2019 was off to a hot start! I was feeling great- physically and mentally. In mid December, I completed my second course of radiation/chemotherapy treatments within 12 months. I enjoyed winter break; visiting family in Denver and Chicago. The road trip back from Chicago was a thing of beauty, reinvigorating the soul. I was excited about my transfer of care from Kaiser to UCSD and already had appointments lined up with their finest colorectal surgeon and oncologist. With the help of my family and friends, we picked up the pieces from the cancer recurrence 2 months prior; everything seemed to be coming together and falling into place. Optimism and normalcy began to settle in, tricking me into a false sense of complacency.
As soon as the new year hit and my new insurance kicked in, it was bye bye Kaiser and Hello UCSD. I met with an oncologist at UCSD by the name of Dr. L. He was an old school guy from the east coast- you could tell he had an edge to him (just my style). We sat down and reviewed everything that occurred the previous 12 months. He was satisfied with the repeat radiation/chemo and figured our best shot to beat this was to remove the mass surgically. He set me up with Dr. R, the head of colorectal surgery at UCSD. Dr. R came highly recommended from people at Kaiser, along with another independent surgeon I had met with the month before.
Dr. R specializes in robotic surgery and has a tremendous amount of research/literature that is documented in the field of colorectal cancer. It’s pretty obvious that she’s a brilliant individual, I was excited to meet her and gain her perspective. Our first meeting was standard and I felt confident leaving the visit. Basically, the plan was to redo the same surgery from February of 2018. As I was only 3 weeks out from completing radiation/chemotherapy, we were to wait until February to perform the operation.
Once again, leading up to the surgery, everything checked out. My scans and blood work were great; the doctors even conducted another colonoscopy/biopsy of the tumor for planning purposes. It was promising news, the tissue sample showed that the tumor had shrunk tremendously and even changed in it’s cellular composition. All good news leading into surgery.
My surgery was scheduled for February 5th, 2019. Leading up to it, I went back to teach for several weeks, skated for my men’s league team in 2 games, and got to spend some time with some good friends. Unfortunately, I was to miss the annual pond hockey tourney for the second year in a row- the boys showed up though! As February rolled around, my parents made plans to fly in for the surgery. At this point, we knew the routine all too well- I’d pick them up from the airport the day before and we’d all head to the hospital as I was scheduled to go under the knife at 7 AM.
The surgery was being held at UCSD. We arrived super early in the morning and were already up 1-0 on the day as my car hadn’t been stolen! We cruised to the hospital with almost no discussion, listening to tunes along the way. There was a strange sensation of calm that had taken over the car ride. Between me, my mom, and dad, I felt we were all prepared going into the surgery; perhaps too complacent, as we were yet again dumped on by the horrible disease of cancer.
After saying bye to mom and dad, I was wheeled down the long corridors of UCSD to the operating room. It was similar to Kaiser’s- large with bright blinding lights and a chill in the air that you can feel snapping at your bones. I began chatting with the anesthesiologist as they started with the cocktails to put me to sleep, and per usual, it seemed to be a long countdown until the drugs took effect. As I lay there, I took deep breaths, focusing on the inhale and exhale of the air, and as my mind began to wander as whether or not the drugs would work- they kicked. Back into nothing. I was mandated to the world of dark where nothing exists. How long I’d be there, I had no idea.
Dr. R began her procedure. About an hour in is when things went sideways. She had found the tumor, but upon further exploration, she found that the cancer had metastasized throughout the pelvic region. She began scraping suspect tissue to biopsy off my bladder, prostate, and tailbone. The lab ran the tests on the spot and confirmed that it was cancer. From there, Dr. R left the operating room to talk with my parents. I’ll never fully understand how that conversation went, but I can imagine it being destructive. She explained to them that the disease had spread and options were limited. The cancer had reached part of the tailbone, anytime the disease infects bone, it’s bad news. She continued to explain that they wouldn’t be able to cure my cancer and she felt the best option was to remove as much as possible and go back to the drawing board. I give my folks credit, they kept it together and gave Dr. R the green light to do what was needed; she went back into the OR to finish the job and ended up scraping/removing as much of the disease as she could from all of the impacted areas.
What do you say to news like that? I awoke from my surgery in a daze, and learned the news from my folks. I basically just shook my head, understood what was going on, and opted to go into rest/recovery mode. With sleep and rest- I didn’t have to deal with the news of stage IV cancer. My parents were keeping it together, remaining optimistic and still smiling. In that moment, there was no use in worrying about next steps, I had to get stronger and get the hell out of the hospital. There would be time to develop a new plan to manage the disease.
It took me weeks, even months to fully understand the magnitude of the situation. “We won’t be able to cure his cancer”, the words from Dr. R echoed through my head. I’m not sure if I was in a state of denial, or more so just kinda spinning the wheels and not going anywhere. I had discussions with my family about the prognosis, but we held the same mentality that at the time, the important thing was to get healthier and stronger. Dr. R bought me time by removing as much cancer as possible, soon we’d go back to Dr. L (UCSD oncologist) and attack the disease with more chemotherapy.
