A SAD Time of the Year...

For more than a decade, late fall and early winter have meant Seasonal Affective Disorder (or "SAD") for me.

Typically, I get a constant level of fatigue that sleeping doesn't relieve. I get cranky and have been known to yell at co-workers, friends, fellow jugglers and even my wonderful wife. I get hypoglycemic, which means low blood sugar -- and eating candy bars or other high-sugar foods only drives my blood sugar even lower.

And I can identify this condition as SAD, because using an intensive light source (designed specifically for treating SAD) first thing in the morning alleviates the entire package of symptoms. Every year, I've started using the light source shortly after I feel a building sense of anger that I can't explain. And I tell Deb that it's that time again, and please ignore any grousing that I direct her way.

But strangely enough, this year I seem to be immune to the symptoms completely without any use of the SAD light. (Okay, so I've been sleeping in some the last week or two, but I think that's pretty normal and I've been getting to bed late.) But no hypoglycemia and no anger. It's been delightful. Things have been so normal that it's taken me a month or so to realize that... well, that things are normal.

I might tie this to my changed attitude about autumn -- a change I blogged about a month or so ago. (I used to dread autumn, but have come to accept it and even enjoy it!)

I might tie this to my recovery from cancer treatment and all the physical, mental and spiritual changes that has entailed.

I might credit this to what I've been learning about myself and the universe at the Meadville school.

I might assume that I'm simply changing with age, and that my SAD time has simply passed.

Or I might just accept the gift of non-SADness and be grateful.

Blanche Update #3

Several of you have asked about Blanche -- the orchid that was presented to us last summer by my wonderful sister.

You may recall that Blanche originally came with a set of 10 beautiful, pure white blossoms. She shed these after several weeks and proceeded to produce a new set of 10 beautiful, pure white blossoms.

Roughly two months ago, she shed them as well and looked as if she were going into a dormant state for the winter. Deb stopped into our local florist to find out if there was anything we should do to keep the plant healthy through the winter. The florist was surprised to hear that Blanche would produce two full sets of blossoms in a single season -- and that whatever we were doing was clearly the right thing. So we've been placing her in direct sunlight every day, and the large green leaves at the base of the plant look perfectly healthy and busy doing that photosynthesis thingy that plants do.

Aaaand we were a bit surprised, but delighted, when Blanche started to produce yet another branch with buds on it a week or so ago. She clearly has in mind to produce a new set of blossoms mid-winter.

(The branch in question is the green "stick" at the top of the plant, pointing off to the left. As before, you can click on the photo to get a full-size view.)

There's a metaphor available here -- about renewal and determination to live life fully at the height of summer or the depths of winter. I leave the details of the metaphor up to you, dear reader, to fill in as feels best to you.

A Poem -- courtesy of a dear friend

Anne Higgins is one of Deb's oldest and dearest friends and, through the years, has become one of mine as well. Anne is a published poet with numerous collections of her work in print. (You can find several of them on Amazon.com if you're interested...)

In her latest collection of poems, titled How the Hand Behaves, she includes one describing her response to a juggling performance of mine at a local street fair.

It's titled (not surprisingly) "The Juggler," and she's given me permission to reproduce it for you here. It goes like this:

********************

The Juggler

Spinning a tin plate
on a drumstick,
he beckons the little girl
put up your finger.
He transfers the tin plate from the drumstick
to her finger.
There's a serious intensity
to his whimsy.
His face red with exertion,
heat of the summer evening
at the street fair.
Two deep ridges furrow his brow.
His hair short, shoe brush bristly,
wired with gray as
his stubbly beard.
All his brainpower
poured into the juggling.
Hand-eye coordination,
two knife sharp eyes.
At sixty, he maintains his body
like a fine old Volvo -- running smooth.
Introvert who juggles
time, cash, yardwork,
computer,
all of that.
Now there's a lovely silver ball,
tangerine sized, translucent,
which rolls along his hand,
up his forearm,
twisting at his elbow,
down the other side and
back into the palm,
rolling of its own volition.

********************

Words That Sustained Me

Last Spring and Summer, a remarkable number of people sent me "Get Well" cards. To me anyway, it was certainly a remarkable and totally unexpected number: there were over 40 of them. And there were all the sweet and supportive things folks wrote here in the blog. And then there were many e-mails -- often written by folks whose software wouldn't let them comment on the blog.

But I'm writing today about the cards.

The cards have been displayed on our mantelpiece since they arrived, but it's time now to collect them and tuck them into an envelope for safe keeping. Christmas cards are arriving -- and the "Get Well" cards have already worked their magic.

Many of the cards contained words that slipped right through all my defenses and neuroses, my anxieties and fears, and touched my heart. There were phrases in these cards that would echo through my mind as Deb and I drove to yet another treatment session, yet another doctor's appointment.

And I thought I would share some of them with you, with the hope that you will never need them. Some of these words were pre-printed on the card and some of them were written by the sender. When you think about it, it probably doesn't matter...

The first one is the one that touched me most deeply -- and still brings tears to my eyes:

"At the times when it's most difficult to believe that there will ever be better days ahead, I will be here to do the believing for you..."

Others (in no particular order) include:

"Recovery is more than a mending of the body... It is an easing of the mind, a calming of the heart, and a healing of the spirit."

"Remember that with lots of hair or some hair or no hair, you are still Randy!"

"Wishing you tranquility, and hoping you know how much you are loved."

"May you have strength at your backdoor, so you have it when you need it... May you have courage in your pocket, so you know where to find it... And, always, may you have hope in your heart, so you never misplace it."

"Sending you support and encouragement... Know that I care."

"Rest. Renew. Restore. Heal. Be well."

"I'm not sure what to do, I'm not sure what to say. But one thing's for sure... I promise to pray."

"I know you are strong. You have a dear, caring helpmate and many friends who are hoping and praying for your full recovery. Count me as one of them."

"I believe in mystery and miracles and the magic of a new day. I believe in angels and natural wonders and the beauty inside people. I believe in rainbows and happy endings and dreams-come-true... I believe in a bright-and-shining tomorrow ahead for you."

"There is a circle of caring all around... and you are right in the middle."

"The human spirit is stronger than anything that can happen to it."

Last, but certainly not least, I received a card from my dino-hunting buddies in Alberta. Eight folks wrote notes inside the card and signed it. And almost all of the messages included the magic phrase: "next year."

It is, I think, unavoidable that -- from time to time during an extended series of treatments like mine -- you will feel utterly alone and that no one could possibly understand what you were going through. And it was during these times that the evidence of the cards came roaring into my life and said: "You are not alone! Not now. Not ever."

Another Step

Deb and I visited with my radiation doc this morning for a regularly scheduled check-up. He seemed genuinely pleased to see us, I think because he likes us and because my progress has been so positive since I had my last radiation session back in early August.

(You may recall that radiation was a vital part of my overall treatment regimen: We weren't sure that the major surgery had removed the entire primary tumor, and that my recovery from cancer needed the radiation to eliminate any part of the tumor that might still be in my head/neck area. So the rad doc worked up a specific area-vs-radiation-intensity program for his machine to follow -- to treat a cancer type with which he was less-than-familiar. So my recovery says that his program worked. Hurray for him! Hurray for me! Hurray for all of us!)

