Group sessions and ASH.

I’ve had one of the worst weeks of my life, emotionally, so if this is discombobulated it’s because I am. Going to avoid getting into why, however, as it’s so ugly, anxiety-inducing and just plain wrong it’s a no-fly zone for now. Been fighting off a serious depression for a week straight and it’s taking everything I have just to maintain.

I did want to get a few things down on “paper” however, as it were — this is the Magellan aspect of writing for me, this hope that in just typing I can find connections, put my life in order, discover what the REAL problem is, exorcise something, whatever.

So one thing that’s somewhat interesting is my only real-life (as opposed to online) friend who has Myeloma, Mary, convinced me to go to a monthly support group in Denver with her this past Saturday.  Specifically we went to the Denver Multiple Myeloma Support Group, which meets downtown on the second Saturday morning of each month. It was interesting, and surprisingly (at least to me) I think I’ll try to make it regularly.  Oddly enough I tend to get a bit introverted speaking about myself in person so I don’t generally do group-speak activities but I figured fuck it, I’ll get to hang with a friend I don’t get to see enough and be supportive, plus why not?

So the agenda changes depending on whether they have speakers or not but this time the meeting started with a nice meditation and then we just went around the room sharing our stories. Obviously for privacy reasons I’ll avoid relating individual’s information but interestingly for there being only eight folks this particular morning there was a wide variety of Myeloma experiences, from a 19-year survivor to someone who just got diagnosed and hadn’t even started treatment yet.

One person’s experience was actually similar to mine in that they found out via a blood test that looked bizarre to a doctor instead of some catastrophic Myeloma-related incident.  And I mention this only because the person noted while relating their story the experience of that moment where you’re hoping it’s MGUS (“monoclonal gammopathy of undetermined significance.”).  Which for the uninitiated requires a bit of explanation — so MGUS is like a precursor to Myeloma with something like a 30% chance of blossoming into the wonderful gift we know and love (no idea where I remember that stat from, so apologies if it’s incorrect).

Point is it’s what you want your blood test to say when a doctor sends you to a hematologist to explain the weird blood test results. It’s a significant moment because here you are in the hematologist/oncologist office with what feels like your last chance that this is all some crazy mistake, that the nightmare of sitting in a cancer doc’s office isn’t really happening, primed and ready for the biggest sigh of relief you’ll ever have in your life … and then WHAM. Nope, sorry, fuck-o, you lose!

It feels like I’ve walked this road for so long that combined with the chemobrain I look back sometimes and wonder at it all, especially when I recall moments like that.  More, I wish I had some pithy useful conclusion so far besides “What a long and bizarrely tragic shit show,” heh.

Onward and upward, this weekend is the American Society of Hematology’s big annual meeting.  I’ve been following it on Twitter as best I can and re-Tweeting links to articles normal human beings can understand (i.e., minimal obscure acronyms and jargon), so check the Twitter feed if you want some highlights focused just on Myeloma.  All the big hitters in the industry seem to be there, including both Drs. Mikhael and Matous, my favorites, so it’s been interesting for sure. I’m not sure what the big takeaways are from the weekend yet in terms of new stuff for Myeloma, but my list to discuss with Dr. Matous this coming week includes:

  • what’s going on in CAR-T for Myeloma
  • what is my sub-type?
  • what’s all this about doubling up on the flu vaccinations
  • what’s the story with Venetoclax for Myeloma, and
  • what are the latest thoughts on transplants. Seems like I’m seeing more and more about allogeneic (other peoples) stem cells for relapsed Myeloma victims like me as opposed to a second autologous (your own).

No cure yet though. Also if you want a wrap-up Dr. Mikhael is one of the three experts who is going to present a free streamed discussion on the latest trends in treating Myeloma on Monday night which you can watch here.

That’s pretty much all I feel like unburdening myself with right now. I have a big meeting with the Doc on the 13th where we’ll be discussing what we do next, so I’ll post again this week when I’ve had time to process.  Toodles.

 

Reflecting on a past life.

A week out from round three of VTD-PACE and I’m trying to get my head around things.

