Saturday, 2/26 -- This might ruin your day. It ruined quite a few of mine.

It has been a few days since I’ve been able to access a computer.

On Tuesday’s appointment we went over a large amount of reality. We talked in great detail about that 600 pound gorilla. The chickens have come home to roost. Let’s see… A big chunk of ice has been broken. We’re through the looking glass.

Hold onto your hats, we will wind up miles from here.

I was hospitalized to expedite the insertion of the feeding tube. I have been aspirating my food and drink so much that I could very easily develop pneumonia. That would do me in quickly.

So now I have a tube sticking out of my stomach. I can no longer take anything, ANYTHING by mouth. I even have to spit out my own salvia. Anything I swallow could go into my lungs.

How did this happen? Why is this happening?

After several tests and group consultations from the experts they believe they know what’s going on.

Things have changed.

The cancer has spread. It has finally reached the last place that my kind of cancer likes to spread. It is attacking my head and the delicious goo inside.

What this is affecting:
No more eating, drinking or swallowing spit.
My voice is now just a whisper. If you call the house, I can’t talk. Sorry.
My visual distortions that I blamed on the drugs… It’s the cancer.
Numbness in my lip, hands and feet… cancer working on the nerves.
It is also the main contributing factor in my ever mounting weakness.

All the troubles I’ve been having these past few weeks is not a cold, it is not a side effect, nor is it anything to take lightly.

I did not start the next round of chemo like we had planned. The professional medical opinion is that any further treatment would do much more harm than good. The cancer has developed resistance and is now starting to take over.

There is nothing more they can do for me without hurting me.

We talked about this before, and now it become a reality. I am now enrolled in the DCHM Hospice and Palliative care program. They sent me home from the hospital in an ambulance, two EMTs carried me into my living room. There is a hospital bed in the living room. I have one of those rolling bed trays. I have a suction machine for spit and mucus, and I have an oxygen tank if I need it.

I have a whole new directive for drugs. Pain killers. Morphine, Perkaset, and Atovan. No more chemo poison.

I’ll have a visiting hospice nurse coming 3 times a week. No more trips to the hospital or the doctor’s office. I’m now too physically weak for that. No more scans or crazy tests. They’ll be making sure that I’m comfortable while I ride into the sunset.

Yes. I am dying. I may have a few weeks, or I may have a few months. Hell, I may have a few days. No one can say because this Sertoli cancer is so much of an enigma. There is too little info out there. Back in July when all this chemo started, the medical opinion was that if it didn’t respond to the first round of cisplatin chemo I would have been dead within 2 weeks. That’s how aggressively Sertoli can spread and do its damage.

We’ve all know that despite all our best efforts that this was a likely outcome. Our positive attitude and fierce determination may not be enough to fight this form of cancer. Maybe it was the only thing keeping me alive this long? Who knows?

As always, we’re trying to stay positive. But grim reality has overshadowed my little monkey show.

That’s all I’m going to write for now. I know that it’s already too much for some of you to absorb. Know it is for me.

The best way to reach me is via e-mail, AIM, or stopping by. If you want to stop by, just give Lyn a call to make sure things are ok.

And yes, Lyn is completely devastated. She’s been bracing herself for this for a while, but when became a reality it was still like a mule kick in the stomach.
She continues to take care of me. She is the inspirational, heroic, brave character in this plot. I'm more of a passenger in her pocket. I love her.

Bye for now.

Monday, 2/21 -- More fun.

Today was the swallowing test with the speech pathologist. They wanted to make sure that I wasn't aspirating on my food and spit.

Guess what? I am.

Long story short (because I'm tired)
They are suggesting a feeding tube (PEG Tube) be surgically inserted into my stomach because my throat muscles are now too weak to guard against aspiration.

They say it would be a temporary thing. Just until my strength returned. As soon as my throat muscles get strong enough to handle swallowing AND breathing, they'd take out the PEG feeding tube. Until then, food would be something injected directly into my gut through the abdomen. I would not be eating or drinking anything by mouth.

If I get food and spit into my lungs, I could very easily develop pneumonia. That would be really bad in my present physical condition.

No final decisions have been made. We'll talk it all over with the oncologists tomorrow.

We'll see.

I'm off to the couch.
By the way, I'm having a very hard time speaking because of this condition. My throat is all kinds of messed up.

Saturday and Sunday, Feb 19 20 -- Slow leak.

It's distressing to feel yourself shrink. To watch your life slowly dwindle into a routine that's almost insignificant. The simplest tasks become almost insurmountable goals, and making it through the day is an accomplishment.

That's how weak I've become. This constant cough is draining me further still. Chemo brain, although now I'll call it steroid brain, takes me further away from myself.

This is what it must be like to fade away into the oblivion.
Slow.
Sinister.
Demeaning.
Like a week-old balloon, reaching for the floor. Puckering under its own weight.

To maintain my strength as much as I can, I do continue to eat well. I rest as much as possible. I practice breathing exercises (besides coughing). I try to move around the house when I have the energy. Small jobs. Brush my teeth. Take a shower when I can.

It's all become so hard.

I remember walking for miles downtown during lunch.
I remember carrying 50 pounds of vintage barware to flea markets.
I remember swing dancing.
I remember completely rebuilding my kitchen.
I remember gardening, digging the soil and bringing things to life.
I remember cooking a large meal for my friends.
I remember being able to do a load of laundry, clean some dishes, feed the cat.
I remember too much.

I keep telling myself that this will all pass. I haven't fought this long and hard to lose.
But I have to tell ya, I'm getting scared.