He told me I looked really well, and he was pleased that I continued to gain weight.

We talked about the numbness and tingling that I'm feeling in my right foot and both my hands (which is called a "small-fiber neuropathy," I think...), and he said we should keep an eye on it. He said it probably wouldn't get any worse and might well go away. And both of us agreed that, if this were my biggest problem, I was one fortunate dude. (Although he didn't use the word "dude." I doubt he's ever used the word "dude." And, although I''ve never met them, I doubt that his kids will ever use the word "dude." At least not in his hearing...)

He asked me whether my ability to taste foods was returning, and I told him definitely yes, but that I still had to avoid spicy foods.

He told me: "Then don't eat them."

I said: "But this means no Szechuan food!"

He brightened visibly and said: "Oh, you like Chinese food?!?" and I said yes. (He's Chinese -- very Chinese -- and I felt like I had just pitched him a belt-high fastball.) He's a busy man, so we avoided talking Szechuan food. But I would like to have got some recommendations for future use...

He probed my head/neck area very completely and told me he couldn't find anything to indicate a return of the cancer. I told him that I had been waiting for him to say that, and he smiled.

Then, he anesthetized my nose and throat and put a long lighted probe (laryngoscope?) into my nose and down the back of my throat. As he was doing this, he told me that my larynx looked perfectly normal and that my pharynx also looked perfectly normal. As he withdrew the instrument, he told Deb and me that "It looks like you haven't had any radiation treatment at all."

Oh, baby!

After so many sessions with this guy which were sometimes rather grim and determined "We just gotta keep grinding this out" sessions, it was wonderful to visit him and his marvelous staff and have nothing but good news and warm feelings all the way around.

Just in time for the holidays.

Confluence

Okay, this is like, so cool. No, it's way beyond cool. It's like five degrees Kelvin. And it was totally unexpected. But first, a little background. In two parcels:

Parcel A: Hadrosaurus Foulkii was the first reasonably complete dinosaur skeleton ever found. It was found in a marl pit close to Haddonfield, NJ in 1858 and is now on permanent display at the Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia. Which is where I volunteer and clean dinosaur bones and talk with visitors to the museum. The Academy recently did a beautiful job of giving the animal its own exhibit, replete with all sorts of valuable background information. Click here: http://www.levins.com/dinosaur.shtml for more information about the critter.

Parcel B: When I tell people that I'm currently offering dinosaur lectures and juggling performances, they ask me: "What do these two things have in common?" or something like that. Or else they just stare at me for a while as if I'm a bit too weird to believe.

So here's what's so cool: today, the Curator of Dinosaurs at the Academy sidled up to me and asked if I would like to juggle for the museum's Paleopalooza extravaganza, which takes place in mid-February.

Aaaaand what do you suppose the Curator has in mind for me to juggle?

Hmmmm?

Anyone who did not answer "Dinosaur Bones!!" please go back up this posting and read the two Parcels shown above.

The Curator plans to make castings of three or more bones from the Hadrosuarus fossils specifically for me to juggle. At Paleopalooza. (Juggling the real bones is, of course, out of the question!) He and I went to Hadrosaurus display to figure out which bones would work best. (We chose three caudal vertebrae and either a radius or ulna.) He will do one casting to confirm size and weight, then go for the entire set.

He's very excited about this. I'm very excited about this. I hope that you are very excited about this. And I will, of course, let you know more about this as we get closer to Paleopalooza time.

I don't know what I could possibly have done to deserve this.

If I knew, I would do it more often.

Blanche Update #2

Many of you will -- I hope -- recall that last summer, my ever-so-thoughtful sister sent Deb and me a beautiful orchid with pure white blossoms. As is our habit, we gave the plant a name: Blanche.

Blance luxuriated on our porch for the last half of the summer and all of the fall. During this time, she produced several new blossoms, for a grand total of ten: five per branch on each of her two stems.

In late summer or early fall, Blanche withdrew her support for each of the blossoms -- gradually over the course of several days -- from the distal to the proximal end of each branch. She then withdrew her support from each of the two branches, while growing a new branch on each stem.

She then produced five new blossoms on each of her two new branches. And they were every bit as lovely as the original set of ten.

We have, of course, brought Blanche inside as the weather got colder, and now have her sitting in the light from a south-facing window, to keep her four large, still-healthy leaves properly nourished with sunlight.

Several weeks ago, Blanche decided to withdraw support from the second set of ten blossoms. This leaves her looking rather austere, but still healthy, and the memory of her beautiful blossoms remains vivid in our memories.

And just the other day, she started growing a new branch on one of the two stems. So we may get yet another set of blossoms sometime in the next month or so. But we're not placing any goals or expectations on her. She is now, as she has always been, a splendid addition to our house.

Just as she is. Just as she decides to be.

Joke #1

(With the understanding that there may or may not be a Joke #2 in the future of this blog.)

I was performing somewhere recently (can't for the life of me recall where) when this lady came up to me and -- with no encouragement on my part -- told me the following joke. She insisted that she made it up herself.

The joke coincides so much with my sense of what's funny that I wanted to share it with all of you:

This chicken goes into a bar and walks up to the bartender.

The barkeep asks, "What can I do for you?"

The chicken says, "I hope you can help me. I've forgotten the punchline to this joke."

The bartender says, "Hmmm... I think you'd better ask at the other bar in town."

Chicken says, "Okay, I will. Where's the other bar?"

Barkeep says, "It's just over there. On the other side of the road."

Presents in Presence

It's getting late and I need to be up at 4:30 or so to drive to Meadville, but I just had to tell you about this evening:

This weekend is the "Old Fashioned Christmas in West Chester" celebration, and I performed this evening at the local YMCA as part of the event. This is a new venue for me, but I've performed for the OFC for the last 8 or 10 years. There's no financial compensation, but it's a wonderful opportunity to particpate in the joys of the season and of living in a lovely small town like West Chester. I would gladly pay for the pleasure of doing this gig, but please don't tell that to the West Chester Chamber of Commerce...

This OFC gig was the first juggling performance I ever did 'way back then. And for the first time since then, I was paired this evening with Jody -- a very polished and professional local folksinger who was an enormous help in getting me through the "first performance jitters." So she and I had a chance to catch up with each other and reminisce and chat about stuff, like the fact that our hair has changed colors since 'way back then...

Attending this evening's performance were:

-- Ron and Pam, two very dear people whom I haven't seen in several years. I think they drove back to West Chester from a considerable distance specifically to watch me perform.

-- Jimmy and his family. Jimmy hasn't been at the Turks Head Jugglers practice sessions for several years, but he tells me he's keeping up with his juggling. He's taller by half a foot at least since I saw him last, and his voice has dropped at least half an octave. And, hard as it is for me to believe, he's even handsomer now than he was back then.

