Leaving Midland at around 9ish Wednesday night to hit Houston around 5:30, feed, morning drugs, then a nap. Liz and I split the drive time we each had 3 or so hours of sleep in the car too. MD Anderson at 5:30 is busier than one might imagine. People are coming in to wait for early appointments, surgery, or getting to work. The drive is decent at night, and because you're not fighting daytime Houston traffic, about an hour quicker. So we sleep, read, check Facebook, and wait. It's not all that bad.
My HR rep for short and long term disability goes out of her way to come see me in person, which I feel is a wonderful thing for her to do. She's a wonderful lady, and today (Friday) is her last day with Apache. It's a loss of a wonderful person, and a great asset to the company, and I wish her only the best in her future. She and Liz visit about all kinds of stuff, I write in where I can. Patti brought us Apache gear from the office and a nice carved cross for me to hold. She said, "I told them I was taking off to go meet Rocky Smith and his wife Liz in person, and I'm taking this stuff with me for them. Any problem with that?" I assume no, since she and the gear showed up, We talk about work a little, and how word around the HR office was that I'd beaten this once, and they expected every time they heard from Liz or I that I was sending a return to work form. The office area she works in was sad to hear the news about the return of my cancer. I tell people Apache is a good company to work for, and that proves it out for me. Any company can take care of you while you're productive, but the ones that really care are the companies and employees that care about you when you can't be there anymore. I like that.
Onward and upward to the 10th floor and the Medical Oncologist appointment. I don't see my regular Onco, since she's on vacation, but I see her cohort. She, too, is a nice woman, and we have a good chat. We talked about a Chemo protocol and a Clinical test. The Clinical test guarantees a lot of sick time, and only a 10% jump in making it a year or more. That's just damn thin odds to spend ill and not be looking at a lot more time. I ask about it being a cure. Nope, it's not, and since I Radiation Therapy will kill me faster than the cancer, I'm opting out of being sick for little gain in time. We talk about the regular Chemo, with is two that I've already had, Cisplatin and Toxerol. I can stand those, Toxerol makes me sick, but not violently so, and not for very long either. Maybe I can brew up some herbal tea to take the edge off that, so along with the anti-nausea meds, I won't be so sick or not sick at all. Something to look into.
It's good, she says that the cancer is localized in my mouth and throat. For now, says I, and she agrees. Tough decisions these. I want to see my 80th birthday, but it's not worth being 80 if I'm too sick to enjoy the next 28 years, 2.5 months. Okay, it's close enough to say 27 years to see 80. I want to see my son graduate HS, my youngest daughter be on her own, the older 2 happy and doing their own things as well. I do not, however, want to see that through eyes dimmed by damn pain and nausea drugs. I'd prefer to be clear headed for those things. I'm a selfish bastard, some things in life aren't worth doing if you're too fucked up to truly enjoy them.
Is this giving up? Not no, but hell no, it's not giving up. It's taking control of what I can control. I live my life pretty much as I damn well please. My end of life should be done in the same fashion. I know that the cancer hasn't taken my mind or my spirit, or my desire to be with my family and friends until we are so old physical contact runs the risk of broken bones. That won't ever change, but here's what has changed.
I can't eat or swallow. That's not going to change as the chemo does it's thing, or as the cancer does it's thing. I've already been told no more surgery, not aggressive to get the cancer, or reconstructive to fix what's already been done. That's over. Eating and enjoying all kinds of food with friends and family was a big part of me. It's hard to beat the laughter, the serious talks, and just plain fellowship of a good meal well enjoyed.
I'll never communicate like I did. That was not such a problem when it looked like I might get a prosthetic soft palate. That would have enabled me to not only swallow better, but given me a shot at speaking quite a bit better. I loved to tell a good story, make people laugh. I loved to tell someone I loved them just because it was true, and it made both of us feel good. If I needed to, I sure liked my voice when I could make it boom and people of lesser mettle trembled. Ask people that have been on the receiving end of that, apparently it was scary. My voice got me into the position at work where I was respected by my co-workers, and I hope my bosses. I miss it greatly. Michelle, my SLP, has helped me get back a lot of my ability to communicate. Bless her heart that can't have been easy, I'm a "right now, dammit!" kind of guy and speech/language skills aren't relearned right here, right now. She puts up with my frustration and makes me laugh while she does it. That's a special soul right there.
They cut out part of my right quad. I can walk pretty well, but it still can make me hitch just a little in my get along. It's a bitch going down stairs with what they cut out, as well as standing up from a chair. Squatting clear down on my haunches, that's damn near out, and that's how I used to relax when I was working in the field. I can hold Fat Girl up okay, that's not a problem. But I can't spin and plant my right leg to throw anything. It folds up like a cheap knife. And while I respect the hell out of the Highland Games judges, and I did it a couple of times, I can't holler "MARK" or "FOUL" or the distances now. And besides, my heart wasn't in judging. The athletes and crowd deserve someone who's heart is in it. A good judge makes you a better athlete, that's what they deserve. I'll never throw again, even if I were miraculously cured. Would I go and volunteer? You damn Skippy I would, and will as long as I'm able.
Since they aren't doing any more reconstructive surgery, my head and neck movement is limited. That's going to limit some of my arm and shoulder movement. All that ties into being a safe rider of Fat Girl. I've taken her out, and will again. But it's dodgy on how safe I feel. I can't whip my head around to see like I should. I can't turn my body to see like I can in the car. And I don't want to miss the guy that can't find me because I hit a blind spot in his door posts. Like I did the biker yesterday. First time that's happened, but Liz didn't see him either. Got lost in the blind spot, scared the shit out of me. I hope like hell THAT never happens again. Jesus. That's also why I wear leather a lot, and don't ride much in shorts, tennis shoes, and tee shirts. Even the most attentive of us might miss one. That still bugs the shit out of me, and will for several days. It's also why I give some people a break. Other's that stop, look right at me, and I know they see me, and still pull out, fuck them. But some folks are genuinely startled and scared when I've blown past them, or screeched to a stall behind them. They honestly didn't see me, even though they were looking.
Those are the things the fucking cancer has taken from me. It hasn't taken my family and friends. God, I have a lot of friends. They are good folk, one and all, and I'm blessed to have them in my corner. My family is tough, and kind, and very afraid. I can't fix the afraid, I wish that I could. Afraid is bad. Anxious, nervous, worried, those are okay. Afraid not so much. Afraid clouds your judgement and insight. It makes it harder to do the things that need to be done. I think I can help them around that part. They are sad too, and so am I. The fight isn't over, it's just changed arenas. It's way more personal now than it was. I've still got faith. Maybe it's a different direction than it was before, but it's there.