Went in for a blood test Tuesday morning as I’ve been exhausted since Friday and sleeping like the dead (normally I’m a very light sleeper). On Friday, for example, I came home early from work since I couldn’t keep my eyes open and zonked out on a couch. I woke up around 5 pm and asked my wife why the cleaning girls didn’t come only to find out not only did they but they cleaned around me and I didn’t wake up.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you view these things, my numbers didn’t qualify for a transfusion. While I was happy to not have to sit in the hospital getting blood all afternoon I am somewhat concerned about how tired I’ve been if it’s not being caused by low blood counts — I’m guessing it’s either the cancer itself or, more likely, the toll all of these chemotherapy drugs are taking on my body?  Who knows at this point.

I’ve also been dealing with an almost debilitating level of lower back pain that I cannot point to a cause for and say “aha!” Been treating that in more natural ways but a few nights I’ve broken down and dipped into the opioid well.

I know the number one lesson from sports is never look past your next opponent, but — actually, that’s wrong.  That’s the number two rule; the number one rule of sports is never treat a groin pull with Icy Hot. But anyways I know it’s a mistake but I’ve been spending a lot of time looking past this third cycle and at that stem cell transplant looming on the horizon.  I’m just not a big fan of the concept right now — the first one I did was a major pain in the ass and wasn’t that effective, so I’m not sure what a second one is supposed to accomplish.  We’ll see.  I’m not in the habit of getting the best healthcare I can find and then questioning it but this is a pretty major decision to just sign off on without some serious thought attached.

Things have been odd lately around me.  I feel like everything is a bit off, from flavors all the way to my initial reactions to events. As a result I’ve been more tight-lipped than usual because I don’t know where my reactions are coming from — the drugs? Depression? My brain is awash in chemicals and unfamiliar responses and I can’t tell any more.  One thought pervades through it all, however, and that is how much I am missing diving. Part of that is the purely hedonistic angle — life just isn’t nearly as fun for me without diving, and after four years I am Jonesing so badly it’s not funny.  I miss the serenity, the comradery, the feeling of being someone special when I was assisting classes or dive guiding at the aquarium here, the exotic locales, the water.

The WATER. Why I ever allowed myself to live in a land-locked state is beyond me.

One of my old favorite things to do was burn a few days vacation time and assist classes at a local reservoir during the week with a favorite instructor friend.  Not only did we work well together but after the students left we’d bust out the mini grill and cook up some burgers or brats and relax, go for a fun dive, etc.  Missing that bigtime.

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That’s me exploring outside a wreck in Cozumel, picture by a close friend.

Along with those yearnings has come a strong undercurrent of resentment about my disease. Granted that’s always been there to some degree, but lately it’s been more prevalent in my thoughts.  I would guess this is coming from all of the introspection this PACE therapy has forced upon me — I’m always feeling poorly these days and there’s no time to even recover before the next round and another week in the hospital, another slew of follow-up appointments, more transfusions, etc.  Combine that with the lack of hair and how I look lately and I feel like I’m not even Rich anymore, I’m just Myeloma.  As a result I’m resisting, mentally and emotionally, rebelling without a real target.

I miss my old life, who I used to be. I feel like I could be a better person now if I were allowed to return to it free of these diseased shackles but with the full knowledge of where I’ve been and how precarious things can be.

But that’s neither here nor there at the moment.  I have an appointment with the oncologists tomorrow morning and on the 19th we start the third and final round of VTD-PACE, followed by six weeks of recovery and then a stem cell transplant.  Time to focus on what’s right in front of me and just try to keep the dreams of the past life alive until I can get there again.

PACE round 2 wrap-up and other precious moments.

Drip.  Drip.  Drip.

People who watch grass grow or paint dry have no idea how much more engaging it is to watch IV fluids.  Sitting at CBCI getting the monthly IViG and trying to find a path home with this blog entry, but there’s a part of me that wants to play the cancerous version of “how many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop” (ancient commercial reference) with my IV.  Although with chemobrain I’d probably blow the count halfway through and then be pissed for a month.

“5,400,001. 5,400–“

Nurse: “Can I get you anything?”

“5,400,0–, err, 5,4 … GOD DAMNIT.”

First the good news. As hard as it’s been on me physically, the two rounds of this “kill it with fire” chemo are getting the job done.  From a peak in early May my M-Spike has gone from 3.9 to 2.8 (and according to an email I just got, 2.3 as of Monday), igG is down to 3,786 from 6,041 and my Kappa is down to 436.8 from 1,178.6. Not bad, although I had greedily hoped for even more drastic results for several reasons; perhaps most of all because if you are going to go through the hassles, the GI issues, the pain, the fatigue, being in the hospital for a week, the mustard stains on your favorite t-shirt from ordering gourmet hotdogs delivered to the hospital (what, that could happen to other people), etc., you want to get your money’s worth. The results were good enough, however, for my doctor to want one more cycle as per our meeting this past Friday.