Remember that I received this prognosis over 18 months ago at the time of composing this post. I’ve had ample time to reflect, dig deep, and do some soul searching; I like to think I’ve learned more about myself and what I stand for over the past 18 months than perhaps my previous 30+ years on this planet. Hear me out- I’m not saying I know it all, if anything, one thing I’ve learned is how I don’t know much at all about anything in this life. I know that nothing is guaranteed, and although we get into a “normal routine”, destruction and chaos waits just around the corner. I’ve learned that we have virtually no control over anything, except our attitude and how we perceive a given situation. With this terminal diagnosis, I’ve experienced and felt the emotional highs and lows; and I’m at a point in which I’ve accepted and understand that this is my path and I have to walk it. I believe that as I travel this path, regardless of the outcome, everything will be OK in the end, and come back together, as it always does. What I’m most grateful for is knowing that I’ve got a strong, courageous family and you people to travel that path with me.
In a bizarre way, the prognosis was liberating. I finally knew where I stood with this disease, and although it wasn’t even close to the outcome I wanted, it certainly forced me to reevaluate this fragile life. I’m currently living the ultimate paradox; I’ve been through the grinder physically and emotionally, my body continues to rot from the inside out, yet I couldn’t be more content. This prognosis is a constant reminder that none of this is a given and to enjoy every day. Truly, every day is a gift, and when it comes down to it, all we have is our health, family, and friends. Revel in the little things, count your blessings, and float on. Be kind to others, learn to laugh at yourself, and don’t take this life too seriously. Remember that at the end of the day, we’re a wild species suspended on a giant rock while hurtling through the vastness of space at tens of thousands of miles per hour. We are simply a tiny pebble in this massive, ever expanding Universe. Let the idea of eternal optimism light the way when times are dark. Have fun every moment, laugh by yourself and with your people, hug your loved ones daily, live it up, and keep on smilin’. It comes down to that simple choice, “Get busy livin’, or get busy dyin’” (thanks, Shawshank Redemption!). I don’t plan on kicking the bucket anytime soon, so that only leaves one option. Believe in the good, be the good, and let the The Universe unfold as it should.
I had spent the next 5 days in the hospital getting stronger. While at UCSD, the surgery recuperation wasn’t as intensive as 2018. Sure, it was exhausting and I was in hella pain, but with the drugs and care at UCSD, I was able to get back on my feet in a pretty quick amount of time. It was the next few weeks, out of the hospital, that were really rough; the pain management got out of control and I was responsible for managing a surgical drain- a gnarly line that was placed in my lower abdomen to collect blood that was culminating in the surgical sites. The drain was obnoxious, afflicting and tormenting my body with an eerie, ongoing struggle.
The next few weeks and months were tough. I had that stupid drain for 4 weeks, my ass was killin’ me (literally and figuratively), bouts of pain were unpredictable and damaging. Insomnia was dominant, stealing any minute of sleep I so desperately needed. Even though I was being pumped full of opiates, they just didn’t seem to be effective. Thankfully, my roommate Hasban is an expert blunt roller; he’d roll me up daily blunts. I’d typically wake n’ bake, combining the opiates with the cannabis. The cannabis was the difference maker; easily taking the mental edge off and physically directing my body to a place of comfort and relaxation (I’ll save it for another post, but cannabis truly holds magical abilities in regards to pain management). The mental part of the recovery was extremely difficult. My body just didn’t seem to be getting better and all the days blended into one. At one point, the pain/insomnia combo was so intense, I was awake for 4 straight days (even had some wild hallucinations on day three). I was a mess but doing everything I could to keep truckin’. As time slowly crawled on, my body slowly began to heal.
I had some great visitors come out during that 8 week stretch. My mom, little sister Kelly, and baby niece Leila made a visit. This was probably my favorite- we were all so excited to be with Leila and even more excited to see how Dora would react to a little babe! Historically, Dora was always extremely fascinated by kids/little ones. In her younger years, she loved to play with kids and would usually end up getting too rowdy and taking one of them down. In 2019, Dora had slowed down quite a bit and was in her senior years- would she get revved up with the baby around?
Upon arrival, Dora was introduced to Leila and immediately went into “proud momma mode”. She didn’t leave Leila’s side the whole weekend! She was always gentle, simply smelling Leila and giving her a few kisses. Wherever Leila went, Dora seemed to follow. I was a proud dog father and loving the time spent with my mom, sister, niece, and dog. Despite the physical struggles from surgery, it was a memorable weekend filled with lots of smiles and some good laughs.
Although I was still banged up from surgery, more chemotherapy was just around the corner. After some recovery time, I met with Dr. L (Oncologist at UCSD) to discuss options moving forward. Naturally, he wasn’t pleased with the prognosis, but figured we could be aggressive and attack the disease with treatments. The plan was to allow the body to heal from surgery and start a new regime of chemotherapy in April. At this point, I continued going through the motions and began to reflect on my scenario. With time, I’d develop my own plan as to how I would attack this disease (physically and emotionally) and survive. As this plan unfolded, I simply tried to get healthier (taking walks around the block, eating the right food, smoking large quantities of cannabis, etc.) and prepare for more chemo. Most importantly, I took the time to count my blessings and keep smilin’.
