Reflections on Recovery: the Hospital Experience

O.K. folks, sorry it has been so long since my last post. Honestly I had fully expected to wake up from my surgery, maybe spend a few days on happy-meds, then be up, around and back to my normal self.

Brother, I have been wrong about things in my life before, but the presumption of a quick recovery has been the biggest error in judgement I think I have ever made. To put it simply, if someone tells you that you are having major abdominal surgery -- expect the worst.

That being said, and before I move into some more humorous anecdotes about life after surgery, I want to say that, if you ever NEED major surgery, then the Cleveland Clinic is the ONLY place to go. The title of 'world-class-hospital' is well deserved and any comments that follow are related to my own personal experience and observations and NOT meant to criticize the care I received!

So, here we go. To review, for those coming late to the game. Almost a month a go I was admitted to Cleveland Clinic to have a fairly large colon tumor removed. After arriving in Cleveland the day before surgery, accompanied by my wife and our best friends, Tim and Cyn, we made all kinds of humorous jokes about my pending surgery, such as how, after words, I would no longer be 'full-of-shit' anymore, or how while I was under they should just go ahead and do liposuction, a tummy tuck and a penile extension just for fun... It has always been comforting for me to have such good people around me when the going gets tough.

The hope that the surgeons there could pluck it out, reconnect my innards so that I would be left with, uh, 'normal-stool-passing-functions'. That was the plan. Plans change. Going into the surgery, I knew that there was a possibility that they would start digging around and find that things weren't in good enough shape to salvage my sphincter - hmmm... 'Salvage My Sphincter' almost seems like a cool name for a punk band - but, anyhow, I digress.

So, with good luck wishes, hugs, hand shakes a few kisses, off to surgery land I was wheeled. Being wheeled into the operating room - already slightly drugged up - is always kind of cool to me. I have always enjoyed all the technology related to medical treatment, and appreciate the times we live in that make so many wonderful things possible, so I didn't have much of a 'fear-factor' as I lay there being prepped, of course the dose of Demerol and Versed coursing through my veins helped wonders!

I tried to maintain my usual level of banter with the nurses and techs as they hustled and bustled around the room getting ready for my surgery - the only bad thing I remember at this point is that they were all talking about what they were going to have for lunch - and here I was nearly 24 hours past my last meal and I was freaking starving!!! I told them to cut it out or at least to go get me a Starbucks before I went under!!! But, alas, no Starbucks appeared, instead the anesthesiologist appeared, lowered a mask on my face and said, "Breathe deeply and count backwards from 10..". I started, "Ten, nine, eig......"

If you have never had major surgery before, what follows will hopefully give you some insight into the whole process of 're-entering' the world of the regular - the world of normal - the post-surgical world in which the rest of the world lives. Now, I fully realize that each person will experience this process in their own way, for some the process IS simple, quick and pain free, for others the process is agonizing, drawn-out, fraught with post-surgical complications and lengthy. I think my experience falls some where in the middle. The problem I faced is that I had always THOUGHT that I was on the 'quick-recovery' end of the spectrum, but am discovering - even today, nearly a month after the surgery - that this is not quite the case. Looking back on my experience recovering in the hospital, I will try to summarize by making a list entitled, "Things I Learned About Surgical Recovery". The list appears in random order, as I reflect on some notes I made during my recovery...

1) ICE-CHIPS are the NECTAR OF THE GODS!!! - Upon waking from surgery, you must remember that at this point nothing had passed my lips in nearly 36 hours, so I was thirsty, hungry, tired and in pain. The I.V. Dilaudid took care of most of the initial pain, and when I awoke, my wife was there, and when she placed a few chips of ice in my mouth, I truly thought I had entered another world. The simple pleasure of cooling relief, moisture, and a little something to chew on is almost too hard to explain. At that particular moment, after one mouthful of ice chips, I could have died and gone on to meet my maker and been no happier! It's weird that after a major event, the simplest things are often times the most pleasurable.

2) NEXT LEVEL OF NIRVANA - POPSICLES!!! - alright, I have just mentioned how awesome the ice-chip experience was, but later that day, or perhaps the next, I don't remember, a nurse entered my room bearing frozen nirvana on a wooden stick - a banana popsicle - as I sat there, watching the Food Network on the television, I began to sample the frozen treat... Almost like the heavens opening up above me, the cool banana sensation melting, entering my system almost like it was another narcotic, designed to bring me back one step closer to the normal world. Granted this may indeed have been a combination of watching what ever they were cooking up on the Food Network show at the time, coupled with the narcotics already coursing through my veins, but I think I made that popsicle last about an hour. What came next was even more amazing... the Nurse said I could have one WHENEVER I WANTED!!! Talk about a near orgasmic experience!!!! I was tempted to tell her to just wheel the freezer into my room and let me have at it... but, alas, nurses are wiser than that. I DID get to have two popsicles, then I drifted off into a narcotic induced nap.

3) OF BAD NEWS & CATHETERS - with the help of ice-chips and nirvanistic-popsicles, I had slowly started to re-enter the regular world, some time during post surgery day 2. And as with many things, this is the time when the doctors come by to begin to hand you the news - the good and the bad. In my case it was a typically mixed bag. They stared with the bad news. The surgery took longer than planned - about 6 hours, rather than the 2 or 3 they had hoped. The reason was that the cancerous part of the colon was much more 'involved' - I never did get a good explanation of that one though - and they could not save the sphincter and get enough surrounding marginal tissue to ensure complete removal of the tumor. So, the main reason for coming to Cleveland Clinic in the first place - sphincter 'conservation' ended up not being possible anyhow, I guess I could have done the procedure in Toledo, and saved many people lots of time and money driving back and forth, I will always regret that at some level. So, I am now left with no colon, a permanent ileostomy, will have to catch my poop in a bag for the rest of my life - great, fan-freakin-tastic. At 48, I am a 'near-invalid' - at least that is how I feel. The rest of my life will revolve around this stupid bag on my belly. How will I work? How will I play? How will I be able to enjoy anything, any more? All questions now swimming around in my head. So, after a pause for them to let this new info sink into my narcotic addled brain, they told me the good news - the cancer was completely removed by taking the colon, surrounding tissues and closing the sphincter, leaving, no possibility of recurrent colon cancer (duh!) and that there was NO indication that any cancer had spread to other organs, a sigh of relief in that regard.
Trying hard not to cry in front of the cadre of doctors, interns, nurses and my wife, I was also informed that they had to insert a catheter and it would need to be in place for several days until my insides woke back up from surgery and started to heal... Great. Well, at LEAST I got to suffer that indignity while I was under anesthesia in the operating room! So, after the room cleared, I sat there trying to absorb all that had been laid in front of me: no sphincter, no near-normal bodily functions salvaged, stuck with a permanent bag, but as the cheerful people around kept saying (and at times I am really sick of it) "Well, at least you're alive!" - yeah, YOU SAY. Do any of you want to trade places? .......silence. On we go I guess.