-- Matt and Melinda and their three kids. Matt is the Head of the West Chester Friends School, which is where our juggling group meets for practice. Matt has been tremendously supportive of the Turks Heads, but I'm not sure he's ever had a chance to see me perform. So that felt really good -- to see him in the audience.

-- Dot and Serita, two Quaker friends we hadn't seen in a long time.

-- Keira and Lily, two very talented young jugglers who have been too caught up in other activities to join us at the gym for our practice sessions for the last year or so. I told them I was going to try to schedule another Saturday unicycle session before the weather closes in, and they both got very excited. Very cool.

All of the above people stayed after the performance to talk to Deb and me. And it felt so very good to be surrounded by all this warmth and caring. And people that I haven't seen recently -- and could never see too much of.

Jimmy's mom was kind enough to ask how my health was, which gave me the opportunity to tell folks how well things are going. (See previous posting: "Green Lights.")

Oh, and here's the punch line: today is my birthday.

Can't do much better than this for birthday gifts!

Green Lights

Well, I've just seen three members of my Medical Team over the last three days:

-- My E/N/T guy on Wednesday
-- My chemo doc on Thursday
-- My neurologist on Friday

and all three of them have the same message for me: Although we will monitor your situation for months or years, there continues to be no evidence of cancer in your head/neck area. And it's quite possible that your salivary duct cancer is something to be seen only in the rear-view mirror.

And I will be getting a scan of one sort or another in the next couple of weeks to check on the possibility that the cancer has metasticized and spread. But there's certainly no sign of that having happened.

It's not completely "clear sailing," however. My E/N/T doc (who has a wonderful sense of humor, even though he's Canadian) thinks I'm being obsessive/compulsive about staying hydrated and keeping my teeth clean -- thereby giving me something new to obsess about. (I told him that I was concerned about a small bump on my chin, and he told me "Aw, you've like an old dog -- lumps and bumps everywhere. You're fine!") My chemo doc says I should stay on the Coumadin blood thinner for another couple of weeks, and continue to use the compression stockings. And the neurologist says I have minor nerve damage -- probably from the Cisplatin chemotherapy -- in my right leg and arms (resulting in some numbness and tingling), although this may heal and in any case, shouldn't get any worse.

But compared to where I might have been at this point in my health, things are splendidly good.

And I thought you'd like to know that.

Blood Clot? What Blood Clot?

Well, it's almost that good!

I had a sonogram on my right leg yesterday. The technician was very meticulous -- moving the probe back and forth, stopping often, going back over territory she had already examined. And I figured that this was not good news -- that she was finding all sorts of interesting stuff that she wanted to image thoroughly.

Boy, was I wrong. If anything, she was probably looking to find anything interesting and abnormal to image.

My experience with sonograms has been that, after the probe session is over, the technician conducting the probe won't comment on what he/she has seen, saying something along the lines of "The results are for the doctor to determine and explain to you." But this young lady felt quite comfortable in voluneteering "The blood clot is almost completely cleared. And it looks much better than your last scan. So it's quite likely that it will continue to dissolve and then just disappear."

Wow.

She also said that my body had been producing new veins to bypass the area that had been blocked by the clot. I was truly amazed and delighted: anything that my 62-year-old body does that's new and helpful is something to be celebrated.

So, final word on this may come on Thursday, when I see my doc responsible for treating the clot. And he may tell me to stop taking the blood thinner (Coumadin) and ditch the compression stockings. While only a minor nuisance compared to the other stuff I've had to do over the last six months, it would certainly be a relief to hear him say that these two clot treatment procedures are officially done with.

I will let you know in a couple of days how it goes.

Hoping that your holiday season is going well -- and that you truly have much to be thankful for.

I know I do.

Chemo Brain and Other Side Effects

I mentioned in the most recent posting a phenomenon called "Chemo Brain." There was some discussion -- in person as well as in Comments to the blog -- about this.

So I Googled the term and found a pretty good description of what I'd been feeling. And you can read more about it by clicking here:
http://www.cancer.org/docroot/MBC/content/MBC_2_3x_Chemobrain.asp

And goodness knows that my age has something to do with getting a little mentally foggy at times. My wife... ummm... you know -- what's-her-name... has mentioned this. At least I think she did.

But it's something of a relief to be able to blame my memory lapses on something other than just getting on in years. And by the sound of the above write-up, others get hit with this a lot harder than I have!

A couple of other "looking up" updates on that most recent report can also be reported:

I have stopped biting my tongue and cheek. It's taken a couple of weeks of increased awareness and care as well as a decrease in swelling of my tongue, but things are finally coming around in this regard -- and what a relief it is!

And my taste buds continue returning to normal. Foods can be a bit more spicy than they have been, and the occasional glass of wine tastes almost normal.

Both of these "return to normal" phenomena remind me that there is yet more healing to be done, and that my body continues to do just that.

And so the adventure continues.

Health Update: 11/23/09 (revised)

(I wrote most of the following last night -- and was feeling a bit put-upon at the time. This morning, I feel a good deal more upbeat. So, if you read this late Monday or early Tuesday, please take another look. Thanks.)

I haven't done one of these "Health Updates" in some time, and thought it would be sensible to do so. First, the Good News:

I'm putting a few pounds back on (up to 167 from a mid-treatment low of 159), and it feels good. And I'm eating better than I was pre-diagnosis, with less fast-food junk for lunch, much less caffeine, and only an occasional sip of alcoholic beverage.

I'm back full-time with my personal trainer (2 sessions a week), and am recovering my strength rapidly. Even my trainer is surprised at how quickly I'm moving from light weights to heavier ones. I'm also regaining some of the flexibility I've lost. And now that the food tube is gone and the insertion site is healing really well, I can do a much wider range of exercise and stretching. Now if my blood clot is gone, I will be free to do most anything I did before all this cancer stuff started.

I hope to get the unicycle out for a session or two before the weather closes in. And maybe, just maybe, my kayak as well.

I've got considerably more color in my complexion than I did even two weeks ago. Folks who were telling me, "Gee, you look great!" six or seven weeks ago are now saying, "Gee, you look so much better than you did the last time I saw you. You were so gray a month ago."

I feel a real commitment to "plugging back in" to my pre-diagnosis life as fully as I can. Among other things, I'm the first guy to show up at the gym for our Turks Head Jugglers practice sessions again. And I'm staying for the entire 2 or 2 1/2 hours of the session. And, as mentioned below, my juggling didn't suffer for lack of practice over the last six months or so.

And I'm beginning to shoulder my responsibilities to the local Quaker School and Meeting.


Now the Not-So-Good News. As mentioned in previous "Health Updates," I'm not complaining here, just documenting:

Dry Mouth: The reader may recall that the radiation treatments I received back in June through July and into August had the unfortunate side effect of disabling my left parotid salivary gland permanently. (The radiation has different effects on different kinds of cells. Muscle and nerve cells are tough enough to survive the level of radiation necessary to kill the cancer cells, for example, but salivary gland cells are not. Skin cells are marginal...) The radiation doc explained all this before treatment and that it was unavoidable with current technology. Since the parotid glands are your primary producers of saliva, this means that I encounter a shortage of saliva at some most inconvenient times. Like eating anything like bread. Or anything else that could remotely be referred to as "dry food." Also, I wake up several times each night with a completely dried-out mouth and need to take some water. And I never travel anywhere any more without a bottle of water handy.
So it's inconvenient and at times downright annoying, but there it is. The radiation doc said that other salivary glands would, with time, increase their saliva production, but not enough to make up the shortfall entirely.