So, here it is: "I am the Master of My Fate; I am the Captain of My Soul". The last two lines of "Invictus". Very telling and true. In my case, my fate is up to me in how I live this next part of my life. I've decided to live it as pain free, as illness free, and as personally free as I can make it. I don't quit, I change strategy. In the long run, I win. The cancer can have my body, but it can't have my free will or desire to go on. In the end, when the body goes, so does the fucking cancer. I beat it by proxy. "I die, you die, Baxter, you stupid son of a bitch. You got the body you rat bastard, not me.".
Captain of my Soul. Yes, yes I am. I steer this soul in the direction it needs to go. Toward strength, hope, faith, and hopefully, leadership for other people facing the same dilemma. I'm not all that brave, but I damn sure am stubborn, and some would say overly confident. I prefer "Humility Challenged". Which ever it is, my will and faith have taken me a long way so far. Maybe that will continue on. In this case I won't mind be told I lied, and didn't die from cancer after all. That kind of liar I can stand to be. I don't think God or man would fault me for that particular dishonesty.
So, onward we rush. You and I, friends and family, we go forward toward Terminal Velocity. I carry the banner and lead the charge, you all are my army. Together, there isn't anything we can't conquer or vanquish. So we all fight, until Valhalla calls me up, and in that moment, I hope I'm deemed worthy.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Gone to the office
Big day today. I went to see the guys I work with (okay, worked with, since I'm on Long Term Disability). Tomorrow is 9 months since I went on Short Term Disability, figuring for sure I'd be back by no later than March. Well, that didn't quite pan out like I'd liked. Cancer didn't just stop shit in my personal life, it dicked with what I thought was a grand career I had going. I was doing EXACTLY what I wanted to, where I wanted to be, with a group of men that are as good or better than any group I'd worked with before. The people at Anadarko, I still keep in touch with a few of those guys, we're friends, always will be friends. But I have been around so many people willing to work toward the same goal as these guys were and still are willing. They and my Highland Games friends became my second family. The men I worked with as I was getting sick, we had a system figured out. We knew what each of us needed to do our jobs, we'd all pitch in to help. We took a worn down, mess of a lease almost 3 years ago, and turned it into a damn fine place to work.
I bragged those guys up, and they in turn got and are still getting promoted. I didn't want anything farther up the ladder than I was doing. These are mostly younger guys, at least 8-10 years younger than I, and most way younger than that. They are good men, they work hard, they deserve the promotions they got, and will get. I'd love to be around to cheer them on, see them move up, maybe have on as my boss one day before I retire. Alas, that's not going to be.
We are oil field trash, but tough guys, so it's hard for me to tell them how proud and honored I am to have been given the chance to work with them. How much it makes my heart swell to see them do so very well at what we do. They are sharp. We work to get the job done right, and then, we laugh and have a good time. That's what work should be, not a damned challenge to get up and go to every day. It should be a place where you trust the people you work with to catch your back, I trusted these guys.
Granted, it wasn't always roses and peaches. There were days I let Mr Temper out, and he got back as much as he gave. That's what happens when you work with people, you'll get under each others skin, the thing isn't to carry a grudge. I had a boss or two that did, as far as I'm concerned those rat sons of bitches can suck it to this day.
I call them "My Boys", kinda silly since we are all grown men, and a few were damn near my age. I say that because I took responsibility for what we did, how I taught them what I could, and how well I learned what they had to teach me. They are My Boys, they make me proud to have been a part of the time from bad to damn near perfect. You have to understand, we made do with what we had. We remodeled, not really rebuilt. Cleaned the old stuff, fixed it like new, then put it together like a tank battery and field should be done. Every one of us had input, our boss would listen, we used some of our ideas, some we didn't. That's what made it successful. My Boys did, and I. We did all that.
The guys that have come in during the last 8-9 months, they reap that benefit. My Boys don't brag, but they can, and maybe they should a bit. This field promotes more from within than any where I've worked in 24 years. Not because they have to, but because My Boys can do the job damn well. There's no reason to look anywhere else. All y'all have to let the guys that came in after I left know that shit. They are standing on shoulders that made their jobs easier. Brag yourselves up, you deserve it.
It's a bit tough for me to go out. I miss they men, the field, the work, but it's sure hard to go and know I've done all I can with and for these guys. Give me the core people we started with, drag our asses to a worn out field, give us some time and money, and we can show you how to do it right.
That's what I'll miss about work, and for me, that's hard
I bragged those guys up, and they in turn got and are still getting promoted. I didn't want anything farther up the ladder than I was doing. These are mostly younger guys, at least 8-10 years younger than I, and most way younger than that. They are good men, they work hard, they deserve the promotions they got, and will get. I'd love to be around to cheer them on, see them move up, maybe have on as my boss one day before I retire. Alas, that's not going to be.
We are oil field trash, but tough guys, so it's hard for me to tell them how proud and honored I am to have been given the chance to work with them. How much it makes my heart swell to see them do so very well at what we do. They are sharp. We work to get the job done right, and then, we laugh and have a good time. That's what work should be, not a damned challenge to get up and go to every day. It should be a place where you trust the people you work with to catch your back, I trusted these guys.
Granted, it wasn't always roses and peaches. There were days I let Mr Temper out, and he got back as much as he gave. That's what happens when you work with people, you'll get under each others skin, the thing isn't to carry a grudge. I had a boss or two that did, as far as I'm concerned those rat sons of bitches can suck it to this day.
I call them "My Boys", kinda silly since we are all grown men, and a few were damn near my age. I say that because I took responsibility for what we did, how I taught them what I could, and how well I learned what they had to teach me. They are My Boys, they make me proud to have been a part of the time from bad to damn near perfect. You have to understand, we made do with what we had. We remodeled, not really rebuilt. Cleaned the old stuff, fixed it like new, then put it together like a tank battery and field should be done. Every one of us had input, our boss would listen, we used some of our ideas, some we didn't. That's what made it successful. My Boys did, and I. We did all that.
