What Better Way to Get Back Online...

...than with a post about cycling!

Midweek Cycling Club traditionally holds

a New Year's Eve Cyclocross race.

Since the emphasis is on fun in this race,

and I haven't recovered much of my fitness,

I thought it would be fun to race with

my son Owen.

We had a great cheering section:

Owen was delighted that he didn't come in last.

(He just nipped me at the line for second last place)

And I am happy to report that both son and dad are doing well!

Holiday Hiatus

I mentioned many posts ago that I'm not a deep thinker, and I'm feeling right now like I've used up almost all of my deep thoughts. So to give myself a chance to recharge I am going to stop posting until the New Year.

If you're lucky enough (like me) to be spending time with family over the next few weeks, give 'em the attention they deserve.

And for Christmas movies, you really can't beat "The Blues Brothers."

Can't Decide

The flu side-track continues.

Last night I woke with such a chill that I was sure the neighbours were going to complain about the sound of my teeth chattering. I grabbed the warmest clothes I could, which ridiculously, were my winter riding tights and jersey. I plugged in the heating pad, grabbed a duvet, and tried to get warm. It took almost 15 minutes to stop shivering. I got hypothermic this past spring after an ill-advised bike race in the rain, and this was almost as bad.

Then two hours later I was sweating like a pig. Between the blankets, pyjamas, bike clothes and sheets, I filled the washing machine in my sleep.

At least I was able to do the laundry by myself.

Chemo Preview

I can't find the sarcasm font in this blog software, but I sure am glad I got a flu shot this year.

Man, I haven't been knocked out this hard in years. But I suppose it's a nice little prequel to how I may feel when my chemo starts really building up this Spring. Maybe I'll get lucky and be one of those folks who barely feel it, but I kind of doubt it.

Oh well, better to be sick now than in two weeks.

Well, That Was A First

I've never left a party because I was cold. Not just cold, but serious, Amundsen Station cold. I've never been so happy to get into an overly-heated and pungent taxi cab. Turns out I was coming down with the flu. But unless you're my French boss who kissed me, there's no need to worry!

Anyway, before Christi and I skated out of the Carlu we both had a really great time. Big glasses of wine, good food, and, as usual, a great reel. (Check out the 2010 edition here: 2010 Party Reel (It gets funnier after the pleasantries))

Although I've had lots of visitors, cards and emails, it was really nice to see so many of my friends in one place. Recurring theme alert: though it's nice enjoying everyone's kindness and concern by default, it's much nicer when time runs on and the topic drifts to something more, or less interesting, than cancer.

Upping the Exercise Quotient

In anticipation of the six week anniversary of my operation on December 19 (when I am allowed to start moving in more dangerous ways) I decided to stretch my legs out walking around at the Toronto Zoo. Besides CJ and the kids I was also joined by my brother-in-law Robby, his son Taiga, and my dad.

There was a pretty chilly wind, but we had most of the animals to ourselves.

Slow News Day

As expected there were no major learnings in my follow-up visit with my surgeon today. Since I'd had my pathology broken down by my doctor last week there was little else to say. My surgeon thought I looked good (in a doctor-to-patient way) and confirmed that I was good to resume activities at six weeks post-o. That's something to look forward to, even if it means almost ending a sentence in a preposition.

All Things Being Equal, I Wouldn't Recommend Getting Cancer.

But there is certainly an upside; since I was diagnosed six or so weeks ago, I have been fortunate enough to receive:

• Essential oils
• An iPad
• Flowers
• Snow removal
• Raking
• Lunches
• Dinners
• Desserts
• Coffee
• Books
• Magazines
• Gift certificates
• Clothes
• And an indoor trainer

Then yesterday in the mail came a new touque and scarf from the good folks at Steam Whistle.

And people wonder why I love that beer so much.

Sickos

Today I convaleced with my boy Owen, who suffered through most of Sunday with a fever.

Neither of us were well enough to go to school, but we were both well enough to laugh our heads off watching Phineas and Ferb.

Stomach Full of Anger

With apologies to Andy Schleck, I have a stomach full of anger.

In the first couple of weeks after my operation I was pretty astonished at how quickly I was recovering, even if it may have been a normal rate.

But since then I've more or less plateaued.

My stomach starts to hurt after eating a small amount of food.  I have different areas that ache each day. I think these are both caused by my muscle wall healing up and my remaining organs dealing with the extra room.

These things have also caused a problem that only exists because of pure vanity: my abdomen has settled into a new look that can best be described as "misshapen." There's a long horizontal indent running just above my belly button that makes the areas above and below look like fatty rolls. It impacts my ability to enjoy my post cancer weight drop!

Hopefully there will be a new, higher plateau in the near future.