Sigh.  I go back in on the 19th. If you work at Billy’s Gourmet Hot Dogs then congratulations, I’ll be paying for your next vacation.

At the meeting last Friday I also met Dr. Matous’s transplant coordinator, Dana, who gave me THE BINDER. Having gotten one from the Mayo Clinic when I did my first stem cell transplant and now one from CBCI I’m assuming this is standard practice, but for the uninitiated THE BINDER is a collection of information on what to expect, rules, diet, scheduling, yada yada yada.  I read through it this weekend and was amused to see that there was a special callout about marijuana in the rules — specifically, ixnay on the opeday during the hospitalization and afterwards, including edibles (that part makes no sense to me, but OK). Although they did separate out marijuana from the “recreational drugs” category, so that’s progress. I’ve been an activist for medical marijuana for several years now so seeing stuff like that makes me believe that attitudes are indeed changing at the higher levels, especially in healthcare.

You also can’t have nail clippers or a razor. You can however have people bring you restaurant food which seems odd since at the Mayo they were pretty adamant about not eating food that hadn’t just been cooked and served to you, but hey, if I can get delivery while in the hospital for three weeks then it will make things a lot more pleasant.  I’ve noticed that, much like staying in Vegas, no matter how good the food is (and PSL’s is pretty good) you still feel like you’re living in a Denny’s after a week or so.

Speaking of razors, when I entered the hospital for round two of this chemo I started losing my hair in earnest thanks to the first cycle. Irritatingly I only started losing it in the middle of my head, making me look like a poster child for those spraypaint your head infomercials for baldness, so with nothing better to do I busted out my shaving razor and shaved my head during my inpatient stay. As an encore all of the dark hairs fell out of the goatee section of my beard and mustache, so I shaved that all off too. Unfortunately I think in doing so it opened somewhat of a Pandora’s Box without me even knowing it that has fueled some of the depression I’ve been feeling lately. I think it’s a pretty common tale in the cancer world, but since only one previous treatment threatened hair loss (my first stem cell transplant in 2014) and it didn’t really happen I never gave it much thought.

Now I find myself staring into mirrors or purposely ignoring them; I feel like I look like Uncle Fester from the Adams Family. It reminds me a bit of year one when I was first coming to grips with this fucking nightmare while doing chemo during the day (Velcade shots) and feeling an intense isolation as I walked out of my office building when everyone else was going to lunch. Perhaps it’s silly but I find myself battling self-conscious thoughts, something I thought I had been done with by forty-six. I have to consciously look past the feelings of embarrassment now even though I know it’s ridiculous. Might as well get used to it, though, as with another round of this followed by a stem cell transplant I won’t have a beard again until around Christmas-time.  Grrr.

I imagine that seems a petty concern when you are facing a terminal disease. Honestly I never thought it would be a big deal to me, especially since I’ve had my head shav– err, shaved?  Shorn? Whatever, I’ve been getting the brain basket done with a #1 razor for a year or more and had a full beard since my goatee started growing back after the first stem cell transplant. It’s different than I thought it would be though, adding a visceral in-your-face reminder of this disease that I can’t avoid around reflective surfaces.  Didn’t see that coming.

I did, however, talk to my oncology team’s nurse practitioner about depression today. I’m reasonably sure, when I examine things from a distance, that I am in fact depressed. Duh, obviously, but I mean on a level where I would like to go after relief medically so I can function. After consulting with a few psychologists on staff, the oncologists want me to taper off of Lexapro, which I started when I was first diagnosed (suicidal thoughts, general depression) and start taking Effexor. Hoping this works since I was at the max dose of Lexapro and lately I’ve been feeling like it may not be working very well. Fingers crossed because I really do not need a healthy side dish of depression along with my heaping pile o’ cancer.  Especially heading into a gauntlet of some fairly hardcore regimens this year.

One way or another, one way or another,
One way or another, this darkness got to give.