Nothing Spicy: Another side effect of the radiation was to sensitize my taste buds to the point that I can't eat anything spicy. And it's difficult to know what will trigger a painful response from my taste buds. It turns out that several salad dressings (Balsamic Vinegar, for example) are also unworkable.
And I can't use regular toothpaste or mouthwash, as they also trigger a serious burning sensation in my mouth.
This may fade with time. To be sure, I can eat a number of things now that I couldn't consider several weeks ago -- so we'll just have to wait and see. (The docs tell me that different patients wind up with different long-term responses to treatment.)

No Wine: A related effect means that wine currently tastes like kerosene. It's weird, becuase the wine smells as wonderful as ever. But it tastes like a chemistry project.

Chemo Brain: This seems to be a well documented phenomenon for people who've gone through chemotherapy. It consists of a mental fogginess -- an inability to remember things and/or think things through thoroughly. As with the food issue mentioned above, the degree of this condition and its duration vary widely from one patient to another. It may fade in weeks or months or never.
Advice on dealing with Chemo Brain includes doing puzzles and working through other mental challenges to keep the neural synapses as clean and busy as possible.
And it's funny -- before I knew about Chemo Brain, I found myself doing lots of Soduku, word puzzles and computer games with a strong feeling of necsessity. Like my brain understood the situation and wanted to exercise as much and as hard as possible. And I think the keyboard lessons and practice have also helped with this.
And, thank goodness, it hasn't affected my juggling!

The Blood Clot: I'm still on blood thinning medication (Coumadin) and wearing a compression stocking on my right leg in an effort to deal with the existing clot and prevent others from forming. People (non-medical) tell me that anytime you start messing with your body chemistry, you're likely to get a blood clot. That may be true, but my docs don't seem to buy this.
Ultrasound #1 back in June confirmed the existence of the clot. Ultrasound #2 in October showed that the clot was smaller, but still there. Ultrasound #3 happens in a week or so. If it continues to show a clot, I may be on blood thinners for the rest of my life -- and maybe wearing this stupid compression stocking as well. If the clot is gone, I will be immensely relieved and pleased. I will, of course, tell you all about it either way.

Numbness: A tingling and numbness showed up several weeks ago and seems to be spreading. It started in my right foot and concerned me greatly that it might mean that the clot was growing. And when it spread to my hands, I was almost relieved: okay, at least it's not the clot doing this!
My neurologist (tell you what: I am racking up new docs at a terrific rate this year!) tells me that this could be a side effect from the chemotherapy. I'm due to go back to him for additional testing next week to try and determine what is causing this -- and what we can do to stop it and reverse it.

Biting my Tongue and Cheek: I think what's happening here is that my tongue is somewhat swollen, which makes biting it accidentally all the more likely. And efforts to avoid biting my tongue have resulted in biting my cheek instead. And healing this condition has taken weeks. I think the Coumadin is slowing down the normal healing process.
So I've spent the last three weeks being as careful as I can to avoid additional injury, but sometimes you forget.

Finally, I still feel a stiffness in my neck and chin where the primary surgery took place and the radiation treatment focused. It's not a pain, but it is a regular reminder that my body has been through a great deal -- and that it won't ever really fully recover.

The above is a list of delayed reactions to radiation and chemo therapies. When these two treatments stopped back in early August, I thought that healing would be a straight-line process. No one explained this delayed reaction phenomenon to me. And maybe no one should have. Maybe some patients would decide to do without treatment if they were informed of the longer lasting effects of rads and chemo. I dunno. But it has been a series of unpleasant surprises. That I do know.

But I also know that I have a choice of where to focus: on the Good News or the Not-So-Good-News. And I know that there are significant differences in life to be expected, based on where I focus.

And I also know that I am the fortunate beneficiary of decades of research and development in cancer treatment. I am walking and talking and juggling comfortably and have a good shot at decades of a fulfilled life ahead. And I am grateful.

An Introduction to Introductions

Many thanks to folks who have either introduced themselves here on the blog or have commented on their interests and concerns about introductions.

Some of you are (understandably) reluctant to share information like e-mail addresses, telephone numbers, drivers license and/or credit card numbers, whether you like pina coladas and walking in the rain, and so forth. But there have also been a number of postings and e-mails asking "Who are these wonderful people who are writing to the blog?"

So some of you are looking to chat directly with others who have commented, while some have expressed concern about publicizing too much information about them.

In an effort to meet both sets of interests, I plan to do the following:

I will make a list of everyone who has commented. (There are roughly sixty people who have written to the blog! Are you amazed? 'Cause I am!) Then alphabetize the list. Then post the person's first name, and how they have come to know me. And maybe a brief story about how we've interacted through the years. Or maybe not.

Then, if you're interested in chatting with Brunnhilde, say, please send me an e-mail expressing your interest and including a brief note for him/her if you wish. And I will forward the message on to Brunnhilde, including your e-mail address. Then, if Brunnhilde decides to complete the "loop," she/he can get back in touch with you directly. If she/he decides not to do so, he/she can simply delete the e-mail and life will go on much as it has. I believe that will provide the security that some folks have asked for.

And if that's not okay with you (that is, saying anything about you in a posting or being on such a list), that's fine too. Just please let me know that by next Friday, November 27, and I will leave your name off. And shortly after that, I will start posting 5 to 10 names and brief descriptions per posting.

And my e-mail address is: GotaJugl@msn.com

A Crushing Realization

Well, yesterday was to be a Big Day. Hanging with Frosty and Rudolph at the Exton Square Mall...

But what a stunning and disappointing surprise awaited.

I showed up early (I love to be early for gigs!) with my bright red pants, dark green shirt, gold sparkly vest and bowler hat -- my normal attire for this event -- and started looking around for the other two stars of the show: Rudolph and Frosty. but they were nowhere in sight. I thought we could have some pre-parade Shop Talk, pose for photos together, sign a few autographs, maybe share some hot chocolate. You know, buddy stuff. Think George Clooney and Brad Pitt.

Well! When they finally showed up, don't you know that they decided to hang together 'way over there and not come anywhere close to me. Not a word between us, not even a nod of recognition.

Les trois etoiles de la saison indeed. Obviously, they decided to go downtown on me.

Is it jealousy on their part? Fear of sharing the spotlight with a relative newcomer? I dunno...

But hey, that's showbiz. Maybe, as Ethel Merman once sang, "Next day on your dressing room they've hung a star." But maybe next day on your dressing room they've hung a sign saying "Room for Rent."

For every glorious moment in the showbiz spotlight there's a million heartbreaks -- and this has been one of them.