4) TIME IS PUNCTUATED BY PUNCTURES - back to something a little lighter, again for those who have not experienced this, when you are in a hospital recovering from surgery, time does not flow, nor is it measured the same way it is in the normal world. First, the clock moves, but not much else does. Television shows roll by, songs on the MP3 player scroll by, and then someone appears in at my bed side announcing that it is time for 'blood-work'. Depending on the tech, this is a quick process, or one that requires some digging around to find a vein - keep in mind that I have been dehydrated for 3 days and normally easy to find veins are now hard to find - OUCH! Blood drawn, needle removed, cotton ball tapped down to my arm. This particular time-punctuating process is repeated 3 times a day, around 8 am, around 4 pm and then around 11 pm. This is followed a few hours later by blood sugar readings, again; poke, squeeze, sample, cotton ball, band aid. Somewhere in between the blood draws and sugar readings, there are other punctures; anti-clotting meds, insulin, pain relievers, antacids. So as you can guess I am being punctured, pierced or monitored at least every other hour, around the clock, so, you can guess what kind of sleep I get....very little, unless they dose me with pain meds after dinner, then I seem to be able to get nearly 3 hours in, before the next series of pokes and prods...

5) OLD BEDS & FALSE RECOVERY - well, after a day or two, I have become PAINFULLY aware of several things. First, I think I have a bed that harkens back to the Korean War. It seems that there is not a position it can be moved into that allows me to get comfortable for more than an hour or two at a time... Please keep in mid that in addition to the new bag on my belly, the incision with 21 staples, abdominal pump washing out my innards, the catheter, and the draining operative area on my bottom, and it should come as no surprise that it would be nearly impossible to find a way to recline comfortably for very long. To combat that - and to keep me from developing clots - the nurses and docs want me to be up and walking at least 3-5 times a day. The process is arduous. Push the call button...wait....wait...wait. The nurse arrives. She unhooks all the gizmos attached to me, hanging them on the IV pole. Next, I veeeerrryyyy, gently get myself to a sitting position (again remember all the stuff still attached to, the, um, sitting area), I hoist myself to a standing position. If I am lucky nothing icky comes gushing from anywhere before I start my walk. If I'm not lucky it becomes 'clean-up in room 19' before I can go anywhere - embarrassing. I have to have a gown change, a dressing change, just to leave my room. Then I venture out on my first walk. My first walk took me about 20 steps from my door to the edge of the nursing station. Exhausted, with the effort I had to turn around and go back to bed. Jesus, I never felt so tired with just a few steps. A long nap followed, then later I tried a couple more times that day. Not too bad. The next day I ventured much longer walks, laps around the floor, two or three at a time, thinking, "Yea, I'll be back home, back to work and back to regular in no time!" Then I nearly collapsed in the hallway before getting back to my room -- too much, too soon. This recovery is going to be a bitch.

6) OLFACTORY NIGHTMARES - another aspect of hospital stays are the array of, odors that can have both good and deleterious effects on patients trying to recover. Let's look at a few of them. We can start with the simple. Alcohol swabs - get used to this one, they are the precursor to every needle stick, they waft through the air, then they are gone. Medicines - these are weird ones because while most are injected, many leave awful tastes in your mouth after they are administered. For me the ostomy bag - I have to dump the dang thing about every hour or so, as my insides wake up and my diet shifts from liquid to solid, this is not a pleasant experience. Janitorial Solutions - the cleaning staff uses a wide variety of odiferous solutions to clean floors (citrus), toilets (bleech), counters (lemon), beds (some floral soapy concoction). Again, these odors come at weird times, and make for some nausea and head aches for me, at least. Next we move on to the nurses, doctors and visitors in the hallways. There seems to be some kind of strange olfactory competition going on to see who can wear the strongest, most pungent perfume, aftershave, deoderant, hair spray or what ever on the floor. My walks are punctuated by pungent smacks in the nostrils at every turn on the floor. A few times I almost barfed as I passed by the nursing station! Jesus people... enough is enough!

7) BAIT & SWITCH - CHECKING OUT? NO YOU'RE NOT! - alright, after 13 days in hospital it is WELL beyond time that I want to go home. Nothing new seems to be happening, I have watched as much Food Network, History Channel, House and Sports Center than I can handle. The bed is awful, the food is repetitive, the schedule of pokes and prods is really getting on my nerves. I JUST WANT  TO GO HOME! For the final few days of my stay, each day I was 'assured' that I would be, "...going home today or tomorrow, really!" Each day I would get excited, then each day a doctor would come in and say, "Well, you know, we are really concerned that you had a fever for a while yesterday." or, "Well, the wound is not healing quite as fast as we had hoped." or, "Well, in the morning we will do another CT scan, then you can go home for sure!". So, each day I would happily text family and friends about my soon to be freedom from the hospital. And each evening I would have to RE-TEXT them and tell them, no...there is another delay. Finally, I just told my wife, "Just wait until I REALLY get papers signed saying that I can go, then I will call you and you can come pick me up." It was on the evening of Monday, March 15th - the Ides of March - that I was finally released. I packed up my gear, dressed in real street clothes, bundled up with my bathrobe, and pillows, got comfy in the Jeep and headed for home. One side note. For the last few days my appetite had started to return, and on the way home we stopped at Buger King - not usually my fave restaurant - and my wife bought me one of their new chicken breast on flatbread sandwhiches and once again I was in heaven... It tasted SOOOO good. I could only eat half, but man was it awesome! Some real food with real seasonings... I napped a while in the Jeep, and we were home.

Now, today marks a little over two weeks of being at home - dealing with a whole new set of adventures, and dealing with the glacial pace that recovery will evidently take, even though I am free of the hospital. But, alas, I have written enough for this post. I will share the trials of home recovery with you later. Right now, a nap is in store....

On The Way In...

Alright, folks. The day has arrived. In a few short hours I go into surgery. In a few hours after that I will come out, lighter one colon and with a 'loop-ileostomy', which if all goes well should be temporary as the rest of me heals.

