatments, that they expect the world will embrace them with blue skies and gentle breezes and it turns out, there is a lot of adjusting and adapting to do.
I ‘pssshhhawww’ed her at the time. Much as it had been a miserable year, I still knew I had had a pretty good ride and that I had very little to complain about.
If you are going to go through a shitty situation like ovarian cancer, you might want to get as many good breaks as I did.
I had a really good gynecological/oncologist surgeon, which makes a massive difference in a person’s survival rate. Really, the statistics are shocking.
I had a super-fucking-girlfriend who stood beside me the whole way and held my hand and paid the bills and kept a roof over our heads for close to a year while I was sick or getting back from being sick. She listened to me be sad and scared and miserable, and I don’t know if she ever told anyone how sad and scared and miserable she was.
I had a great group of friends who circled the wagons and just helped me out so much.
It was an amazing process.
And to be completely honest, some folks faded to the background when things got tough, and other people, people I hadn’t connected with in years, just hopped back in my life and said, “How can I help?”.
So, I knew I had a pretty good version of a pretty crappy situation. I wouldn’t recommend a year going through treatments for ovarian cancer to anyone.
But for a crappy situation, I kind of had the best case scenario on many levels.

And all the same, last year sucked great green monkey dicks.
It most certainly did.
So, when the stand-in oncologist told me not to get too jacked up about what a swell and truly glamorous life I would have, apres-chemo, I thanked her for her advice, but thought her misguided.
Funny thing is, this year has sucked some pretty serious green monkey dicks in its own right, though not nearly as bad or as dramatic as last year.

But my point is, Novembrance day is, for me, now, about reflection.
I remember all too well my pudgy little bald and moon-faced self sitting there, plastered on Benadryl and Gravol, and Taxol and Carboplatin.
I remember what it’s like to feel my veins go in to spasm.
I remember what it’s like to feel mediocre and know that you are only at the top of the downward spiral and to know all too well how crappy you were about to feel, only add a little extra cuz it gets just a bit worse each time.
Chemo sucks.
I am so glad it is, fingers crossed, behind me.

But it does feel like a time for reflection.
I am truly grateful for all the love and support I have received from my friends and family and loved ones, and most of all, from Elaine.
I am grateful to all the strangers who made the time to help me out when I was so sick.
Thank you.
I am grateful to all the people who wandered back into my life and helped me, no matter how many years had gone by.
Thank you.
I am especially grateful to the women I have ‘met’ online, the other OVCA survivors, who get all the angles of it, and lessen the feeling of freaky, lonely isolation.
Thank you ( and a special thank you to Margaret. R.I.P.)

People talk a lot about how cancer changes you, and that’s true.
It changes a person on a whole lot of levels.
And lots of them are awful.
For me, I got at least one good change, because I got to see how spectacular people can be when things get kind of fucky on a major level.

And a year later, it’s been way harder than I ever expected it would be.
I suspect I have been a bit prickly, this last year.
And, you know, in almost all cases, I feel pretty okay with that.
Like, for those folks at work who think I am crabby, let me just say, fuck yeah I am.
Tell ya what… you get some guy in a lab coat to tell you that you have a 70% chance of cashing in your chips in the next 5 years and see how that impacts your sunny disposition, stupid hippie.

So, I have been crabby.
To Elaine, let me say, sorry about that.
To everyone else… sorry, but I am not really that sorry.
I think a lot of stuff came crashing up to the surface when I got better and I was crabby and irrational and tired of stupid bullshit.
So, I’ve been terse.

The bulk of the last year has been spent just trying to get my bearings.
When I was doing chemo, they told me it takes about a year till you feel normal again.

About two weeks ago, I got really tired of being crabby and unhappy all the time.
I started thinking that I, as much as anyone, should know that there are absolutely no guarantees that I will live to be 85 years old and playing in the Seniors Tour of the Dinah Shore Classic and chasing my caddie around in my Harley Davidson golf cart.
I think I had every right to feel those emotions, and I think I needed to feel them, and if they come back and knock on my door, I will feel them some more.
But mostly, after about a year, I am kind of bored with being angry all the time.
I shocked myself when I sat back and thought about how much time I had spent feeling crappy or feeling sorry for myself.
I kept thinking, “If I had a recurrence tomorrow, I would be so pissed off that I didn’t make the most of this time.”
So, now, that’s what I am trying to do.
It’s a hard process, in some ways, because I started the year full of Lance Armstrong optimism but I kind of had some terrible crappy thing fall down on me whenever I looked up and it took its toll.
I got like a hand-shy dog after a while, and, as these things go, things carried on being crappy.
So, I really thought a lot about how completely pissed off I would be if I got sick again and I had wasted this time being miserable about so many things.
And, I do want to say, that the last year and a half of my life have thrown me a few curveballs.
But I am tired of being unhappy and I wanted to do some things differently.

So, that’s what I am trying.
I am trying to assume I will have good days, and I wake up each day and ask myself what kind of day I want to have that day. Because I actually have a rather enormous amount of control over what kind of day I have. A lot more control than I have been exercising lately.

So, I am on it.
I am trying to shed that old skin that was so bruised and tattered and start fresh.

And, on that note, for those who are still reading along, we went to see the oncologist last week.
He said, “Your tumour marker is great. It’s at 8. Have a great Christmas, and see you in three months.”

I’ll take that news any old day.

 Posted by at 1:26 am