Hey, who needs them. Right? So I picked up my props and went about my job -- hiding the pain and disappointment as best I could. "Cause I'm a trouper. I can rise above the pettiness of these old has-beens and make my own way in the world of showbiz. I'll show 'em what a lean, mean juggling machine can do in this dog-eat-dog world of ours.

No bitterness. Nope. I'm beyond that. I got a job to do.

I mean, who cares about Frosty and Rudolph in June or July -- which are my busiest months? Hmmm?

(Maybe I should talk to the Mall's marketing people about next year's newspaper ad. What do you think?)

Randy the Christmas Icon

Okay, this posting is certain to earn me several demerits at the Meadville school, as it is Pure Ego In Charge. It's bragging, pure and simple.

So be it. It isn't every day that your name is linked in print with the Immortal Icons of the Holiday Season.

But first, a little background: I've performed at the Exton Square Mall at this time of year every year for the last six or seven. The Mall has a "Welcome Santa" parade just before Thanksgiving, featuring a marching band, fire engines, live reindeer, a local dancing group, several stiltwalkers, and a juggler. That last one would be me.

Before my first year's performance, I felt I was going into the Belly of the Beast. An infernal engine working to rob the season of emotion and meaning and replace them with unmitigated greed and unvarnished covetousness.

After that first year, I decided to lighten up. And provide a pretty good juggling show for kids. With nothing to buy or sell and no charge to watch. Just fun. An unexpected but pleasant diversion in the middle of what is probably a very hectic Saturday. And the show always ends with me spinning a plate onto the outstretched finger of a kid. Well, actually, as many kids as want to have a spinning plate on their finger. (And usually there's a lot of them!)

So every year, the Mall keeps inviting me back -- for the parade itself and then several hours of walk-around performing. And the gig has become one of my favorites. It gives me a chance to wish hundreds of people I've never met a happy holiday season. And give them the gift of my performance. And I like that.

Anyway, this year the Mall took out a huge ad in the local newspaper, with a reproduction of a "Saturday Evening Post" magazine cover by Norman Rockwell. It features Santa looking over a globe with a magnifying glass as he holds a book listing all the Good Boys and Girls of the World. Cute.

And the text of the ad under the magazine cover says "Santa Arrives!" in large, friendly letters and then goes on to describe what will happen when he does. Arrive. It says:

"Kick off the Holiday season yadda yadda... Enjoy free hot chocolate yadda yadda yadda... [ah yes, here it is!] Mingle with Santa's friends including Frosty, Rudolph, Randini the Remarkable and more as you join in the Santa parade to his Norman Rockwell-inspired home."

Randini the Remarkable -- c'est mon nom de tossing-things-around. Right there in print. Me, Frosty, Rudolph. Like we're buds or something.

So, like, all over Chester County, people are reading their copies of the Daily Local News and circling the date to be at the Exton Square Mall and ogle the Christmas Icons who have come to make their season bright:

Frosty.

Rudolph.

Randini.

Les trois etoiles de la saison.

So Let Me Introduce to You...

each other.

A number of people have asked me, "Who is so-and-so? The person who writes such wonderful things on your blog?" And I would love to help all of you who are interested to know who's who -- and maybe help you get in touch with each other.

(I'm in the middle of listing the names of people who have commented on this blog. So far, the tally stands at 36 people. 36 people!! I'm absolutely astonished and more grateful than ever for your participation.)

There are several ways I can do this:

-- I can list your names (probably alphabetically) and then indicate who you are in relationship to me. Family, fellow students from Meadville, dear friends and so forth.

-- As an option to the above, I can include your e-mail address within the posting, which would enable any blog reader to click on the address and chat with that person directly. I would certainly check with each of you to make sure you were comfortable with having your e-mail address posted before I proceeded with this.

-- I can keep this information in a Word file, and send it via e-mail to whomever asks for it. "Whomever" necessarily being someone else on the list of Commenters or someone I knew well and felt good about.

And you may have other ideas for fostering conversations I haven't thought of. Please feel free to make suggestions.

(Slightly off this subject, I can adjust the blog so that you can post directly and not have to comment on something that I've posted. If anyone would like to have that option, please let me know.)

If you'd rather "talk" to me directly rather than via the blog, please feel free to send me an e-mail at: GotaJugl@msn.com And my telephone number is 610.436.5759. Cell phone number is: 484.639.7510.

Thanks for any input you may have about this!

Autumn Leaves

For as long as I can remember, I've hated fall.

Now "hate" is a word I don't use often, but I think applies here.

I grew up on an estuary of the Chesapeake Bay, and summer meant a seemingly endless number of ways to enjoy the water. And fall meant an end to all that. And it meant being cold in the mornings when we woke up (the heating system in our house was none too effective...). And it promised shorter and shorter days and less time outside playing.

And then there was school, which I don't recall enjoying much at all.

As I got older, fall was the harbinger of snow, ice and all the inconveniences they caused. And even colder mornings. And even higher energy bills.

And the leaves turning color only seemed to be mocking me -- reminding me of the months of cold, dark weather ahead and the subtly increasing levels of cabin fever within me and my four siblings. In a house that seemed to get smaller with each passing day.

As the years went by and I moved away from Baltimore, the discomforts of colder weather were less of an issue, but I held onto my distaste for autumn. As in, "Oh hell, here comes winter. Again." This was an automatic response, and I never had a compelling reason to change it or even examine it. It was just "Oh hell" again and again.

People around me have, it seems, always appreciated the leaves turning color, and have expressed their joy at seeing such a marvel. And I have, it seems, always felt that these people were delusional as they tried to avoid the True Message of Fall. As Joni Mitchell once sang: "All that stays is dying, all that's living's getting out."

But this year has been notably different. For the first time in more decades than I care to think about, I have come to appreciate the fall foliage for what it is -- rather than treating it as a sign of things to come. The term that keeps reoccurring to me is "Symphony of Color" -- where each participant produces his/her/its share to the overall effect; blending and contrasting in turns. Now being soft and subtle, and now being brash and sassy.

And it occurred to me this year that the Symphony changes from day to day -- that each tree and bush and vine moves through an entire series of color changes so that the Symphony is never the same. Never.

Two months from now, the weather is likely to be cold and dark and dismal. But that is no reason and no excuse for me to be cold and dark and dismal. I see now that I have unconsciously made a choice for a long time to reject even the possibility of enjoying the fall and winter seasons. I see now that the trees and bushes and vines are not dying at all. They are simply adjusting.

I've discovered that the trees in our neighborhood (and likely, therefore, the trees around the world) put out their buds for next year's leaves in the fall. They are right there on the branches beside this year's leaves that are turning such beautiful colors.

And I ask myself "Why would they do that? Exposing next year's chance for survival to the awful weather ahead? Why not wait for the springtime to put the buds out?"

And I don't know why they do that. But I am taking this behavior as a sign to me personally: "Have faith and hold on tight. Summer is not really that far away."

And so it is.

He Was Right. Again.

That's my surgeon I'm talking about. The guy who told me he was going to pull my food tube out. And I didn't believe him. But he did it.