The guys that have come in during the last 8-9 months, they reap that benefit. My Boys don't brag, but they can, and maybe they should a bit. This field promotes more from within than any where I've worked in 24 years. Not because they have to, but because My Boys can do the job damn well. There's no reason to look anywhere else. All y'all have to let the guys that came in after I left know that shit. They are standing on shoulders that made their jobs easier. Brag yourselves up, you deserve it.
It's a bit tough for me to go out. I miss they men, the field, the work, but it's sure hard to go and know I've done all I can with and for these guys. Give me the core people we started with, drag our asses to a worn out field, give us some time and money, and we can show you how to do it right.
That's what I'll miss about work, and for me, that's hard
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Again? Really?
Back to the gym at the time the plastic surgeon said would be okay. I guess anymore I'm the odd duck at the gym. I go to lift and train. I'm not there to check and see how well the lifting is making my biceps/pecs/whatever look in the mirror every set. Nor am I there to seal business deals, talk on the phone, play games, or stare blankly into space for 10 minutes. All the while sitting on the equipment you were using so no one else can use it in your moment of "I cleared Level 123 on Candy Crush". I go to lift, and I put my plates and things I use up where they belong, not hanging on bars or scattered from here to hell's half acre, but that in itself could take up an entire blog. And it may
So, I lift. It's no where near the weight I used to use, and that frustrates me to no end. As I've said, I get hung up in "Yeah? Well I useta could!" which is bad if you're weight training, healthy or not so healthy. I don't dawdle, 5 separate lifts, 3 sets of 10 with increasing weight. My left shoulder is entirely upset with me, because I push it to the point of pain. It hates when I do that, but it is getting stronger. My PT shakes her head and says things like "Doesn't that hurt?". Well yes, love it does, but it's getting stronger all the time too. All said and done, 5 types of lifts, 3 sets of 10 and I'm in and out in 40 minutes. Let us lift and train. When I was healthy and training hard it took and hour to an hour and half of pretty steady lifting through way more than 5 separate lifts to get me there. I've decided the 40 minutes is enough, if I go home tired. I generally do.
Home! It's where the feed bag and formula is, as well as the heart. Drug up with the stuff for my thyroid that died after radiation, a little Prilosec, and because my left shoulder is pounding and yelling at me, a little pain med. Here I sit, writing yesterday's blog, all full and the pounding is down to a gentle tap, tap, tapping where my shoulder is sore (a poor paraphrase of Poe, I know), when I start to cough.
Normally big deal. My epiglottis doesn't work right so I aspirate some of my secretions and have to cough them out the trach. OH! Nope, this is getting worse. Bad enough I have to take off my glasses so they don't go flying. Bad enough I close the computer and set it aside.
Shit, now I'm choking and coughing. I know what comes next. I'm gonna vomit. Shit, and double shit, I hate to do that. Everyone does, but I don't have a soft palate, so what doesn't go out my mouth blows up into my sinuses and out my nose. Why yes, it does make my eyes water, and it's also a pain in the ass to get cleared up. Yep, I was right, throwing up. Wheeeeee. Dammit. When that stops I notice a real stabbing pain in my mid back on the right side. Fun!!! A muscle pull! Can't beat that. Dammit again.
At the SLP, it's a struggle. Mrs Trant, her student, McKayla, and I are working (I'm trying to talk more so we don't work because suddenly my entire body aches) on various words I can't say well and some exercises to strength my speech and swallow. MD Anderson calls, I can't speak on the phone so Mrs Trant gets it for me. I have to speak on the phone so they'll let her hear about my PET Scan report.
The Cancer is in my throat, this time on the right side as well. That means it's growing. Duh, I figured. Good news is it's not in my lungs. Very good news. They strongly suggest I see the medical oncologist Thursday. Duh, again, Liz and I will go just to hear what they have to say, and decide from there.
Barry Atkins set up a group for me on FaceBook, he's a nice guy. I'll post the blog there, and it's a place we can all gather up and act like fools and laugh. I'm gonna like that a lot. Thanks Barry.
Later we can talk about setting up your own final arrangements. It's not as weird as one might think
So, I lift. It's no where near the weight I used to use, and that frustrates me to no end. As I've said, I get hung up in "Yeah? Well I useta could!" which is bad if you're weight training, healthy or not so healthy. I don't dawdle, 5 separate lifts, 3 sets of 10 with increasing weight. My left shoulder is entirely upset with me, because I push it to the point of pain. It hates when I do that, but it is getting stronger. My PT shakes her head and says things like "Doesn't that hurt?". Well yes, love it does, but it's getting stronger all the time too. All said and done, 5 types of lifts, 3 sets of 10 and I'm in and out in 40 minutes. Let us lift and train. When I was healthy and training hard it took and hour to an hour and half of pretty steady lifting through way more than 5 separate lifts to get me there. I've decided the 40 minutes is enough, if I go home tired. I generally do.
Home! It's where the feed bag and formula is, as well as the heart. Drug up with the stuff for my thyroid that died after radiation, a little Prilosec, and because my left shoulder is pounding and yelling at me, a little pain med. Here I sit, writing yesterday's blog, all full and the pounding is down to a gentle tap, tap, tapping where my shoulder is sore (a poor paraphrase of Poe, I know), when I start to cough.
Normally big deal. My epiglottis doesn't work right so I aspirate some of my secretions and have to cough them out the trach. OH! Nope, this is getting worse. Bad enough I have to take off my glasses so they don't go flying. Bad enough I close the computer and set it aside.
Shit, now I'm choking and coughing. I know what comes next. I'm gonna vomit. Shit, and double shit, I hate to do that. Everyone does, but I don't have a soft palate, so what doesn't go out my mouth blows up into my sinuses and out my nose. Why yes, it does make my eyes water, and it's also a pain in the ass to get cleared up. Yep, I was right, throwing up. Wheeeeee. Dammit. When that stops I notice a real stabbing pain in my mid back on the right side. Fun!!! A muscle pull! Can't beat that. Dammit again.
At the SLP, it's a struggle. Mrs Trant, her student, McKayla, and I are working (I'm trying to talk more so we don't work because suddenly my entire body aches) on various words I can't say well and some exercises to strength my speech and swallow. MD Anderson calls, I can't speak on the phone so Mrs Trant gets it for me. I have to speak on the phone so they'll let her hear about my PET Scan report.
The Cancer is in my throat, this time on the right side as well. That means it's growing. Duh, I figured. Good news is it's not in my lungs. Very good news. They strongly suggest I see the medical oncologist Thursday. Duh, again, Liz and I will go just to hear what they have to say, and decide from there.
