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.

Results in a Couple of Days...

The combination PET/CT scan this morning went off without a hitch. And I was informed by the technician running the machinery that the results would be available in a couple of days -- and would be FAXed to my doctor. (I guess that means my radiology guy, since he was the one who ordered the procedure.)

(ASIDE #1: The setup at Chester County is really interesting: rather than a sliding "bed" moving in and out of a tube, the "bed" moves in and out of two tubes. I'm assuming that one is the PET machine and the other is the CT machine, but forgot to ask. In any case, I spent time in both of them.)

(ASIDE #2: Sliding in and out of tube #2, I started to wonder who, if anyone, has done a serious Freudian analysis of the psychological/physiological effect of sliding human beings in and out of a tube like that. It's interesting where your mind goes wandering sometimes, you know?)

So my doc should know the results of both scans by mid-week, and -- I would certainly hope -- call me as soon as he gets the information. I have an appointment with him this Friday anyway, so I should definitely have a complete picture by Friday afternoon at the latest.

Some of you may recall that I managed to avoid a claustrophobic panic several months ago in a scan at Johns Hopkins by telling myself: "Diane wants me to lie still." "Lisa wants me to lie still." "Hal wants me to lie still." "Deb wants me to lie still." And so on for the 45 minutes that the scan took. So I felt that I had a workable "tool" in case the panic re-appeared. But it turned out that another "tool" appeared in its place:

I found myself being grateful. Grateful for:

-- the technology that will tell so quickly whether my body needs additional treatment for cancer,

-- the nice young technicians who took such good care of me before, during, and after the procedure,

-- the Hospital which has provided unfailingly good support for any and all ailments when I've needed their facilities and people,

-- the thousands of people who've made the Hospital a reality,

-- my immediate medical staff, who inspire me with their confidence and competence,

-- all the wonderful people who have kept me in their thoughts and prayers for month after month [including all of you, of course!],

-- my spouse, whose support for me has been so solid for so long, and all the wonderful things she and I have done together,

...and on and on. The dual-scan procedure (which was considerably shorter than 45 minutes!) was over long before I was through with my list of things and people for whom I am grateful.

In short, it's been a good morning. And I will, as promised earlier, let all of you know the results of the scans as soon as I get the word myself.

Stay well.

What I've Wanted to Tell You...

It's been a couple of weeks since I blogged last -- and part of me wants to apologize for that. I like to keep you informed about what's going on with me, and I have found that writing the blog has been tremendously therapeutic for me. (A fact I've mentioned several times in this blog. It's still true.)

There have been a bunch of things are going on in and around the house: new porch decking, new heater, progress in my keyboard lessons, trip to Meadville for the first School session of the year, and the like. But somehow, none of these seemed important or interesting enough to rise to the level of blogability. No funny stories. No flashes of cosmic insight.

And I've been feeling pretty chirpy for most of the time recently. But as I think about the scans that are scheduled for next week, I become subdued... and then downright frightened. And not much in the mood to share anything with anyone. I sit down at the computer to blog again and again, then just can't find anything to tell you about...

But the upcoming medical visits next week will determine a great deal about my short- and long-term future activities:

And I actually had a good start to this sequence of "Doctor says" visits last Tuesday. I had a long-standing appointment with my dermatologist for a regular full-body checkup for suspicious-looking lesions, moles, and the like. And a week or so before the visit, I discovered a spot on my right cheek which looked like someone had brushed it with burnt-candle-wick ash. Not a mole or pimple, and not raised above skin level. Just a dark gray spot. So part of me starts thinking: "Great! Three different cancers in less than a year!" (I'm getting a bit paranoid, I guess, about unusual appearances on my skin -- especially around my face and neck...)

But my dermatologist told me that it wasn't anything to be concerned about. (He called it "hereditary," but I haven't a clue what that means.) In any case, he said we should watch it, but that it wasn't anything of immediate worry.

And he couldn't find anything else on my hide of any concern (from my scalp to the bottoms of my feet). So that's kind of like, "One Doc scan down, two to go."

And here are the details of the other two:

Monday, October 12 A PET/CT scan at Chester County Hospital. Procedure should start at roughly 8:00 AM and last 90 minutes or so. Several of my doctors have monitored the possible recurrence of the salivary duct cancer local to its original site (i.e., the upper left side of my neck/jaw/cheek area) -- and have not found any trace of reappearance.

(This, dear reader, would be an excellent time to cheer!)

The other concern is a "distant" recurrence in the lungs, liver, or elsewhere, which could only be found by scanning. And I have not been scanned (due to the radiation treatments) since May. So this upcoming scan is a biggie.

If the scan indicates other potentially cancerous locations in my body, it would likely mean a brand new series of treatments which might include more surgery, radiation and/or chemo -- depending on the location, size, etc. of the new tumor or tumors. There's no way to tell what treatments would be called for until after the scan is completed.

If the scan comes back clean, then I can have the food tube removed from my tummy (which was a Godsend months ago, but has been simply an annoyance for the last four or five weeks). And my anxiety level should drop precipitously. And I will be grateful in ways that I have never been grateful before in my life.

Tuesday, October 13 A sonogram on my right leg to determine if the blood clot has dissipated. This is scheduled for 9:50 AM at the Fern Hill Annex of the Chester County Hospital.

The blood clot was diagnosed in late June, and ever since then, I've been wearing a full-length compression stocking on my right leg and taking blood thinning medication (starting with Lovenox, which is a self-injected medication, then switching to Coumadin, which is a smallish pill). People seem to think there's a fairly good chance that the clot is gone by now.

While not as worrisome as the PET/CT scan from Monday, it should be noted that over 200,000 people a year die from "pulmonary embolism" every year -- which happens when a blood clot (usually located in the leg) breaks free and lodges itself in the lungs. That's more people dying from this than from AIDS and breast cancer combined.

So it would be nice to get a clean bill of health here as well. It would mean I could ditch the stockings (which are constantly falling down), stop taking the blood thinners (which means I could start unicycling again -- and doing other stuff that might result in my bleeding a bit), and start up full-bore workouts with my personal trainer again.

One way or another, I will be a different person by the end of next week.

That's true, but I just couldn't figure out how to tell you before now.

If you are so inclined, I would ask you to pray for me.

Candles and kind thoughts are also most welcome.

And rest assured that, as soon as I know anything about the scan results, you will be able to read all about it right here.