I just wanted to take a moment to mention that I have all the faith in the world in the medical community, and even more in my friends and family. I have come to realize that there are times in our lives that we have to simply open our arms  and accept that there are things we can't control, and that there are times when we need to depend on the love and support of others -- because, we have all done the same for them at times.

Another key element to my healthy recovery is, I believe humor. I think that man evolved humor and laughter as a way to deal with times like these... We have to have SOME kind of response to situations that are simply beyond our control, some way to deal with pain and suffering that keeps us all from running, lemming style, over the end of a cliff every time we encounter something in our lives that seems insurmountable.

At various time in my life I have had the opportunity to travel to areas of our world that do not share our standard of living, and those experiences have had a profound impact on me. Looking closer at those times and images I made as a photographer then, one thing remained clear. In spite of all human suffering, in spite of the worst of human conditions, in spite of all cultural, religious and political differences two things remain universal. The ability of humans to smile and laugh, and the importance of the simple gesture of holding another persons hand or wrapping them in a hug that reassures that we are all in this process together, that in the worst of times, there are always people around we can count on, sometimes, in despite of ourselves.

I will see you on the other side....
Love to all of you.

"The New Adventures of : 'The Flush' " - a special kind of hero

O. K. folks, by this time Friday I will be either uncomfortably waking up, or comfortably medicated to get rest after my surgery. Since tomorrow is to be filled with travel, pre-opp appointments, consultations, lab work, I thought I would take some time to examine, in a different way the life of someone I hope will go away after the surgery.

In an earlier post I examined the relationship between the cancer patient and the superhero. I explored the 'reluctant' nature of the relationship, and the futility, at times in trying to ignore or accept our destiny, as seen by others. So, for this post I want to go back to the superhero / cancer patient relationship, but to look at the dynamic in a different way.

'The Flush' - who is he? 'The Flush' - how did he get his abilities? 'The Flush' - who is the man-behind that all too familiar bathroom noise? 'The Flush' - a force for evil or good... You decide.

One evening, a man, sharply dressed, walks into a restaurant with an equally stunning woman on his arm. "Table for two, please." he whispers to the maitre' de.
The maitre' de looks at the man, recognizing him imediately, "Why yes, sir, your table is ready. Right this way."
The man, walks cooly, like James Bond, his date ahead of him. He watches her walk, expecting a wonderful evening of dinner, dancing and more, the maitre' de turns to seat them. "Here is your ta..."
The puzzled look on the maitre' des face makes the woman turn. The man is gone.

"Damn it! Where does he GO?" the woman whispers under her breath. The maitre' de stands as if waiting for instructions...or an explanation from the woman.
A bit louder, but not to draw attention to her self, she thanks the maitre' de who seats her professionally and she sits, hands folded neatly waiting at the table, again, for the man to return.
She waits.
She sips some water.
She waits some more.

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye she notices the man has returned, seemingly out of no where and is standing at her side. "Sorry for the delay, dear. I had to attend to a business matter. I'm starved. Shall we start with wine and a salad?"

In those few moments, what the woman and the maitre' de did NOT see was the near instantaneous emergence of The Flush. Unlike other superheros, there is no sudden rending away of the clothing to reveal a neon colored spandex outfit, there is no spinning in circles, or twisting of a ring, or flash of light to make his presence known to everyone. That is not the way The Flush makes his appearance. No, it is not that flashy. When 'the change' comes over the man, it turns him nearly insane with the real, physical and emotional need to find the nearest restroom - public or private.

In the brief moments when they weren't looking the man turned, possessed, scanning in a split second, the architecture of the restaurant. The Flush has the ability to instantaneously locate in space and time the nearest route to the bathroom, and to plot the most direct course to get there -- without being noticed.

If there were hi-speed cameras present, they MAY have been able to see The Flush deftly moving between the tables, spinning around waiters carrying trays of food, dodging other customers who stood or moved unexpectedly. He moves with the speed and grace of a humming bird, finally reaching his destination. Flinging open the door, he makes the final dash to the stall.

Now he spins, carefully removing and hanging his jacket on the back of the door. He takes his position,  just in time. Once again, The Flush has reached his destination without 'incident'. When the relief passes, so does The Flush. Suddenly, the man finds himself again, in an all too familiar place, not quite sure how he got there, again. Hypnotically he reaches down, grabs the handle.... FLUSHHHHHH!

He tucks his clothes, dons his dinner jacket, washes up and heads back to the table. Since this has happened many times before, he knows just how to avoid the searching eyes of the maitre' de and his date. With an air of practiced repetition he slides up behind her at the table...."Sorry for the delay, dear. I had to attend to a business matter. I'm starved. Shall we start with wine and a salad?"

As he sits down to eat, he knows that it is only a matter of time before he will be confronted with the emergence of The Flush. He just hopes it can wait until much later in the evening.

He hopes. But, he knows he has little control over the time or place at which his alter ego will transform him, once more into 'The Flush'.

STAY TUNED>>>>

"No Man Is An Island"...The Support Web Explored

One of my friends asked me today, what they could do to help me. What they could do to make the process of my upcoming procedures and treatment easier. I have spent the evening thinking about it and come to the conclusion, that at this point I really don't know.

This friend also mentioned that my blog may help THEM figure out how to approach others who are dealing with cancer (no matter what the type). I hope so. It is one of my goals.

During my past cancer experience, I did some research into how people deal with their cancer experience. Actually, I wrote an academic paper, complete with video interviews of two women dealing with cancer (one breast, one liver). The outcome of the research led me to this conclusion.

There are two types of cancer patients; those that want to share their experience with others around them and those that don't. The range between the two varies based on the individual.

Looking back over the paper (I had to dig it out - found and reviewed the video) and discovered this. Despite what the patient THINKS or wants to ADMIT, the experience of battling cancer is NOT a singular experience. By necessity it involves many people outside of the patient - whether we LIKE it or WANT it, these people are THERE. What makes a difference is the degree to which we LET them SHARE the experience. Some, as is human nature, will want to be involved more than others. At this point I don't really know what my needs will be this time around, but rather than try to live the experience in an isolated state I have decided to open my arms/heart/spirit to those who want to help in what ever way they want to.

In order to get perspective on just how MUCH support is out there for me (and by extension) other cancer patients I will create a list that should illustrate these connections... (I will add and update the list as time passes!)