Barry Atkins set up a group for me on FaceBook, he's a nice guy. I'll post the blog there, and it's a place we can all gather up and act like fools and laugh. I'm gonna like that a lot. Thanks Barry.
Later we can talk about setting up your own final arrangements. It's not as weird as one might think
Monday, August 5, 2013
Therapy and stuff
Well, therapy.
I sat on my ass for 2 months asking myself "why aren't I working out?" That was an easy answer, MD Anderson said not to do anything until they said okay. We asked, Liz and I, more than once for a timeline on that before we left. I've trained a little, I know how fast you begin to lose muscle mass and how quickly unused muscle and tendons atrophy. I know in my heart waiting is bad for me. But I do it anyway.
After several attempts at getting e-mail and phone calls from Liz to MDA returned, I jump on their FB page and tell them, "Since I was dismissed from the hospital, it's as if I didn't exist. I need to get cleared for PT and other rehab, but no calls or e-mails are returned. It's as if once you leave the grounds, you're kicked to the curb.". That started a turd storm. The FB administrators asked for my phone number, and after telling them that I couldn't speak, but my wife would love to, I gave them her number and e-mail address. Within 24 hrs we had calls from more than one Dr.. I was set up with PT and Speech/Language therapy. Amazing what a true statement, placed in a public forum can do for you.
Physical therapy. I've had some pain before, I set my own broken fingers and toes and the like. My surgery sites hurt to some amount all the time. I ain't never hurt that bad in one spot in my life. Even rehabbing my torn bicep tendon didn't hurt that bad. My PT Barb would say, "If it's too painful tell me and we'll stop". No way I'm admitting it's too painful, right? Bullshit, I said it was more than once! Most of it was stretching already shrunken muscle and tendons. I still fight that a lot, but in the beginning it was a major pain. For reals.
To start, I couldn't raise both hand over my head at the same time. I can now, not like I could before, but the strength is slowly coming back. My chest where my pec was is tight all the time, the scar tissue doesn't seem to want to loosen up as fast as I would like. As fast as I would like would be, you know, yesterday. My left side is about useless as far as I can tell, my PT's tell me other wise. I find myself hung up on "Yeah? Well I used ta could...". As soon as I lose that attitude I do better, but I find myself wandering back there. Silly bear, that road goes no where.
I'm going back to the gym. 3 times a week, unless the pain knocks me down too far to get up. I find that I tend to way intense, which isn't good I'm sure.
Speech and Swallow therapy. Oh, the shit we take for granted. Like swallowing. It's natural, right? Don't even have to think about it, right? Wrong!!! I have to struggle to swallow anything. And sometimes, like when I was writing
this blog, I choke and cough so hard I throw up. Which means my sinuses fill because I don't have a soft palate. I cough so hard I can't see, which makes it a pain to make it to the head before I barf. I seldom make it, which means cleaning up a mess. Dammit
I found I couldn't speak at all. Well, a little, but no one could understand what I said. Talk about frustration on steroids. Not only did it piss me off, I could see the anguish in my families eyes as they struggled to understand me. I finally just quit. I text or wrote on my board. Yes, it was the easy way out, but it was less frustrating and my penmanship improved.
My SLP Michelle gave me a list of exercises, that seem silly until you try to do them. They are tough, and tiring. She also works me hard during our meetings, which is also tiring. It also works. Even when to some people it looks like we are horsing around, we are working. I gave my bud Barry Atkins one of the exercises to try, you all might as well try it too. Stick your tongue out, hold it with your teeth, and try to swallow. It's a bear to do. It's also my throat, with no base of tongue my tongue won't move back to help get a swallow started. Prior to SLP therapy I could swallow nothing. Now I can most of my saliva, and even some ice cream. It ain't much, but it was the world to me when that started.
Okay, the choking, coughing, throwing up fit has worn my old ass out. Time to TTFN
Take care, kids
I sat on my ass for 2 months asking myself "why aren't I working out?" That was an easy answer, MD Anderson said not to do anything until they said okay. We asked, Liz and I, more than once for a timeline on that before we left. I've trained a little, I know how fast you begin to lose muscle mass and how quickly unused muscle and tendons atrophy. I know in my heart waiting is bad for me. But I do it anyway.
After several attempts at getting e-mail and phone calls from Liz to MDA returned, I jump on their FB page and tell them, "Since I was dismissed from the hospital, it's as if I didn't exist. I need to get cleared for PT and other rehab, but no calls or e-mails are returned. It's as if once you leave the grounds, you're kicked to the curb.". That started a turd storm. The FB administrators asked for my phone number, and after telling them that I couldn't speak, but my wife would love to, I gave them her number and e-mail address. Within 24 hrs we had calls from more than one Dr.. I was set up with PT and Speech/Language therapy. Amazing what a true statement, placed in a public forum can do for you.
Physical therapy. I've had some pain before, I set my own broken fingers and toes and the like. My surgery sites hurt to some amount all the time. I ain't never hurt that bad in one spot in my life. Even rehabbing my torn bicep tendon didn't hurt that bad. My PT Barb would say, "If it's too painful tell me and we'll stop". No way I'm admitting it's too painful, right? Bullshit, I said it was more than once! Most of it was stretching already shrunken muscle and tendons. I still fight that a lot, but in the beginning it was a major pain. For reals.
To start, I couldn't raise both hand over my head at the same time. I can now, not like I could before, but the strength is slowly coming back. My chest where my pec was is tight all the time, the scar tissue doesn't seem to want to loosen up as fast as I would like. As fast as I would like would be, you know, yesterday. My left side is about useless as far as I can tell, my PT's tell me other wise. I find myself hung up on "Yeah? Well I used ta could...". As soon as I lose that attitude I do better, but I find myself wandering back there. Silly bear, that road goes no where.
I'm going back to the gym. 3 times a week, unless the pain knocks me down too far to get up. I find that I tend to way intense, which isn't good I'm sure.
Speech and Swallow therapy. Oh, the shit we take for granted. Like swallowing. It's natural, right? Don't even have to think about it, right? Wrong!!! I have to struggle to swallow anything. And sometimes, like when I was writing
this blog, I choke and cough so hard I throw up. Which means my sinuses fill because I don't have a soft palate. I cough so hard I can't see, which makes it a pain to make it to the head before I barf. I seldom make it, which means cleaning up a mess. Dammit
I found I couldn't speak at all. Well, a little, but no one could understand what I said. Talk about frustration on steroids. Not only did it piss me off, I could see the anguish in my families eyes as they struggled to understand me. I finally just quit. I text or wrote on my board. Yes, it was the easy way out, but it was less frustrating and my penmanship improved.