Warning: the next part of this posting is a bit icky. It may be, to borrow Ron's term "a bit more than [you] needed to know." But I don't think it's as icky as the last posting. In any case, you've been warned and here it comes:

My surgeon also told me that I didn't have to worry about the hole left behind in my tummy -- unless I started feeling real pain in that area. That my body would quickly form a "plug" (my term) in that hole, which would hold everything (including my lunch...) in place until scar tissue closed the hole over on a permanent basis.

Aaaaannnnd did I believe him this time? Of course not.

Aaaaannnnd did I feel anxious and a bit queasy for the next day or two after the food tube removal? You betcha.

But everything is working just like he said. I have a small bandage over the area in question, but it comes off dry every time Deb and I change it.

It's his job to know what he's doing, do it effectively and professionally, and explain to his patients when they ask him questions. (And he's doing well at this!)

It's my job to ask the questions and have faith in his competence. (I'm pretty good at the first part of this. And getting better at the second part.)

Finally, the surgeon told me that it would take about two weeks for the permanent scarring to take place. I guess I'll believe him on this one. Given the above...

There are many times in life where the word "uneventful" is a welcome one.

And this is one of those times.

Food Tube Farewell

The removal of my PEG food tube certainly wasn't what I was expecting -- even though the surgeon had informed me twice as to what was going to happen:

I went into the examination room -- and invited Deb to come along. She seemed a little reluctant. (Shortly afterwards, I understood why.)

The nurse escorted us into the room, thanked us for getting the blood test results from my chemo doc, and told me to take off my shirt. That the surgeon doc would be in shortly.

And shortly afterwards, the nurse returned with the doc in tow. He shook my hand and we exchanged a few pleasantries ("Are you keeping your weight up?" "Does Dr. Chemo [not his real name] agree that the tube can be removed?" You know, some lighthearted banter to put me at ease.) Meanwhile, the nurse was putting on a surgical gown and getting one ready for the doc.

The nurse suggested that Deb might want to leave around this time, and she (Deb) beat a hasty retreat. The nurse and doc pulled on surgical gloves as the doc told me to lie back on the examination table.

Now the doc had told me, on previous visits, that when it was time for the tube removal, he would simply pull it out. But I knew that there had to be more than that to the procedure. I mean, I might have accidentally pulled the thing out when showering or something. Right?

Besides that, just pulling the tube out would almost inevitably lead to leakage of food particles and digestive juices from the stomach into the rest of the body cavity. And you can't allow that now, can you?

But the doc had told me there would be no stitches. Hmmm...

So I'm lying back on the table, shirtless, while the doc and nurse get themselves ready. And then the doc, who's a tall, lanky guy, comes shambling over to the examination table and puts one hand on the food tube and the other on my abdomen.

And I'm thinking, okay, he's examining the tube and its environs, preparing for the next interesting step in the process. The one that doesn't involve him just pulling the tube out. I was absolutely sure this was what was going on.

But then wham! Without the slightest warning, the doc pulls the tube out. With a movement reminiscent of starting a lawn mower, he turns his shoulders slightly, grabs the tube firmly and yanks it out. Big guy. Probably started a lot of lawn mowers in his day. Good shoulder rotation on the yanking.

Now he's standing there, holding my food tube up in the air like it was a freshly caught trout or something. And then, giving the tube to the nurse for disposal, he grabs a wad of gauze and presses it down over the hole in my tummy. And he asks me how I'm feeling.

Dazed? Astonished? Puzzled? In pain? All of this and more? How do I answer such a question?

The pain (which wasn't that bad anyway) recedes pretty quickly, and the nurse hands the doc 4 or 5 strips of tape to hold the gauze in place.

There. Done.

And I'm very glad that Deb isn't here to see all this.

After the doc has helped me up to an upright sitting position, I press him for some details. Like, why isn't my tummy currently emptying itself into my abdomen?

He explains, with the help of a nicely drawn sketch that, when the tube was initially installed, it pulled the front of my stomach right up against my abdominal wall. And, over the last several months, my body had created "fibrous connective tissue" (I think that was his phrase) to connect the hole in my stomach to the hole in my abdominal skin. Kind of a tube-outside-the-tube, if that makes sense.

And his sketch showed that the thing that held the tube in place for all those months was a mushroom-shaped widening of the tube itself. Just at the end of the tube, with the hole of the tube extending all the way through the "mushroom."

So, thanks to that "fibrous connective tissue," any leakage from the stomach could only drain directly to outside the body (but it wouldn't drain at all, thanks to the wadded gauze over the hole). But, over the course of the next two weeks, scar tissue would form to close the hole completely.

(It took me several hours to figure out that the surprise yanking of the tube was probably part of the procedure. He wouldn't want to say something like, "Okay, I'm going to pull the tube now," because that would likely cause me to tense up, which might make the pulling either harder or completely unsuccessful. At least that's what I want to think.)

After the medical team left, I went over to the trash receptacle -- the red one that says "Caution! Biohazard Waste Material!" or somesuch. And I pushed the foot treadle that opened the container, and there -- on top of God-only-knows-what-else -- was my food tube. And I briefly thought about retrieving it from the trash. Briefly.

It was my first opportunity to see the "mushroom" that the doc had sketched up. And it did, indeed, look like a mushroom.

And I thought about what an important part in my healing that the tube had played. And I was grateful. And then I thought about what a pain in the neck the tube had been recently. And I was relieved to see it totally outside my body and sitting in the trash. And after all, it was only a plastic tube, wasn't it?

After putting my shirt back on, I went out to the waiting room and motioned to Deb to come with me back to the exam room. I wanted her to see the tube in its entirety, as she had spent so many hours carefully filling it with Jevity. Again and again.

I feel quite different without the tube. I feel slimmer. Streamlined. More organic, now that I'm not fitted with and dependent on a plastic tube.

We live in a wonderful time. That is to say, a time of wonders.

Food Tube Outta Here on Wednesday

Or so we certainly hope!

I'm scheduled to have the PEG food tube removed this coming Wednesday at 2:15 PM. And have it removed by the same surgeon who installed it back in late June. (It only seems like I've had it for most of my adult life...)

I haven't used the tube for nourishment for well over a month now, but the suggestion was made by my radiation doc -- who's a wonderfully cautious fellow -- that we leave the tube in place until after the PET/CT scan that was recently completed and described right here in the blog. Leave it in place just in case I might need it again if the scan were not so positive. So the scan came up clean, and the tube's days were numbered.

He also wanted to make sure that I could keep my weight up without using the tube. It's been something of a struggle to do it, but I have put on a couple of pounds since I stopped using the tube. And the radiation doc has been very pleased at this.

And while the installation of the food tube was a surgical procedure complete with full anesthesia and an overnight hospital stay, the removal is a procedure to be performed in the doctor's office. Hmmm...

Now I really don't understand how this is going to work. I've asked the surgeon on two occasions how the tube removal takes place, and he says, in essence, "Well, we just kind of pull it out." So I ask him, "No stitches or anything to close the openings in my abdomen and stomach?" And he says, in essence, "Nope, not needed. Everything just kind of closes up on its own."