1) IMMEDIATE FAMILY - Cheryl, Cameron, Malcolm and our pets (yes they TOO can help!) Ginger, Hershey, Gypsy and even Gipper.
2) EXTENDED FAMILY - Mom, Sarah, Randy, Sydney, Logan, Ryan, Paul, Karmen, Addison, Morgan, Jim, Carol, John, Kristen, Tina Brian, Jeff, Trevor, Mason, Amy, Dan, Kennedy
3) LIFE LONG FRIENDS - Dave, Krista, Tim, Cyndi, Shawn
4) MY NEIGHBORHOOD 'FAMILY' - Craig, Lisa, Addsion, Emerson, Liz, Tom K., Katy, Steve, Tommy & Luke
5) MY ARTISTIC FAMILY - Ken, Randy, Casey, Josh, Ev, Kristen, K.C., Danni, Madhi, Ashley, Krista, Savy, Vicki, Cathy, Tom, Tami, Zach, Lauri V.
6) MY WORK FAMILY - Kevin, Kim K., Bill, Mitch, Jeff, Garrick, Roy, Matt, Suzanne, Brad
7) MY MEDICAL TEAM - Dr. Gallagher, Dr. Skeel, Dr. Deitz, Dr. Remzi, Marilynn, (the following I don't have names for now, but will try to add) Testing Technicians, Lab Techs, Diagnosticians, Surgical Nurses, Anesthesiologists, Recovery Nurses, Ostomy Nurses, Home Visit Nurses.

Without specific names of medical personnel, my growing Support Web is pushing 80 people! I had never looked at it this way before. Now, by extension, these people will all talk, in one way or another to OTHER people, and much like a 'social-network' it comes to me that it is nearly IMPOSSIBLE to get through this alone, almost silly even to try.

Given this new revelation I get an even better perspective on the results of my research, in which I looked at the cancer patient as a 'student' (I have to RELEARN everything about procedures - new and familiar) and as a 'teacher' I am tasked with the 'responsibility' - at least to me - to be an 'educator'. I need to be able to answer questions about MY experience for the people mentioned above, and others I will meet along the way - that is part of the goal of this blog, to EDUCATE about the EXPERIENCE.

No matter what the outcome of my experience (obviously I plan on a curative experience and long life to be lived) what I go through will HOPEFULLY bring some personal awareness of the importance of health, screening, and all that goes along with staying healthy as long as possible - at least to the people of my growing Support Web.

So, with surgery approaching, I have been trying to focus on the things I CAN control at this point. Once I get through the surgery I will better be able to assess what I will need... It will not be easy for me, as I have mentioned before, to ask. So some people may have to take the lead

For now what I am really trying to do is NOT worry about the things that are not in my control. Once I get to Cleveland and roll into the O.R. I simply trust that the Doctors all know what they are doing and I will wake up without a colon, with a stupid ileostomy bag, and be on the road to recovery.

Once I get home, I will do my best to let people know how they can help! I also want to say that I fully recognize just how important you all are to my ability to survive and win this battle once again....

Cancer Survivors...Of Superheroes, Super Villains & Identities

With less than a week to go before my surgery, I wanted to explore the world of symptoms, and how they become interwoven in every aspect of my life. To do this I had to decide on an appropriate analogy from which to examine what has become an integral part of my daily life for the past several months.

NOTE: Some parts of this story may get a bit 'icky' as I explore my symptoms and how I deal with them.

When I talk to people about my condition, or about other people they know who have survived the 'cancer experience' what comes to mind - or at least what comes FROM the minds of 'others' - the ones who know the survivor, is that we are some kind of 'heroes' for having survived. That is a lot of pressure to deal with.

Of all the things I felt the first time around, considering myself a 'hero' was simply not on the list. Did I consider myself a fighter? Yes. Did I consider myself damn lucky? Yes. Did my experience make me appreciate the people around me? Yes. But SUPERHERO? That is just too much.

Fast forward 20 years, and now things are a bit different. Now I see my position as a 'cancer-fighting-superhero' from a more external perspective. I now have not only a wife (as I did then too) but I have two kids, one entering the most confusing part of his life -adolescence- who DOES see me as Dad-The-Superhero, the other is embarking on 'adulthood' who needs me to be there in different ways. My wife still needs me, as we grow together, watch out kids grow and look forward to what we HOPE will be many, many golden-years.

And, beyond my 'blood-family' I am still very connected to the many, many students I worked with in my previous job, who in some ways at least I have become a surrogate Dad, Mentor, Friend, Uncle, confidant... And I see that the efforts I make to fight this thing may (I hope) help them in someway, maybe not now, but in the future.

Finally, during the final two years of my tenure I got to know one of the iconic teachers at our school, who lost her battle with brain-cancer, very well. She and I discussed many times the affect that our fight to hold onto life in the best way possible was more important to the people around us than our own singular existence. "The needs of the many, outweigh the needs of the one." - a quote that she and I both loved from Star Trek, a show we both enjoyed.

Considering all of this, I was watching (again) the movie 'Kill Bill Vol. 2'. Before his demise, Bill delivers a speech where he discuses the nature of the Superhero, and how, Superman (not my favorite, but the story is still great here) is the only one who was born a superhero. In my case I was born with the genetic predisposition to develop cancer. In effect there was nothing either one of us could do about our situation. Superman arrived on Earth as an outsider, different from regular humans. Cancer patients, like wise are different from 'regular humans'. Like a Superhero (sadly, without superpowers) my experience is 'life-changing'.


Let's look at Bill's speech:

Bill: An essential characteristic of the superhero mythology is, there's the superhero, and there's the alter ego. Batman is actually Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man is actually Peter Parker. When he wakes up in the morning, he's Peter Parker. He has to put on a costume to become Spider-Man...

For the 'regular' superheros they get to DECIDE to do what they do. They get to DECIDE when and where they 'become' the superhero. In effect, they get to stack the proverbial deck in their favor. They can ignore a call for help, ignore a plea for assistance. And in some way they are 'enhanced' through gizmos, gadgets, or happy accidents that make them 'super'. While they struggle at times to come to grips with their new identities -  masked alter-egos. In the end theirs is a CHOICE. They can 'hang-up-the-cape' when ever they want.

Bill:...And it is in that characteristic that Superman stands alone. Superman did not become Superman, Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman...