Been listening to the Dead a lot recently (that snippet is from New Speedway Boogie, an old favorite of mine), partially because I’ve been watching this great documentary mini-series on Amazon about them and really it’s just been a while since they lead the mental rotation of what I feel like listening to.  I get in a Dead mood about three times a year and then binge on the live stuff for a week, which you can now download a fuckton of from iTunes. Which still seems weird and out of place to me, just like it does when I download old punk music, but we do live in a convenience-centric world now.

But I digress as usual.  Today at CBCI I also asked if I could get a “why” as to why we’re doing a stem cell transplant, especially when the first one didn’t really do much and subsequent ones are, as I was told when I was at Mayo, only 75% as effective as the first one. Not that I don’t trust my oncology team, but I’ve now been asked this twice by folks and neither time have I really had a satisfactory answer. If I’m going to deal with the incredible hassle, danger and three long weeks without seeing my little one I need to know for myself why I’m doing it beyond just a vague “to reduce my numbers.” Should have an answer next week as they are going to discuss this question at their Thursday meeting.

Thinking about transplants reminds me of a good stem cell transplant story, however.  Back in 2014 when I did my first one I moved my family to Scottsdale for several months and set up my laptop to Skype with my daughter every night (who was three at the time).  So the first night I get on Skype all excited to see Ariana who, after maybe one minute of talking to me, turns off camera to her mother and asks “How do I change the channel?”

Edit: Almost forgot. Found out an old friend was struck down with a brain aneurysm this past weekend and is fighting for his life. I’m not the praying type but if you can spare a few seconds to send some positive vibes for Rob S. and his family I’d sure appreciate it — his kids don’t deserve to grow up fatherless and I have no doubt he has a ton left to offer the world. Thanks.

Saved by the … 1970’s?

I’ve been somewhat avoiding this entry, as ridiculous as it may seem, simply because I’m scared, quite honestly.  Scared about seeing what I should, or want, or need to put down here.  There’s a stark reality to a word on a page.  Something CREATED that you can’t just stuff back into a box.

This is a travelogue, if you will.  Which makes me a tour guide of … myself?  I’ve always found that an interesting viewpoint, whether as a reporter or editor or blogger.  If you’re reading this you’re on a journey with me, and perhaps similar to the anticipation we all get wondering if the traffic you’re stuck in was born just over the hill in smashed cars and blood on the pavement, I have to think in the back of someone’s head reading this blog there’s a knowledge of what we are going to find over the hill.

Here’s the difference between you and I, however.  You read these words, their order and meaning and message devised in my head and placed here as best I can.  Perhaps you get hope from them (that would be a feat), or more likely some information you didn’t have about Myeloma.  Maybe you know me and this is how you stay updated.  For some I know there’s an empowerment in reading and interacting with others sharing their fate, which is why I make sure to answer (I may miss 1-2, sorry) every comment personally.

But for me this thing is something totally different.  It’s truth.  It’s a love letter to someone you’ll probably never meet.  It’s comprised of words once spoken outloud, given birth, that become unavoidable, and once created I can’t shy away from it.  Just the opposite, I re-read these entries ad nauseum.  If they make me tear up I just keep doing it to inure myself, to explore, to learn, to understand me through this process.  To remember — it’s weird going back two years and reading.

And hey, side effect to chemobrain, I have such a hard time recollecting certain things now it’s like reading a whole new blog, laugh.  I should start re-reading my favorite authors come to think of it.  Anyways …

Long way of saying why I haven’t updated in the last few days.  That experience can be so taxing that the anticipation of it can be too much sometimes, especially when my number one method of coping is to compartmentalize and seal until I feel it’s safe to open the vault door and peek inside.  These entries are often the emotional equivalent of blowing open all the cell doors in a Brazilian prison and seeing what happens.

Don’t ever Google “Brazilian prison riot” by the way.  That’s one of those “what’s been seen can never be unseen” parts of the Internet.

Wednesday morning I met with Megan, the nurse practitioner on Dr. Matous’ team (and also with another member of their team sitting in who works with Sonja, the team’s nurse navigator — each doctor at CBCI has their own group of folks).  Megan actually is the reason I’m at CBCI — she’s a friend of a friend’s sister who related to her some unsatisfactory experiences I had had with my former local oncologist and got me in to see Dr. Matous.  Not only is she as sharp as they come on Myeloma but there’s also an underlying level of tangible “caring” that I rarely see in medical professionals.  I consider myself lucky to have met her, quite honestly.