My SLP Michelle gave me a list of exercises, that seem silly until you try to do them. They are tough, and tiring. She also works me hard during our meetings, which is also tiring. It also works. Even when to some people it looks like we are horsing around, we are working. I gave my bud Barry Atkins one of the exercises to try, you all might as well try it too. Stick your tongue out, hold it with your teeth, and try to swallow. It's a bear to do. It's also my throat, with no base of tongue my tongue won't move back to help get a swallow started. Prior to SLP therapy I could swallow nothing. Now I can most of my saliva, and even some ice cream. It ain't much, but it was the world to me when that started.
Okay, the choking, coughing, throwing up fit has worn my old ass out. Time to TTFN
Take care, kids
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Bits and Pieces
I did the quick catch up on surgery and stuff. Sometimes it's a bit difficult to get an idea about what really went on for those, so if you'll bear with me, I'll go through it as I understand what they cut out of me.
For starters, let us run back over December for a bit. It was a strange month to me, for some reason. I got my Chemo protocol from MD Anderson set up so I could do that here in Midland. I would rather be home for that kind of stuff, rather than stuck in a hotel room for a once a week treatment that I thought might make me sick.
I asked right off for a Power Port (which has since blown out as we found the 8th of July), but they didn't think I'd need one. Second treatment, I got the port put in. Once again, I was right. Sheesh
I can't recall what I was given except for Cisplatin. That's based in platinum. Heavy metal poisoning LOL! The other two did wonderful things, like make my hair fall out and dried my skin out so badly that my face and neck hasn't gotten over that yet. I look like a snake that really needs to rub it's head on a rock and shed.
It did make me sick as hell. Once again the nausea meds didn't do squat, so I tried an herbal remedy. I can say this for certain. I'd hit the gym for 3 days straight, spend the next day in the infusion room (10 hrs to get 3 drugs in), and the next couple of days being ill. With the herbal aid it went like this. 3 days at the gym, all day infusion, up the next day, puff puff, pass the hell out. Wake up, eat like a pig, nap. Saturday, puff puff pass out, eat like a pig. After that I did fine for 3 days. I can say this, it's not the same type herbs we had back in the day. This stuff nailed my ass to the floor and didn't even say thanks! I lost some weight, but only about 10 lbs. What did happen was severe neuropathy that left my left foot like a lump. I couldn't flex it, or my toes. Unless I wore my lace up boots, I'd trip on it because I couldn't feel it on the ground. Weird
Chemo ends and I go to Houston for a week of pre-surgery tests. I hole up in the Econo-Lodge with some cereal, a pile of microwave food and 4 novels. The novels lasted 2 days, I got tired of microwave food and dined out a bit. I never get tired of corn flakes, though, or Grape Nuts. Go figure.
My bud John Moye showed up on Thursday, we ate like pigs for 3 days, shot pistols, laughed, went to a couple of appointments, and generally just hung out. That was great.
Liz got there on Sunday afternoon. Joe's Crab Shack was happy to see us. We dropped $90 on food, drinks and dessert. Older 2 kids got there Monday. Papadeaux was glad to see us too. Big meal, stopped for snacks and stuff. Hung out that evening. It was the last day I had any solid food, Jan 21, 2013.
We got up and headed in for a 5 AM call time for surgery. By now I'm used to waiting so it didn't take long to get back into pre-op. Got the shots, I don't recall getting wheeled out. We did give them instructions to shake my feet when they try to wake me up. I have a thing about my shoulders, I'll grab or punch if I'm woken up by having my shoulders shaken. Scared Liz once when we were first married. Ooops
Okay! Here's what they cut out the first time:
1/3 or more of my left lower jaw
All of the base of my tongue
Soft palate (it moved there between CT's)
4 lymph glands
Tumor wrapped around my left carotid artery
Plastic surgeon took the big muscle out of the outside of my right quad and stuffed it in my mouth.
That took about 14 hrs. The cancer hid out in different places than the CT showed
Things go okay, I can swallow a bit, still, can't talk for shit because my tongue wonders what the hell they did to it. Something isn't right though, a couple of days in. I smell something odd, and my mouth tastes funny. There's a pulse for the muscle, but I started to question it's health. They poked, prodded and looked but it appeared okay. Until the day they were gonna cut me loose. My head surgeon came in, looked and said I wasn't going anywhere, yet. Damn thing had died. I got hooked up to IV antibiotics and scheduled for surgery the next day. It's odd having something dead in your mouth that you haven't cooked first.
Next surgery! Go in, get the pre-op stuff, head to the table and get Nimbex, a muscle relaxant. It killed me. Apparently a drug allergy I knew nothing about. Anyway, they cut out the dead quad, and pulled my pec out to stuff in my mouth instead.
That took about 8 hrs. ICU for a couple nights. That place is no fun at all.
Back up to my floor and waiting again. Liz has been in my room since Jan 22, and hasn't left. I'm really weak now, and resistant to getting up and walking around like I know I should. I do anyway, whiny about it though. Sheesh.
I can't swallow this time. Pisses me off. My lip and chin are more fouled up, that pisses me off. I can't speak now for shit, that pisses me off. All this was done to keep me alive, and all the cancer was gone, so I got over being pissed off. One more surgery to be certain the infection is cleaned out, that one took about an 3 hrs.
We spent 2 days in a hotel room, then they cut us loose to come home. February 13, one month after I hit Houston, 3 weeks in the hospital. I asked about when and what I could do for PT. I was told to walk, which is okay, but not do anything with my shoulders or upper body until they said it was okay.
We went back in a week for a look over, got the okay to go home, except for the Infectious Disease Dr. He panicked over a fluid pocket and said we'd better be ready to stay, then go, then stay. I told him via my dry erase board to make up his mind or I was gonna shove a boot up his ass, as we had already cancelled my plane ticket. Cooler heads prevailed, they kicked us loose and my daughter Sarah was able to get me a seat on the same flight as before.
Two months later, no word on PT or SLP stuff. Liz raised hell for me and got me freed up for PT and SLP. By then though, my shoulders, neck and back had started to atrophy. I was so weak I couldn't raise my arms over my head.