Again, I want to repeat, I am not arrogant enough to consider myself 'super' or a 'superhero' but roll with me in the analogy. We are all born with a set of genes that we inherit from our parents. This is simple biological fact. We cannot change the package we start with. That package, like it or not determines how our physical bodies will develop, respond and react to anything that it encounters. Science has come along way in mapping out these packages for us - giving us markers, warning signs, predictors and chances of what might be. So, in this case YES I am LIKE Superman. My package is unique, I cannot change it, but with help (medical and other) I can DEAL with it. So much as in the first appearance of a Superhero, the birth of 'Captain Cancer' showed up one day with a streak of red in the toilet.

Bill:...His alter ego is Clark Kent...His outfit with the big red "S", that's the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears, the glasses, the business suit, that's the costume. That's the costume Superman wears to blend in with us...

    Is my 'alter-ego' Scott Lightfoot - Security Technician by day - Captain Cancer at all other times? In these past few months I have tried at first to ignore the symptoms (the calling to become once again, Captain Cancer), eventually I consulted my 'oracles-of-science' who basically revealed to me that I have no CHOICE but to once again, fulfill my destiny of Captain Cancer.
    So, in order to begin fighting this new battle I have to wear - under my clothes - hidden from the world, my special, uh, protective undergarments, so that 'evidence' of my symptoms shall not be unnecessarily 'revealed' to the public. Simply, the first part of my costume I don every day now is a pair of frickin' depends... "Protective undergarments for 'active-adults'" - you gotta love advertising...

So I stand there, in my steamy bathroom, showered, cleanly shaven, hair neatly coiffed (no Clark Kent swirl for me -- spiked hair baby!) Putting on my best tough man face, I reach ever so deftly for the package of depends... I free one from the package with all the deftness of 'Bruce Lee' --- Hooo WAH! Stretch them out, try to jump into them with as much cool as possible... of course that leads me to catching my foot on the elastic and falling sidways into the bathroom wall... I try to recover my cool, but all I can do is stand there, one leg in one leg out and looking in the mirror, laugh at myself.

The second effort goes better... now I am standing there, trying to flex/pose superhero fashion and realize I look more like some kind of emaciated sumo-wrestler than ANY kind of Superhero... I avoid reaching into the cabinet to fish out a red lipstick from my wife's cosmetic bag to draw a big red 'C' on my chest. Instead, I return to my room, my bathrobe 'concealing' my Superhero costume, I then dress in the rest of my 'public' costume long-underwear to battle the cold, pressed blue uniform pants. neatly buttoned and tucked company shirt, crisp company hat, pen and pen-light in my pocket, company ID (reading Scott Lightfoot - Technician, my alter-ego) and off to work I go.... Ah, but the adventure is not over...

Bill:...Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent? He's weak, he's unsure of himself... he's a coward. Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the whole human race.

Every Superhero has an arch enemy. For Captain Cancer his enemy is a multi-faced villain who can appear in many forms. With Captain Cancer now deftly tucked away, together we have to face the growing strength of 'Symptom Man'. My daily battle against Symptom Man begins shortly after the alarm rings in the morning... He attacks before Captain Cancer is properly garbed (see above!). I, Scott Lightfoot - Technician, must come flying out of the bed, race through the dark - being careful not to disturb either my sleeping wife or the stupid ass cat who sleeps on my chest - if I am fortunate I reach the toilet - keeping Symptom Man from, uh, making my morning messy. Successful in this initial battle, I shower (attempt!) to dress in the costume of Captain Cancer, and make my way to work. Dressed, tucked and ready to face the day of Scott Lightfoot - Technician.

The battle between Captain Cancer and Symptom Man continues. Every time I change position - get into my van, get out of my van, pull a heavy ladder out of my van, climb into a lift - Symptom Man attacks.... Captain Cancer battles with extra, uh, 'clinching', slower, more thoughtful movement - running is OUT for certain. My 'special-under-garments' provide protection from the moments when Symptom Man wins the occasional fight - leaving 'evidence' of a successful attack - like a bloodied lip in a fist fight. Captain Cancer and Symptom Man repeat this parrying throughout the day. All the while as Scott Lightfoot - Technician I do my best to hide the battle that is going on inside my battle - and sometimes in my pants...

I have never in my life worked so hard to 'schedule' things like bathroom visits or the need to 'pass-gas', another neat trick used by Symptom Man - because sometimes - unpredictably it is not gas that gets passed, at that point I have to make quick excuse to hustle (not run) to the nearest bathroom. Imagine how difficult THIS is when I am 30' up in a lift, in the blowing snow, and beside taking about a full excruciating minute to get to ground level, I have to then 'tuck-walk' a good 500 yards through the mud to the nearest restroom. Oh... the adventure does not end there...

Once I get to my 'Fortress of Solitude' I THEN have to disrobe... five layers of protective clothing, zippers, buttons, belts, snaps and the like before I can FINALLY sit down and have some modicum of relief from Symptom Man's attack...

On a good day I can get by with hopefully 'unnoticed' trips to the restroom... morning breaks (thanks union people for those), lunch (we usually get an hour), afternoon breaks, final clean up at the end of the day before going home. On a bad day, I find that I am running of excuses for restroom breaks.

This battle requires support. One technique that Cancer Man and I use is our 'web-of-support'. Out of necessity, I have informed a cadre of people who, by knowing what I am going through, can not only better understand my sudden 'needs' or the necessity to change plans, but can provide the support when needed. So far, I have been very lucky that Cancer Man has many allies in my battle.

The good news is that next week Symptom Man will be mostly defeated. Attacked, removed, tossed in a bucket by Cancer Man's Science Team... At that point there will be new battles for Cancer Man to fight... He must recover from the ordeals of the operation in order to battle with 'The Cancer That Remains' with the help of Cancer Man's side-kick 'Chemo-Man'....

The Adventure Continues.....

You are ALL my CUFFLINKS...

As I approach the first step in my battle with Cancer, it is easy to get wrapped up in the personal, after all, this is happening to ME. It is not happening to YOU, or YOU, or YOU. On many levels this is the truest statement that can be made about the experience. It is deeply personal. The effects; physical and emotional, in the end are mine to deal with. That being said, I want to explore what happens 'outside' the very personal bubble of the 'Cancer Experience'. When I take some time to look outside the ME, I see an ever expanding web of interconnections between MY cancer and the many people who participate in the experience - many I know, many I don't, many I simply can't thank enough. In order to succeed in my goal of winning this fight, I need them all, I GET them all - despite what I seem to want. Which is to just get it over with, quickly and with as little pain and suffering as possible. I WANT TO DROP THIS SUCKER IN THE FIRST ROUND...