Wow.

The tube was an an absolute Godsend when we were using it. As reported in earlier postings, I simply could not take nourishment orally for six weeks or so. But since then, it's been something of a hassle, requiring special care and handling while showering, and recommended cleaning -- inside and out -- on a daily basis. Deb has been an absolute champ at helping out with all this -- from the assistance in feeding back then (six cans of Jevity a day, every day for weeks on end) to the everyday cleaning needed from then until how (which is a bit icky to say the least).

Having this artificial contrivance sticking out of my tummy carries a certain psychological burden. It just feels... wrong. And makes me feel somehow less than fully human. And I will be glad to see the tube go away. And I will be glad to take a shower without the fear of dislodging the thing while I'm soaping up. And there is a list of things I will feel comfortable doing again -- once the healing has taken place.

It feels like a major step in getting back to being a full-time Randy.

Blood Clot Update #2

Blood Clot Update #1 got posted on July 6, and there really wasn't much to say on the subject since then. Here's a summary:

I've been on blood thinning medication -- either Coumadin or Lovenox -- for this "DVT" (which stands for "Deep-Vein Thrombosis") since then. And I've been wearing a compression stocking on my right leg since then as well. Full-length stocking. Very fashionable. Not. And it keeps falling down, so I have to hide someplace to undo my pants, reach down inside the pant leg to my knee and pull the doggone thing up again.

The medical concern is that part of the clot might break loose and travel up the vein to my lungs or brain, either of which can be fatal. If it travels to your lung it's called a "pulmonary embolism." And something like 200,000 people a year die of that happening every year. And that's more than the number of people who die of AIDS and breast cancer combined.

Point being, this clot thing can be a very serious issue.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago, I had a second ultrasound scan on my leg to check on the clot. There was some hope on my part that the clot would have disappeared, since pain in my calf was long gone, and the (minor) swelling that existed when the clot was found was almost gone as well.

Good news/bad news: the scan showed that the clot was much smaller than it had been back in July when the first scan was taken. But it's still there.

So my chemo doc wants me to stay on Coumadin for another six weeks and then get a third scan. The hope, of course, is that the clot will disappear completely and I can stop taking the blood thinner and get rid of this stupid stocking. (The doc has warned me about doing things that might cause a wound -- like falling off a unicycle -- as the cut would not scab over and heal nearly as quickly as it normally would, due to the medication. So my one-wheel has been hanging on a hook all summer and fall. And I've avoided some house repairs. And my workouts in the gym have been restricted by the selfsame doc.)

If the clot disappears, much of life returns to normal.

But I'm not at all sure what happens if the clot is still there. My doc says he'll stop the Coumadin prescription regardless, since the drug is unlikely to be useful any more. But whether he would tell me to "take it easy" on exercise for the rest of my life and whether I have to keep wearing this full-leg stocking forever are unknowns.

I decided simply not to ask and hope for the best.

Clean -- 3 for 3

We had an appointment last Wednesday with the third doctor of the "team" looking after me -- the chemo doc. We hadn't seen him since the PET/CT scan report came out.

He had just received the scan report (showing that no visible evidence of cancer had shown up). He was smiling as he went over the details with us. He also informed us that tests had shown that my kidney functions were at 100% (which was very good news -- it seems the kidneys can take quite a beating during chemotherapy), and that my heart and lungs seemed perfectly normal. My white blood cell count is still low, but it seems that was to be expected. He summarized the reports as being "as good as they could possibly be."

Like the radiation doc during out last visit with him, the chemo doc reminded us that, back at the beginning of treatment, he had concurred with our decision to forgo additional surgery on the parotid gland so that chemo and radiation treatments could begin as quickly as possible. And that decision seems to have been justified by the test results. I imagine it was as gratifying and (maybe/almost) as much of a relief to both of them as it has been for Deb and me.

He also saved us from what might have been a major problem and/or disappointment:

He asked us if we had scheduled the removal of the PEG food tube, and we said yes, we had, and that it was scheduled for a week from that day -- Wednesday, October 28th. Then he asked us if we had informed the surgeon who would do the procedure that I was on blood thinners. And we said no, we hadn't -- and that the surgeon's scheduling person hadn't asked. He suggested we inform the surgeon as soon as possible -- that he might want me off the blood thinner medication for three days or so prior to the procedure. Just in case.

So we made the call as soon as we got home, and it turns out that the surgeon wanted me to be off the blood thinning medication for five days -- not just three. So without the chemo doc asking that simple question, I might have either been turned down for the procedure next Wednesday or risked a complication if the procedure went ahead and I was still on the blood thinner medication.

So the two lessons from the meeting with the doc were:

Lesson #1: I'm about as healthy right now as could possibly be expected.

Lesson #2: Sometimes, necessary questions don't get asked in a timely fashion and important issues get skipped over. While you need to trust your medical support team, you owe it to yourself to remain as actively engaged in your own treatment regimens as you can.

More about food tubes and blood clots soon.

Facebook -- False Alarm

One of my dinosaur-hunting buddies from Alberta -- who happens to be an enthusiastic Facebooker -- came across a Facebook Group called "R.I.P. Randy Lyons" and visited the Group site "with trepidation" (his words).

After seeing that site and visiting this blog, he confirmed that:

-- the person in question was not me, and

-- that I had just received the Clean Bill of Health from my doc.

I visited the Facebook Group site as well. I explored it just enough to see that, judging from the addresses given for the membership in the Facebook Group, that other Randy Lyons seems to have lived in the Louisiana/Arkansas area.

I deeply appreciate my friend writing and "hear" the concern and relief in the words he wrote. It is also somber and sobering to read about someone with my name passing away as I contend with a potentially lethal illness.

But after prayers for this person I never knew and feelings of condolence for his friends and family, I know it is time to appreciate and indulge myself fully the life that is given to me. For as long as it it allotted to me. And somehow, this episode makes that even more important.

What Might Have Been Lost...

Most of you know that I've been involved with a just-for-fun juggling group here in West Chester. We call ourselves "The Turks Head Jugglers," borrowing the name of our Borough before it became West Chester over a century ago. I started the group roughly ten years ago, and it was at the time an important part of my life. It still is.

We've had over 130 different jugglers at our practice sessions -- some folks for a single visit, and some folks for almost every one of our twice-weekly practice sessions. We've had kids as young as eight juggling with us and a wonderful lady in her 80's -- and every age in-between. Some of us were brand new at juggling when we came and some of us were seasoned professionals when we first walked in the door. We've had three world champions and numerous full-time professionals join us for practice sessions when they passed through the Southeast Pennsylvania area.

And although we are surrounded with colleges and universities, to the best of my knowledge, there are only two other juggling clubs in a 50-mile radius of West Chester. And that radius includes both Philadelphia and Wilmington.

Sometimes we have 4 people attend a session. Sometimes we have 25 people attend a session. We just never know. (Which is sooooo cool!)