So we have a 45 minute meeting to discuss some things which I’ll save you the narration of.  Here’s some “highlights,” although that’s certainly an odd term for it:

  • We are definitely in the danger zone.  Queue Archer pestering Lana.
  • We are going to continue with the Dara/Rev treatment for a few more weeks (4?) to get some more data and because it’s seemingly very effective on two of the three metrics you watch with my form of Myeloma (IgG, M-Spike) even if the Kappa is going the wrong way.
  • We’ll be doing weekly appointments with a doctor and weekly Myeloma tests now (monthly before).
  • PET Scan time.  Only had one before so not entirely sure what this tells us, but that was the plan BEFORE I told her about some of the pain I’ve had bone-wise lately (skull, lower back, etc.) and once related became even more urgently needed.
  •  The next step for me if this is not sustainable is probably going to be something called PACE (we’ll discuss that in a minute).
  • After Dara, or PACE, I cannot be off chemotherapy.  Every time I have my numbers go to Hell so fast you’d think they had a VIP invite.
  • The step after that *may* be some sort of CAR T trial.  CBCI is most likely going to have one but given the previous bullet point I may need to travel for one to get the timing right — again I cannot be off chemo given what we’ve seen so far.
  • There’s no good way to prop up hemoglobin counts like you can with white blood cell counts, apparently.  i.e., Neulasta, IViG, etc. There used to be and it was a standard of care, but due to heart issues it’s use was severely restricted.
  • An autologous stem cell transplant (someone else’s stem cells) may be on the plate for the future.  Risky and a huge time commitment among other things.  Didn’t even know they did those for Myeloma.
  • I managed to make not one but two medical professionals tear up with one comment.  Basically that I just needed 13 more years, even if it was slogging through chemotherapy 24/7 to get there (we had been talking about living on chemo for the rest of your life versus not even a maintenance regimen).  From knowing me Megan knew pretty much immediately that that was when my daughter turns 18 and explained to the other nurse in the room, who has a young child like Megan and I both do.
  • One of the reasons my cancer may be so frustrating to deal with chemo-wise is perhaps there are not one but TWO clones at work.  That could explain the weird way the Kappa is not marching in step with the M-Spike and IgG.  First time I had ever heard that was even a possibility.

As I remember it those are the main points we hit.  Couple things to dig into from that list.  First, Megan was telling me how she had talked to Dr. Matous the previous evening and he knew my numbers off of the top of his head.  She let me know that’s not the norm and that he cares about me.  That may seem like a very small thing in a very scary list of things, but it meant more to me than anything else said yesterday.  I have a hard time buying that many medical professionals even read this but man, you want a patient to believe in you?  That’s how it’s done.  A little caring moves mountains.  You want someone fighting for you in this, not doing their day job, capiche?

Secondly, PACE.  I checked with a friend with Myeloma doing significantly better than I am and that was news to her as well.  I also don’t recall that one off the list in any doctor’s office of potential treatments.  I’m reasonably sure, since I’m somewhat well-read in Myeloma, that there’s just not a lot of talk out there on this one and doctors don’t even mention it given why it’s used.  The key word I kept seeing over and over again is “salvage.”  It’s a salvage chemotherapy, so in a way a hail Mary pass.  At least that’s how this feels.  We’re not calmly sitting around pondering quality of life issues over IV versus oral chemos and what’s hot now, we’re calling the National Guard and getting ready to light up Berkeley like the Branch Davidian compound in Waco.  It sounds like there’s some variance in the exact cocktail used with this (Velcade or Thalidomide, for example).

So DT-PACE:

  • P = Cisplatin or Platinol.  Mmmm, 1978.  Cisplatin (actually discovered in 1845) is licensed for medical use.  1978: the Sex Pistols play their last show, the Blues Brothers perform their first (on SNL), Van Halen and the Dead Kennedy’s debut albums, and most importantly Iron Maiden hires Paul as their lead singer and records a 4-song demo including Prowler.  Best band ever.  EVAH.
  • A = Adriamycin or doxorubicin.  What year did Nixon resign, Cher file for divorce from Sonny, Neil Peart join Rush and the Ramones perform for the first time at CBGB’s?  1974.  Those two drugs are the same, as far as I can tell; Adriamycin was a trade name for doxorubicin.
  • C = Cyclophosphamide.  Set the Wayback Machine for 1959, Peabody.  Jimmy Hendrix buys his first electric guitar, my dad’s favorite Buddy Holly goes down in a plane crash in Iowa along with the Big Bopper and Richie Valens, and Cyclophosphamide is approved for use.  This one I’ve had before when I first was diagnosed as part of the “CyBorD” triplet (Cyclophosphamide, Velcade (Bortezemib) and that wonderful (not really) Dex.
  • E = Etoposide.  Welcome back to ’83, when Thriller debuts at #1 on the charts, Mick Jones is kicked out of the Clash, the members of KISS take off the makeup, the first Phish show happens and Etoposide hits the market.

