Scanxiety

It's time.

It's time to head back to Texas.

The anxiety (or "scanxiety" to most cancer patients) has been creeping up. We've pushed it aside time and time again, but it's persistent, the little bugger. It just won't give up. And as we get closer to the appointments, it adds pressure and frequency. We feel it.

The PET/CT scan is scheduled for Monday followed by the Endoscopic Ultrasound on Tuesday. We don't meet with the doctor, so presumably won't get any results, until Wednesday. Just hoping for three little letters . . . N.E.D. (No Evidence of Disease.)

I never thought we'd love three little letters so much.

Happy Belated Birthday!

Happy Birthday

to you!

Happy Birthday

to you!

Happy Birthday

dear Peanut!

Happy Birthday

to you!

E1

Cancer has reared it's ugly head again. Not for E. though (or at least not that we know of), but rather for E.'s dad . . . E1. While on our way home from Disneyland, we received the call that E1 was diagnosed with prostate cancer.

Some quick googling and we discovered that if you've got to have cancer, prostate cancer is probably the one to have. Matter of fact, we read that the majority of men (like 90%) that die after age 70 have prostate cancer. That's not to say that they die of prostate cancer, but rather they die *with* prostate cancer.

We had little information to go on, but E1 indicated radiation treatment was in his near future. We quickly concluded that E1 would need to stay with us to obtain his radiation treatments in the big city and so, after a little bit of rearranging, E1 now has a bedroom at our house.

E. ran and picked up his dad from Podunk, Nevada for a doctor's appointment in Reno to presumably start the process. We were able to review his biopsy results and this is what we learned:

* You may recall from E.'s diagnosis, cancer staging is based on T, N and M scores. (T for the Tumor, N for the lymph Nodes and M for the Metastasis.) E1's T score is a T1. That is great news. But, he hasn't yet had any further testing to determine his N or M scores.

* E1's PSA level was 5.5. Again, great news.

* E1's Gleason score was 7. Scores under 6 are the best. Scores of 7 and above are considered aggressive cancers, but can go above 20. While E1's score of 7 indicates it has the potential to be an aggressive cancer, it is on the very low end of that.

Right now, based on this information we have, E1 is diagnosed with Stage I Prostate Cancer.

Had E1's biopsy results only tested positive in one area, he would have been eligible for surgery. But because he has three positive biopsies in different areas, surgery is not considered the best option.

The course of treatment recommended is radiation. Three copper flakes will be surgically inserted into the cancerous areas of the prostate, which will essentially be used as "targets" for the radiation (as we understand it). (One common treatment for prostate cancer consists of seed radiation . . . seeds are inserted in the prostate that emit radiation over a period of time. For whatever reason, this type of treatment has not been recommended for E1. We're actually a bit grateful for that, as patients undergoing seed radiation have to stay away from children.)

We got E1 settled into his new room and were ready for an onslaught of doctors' appointments followed up presumably by the start of radiation. Ummm, ya.

E1 is scheduled to have the copper targets inserted on April 8th.

He is then scheduled for a CT scan (and a simulation for the radiation) on April 15th. (This is also hopefully when we will get the N and M scores.)

And then, radiation can be scheduled to begin.

For NINE weeks. Radiation every day Monday through Friday, for nine weeks. Each radiation session supposedly takes a grand total of six minutes of actual radiation.

So, E1 is home again and will return in about a month. And then, like his son, he's going to kick some cancer butt.

S.

A Fantabulous Time!

Disneyland was wonderful!

We rode all the rides.

We saw all the shows.

We did it all!

And had a blast!

Disneyland or Bust

It's almost here! We leave on Friday for Disneyland!

The kids all got Park Hopper Passes for Christmas . . . we get to celebrate a year since E.'s cancer diagnosis . . . and Peanut will soon be having his FIRST birthday (can you believe that???).

The countdown has been going on for weeks. The boys have never been, and they are besides themselves with excitement. It's been awhile since I've been too . . . 17 years to be exact. E. is the ole pro and will undoubtedly be our tour guide.

Unfortunately, E.'s oldest daughter and my oldest son won't be able to join us on this trip. That leaves E., me, and 8 kids. Think we ought to warn Mickey Mouse? :)

S.