For all the fabulous care, communication is something MD Anderson really needs to work on. I posted on their FB page that I felt like after I was dismissed, I became a lost child and no one there gave a shit whether I got better or not. I learned that's a fine way to get people off their ass and moving.
Later, Girls and Boys
For starters, let us run back over December for a bit. It was a strange month to me, for some reason. I got my Chemo protocol from MD Anderson set up so I could do that here in Midland. I would rather be home for that kind of stuff, rather than stuck in a hotel room for a once a week treatment that I thought might make me sick.
I asked right off for a Power Port (which has since blown out as we found the 8th of July), but they didn't think I'd need one. Second treatment, I got the port put in. Once again, I was right. Sheesh
I can't recall what I was given except for Cisplatin. That's based in platinum. Heavy metal poisoning LOL! The other two did wonderful things, like make my hair fall out and dried my skin out so badly that my face and neck hasn't gotten over that yet. I look like a snake that really needs to rub it's head on a rock and shed.
It did make me sick as hell. Once again the nausea meds didn't do squat, so I tried an herbal remedy. I can say this for certain. I'd hit the gym for 3 days straight, spend the next day in the infusion room (10 hrs to get 3 drugs in), and the next couple of days being ill. With the herbal aid it went like this. 3 days at the gym, all day infusion, up the next day, puff puff, pass the hell out. Wake up, eat like a pig, nap. Saturday, puff puff pass out, eat like a pig. After that I did fine for 3 days. I can say this, it's not the same type herbs we had back in the day. This stuff nailed my ass to the floor and didn't even say thanks! I lost some weight, but only about 10 lbs. What did happen was severe neuropathy that left my left foot like a lump. I couldn't flex it, or my toes. Unless I wore my lace up boots, I'd trip on it because I couldn't feel it on the ground. Weird
Chemo ends and I go to Houston for a week of pre-surgery tests. I hole up in the Econo-Lodge with some cereal, a pile of microwave food and 4 novels. The novels lasted 2 days, I got tired of microwave food and dined out a bit. I never get tired of corn flakes, though, or Grape Nuts. Go figure.
My bud John Moye showed up on Thursday, we ate like pigs for 3 days, shot pistols, laughed, went to a couple of appointments, and generally just hung out. That was great.
Liz got there on Sunday afternoon. Joe's Crab Shack was happy to see us. We dropped $90 on food, drinks and dessert. Older 2 kids got there Monday. Papadeaux was glad to see us too. Big meal, stopped for snacks and stuff. Hung out that evening. It was the last day I had any solid food, Jan 21, 2013.
We got up and headed in for a 5 AM call time for surgery. By now I'm used to waiting so it didn't take long to get back into pre-op. Got the shots, I don't recall getting wheeled out. We did give them instructions to shake my feet when they try to wake me up. I have a thing about my shoulders, I'll grab or punch if I'm woken up by having my shoulders shaken. Scared Liz once when we were first married. Ooops
Okay! Here's what they cut out the first time:
1/3 or more of my left lower jaw
All of the base of my tongue
Soft palate (it moved there between CT's)
4 lymph glands
Tumor wrapped around my left carotid artery
Plastic surgeon took the big muscle out of the outside of my right quad and stuffed it in my mouth.
That took about 14 hrs. The cancer hid out in different places than the CT showed
Things go okay, I can swallow a bit, still, can't talk for shit because my tongue wonders what the hell they did to it. Something isn't right though, a couple of days in. I smell something odd, and my mouth tastes funny. There's a pulse for the muscle, but I started to question it's health. They poked, prodded and looked but it appeared okay. Until the day they were gonna cut me loose. My head surgeon came in, looked and said I wasn't going anywhere, yet. Damn thing had died. I got hooked up to IV antibiotics and scheduled for surgery the next day. It's odd having something dead in your mouth that you haven't cooked first.
Next surgery! Go in, get the pre-op stuff, head to the table and get Nimbex, a muscle relaxant. It killed me. Apparently a drug allergy I knew nothing about. Anyway, they cut out the dead quad, and pulled my pec out to stuff in my mouth instead.
That took about 8 hrs. ICU for a couple nights. That place is no fun at all.
Back up to my floor and waiting again. Liz has been in my room since Jan 22, and hasn't left. I'm really weak now, and resistant to getting up and walking around like I know I should. I do anyway, whiny about it though. Sheesh.
I can't swallow this time. Pisses me off. My lip and chin are more fouled up, that pisses me off. I can't speak now for shit, that pisses me off. All this was done to keep me alive, and all the cancer was gone, so I got over being pissed off. One more surgery to be certain the infection is cleaned out, that one took about an 3 hrs.
We spent 2 days in a hotel room, then they cut us loose to come home. February 13, one month after I hit Houston, 3 weeks in the hospital. I asked about when and what I could do for PT. I was told to walk, which is okay, but not do anything with my shoulders or upper body until they said it was okay.
We went back in a week for a look over, got the okay to go home, except for the Infectious Disease Dr. He panicked over a fluid pocket and said we'd better be ready to stay, then go, then stay. I told him via my dry erase board to make up his mind or I was gonna shove a boot up his ass, as we had already cancelled my plane ticket. Cooler heads prevailed, they kicked us loose and my daughter Sarah was able to get me a seat on the same flight as before.
Two months later, no word on PT or SLP stuff. Liz raised hell for me and got me freed up for PT and SLP. By then though, my shoulders, neck and back had started to atrophy. I was so weak I couldn't raise my arms over my head.
For all the fabulous care, communication is something MD Anderson really needs to work on. I posted on their FB page that I felt like after I was dismissed, I became a lost child and no one there gave a shit whether I got better or not. I learned that's a fine way to get people off their ass and moving.
Later, Girls and Boys
Saturday, August 3, 2013
So, we left off where Liz breaks down at Palliative care and I ask the Doc how long I've got. I also tell him that this isn't etched in stone and he agrees. We talk about probable causes, which range from the oil field, smoking, drinking, and my favorite, Genetics. If smoking and drinking were absolute causes of cancer, everyone that lit a smoke would die from cancer. That's not the case, is it? Being a reasonable person I know that ingesting smoke into your body isn't good for it, but it's not the root of all evil, either. Our genetic make up goes a lot farther in deciding what we get as far as diseases like cancer go. It's my opinion and if it's not popular, tough shit.