The “DT” is Dex and Thalidomide (predecessor to Revlimid/Pomalyst) but it seems like there are variations on this theme (using Velcade instead, etc.).  Only recognize a few of those names?  Yeah me too.  I wasn’t sure what Megan meant when she said it’s an old-school chemotherapy.  More like 800 of them.  At once.  96-hour infusion, only can do this once or twice due to the severity.

In looking at that list maybe I should show up with a giant afro and bellbottoms humming some BeeGees.  CB?  Still got that pink afro wig?

How’d we get here seemingly out of nowhere?

I know the answer, a combination of semi-effective treatments and a few ill-timed but necessary chemotherapy holidays.  I’m still suffering from the whiplash, however.  I went from the, for lack of a better analogy, “softcore” chemotherapies to the “XXX scar-you-for-life and terrify the kids while it kicks your dog” chemo with little to no warning.  There are so many questions this is raising and emotions churning and frothing like some stormy seas out of a novel where people say “yarr” and the great white whale appears on the horizon that I don’t even know which way is up anymore.  It’s given birth to a few feelings, however, that stand out:

Yarr.  I just wanted to say that again since it’s a joke between my daughter and I.

“Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Interrupting Pirate.”

“Interrupt –“

“YARRRRRRRRRRR!”

Cracks me up every time.  Sorry, your list:

  • I’ve never “feared” my cancer.  That’s an odd realization.  I thought I did, for sure.  Now I fucking do.  So if someone was just trying to make a point with this to not take cancer lightly, I get it.  Seriously.  No I will not start going to church, please stop asking.
  • Taking that a step further, I’ve never felt the grasp of death before.  I think I know more about impending doom than non-terminal peoples after four years of Myeloma, but there’s a big difference between having a concept in your head with some nebulous future date (“eventually this will probably cause my death”) and what I feel now.  It’s gone from 2-D to 3-D, if that makes sense?  I feel like we’re in the “get the paperwork in order” phase of things and I can’t escape that feeling.  Not that my thoughts on it have changed at all (only really care due to Ariana and her future, yada yada yada), but I thought I’d have a bit more time to get there.  That feeling is now gone.
  • There’s a very disappointing jealousy I’ve hid from everyone for a long time.  I get the feeling all of us doomed do this even though we don’t talk about it, because it makes you feel shitty.  It’s being jealous of survivors, those for whom all of the chemicals and years worked.  I hate that because it makes me feel petty and selfish, which is logical.  It’s just so hard reading about how someone survived on Revlimid for 20 years or is now in remission or what have you when you aren’t.  But it’s a full disclosure sort of blog, so sorry for admitting what most of us feel but won’t talk about.

So that’s where we’re at.  Well I’m at; hopefully you, my friend, are not here with me except as an observant whisper in the dark.  I won’t be dropping dead tomorrow, I doubt, but in four years we’ve torched quite a bit of the new therapies and standards and we’re worse off than when we started.  What’s left looks and feels pretty grim to me right now.

Sure there’s hope.  I’m still fighting along with the best medical team on the planet as far as I’m concerned.  I’m taking the drugs, making all of the appointments — ask around and folks will tell you those are the danger signs of giving up (no shows, not taking the drugs, etc.).

I figured something else out today.  My father, upon hearing my diagnosis four years ago, has mentioned a few times since that that was the only time he’s seen me scared.

I realized today I’ve just learned to hide it better since then.

PS:  You know your cancer’s rare when the spellcheck keeps correcting it to “Melanoma.”

Watch, I’ll have that now too and we’ll all go “how ironic.”  Knock on wood.

Last thing that I just recalled.  Don’t read more into this than is necessary but with all these thoughts of death and the timeline feeling like it’s shifted I came up with what I want on my tombstone.  “End of Line.”  Sure, put some family stuff above that, but that needs to be on there.

Tron dork, what can I say.