See for yourself

I told you E.'s lookin' good.

See those eyebrows?

And eyelashes?

And handsome goatee?

See that color?

And the meat on his bones?

And that adorable kid in his arms?

Speaking of that adorable kid...

See his two bottom toofers?

He's got four on the top too!

One Year Ago

It was one year ago today that we first heard the "C" word.

I remember the moment clearly. I remember sitting on that couch in that little room, with one hand on E.'s knee and the other hand rubbing my pregnant belly. I remember the second hand of the clock on the wall ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. I remember the look on the nurse's face. What was that look? Sympathy? Pity? Sadness? Uncomfortableness? I remember the doctor coming in and sitting on the chair across from us. I remember the nurse standing in the corner, holding a chart. I remember the doctor explaining what he saw, using words like mass and tumor. I remember my mind swimming, trying to comprehend what he was saying. I remember not hearing the word "cancer," thinking that if it wasn't said, it couldn't be. I remember not being able to take it any longer and finally asking if it was cancer they were talking about. There I said it, I used the word. I remember once the doctor said "definitely," that things went a little hazy. I remember hearing bit and pieces of what he said from there, but how most of his words jumbled together much like the adults on Charlie Brown cartoons. I remember how certain words were clear though . . . words like cancer, mass, cancer, tumor, cancer, surgery, cancer, serious, cancer. I remember feeling a pit in my stomach. I remember the lump in my throat growing and growing until I felt like I couldn't talk anymore. I remember the tears filling in my eyes and my vision getting blurrier and blurrier, until those tears spilled down my cheeks. I remember looking at E. with a look of horror and dread. I remember how silent and stoic E. was. I remember how E. was still feeling the effects of the sedation and kept asking me "It's not good, is it?" I remember trying to rub that pit out of my stomach and swallow that lump in my throat away. I remember gripping the steering wheel tight and trying to blink away the tears. I remember that every time I looked at E., that pit, that lump and those tears would all come right back.

It was one year ago today that I had to call E.'s work and explain that he wouldn't be returning to work for awhile.

I remember going in the hallway at the lab, so E. wouldn't see me cry. I remember trying to be professional and factual. I remember my voice cracking and squeaking. I remember feeling like I needed to be strong, for E. and for me. I remember hanging up the phone and sobbing, just sobbing.

It was one year ago today that we began this cancer journey.

I remember wiping away the tears and preparing for the battle. I remember researching and researching esophageal cancer on the internet until the wee hours of the morning. I remember becoming more and more upset with each dismal statistic I read. I remember realizing that Google is not always your friend. I remember deciding to no longer dwell on the negative but rather, focus on the positive. I remember creating our binder to keep track of everything that was happening (we're now on volume 5 or 6 I think). I remember titling the cover, "EWH vs. EC." I remember thinking it was a war, and E. was going to win.

Here we are, one year later.

E. is doing well. He is eating and gaining weight, although he is worried about gaining too much fat and not enough muscle. His eyelashes and eyebrows are growing back. He's even sporting a handsome goatee. His coloring is good, his energy level is improving and he is as ornery as ever. The one residual side effect that is very bothersome for him is the neuropathy/numbness in his hands and feet. His hands and feet typically feel like they are asleep. He is constantly rubbing or moving his hands in an effort to try to generate some feeling. They also get random cramps. Because he can't feel, he often doesn't realize how hard or soft he is gripping something. This results in frequently dropped objects. If he's on his feet a lot or walking for a bit, the bottoms of his feet get tingling and numb, yet he can feel every pebble and rock. It is a rather bizarre phenomenon . . . numb, yet super-sensitive at the same time. We are told that this side effect is not uncommon and can take up to 18 months to resolve, but for some people, it never completely goes away.

E. is looking towards the future. He is collecting information as to his work situation . . . medical retirement . . . retiring early with a penalty . . . buying some years to have a full retirement . . . returning to work full-time . . . returning to work part-time. There are so many variables and options to consider. I anticipate that decision coming shortly. And, of course, we have the follow-up appointments at MD Anderson in Houston at the end of March. We are hoping and praying for continued good news.

It's been pretty quiet around here, which isn't necessarily a bad thing . . . but we'd love to hear from you all.

S.