The longest 9 hour drive I've ever taken. Liz and I talk a bit, but not a lot. I'm hard to understand as it is, let alone when I'm just a bit shocked about my mortality. She's putting on a brave face, but it cracks pretty often and is filled with tears, which just breaks my heart. We talk about what we need to do. Things like funeral arrangements, double checking my insurance since I'm on Long Term Disability, and the biggy....telling the kids.
My older two kids, Sarah and Chance have been out on their own a for a while. Sure, they're young still, but they also know a little more about life than the younger two. I can't talk on the phone so I text them. I don't even try to imagine what is going on with them. I do know that they text back calm. I find out later that it wasn't so calm in reality. I'm sorry I couldn't speak directly to them. I think that always helps, hearing the voice stay calm, having that eases the shock a bit, I think.
Liz and I decide the best way to tell the kids is to just tell them out right. It's how I've done everything else, this should be no different. I abhor people that think holding off bad news is best for young people. Being honest, using age appropriate language, is always best. At least have the respect for your kids to be open and honest with the things they should know.
So, here we are, my shoulders and back are on fire, I'm tired, and certainly not looking forward to telling the kids. Addison is my tender hearted baby. She's very talented, and talks a good stoic attitude, but her heart is the softest of the kids. Declan is 15, how do you tell your 15 year old son you probably won't see him graduate high school? Three or four more years down the road and we can ease off father/son and start being friends. That's the magic of parenthood. While you never stop being parents, you can become friends when they grow older and have lives of their own to live. I love that part for sure
It goes like this. Liz gathers up the kids. I have to lean back in my recliner so I can get some relief and glue my thoughts in order.
"Addison, Dec, the Doctors tell me I've only got about a year left." No stunned looks, just instant tears.
From me too. It's the end of the most difficult day I've had. Not hearing I have limited time, but telling people I love that it's short time.
"It's gonna be okay, trust me. We'll have as much fun as possible. We'll figure out what we want to do together, and how this will work. Okay?" Well, fuck no it's not "okay" and I know that. They know that. It is however, what it is. I think Addison may have wondered all along about my mortality, I'm not sure about Dec. Liz still cries, my tears dry up for now. It has, however, just shattered what was left of my heart. I gave it all to Liz and those kids. Now that's broken
Part of me has this "Well, this ain't gonna get it done" attitude about crying. I don't like it, I hate to cry. But it's also human, so I have tears. Sometimes at weird stuff. Other times when I realize what I might miss down the road. What Liz, Sarah, Chance, Addison, Declan and I will all miss together. That's fucking sad. So I leak. We text my SLP, because she's was a friend of Liz and has become a friend of mine as well as an instructor, she cries. I tell my PT 5 days later. She wells up and cries too. Same with my Lyphedema therapist. As well as the manager of my gym. It's tough, I hate it makes them cry, but I'd rather tell them in person than have them find out from the Obits in the paper. They are good folks, they earned a face to face with me at this time. I wish everyone could.
I tell my FaceBook buds. They followed me on this road from November on. They know a whole lot of the pain, joy, victory and defeats I've run over the first part of this road, they are part of my support group. They give me inspiration. They are part of my family too. So are the men and women I work with in the field. A couple of them know, because they are on FB. Next week I go tell the office as a whole. Well, I'll have to use the damn dry erase board, but we'll have a chat none the less.
So far, the "End of Days" stuff is going pretty well. All I lack are the final arrangements and getting the will and Liz powers of attorney to go. Then it's off to having as much fun as I can.
I believe that will include more bike time, gym time, family time. And once in a while, ME time. I'm already tired of this shit, the family has to be, we all need a break.
Sometimes life will hand you a shit sammich. The hardest part of that is the first bite. It won't get any better as you go, but it's easier to tolerate LOL
Y'all hang tough, go play. It looks lovely outside
The longest 9 hour drive I've ever taken. Liz and I talk a bit, but not a lot. I'm hard to understand as it is, let alone when I'm just a bit shocked about my mortality. She's putting on a brave face, but it cracks pretty often and is filled with tears, which just breaks my heart. We talk about what we need to do. Things like funeral arrangements, double checking my insurance since I'm on Long Term Disability, and the biggy....telling the kids.
My older two kids, Sarah and Chance have been out on their own a for a while. Sure, they're young still, but they also know a little more about life than the younger two. I can't talk on the phone so I text them. I don't even try to imagine what is going on with them. I do know that they text back calm. I find out later that it wasn't so calm in reality. I'm sorry I couldn't speak directly to them. I think that always helps, hearing the voice stay calm, having that eases the shock a bit, I think.
Liz and I decide the best way to tell the kids is to just tell them out right. It's how I've done everything else, this should be no different. I abhor people that think holding off bad news is best for young people. Being honest, using age appropriate language, is always best. At least have the respect for your kids to be open and honest with the things they should know.
So, here we are, my shoulders and back are on fire, I'm tired, and certainly not looking forward to telling the kids. Addison is my tender hearted baby. She's very talented, and talks a good stoic attitude, but her heart is the softest of the kids. Declan is 15, how do you tell your 15 year old son you probably won't see him graduate high school? Three or four more years down the road and we can ease off father/son and start being friends. That's the magic of parenthood. While you never stop being parents, you can become friends when they grow older and have lives of their own to live. I love that part for sure
It goes like this. Liz gathers up the kids. I have to lean back in my recliner so I can get some relief and glue my thoughts in order.
"Addison, Dec, the Doctors tell me I've only got about a year left." No stunned looks, just instant tears.
From me too. It's the end of the most difficult day I've had. Not hearing I have limited time, but telling people I love that it's short time.
"It's gonna be okay, trust me. We'll have as much fun as possible. We'll figure out what we want to do together, and how this will work. Okay?" Well, fuck no it's not "okay" and I know that. They know that. It is however, what it is. I think Addison may have wondered all along about my mortality, I'm not sure about Dec. Liz still cries, my tears dry up for now. It has, however, just shattered what was left of my heart. I gave it all to Liz and those kids. Now that's broken
Part of me has this "Well, this ain't gonna get it done" attitude about crying. I don't like it, I hate to cry. But it's also human, so I have tears. Sometimes at weird stuff. Other times when I realize what I might miss down the road. What Liz, Sarah, Chance, Addison, Declan and I will all miss together. That's fucking sad. So I leak. We text my SLP, because she's was a friend of Liz and has become a friend of mine as well as an instructor, she cries. I tell my PT 5 days later. She wells up and cries too. Same with my Lyphedema therapist. As well as the manager of my gym. It's tough, I hate it makes them cry, but I'd rather tell them in person than have them find out from the Obits in the paper. They are good folks, they earned a face to face with me at this time. I wish everyone could.