While I have  never been a 'boxer', I am a sucker for boxer movies. I can't help but waste away an occasional Sunday afternoon watching 3 or 4 'Rocky' movies when they make a run on television. Sorry, it is a cinematic weakness - one I cannot avoid!

I could write volumes on the various meanings in these movies - but in my current battle with cancer I want to look at those who make the fight possible. After all, NO ONE steps into the ring alone. To get to the big payday (in this case a cure!) there are several things a fighter needs:


THE DRIVE: In my case the drive is built upon the fact that at the ripe-young age of 48, I have no intention of giving up without a fight. I have too much left to see, to do and to experience to just say, "Ah, the hell with it, why bother?" So, I stand ready to fight, but how to get there...

I stand in the bathroom sometimes, looking at myself in the mirror and tell myself, "Dude, are you sure you can do this again?" I see evidence of weight loss - admittedly it looks good - bud damn, I don't want the 'Cancer-Diet'! Can't someone just give me some pill endorsed by Arnold Schwartzeneger, or Suzanne Sommers, or Chuck Norris or SOMETHING!!! I give myself the 'Jeeze is this guy an idiot look?' which, is kind of comical as I stand there in a steamy bathroom in just my skivvies! Trying to put on my best shadow boxer routine... I suddenly look around to be sure that the bathroom door is closed, and no one is watching.
"Come on man, OF COURSE you can do this! No, it ain't going to be easy - it wasn't last time either." So, the desire is there. What's next....

NEED FOR MAD SKILLS: To borrow from the movie 'Balboa', Rocky's new trainer is trying to decide how best to approach his 'return to the ring', how best to prepare him for the battle ahead.

Duke (Rocky's Trainer): You know all there is to know about fighting, so there's no sense us going down that same old road again. To beat this guy, you need speed - you don't have it. And your knees can't take the pounding, so hard running is out. And you got arthritis in your neck, and you've got calcium deposits on most of your joints, so sparring is out.

O.K. so, I know I am no Rocky Balboa, but I FEEL THIS.... To the core. The first time I fought cancer I was a spry 29 years young...pretty much in my 'prime'. I had no grey hair, had not developed diabetes, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, let alone CANCER. So when it hit then, it was scary, but the prognosis was good. I spent about a year fighting it off, and held my 'victory-belt' for nearly 20 years...

Now, nearly 20 years later, I am 48, greying around the edges, trying to figure out how to get one more fight out of this body. As Rocky said in BALBOA.... ‘I still got sump’n left,’ he says, ‘In duh basement…’ My basement ain't empty either....


So, Duke, Rocky's trainer, looks him over as they stand in the dim light of the gym he continues with the plan for Rocky's training....


Duke (Rocky's Trainer): So, what we'll be calling on is good ol’ fashion blunt force trauma. Horsepower. Heavy-duty, cast-iron, piledriving punches that will have to hurt so much they'll rattle his ancestors. Every time you hit him with a shot, it's gotta feel like he tried kissing the express train. Yeah! Let's start building some hurtin' bombs.

For me, the first set of punches in this new fight start with surgery in Cleveland next week. That brings me to the next group of important people in the fight...

THE TRAINERS: In my battle against cancer this time, my 'corner' will be filled with people. My primary 'trainers' are the team of physicians that will diagnose, evaluate, operate, treat and follow me during the fight. The come up with a training plan that I, as the fighter, must follow so that each punch I throw during this fight lands solidly and works toward taking down this most epic of foes. The next group of people that help me out are all the people I barely get to know during this process - I have vowed to keep a notebook along the way this time, so I can thank them. They include, nurses, physician assistants, interns, residents, lab-techs, and other medical personnel who depend on making me better for their livelihood! But as any good fighter knows, you can't get ANYWHERE without the next group I want to examine...

THE HOME TEAM: I cannot put it any simpler than to say, no matter how introverted, cranky, upset, solemn, strangely happy, wacko, bizarre I get during this process, it is all of YOU that really make the biggest difference. As much as this is a 'personal' battle, I realize that more than ever I will have need to depend on the support an encouragement of family and friends more than ever before. Accepting help has always been hard for me. Even harder than asking for it. I know that at this point in my life I have people who depend on me to get better - to help their lives be better - if that doesn't sound too conceited. I have a wife and kids that need me to be there for them - as more than just an economic provider - but as Husband and Dad.
I have other family members who I derive strength from and who I owe great debts of gratitude for being such wonderful people to have in my life, that to give any less than my best effort to fight this battle, would be beyond disrespectful.
Next, I have such a great group of friends that calling them 'friends' seems almost silly. They have also become family in spirit if not in blood. These people know me, know my good and bad points, know when I am and sad, know when I'm full of bull shit - and aren't afraid to tell me so. Without ALL of these people in my corner, I would not have the strength to try to fight.

Hopefully, I learned a lesson from watching the Rocky movies a bazillion times... I do not want to forget my 'Home Team'.

When I go to Cleveland next week to begin this newest battle I will be taking YOU all, in the words of 'Micky' Rocky's first trainer with me...

MICKEY: Slip the jab will ya, Slip the jab, That's right, That's it, Hey I didn't hear no bell...That's it mentalize, See that bum in front of you, You see yourself doing right and you'll do right... Come here Rock, My god your ready ain't you, That Apollo won't know what hit him, Your gonna roll over him like a bulldozer an Italian bulldozer,
You know kid I know how you feel about this fight that's comin up... And I'll tell you something if you wasn't here I prolly wouldn't be alive today, The fact that your here and doing as well as your doing gives me what do you call it motivation, Huh to stay alive, Cause I think that people die sometimes when they don't want to live no more, And nature is smarter than people think, Little by little we lose our friends, we lose everything, we keep losing and losing until we say, "Aw what the hell am I living around here for? I got no reason to go on", But we do kid, Boy I got a reason to go on, And I'm gonna stay alive, And I will watch you make good...
Wait a minute, Wait a minute now, Wait a minute, Look at this, See that, This here is the favorite thing I have on this earth and Rocky Marciano gave me that, You know what it was, His cufflink, And now I'm giving it to you, And it's gonna be like an angel on your shoulder, If you ever get hurt and you feel like your going down. This little angel is gonna whisper in your ear he's gonna say Get up you son of a bitch, Cause Micky loves you, Ok go after him kid, Go after him...

