I was supposed to be in England!

I was planning to spend late February visiting Amanda in England, from where we would launch a side trip to Paris. Instead I am sitting in a recliner in a dimly lighted room waiting while radioactive material meanders through my veins in preparation for a PET/CT scan. This scan is supposed to pinpoint any remaining cancer hotspots so they can be monitored for changes down the road. (Details: http://www.wcrc.com/pet_ct.shtml.)

With England out of the picture, at least for now, cancer treatment is full -speed ahead: The Feb. 18 PET/CT scan, surgery to get a chemo port put in on Feb. 24 and chemo starting March 1.

On Jan. 28, I met my oncologist, Dr. George Miranda. (When you can use the phrase "my oncologist," it's official, you have cancer.) He spent an hour explaining what my future would hold: Various tests, six months of chemo,  possible and likely side effects, procedure, prognosis and everything in between. I'd arrived for my visit with a long list of questions. When Dr. Miranda was done talking, he'd covered them all without my having to ask. Never once did he glance at his watch. I took an immediate liking to him.


My treatment will involve a 3-4 hour office visit where chemo will be dispensed. I will go home with a pump that continues circulating chemo in my system for 48 hours. The procedure will repeat every two weeks. According to Dr. Miranda, I'm likely to feel fatigued during the week of the actual chemo, but should bounce back the next week.

I met Phyllis, the chemo assistant. She showed me the chemo room — a dozen or so recliners, all occupied, with people undergoing treatment. Some were reading, some knitting, some eating, some sleeping. Some had a friend or family member keeping them company. All had blankets.

The good news: chemotherapy for colon cancer is well tolerated compared to the chemo for other cancers. I shouldn't lose my hair, though it may thin. The dreaded nausea is headed off at the pass by anti-nausea medication that is given with the chemo. My body will likely become hyper-sensitive to cold: keep gloves handy for reaching into the freezer, skip ice in beverages, wear slippers on tile floors. Food may have a metallic taste. I remember having that reaction to food while on some heavy-duty antibiotics while hospitalized some years back. It was a total appetite killer. (This could be a positive!)

In the past 5-10 years, a new drug has been added to the colon-cancer chemo cocktail. The chemo is preventative, rather than "treatment." The expectation is that surgery got all of the cancer. But typically, patients like me with Stage 3B colon cancer have a 40 percent rate of recurrence if they skip any post-surgical treatment. Chemo cuts the recurrence rate in half. I'm willing to give up six months of my immediate future for an improved chance at a long-term future.

Back to the PET/CT scan: Once my radio active material was well-disbursed, the actual scan was a piece of cake. I slipped into a hospital gown and lay down on the bed that would slide through the scanner. The scan would take 16 minutes (who decides this?). I felt like a hot dog in a bun. (What is it with the food metaphors? Could be the fasting I have to do before these procedures.) The scan went by in a jumble of whirring, sliding, lights and a disembodied voice: "Beginning now," "Don't move," "One more minute."

Two hours out of my life and another step down the road in cancer treatment. Europe will be there when I'm ready.

“It's malignant and it needs to come out.”

Those words, bluntly spoken by a gastroenterologist on the morning of Nov. 30, twisted my perspective on life. I was just coming off the worst year of my life (impending divorce — friendly, but unwanted by me). Note to self: time to redefine "worst."

I had grand plans for the future:

• Lots of time in Longview, Texas, watching Nate, 20, play first base for the LeTourneau University Yellow Jackets. He'd had a magical season the spring before, but I'd seen very few games. This year, he was out of the dorms and with a couch available in his living room, the cost of visiting dropped dramatically. And maybe I could work a little magic on his dumpy but cheap apartment.
• Couple trips to Europe to visit Amanda, 22, who was living abroad for a year as an au pair for a family just outside London. I hadn't seen her since August and was planning a February visit where we'd make a trip to Paris. Then in June, when she finished her tour of duty, we were going to spend a few weeks traveling Europe. I'd expected her to do some traveling while she was abroad; I expected her to do it was some new-found friends. I was touched that she wanted to see the world with me. Nate had been invited to play baseball for a week in Holland; maybe we could meet there.
  
• And the immediate future included a holiday trip to Cleveland to visit family and make a couple side trips (weather permitting) to DC and NY. Baby Girl was coming back to the US for three weeks.
• Sell the family home and start my new life in my own place.
  

John Lennon said: “Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.” Who knew he could so succinctly sum up my life in a line from "Beautiful Boy" http://videosift.com/video/John-Lennon-Beautiful-Boy. (The line is toward the end for anyone who cares to listen.) The song was written about his son Sean as Lennon reflected on the child's life thus far and contemplated their future. Lennon's life, of course, was tragically cut short while he was busy making other plans. What a prophecy; I hope it won't be mine.

Back to the morning of Nov. 30. I had just undergone a "routine" colonoscopy. I was signing release papers and salivating over my first solid food in 30-plus hours. The gastroenterologist asked me to step into a side room. It was dimly lit, cramped, filled with assorted computers, desks and office materials ... there may have even been a worker at one of the computers. The doctor motioned to a monitor where in wonderous full color were assorted pictures of the inside of my colon (not my best side, but it was squeaky clean!). He pointed to a photo: "It's malignant and it needs to come out." No, "Please sit down ..." No, "Sorry to have to tell you this ..." Just, "It's malignant and it needs to come out."

I sank uninvited into a chair and scrounged around for my voice, "You can tell that from a picture?" He replied, "Well, even if it's not, it needs to come out." Go home. Rest up. Go see your primary care doctor tomorrow. Dismissed!

My poor friend Denise, whom I'd bribed into taking me to my colonoscopy appointment with the promise of breakfast afterward. (For decades, my soon-to-be ex had been my go-to guy for medical/dental anesthesia-involved "chauffeur" needs. With this appointment I'd taken a step in breaking that reliance.) Refusing a wheel chair, I walked to Denise's car and got in. My mind was racing: Tell her? Wait until I'd told "family"? The moment she spoke, my decision was made: "I have colon cancer," I blurted, redefining "family" to include new-found friends. We mourned, we cursed, we had breakfast. What we didn't have were tears.

A former neighbor and dear long-distance friend Kristy had given me a self-help book for my birthday titled: "Me Five Years From Now." At the time, the upheaval I was dealing with was divorce. With the latest wrinkle in my life, I think I'll start calling it: "Be Five Years From Now."

Stay tuned!