For most of us, the practice sessions are a light and pleasant diversion from life's vicissitudes. For some of us, it's a chance to brush up our performance routines. And I did have a parent e-mail me once, saying "I can never thank you enough for what you and the juggling club have done for my two boys."

I guess I have to confess to being the head of the program, since I started it and still maintain communications with the West Chester Friends School (who generously allow us to use their gym twice a week year 'round) and West Chester's Parks and Recreation Department (who provide advertising support and other vitally important assistance). But the truth has always been that the character and energy of the club comes from the membership. And it has been a delight to watch the "character and energy" of the club evolve and change as the years go by.

Years ago, I realized that I could not attend every session to watch over the proceedings, and that several substitutes were required to make sure that somebody had a key to open the gym, watch over the practice and make sure nothing dangerous or foolish took place (okay, truth is, foolish but non-dangerous things happen fairly frequently...), and then chase everyone out and lock up at the appropriate time.

Four regular attenders were obvious choices to form what we decided to call "The Executive Committee." Each of them has a key and is completely capable of keeping things at the gym lively and fun and completely safe. And if I can't open the gym and look over things, the Executive Committee works out which one of them will take responsibility for the session. Of equal importance, the Executive Committee is available, when I have one of my hare-brained schemes as to how to change the club and/or the sessions, to say, "Randy, don't. Just don't. Leave success alone." Which has saved me from numerous embarrassing faux pas.

Anyway, when I started chemo and radiology therapies months ago, I not only felt I couldn't attend the Turks Head sessions (no physical energy available), but couldn't support the Executive Committee either (no mental energy either). I just felt so drained that I told myself, "Well, the EC will either keep this club alive and running smoothly without me or the club may come to a complete halt -- but I can't help out. I've just got nothing to contribute." I didn't call anyone or check on anything. I just hoped that things were okay.

So I am delighted to report that the EC has done a magnificent job in keeping the sessions running smoothly for all these months. There was always at least one member of the Committee who would be there -- and I'm sure that on several occasions, serious sacrifices had to be made by Commmittee members to keep the program going. We never had to cancel a single session due to lack of supervision.

(The two great killers of juggling clubs seem to be losing your venue [pretty obvious -- you can't run a club if you've nowhere to run it!] and not having a dependable, regular schedule [if folks aren't sure someone will be there, they're a lot less likely to climb into the car and make the drive]. And that's why what the EC has done for months is so vitally important.)

So, to Frank, Ellen, Travis and Jack, thank you from the bottom of my heart for keeping the Turks Heads alive and well. I'm deeply touched by your commitment and caring. And I'm back to pick up my share of the load again!

Let's go for at least another ten years!

Clean -- Confirmed

I feel I need to tell you this, but most of you who know me well would have guessed this anyway:

I felt that the report on my PET/CT scan was simply too good to be true. I suppose I had been steeling myself against so many "What if..." scenarios, that a plain and simple "You're clean." seemed beyond any reasonable hope.

Since Deb and I got home from the doc's office yesterday, I've re-read the scan report (which is only one page long...) at least six or seven times. Looking for the bad news or at least cautionary news that must be embedded in there somewhere. And I couldn't find it.

Today, we met with my radiation doc. Regularly scheduled visit. And I thought if anyone could find the "uh-oh" that I had overlooked, he was the guy. But he started the session today almost exactly as the E/N/T guy did yesterday, telling me, in essence, "You're clean."

So that's two very clever and trustworthy docs telling me that things are okay. Maybe I can start to believe it. But it's just really hard for me to let go of the anxieties and and just immerse myself in the wonderfulness of being clean.

The radiation doc did clarify one bit of medical gobbledygook for me: "the mild atelectasis at the lung bases and lingula" means -- I'm pretty sure I got this right -- that the very lowest portions of my lungs have "deflated" due to lack of use, and that they should return to service after I can restart my regular exercise routine. Although I certainly do not and never have felt short of breath through any of this process.

So once I get a "green light" from my chemo doc (are you keeping track of all these docs, dear reader? I hope so!) that the blood clot in my leg is sufficiently dissolved that I can start hard workouts with my trainer again, my lungs should return to normal.

My radiation doc reminded the two of us that I will need to be rescanned every three or four months, and I'm perfectly fine with that. But then he told me that he didn't need to see me for another two months. And that really felt like he was so confident in my current state of clean-ness, that he could put me out on a very long leash. And that was a huge help in my coming to grips with what the docs, and the written report, and the response from so many of you have been trying to tell me: "It's time to let go and celebrate!!"

I've learned a lot about myself through this entire process, and this is one life lesson that I need to take more to heart:

Sometimes the things that seem too good to be true... are true anyway.

Clean

Deb and I just got back from a visit to my E/N/T doc. After discussing the outstanding issues we came to discuss with him, he left the examination room to see if he could locate the results report from Monday's PET/CT scan on the internet.

He found it.

He came back into the room, waving a copy of the report.

He said, "You're okay."

Now, this "okay" business could mean several things -- especially when so much was riding on one particular "okay" and you're talking to a pair of word freaks like Deb and me. And I guess he saw in my face and Deb's face that the message wasn't perfectly clear. So he followed "You're okay" up with "You're clean." Which, in this context, really could have only one meaning. No chance to misinterpret.

There's no sign of cancer. Not locally, where the cancer started (he felt around my neck and inside my cheek shortly after we sat down). Not distantly, to where the cancer might have spread.

The report says I'm clean.

The doc then asked me if I wanted a copy of the report. Since he's Canadian, it's difficult sometimes to determine if he's kidding or serious. Yes, I want a copy of the report -- thank you very much, Doctor!! Whew.

So there's some medical gobbledygook on the report that I'll Google some time soon, but none of it sounds in the least bit serious or disturbing.

I've been trying hard for several weeks to be as neutral about this scan and the results report as I could: to take the good news or bad news as simply being news. A Buddhist kind of thing. But sitting here at the computer right now, I can still feel the anxiety draining away. I guess you need to practice that Buddhist thing...

One of the pleasant facets of this "clean" report is that I can have my PEG food tube removed. (We had left it in place just in case it might be needed again -- if the results report were not so favorable.) While it has been really only a minor annoyance (it adds 10 minutes to the process of taking a shower and needs to be flushed at least once a day), it has been a constant reminder that I am not perfectly healthy and might become dependent on the tube again. This is no longer a near-term issue and the tube will disappear in a few days.

My E/N/T doc stated clearly at the start of this process that I will likely be scanned every three months or so -- probably for the rest of my life -- checking for a reocurrence. But there are several possible breakthroughs in cancer treatment -- some for cancers like mine and some for cancers in general -- that may drastically change the landscape of cancer treatment for the better. So if my cancer should reappear later, these breakthroughs will have had more time to be tested, proven and brought into general use.

And I find that my time horizon has been extended dramatically. Yes, I know that tomorrow is not guaranteed for anyone, but I have found that I had not been thinking of planning (much less actually planning!) anything more than six months or so into the future. But now, dinosaur hunting next summer feels like a real possibility again. As is a vacation for Deb and me. And kayaking next spring. And doing yardwork again.

And being deeply grateful for every day, for every breath.