You ALL are my Mickey, and my CUFFLINK!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7VbVGSXcOsQ

A Spectre From The Past Returns

NOTE: As much as blogging this past year about my journey through the world of unemployment helped me deal with that experience, I am now faced with another 'psychological-writing-prompt' that, by following the same process, will help me deal with my current state.

Again, let me state, that my blogging is more about me being able to deal with things than a plea for concern, sympathy or pity. I see this challenge (a second one as you will see) as just that. Another hurdle placed along the road for me to ponder, deal with and overcome. I am certain that, in another year or so, I will have come through this experience alive and well - albeit with a few more physical scars from this experience than I had from dealing with being unemployed.

But, first a little back ground. Nearly 20 years ago I developed some symptoms that took me to the doctor where it was discovered I had a cancerous colon polyp. At the time, it was very scary, though in the big picture of cancer, my condition was very treatable. In short, after some minor surgery, 8 weeks of radiation and a years worth of chemotherapy, I had beaten the disease. Life goes on.

That first time with cancer led to many unique experiences, of course -- some humorous, some scary, and, believe it or not some wonderful. The two things I cherish most from that first experience are the support love and care I received from family and friends who helped me along the way, and second, the conception and birth of our first son, Cameron. My course of treatment, according to the doctors then, would leave me with about a 25% chance of being able to father children. At this point in our lives, my wife and I had been married about 3 years and were considering children anyhow so we sort of said, 'What the heck...' and BING! We made a baby.

So, with the cancer beaten - as we always hope, for good - I built my life for the last 20 years. The ensuing time saw many changes in my life. Job changes came and went. The birth of a son, becoming a father, balancing work, graduate school and married life. Good and bad economic times. The marriages of my brother and sister, the birth of nieces and nephews. The passing of loved ones. The conception of our second son, Malcolm, the purchase of our home, the growth of life-long friendships -- all the typical things that life brings our was as I moved from the post-college / early professional years, to the career / family growth phase of my life.

With everything seemingly clicking along smoothly, I was hit by the economic nightmare of losing my job last year, but again, with the support of good friends and family, I made it through that darkness. During this time I had the pleasure of seeing my oldest son graduate high school and go off to college, my youngest child barreling headlong into puberty and my wife and I celebrating 20+ years of marriage.

Then as is often the case, like a slow-motion car wreck, the symptoms of cancer reappeared in the fall, just before the holidays. Having just transitioned unemployment to an awful job, then to a new, better one, I was doing my best to ignore the obvious and get by to the holidays, during which time I would be able to schedule a round of doctors visits to figure out what was going on thinking, surely, that it could be nothing serious. Boy was I wrong.

A part of me just knew that my cancer had returned, it just seems that is the kind of luck I get. Hell, I don't smoke. I don't drink that much. I pay attention to my diet for the most part. I don't work in an Asbestos coated plant. But yet I am the one that gets fucking cancer --- opps, did I swear? I might do that in these blogs. Sometimes it is emotionally necessary, sorry. Not just ONCE but I get the damn thing TWICE! If I believed in karma, or a higher being, I would question what I had done wrong to deserve this? What am I being punished for, or challenged to over come? I just don't get it. But no, it is not karma, or fate, or anything like that. It is simply genetics, pure human genetics. Some of us get 'saddled' with bad hair, or a misshapen toes, or diabetes (I have that too!) and some us get cancer...

NOTE: The next part will contain some potentially 'icky' descriptions, you have been warned!

So, unlike the first time when I had to wait for a week or so for the biopsy results. I insisted on being not only AWAKE during the exams, but insisting on seeing the results before I left the office. The first test, a 'reglar' colonoscopy, showed that one section of my colon my colon was not smooth-like expected but was full of ridge-like areas that were bleeding - not good. So, this doctor scheduled me for another 'procedure' to get a different look at things. O.K. so enough with the serious stuff for a moment. I need to bring some humor into this process -- it is a coping mechanism, I know -- but I also feel that with humor comes comfort and will hopefully encourage others who read this to get checked themselves and not to fear the process.

OF MEDICAL TESTS & COLLEGE DAYS
In many was my college days are only a wee bit more removed than my first experience fighting cancer, and with time, comes perspective and I can now link them both to the present to help people get a better understanding of what it is like going through the process of finding out you have a serious illness.

The Call - almost like a first date, in college, I have to make a call for an appointment to see a doctor for your condition. For me this part of the process was the easiest - since I had already established a 'little black book' list of doctors. For first timers, it is scary, like a blind date! Who do you call? Do you just grab a phone? Do you ask your friends who have had cancer --- you have them, I bet, or at least family members - ask around. I pick up the phone and dial and of course you get put on hold... "Hello, this is Dr. C's office, can you hold?" and like a pizza joint, before I can say; "NO, DAMNIT! I'm sick. I need to see the doctor now!" you hear the click and then the, 'blee, blaah, ba, blee blaah' bad elevator/jazz music and the wait begins -- get used to WAITING.
        Waiting will defines my state of mind from now on. Just like when I was dating... "Will she call me back or not?", "Will she shoot me down or give me a chance?" Waiting. Waiting. Staring at the clock, I clutch my cell in my hand all the time, absent mindedly spinning it, palms sweaty, nervous... Finally I am granted a 'date' with my doctor, my partner in this confusing battle. I will spend more time with my doctors during the next couple years than with my actual spouse, so we had BOTH better get used to it.

The First Date - Like a date, I prepare for my visit with my doctor, much the same way I would for a date -after all I haven't seen this doctor in nearly 20 years. I shower, get dressed -- trying to decide which clothes to wear based on what I THINK will happen on my 'date'. 'Do I dress for the office?' ' Do I dress for comfort, in my snazziest track suit?' I choose the track suit, because I KNOW that this date will be, uh, more intimate than I want it to be, so comfort is important. I arrive 'fashionably early'. There are forms to be filled out, papers to be signed, and waiting, waiting waiting. Kind of like waiting in the foryer of your dates' house, talking awkwardly to the 'parents', anxious to get the date started. The date goes well, I am comfortable with the doctor, he seems calm and self-assured, confident that he can figure out what is wrong and fix it (after all it is not HIM that is sick!). At the end of the visit, he schedules the second date, the one when I will REALLY examined - turned inside out to find out what faults I have.....