I tell my FaceBook buds. They followed me on this road from November on. They know a whole lot of the pain, joy, victory and defeats I've run over the first part of this road, they are part of my support group. They give me inspiration. They are part of my family too. So are the men and women I work with in the field. A couple of them know, because they are on FB. Next week I go tell the office as a whole. Well, I'll have to use the damn dry erase board, but we'll have a chat none the less.
So far, the "End of Days" stuff is going pretty well. All I lack are the final arrangements and getting the will and Liz powers of attorney to go. Then it's off to having as much fun as I can.
I believe that will include more bike time, gym time, family time. And once in a while, ME time. I'm already tired of this shit, the family has to be, we all need a break.
Sometimes life will hand you a shit sammich. The hardest part of that is the first bite. It won't get any better as you go, but it's easier to tolerate LOL
Y'all hang tough, go play. It looks lovely outside
Friday, August 2, 2013
Okay, so I've had a bit to organize my thoughts. a bit.
I quit kinda at the end of my first round treatment. I'll breeze through this stuff since it's just leading up to my Terminal Velocity.
Things are cookin along just fine, every CT and exam are coming up clear. I got used to my dentures, worked hard and was getting my strength back. and was having a blast throwing at the Highland Games. I was never gonna win a lot, but I had fun and met really cool people and made good friends out of it.
My dad gets sick, turns out he has cancer and they give him 6 weeks. He does chemo, which makes him really sick, and gets steadily worse. I go to the Midland Celt Fest, and while throwing a light weight for distance, pull my bicep off. I wouldn't have, but some yo yo waddles his idiot ass right toward me while I'm spinning. I get the weight stopped, feel the bicep roll up like a window blind under my arm and hear "that looks like it hurt". If I hadn't been about to crap my kilt, I'd beaten the guy with my good arm.
Dad died right after my bicep repair surgery, pain and grief suck as companions. Funny spot? Why yes there was one. I'm about to give a little speech and toast to Pop, got my beer in one hand, the other in a wrap and useless. Useless until the waitress shoved (honestly shoved, not handed) my burger and fries into my hand that couldn't hold air without hurting my arm. Did I panic? No, I looked at Liz and said, "Gimme a hand?", at which time she started to crack up. It was truly funny, but probably ya had to be there.
Threw a 50th BD party, Liz and I and a couple of friends cooked all day. 15 lbs of ribs, 8 lbs of chicken, beef, and who knows how many lbs of veggies, and 5 lbs of bacon wrapped stuffed jalapeno's. A good time was had by all. I could tell by the empties and the enormous swelling of my head over night.
2011, 2012, John Moye and I ride to Daytona Beach for Bike Week. Great riding with a good friend who enjoys food and drink as much as I. We ride 5-700 miles a day. Meet some really cool people, including an 80something year old guy from Ohio who had ridden his bike to Daytona every year for 60 years. He, John and I teased the boys from within the state that trailered their bikes up, and had a generally wonderful time and ride. I rode home in 2 days. 920 miles the second day. No, my butt was not really that sore, and I wasn't exhausted.
2012, CT in May...CLEAR. Dr appointment in August, throat and mouth still clear. I felt off, kinda like I did in 2008, went to McPherson and had one of my personal best games. Got home and set an appointment with my ENT. She looked, said it looks like it's back, did another needle posy. I go to Austin for a game there, pretty convinced it was back. November 8, get the call that the cancer is back.
My boss helps me get set up for Short Term Dis, so I can get this aggressively taken care of and be back working.
Shockingly enough, my ENT says that I need to go to MD Anderson because I'll need extensive surgery and that's the best place for it. All I need is my Oncologist's referral. Oddly enough he says "Just go to their emergency room, they can't refuse you". We think this is odd, so we gather up every medical record I've got, and that ends up looking like a Funk and Wagnall's Encyclopedia, and book ass for Houston.
We get there and no one has called, nothing. Liz gets on the horn to the ENT, she's in Bally or some such far away place, and takes the time to actually get us a referral so I can get started.
Over the next few weeks and oodles of tests, meeting my surgeon, chemo onco, the radiation folks (which we find, and knew, I couldn't have anymore radiation without risk of death), and a nutritionist.
Chemo, sick, herbal help, not so sick. Tumor started off .5 centimeters, by chemo time it was 2.5 centimeters in 3 weeks.
Go to Houston Jan 13, 2013 to begin a week of pre surgery tests. I'm eating good, because they say I'll get a feeding tube this time for certain. John Moye comes down and spends a bit of time, which was nice of him. We ate, drank, breezed, shot pistolas, and laughed.
Liz gets there Jan 20, we eat, drink, laugh. The 2 older kids get there Jan 21. We eat drink and laugh. This is the last day I have solid food, ever.
Jan 22!!! Surgery day. 8 hr job turns into 14. They cut out my soft palate, the entire base of my tongue, 1/3 of my left lower jaw, 4 lymph glands, and one tumor that wrapped around my left carotid artery.
They use part of my right quadricep to make repairs.
That dies, and the day they are cutting me loose, put me right back in on IV antibiotics and schedule another surgery. Jan 28, surgery to take out my dead quad and replace that with my left pectoral muscle. I code on the table. Fun, no. Feb 5 one more surgery to wash out infection. Feb 13, we come home
2 months later I finally talk them into letting me start PT. By now my muscles have atrophied across my shoulders, neck and back. I love my PT Barb, she pushes me. It's what I need.
We get them to start me with an SLP for speech and swallowing therapy. I love my SLP Michelle, she pushes me and makes me laugh, still. Starting I am 10% understandable. now I'm 65-70% love Michelle.
Okay, we get a date to start reconstructive surgery on July 8. That goes well, except they find a spot near where they found the first stuff. Yep, cancer.
July 17, we meet the surgeon to go over options. No surgery, I've had too much. No radiation, that'll kill me. He mentions Palliative care and Liz breaks down. I have no clue what that is, but if it breaks Liz down, I figure I'm screwed. I ask for a couple of minutes with the Doc and ask how long. He says a year. 40% chance of making it that far with Chemo.
AND THAT boys and girls, is my TERMINAL VELOCITY.
This is where the story goes now. How much slower can I make my Terminal Velocity. We shall see, won't we?
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