The Preparation for the Second Date - I leave the first date with my doctor with a hand full of prescriptions to 'prepare' me for my next date... I have learned to treat these preps as a 'drinking-game'. For my second date my insides need to be as clean - or cleaner - than my outsides. So, commence with the drinking game. To say this is a 'fun' game would be both wrong and a bit perverse... But, treating it as such makes it more bearable.
    The game comes in three distinct parts; The Drinking, The Running and The Shivering.
    First, however, I must dress for the game. No fancy clothes here, get comfy. Now I position myself between my kitchen, my comfortable chair and my nearest bathroom -- I warn people to stay the hell out of my way. Next, I have to to prepare the drink - kind of like mixing up a batch of 'Hairy Buffalo' but without the everclear, fruit, or punch mix.
    I mix up the gallon of solution (which I can flavor with cherry, orange, lemon or pineapple - YAY!) I chose pineapple this time! Stick it in the fridge so it is nice and cold. The rules of the game say drink an 8 oz glass of this stuff every 10 minutes until it is gone - sounds simple AND fun, right!
     It seems like it should be fun. I put on music and was dancing around the kitchen, trying to make the best of what is to come. Then, about 6 or so doses or so into the process I stop dancing. The Running Begins. I get that 'rumbly in the tumbly' feeling.
     Now I really get to move, back and forth between the kitchen, for more drink, to the bathroom for more, uh, relief. Drink. Run. Repeat. This goes on for an hour or so and about the time I'm 3/4ths through the happy juice, I realize I am shivering.
     Why am I shivering? Well I have been drinking icy cold fluids that have been rushing through my system for the past two hours - I grab a blanket - but one that I can run with remember. Eventually the jug is empty, but I am not quite. I make several attempts to lay down and sleep, but my colon has other ideas. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, it finally lets me sleep... Unlike many college drinking adventures that might have ended up with sex, or at least drunken singing and dancing. Instead I wake up the next morning, with a headache, and starving... No eating or drinking util after the test, of course.

The Second Date: - I hop in the car, empty stomach, head aching due to no coffee, and I make my way to the hospital for the actual second date. Again, I get there early and wait. I sign papers and wait. I get moved to a prep room and wait. The prep room is awful, not the physical room, but the CONVERSATION between the nurses and doctors... who are all chattering about what they will have for lunch or what they just ate, and then the ultimate stab to my headache I hear them actually ARGUING over whose turn it is to go down and get Starbucks in the cafeteria! I wanted to scream, "Hell, I'll wheel this bed down there myself and get some, if I can have a cup too!" Instead I got them to give me a shot of fentenyl to take the edge off before the procedure... Ahh, the drugs begin....
     Soon enough I am relaxed from the drugs, getting groggy and remember being wheeled into the exam room. I am cold, they cover me with wonderfully warm blankies and hit me with another dose of drugs....man is this worth it. I am cocooned under warm blankets, woozy from meds, all comfy. Then I notice the 30 foot anaconda sized camera (it's not REALLY that big, but remember, I am on verrrry good drugs at this point!) they are prepping to insert into WHERE? Oh, man, they had better dose me again... I ask, and they comply.... man this is too easy. More drugs, ah, the floating feeling is countered by, uh, pressure down below.
      Now, remember my colon is empty...like a deflated baloon. So what do they have to do to get good pictures? You got it they, uh, mm, 'inflate me' as they move the camera. It is hard to describe the delicate balance created by the good feeling from the drugs and the feeling that there is a clown blowing up and twisting my insides into some kind of circus baloon animal... The last things I remember are watching my colon pass by on the monitor and the lovely anesthesia nurse sliding another needle of something into my IV.

The Third Date - A couple days pass after my procedure. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Then I get a call. No, not A call, THE call. "Hello, Mr. Lightfoot. The Doctor would like for you to come in and discuss the results of the test you had done last week." I set the appointment and wait for the date.

       Remember, during all this time, I have been working my job. Trying to balance things so I don't miss too much work (read money) for doctors appointments, since I have not been here long enough to have banked any paid time off, every doctors visit means some missed work...and some explanation to be given to my boss. I will say that this time around, unlike the first time I dealt with cancer, my employer is not only very understanding of my situation, but immediately assured me that my job was secure, no matter how much time I had to miss as I deal with this - in this economy that is a HUGE worry off my shoulders.
       Back in the waiting room, I try to figure out what is to come. I vaguely remember through my drug induced stupor that the doctor performing the procedure was using words like; tumor, T2, N1, lymph nodes, mass, total circumference of the colon.. All things I new were not good. I also know that at this date things would be laid out for me. One step closer to the battle plan for defeating the ugly Spectre that has reared its head.
        Waiting, waiting, waiting. I fall asleep in the sunlight of the waiting room. "Mr. Lightfoot. Mr. Lightfoot. Wake up!" I jerk back to conciousness, dropping my pile of papers on the waiting room floor. "Sorry," I mutter as I gather them again. I follow the nurse to the consult room. Blood pressure, temperature, medial history, blah, blah, blah... Don't they HAVE all this stuff in a computer somewhere? "The doctor will be in soon." Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. I bide my time by trying to guess how old each issue of magazine is that are stacked in the rack on the wall. I read the anatomy charts -- the pretty ones with all the diseases of the digestive track illustrated on one poor sap on the chart... Man it would suck to be that dude. Finally, the Doctor walks in, with a pair of eager, neatly shaven residents on his coat tails. My oncologist is more gray in the beard, more wrinkly and thin haired than he was 20 years ago, but still possesses that same smile that tells me things are rough, but they will be better. He sits down, sips his coffee. Looks at me and says, "So, as I am sure you have guessed. Your cancer is back. Unfortunately, this time we have to be more aggressive in our approach, but I am certain we will beat this again."

The Plan of Attack - While not a blow by blow account of the past few weeks you get the drift. The evaluation of my condition led to a second opinion at the Cleveland Clinic - where my Mom has been successfully treated for the same conditions - and the plan as I outline here. For a host of reasons, from genetic testing to past cancer at a young age (I was 29 at the time), my whole colon must be removed. The surgeons will give me a temporary ileostomy and rework my innards to connect my small intestines to my sphincter -- leaving me with at least somewhat normal 'function'. It will mean two surgeries, weeks off work, months getting used to using a bag, and then after all the surgical procedures are complete, sometime in the fall, I will start chemo. SO, there you have it, friends. My new adventure begins. I will try to post when I can. Hopefully through my experience others can learn that despite the curves that life throws us, we live in amazing times that allow us to cling onto our lives as long as possible. I don't intend on going anywhere, anytime soon. I have lots to do...