Winterizing

Today I installed these:

My brother Chris did all the lifting while we set up this:

And I bought (along with skis and poles) these:

I like to refer to this last one as "economic optimism."

This Is How Things Work

In reverse:

One of my most enjoyable post-diagnosis moments occurred last night as Owen and I watched from the couch as Frances and CJ had a dance-off to "Little Red Corvette."

Christi asked me to buy his Greatest Hits since all my Prince records were curbed long ago and the CDs are boxed up in the basement.

Christi saw Prince in concert last Saturday.

I urged Christi to go to the concert for a well-deserved night off from running the house and keeping me healthy.

Christi's friend Susan asked her to go to see Prince in concert.

2B or not 2B

Yesterday I received my pathology report, and for what it's worth, my cancer has been staged as "2B." I say "for what it's worth" because my Oncologist may stage it differently based on the blood work and CT scan I will have before beginning my chemo. And also because it's just a number (with a trailing letter.) I think we all know or have heard of people who have died from lesser cancers and survived greater cancers.

In all, my surgeon removed twenty-five lymph nodes from around my pancreas. Nine of them came back cancerous. Twenty-five would have been worse - one would have been great. Not unexpected news.

As for the tumour itself, the margins surrounding it came back cancer-free, which is nice. Also not unexpected news.

The tumour had grown quite quickly. I am willing to believe this since I felt pretty fit all spring and summer, when it was likely just a cute little baby tumour.

I can't recall the big word used to describe my tumour, but I do think that it meant the cells were poorly differentiated, which limits the variety of chemotherapies available to me.

What none of the above changes is the severity of chemo I will undergo. What made me an unlikely candidate for this disease continues to work in my favour when it comes to beating it. My young age, physical fitness and (cookies and ice cream aside) healthy lifestyle mean I am able to absorb the most effective/brutal treatment they can throw at me.

Six months (or more) of discomfort and misery is a pretty cheap lottery ticket if the prize is a few more decades of life.

Cyclocross Revisited

Today was the last CX race of the season, and I couldn't resist the pull. So I borrowed my Mom's car (thanks Mom!) and drove up to Albion Hills in style. I'm not a car guy, but her 2011 Mini Countryman squashes our 2007 Toyota RAV4 like a grape.

With my 3D camera (which I won (this year hasn't been all bad)) in hand, I wandered around the course shooting footage of Ed and James. Sadly for James, he flatted on the first lap. Ed rode a pretty solid race, but since his last big ride was the 3000m gain up the 57km of Mt. Haleakala, he wasn't feeling too punchy.

More than a few people approached me to see how I was doing. Although I am a bit sick of talking about my cancer, I didn't mind it today. I felt genuine belief from everyone I talked to that I'd be back on the bike and covered in mud next year. As far as vibes go, belief is better than hope.

The best part (I think) was that I was happy just to watch, cheer and heckle. Even I am smart enough to know that I would have suffered miserably if I were out there - that knowledge suppressed any desire to be on my bike.

But there's still the New Year's Eve race.

First Backwards Step

The confidence I've been building from my steady improvement has been blunted somewhat. For the past few days I've had pain in my abdomen that can best be described as a dozen little knives stabbing me just below my ribcage.  Before my operation I was told that about 20% of distal panceatectomies leak through the stitches. Basically, the digestive enzymes created by the pancreas make their way into the body cavity. I understand this is usually accompanied by a fever, so the fact that I feel otherwise healthy is a good sign.

Maybe I'm just overeating.

It's Been At Least A Week Since I Mentioned Cycling

So I will do so in two ways.

While I am amazed at how well I feel, it's a fact that I don't feel 100% healthy. I get tired pretty quickly, my stomach gets upset easily, and I feel as if Nolan Ryan drilled me in the Xiphoid Process with his fastball. So I don't think I'll be hopping on the bike any time soon. All the better that my teammates not only had me over for a surprise dinner last night, but they also chipped in the get me an indoor trainer.

Riding indoors is going to suck, but at least it won't cost anything! If all goes well, this baby will be for sale before next winter. Feel free to inquire.

The second bike thing is far more important.

On the day of my operation there was a terrible accident that claimed the life of a wonderful woman in our neighbourhood. I myself did not know her, but as a yoga instructor she volunteered her time to teach in my daughter's kindergarten class - her son was Frances' classmate. She was pregnant with her second child when she was killed riding her bike at Dundas and Sterling Avenue. And if that's not tragic enough, her husband is a cancer survivor.

So if you're wondering what to do with some holiday money, please consider a donation to her surviving family. You can do so by checking this page: https://www.facebook.com/groups/192944870785646/

Or through PayPal at https://www.paypal.com to the email in_loving_memory_of_jenna@hotmail.com

Operation Detail Dump pt. IV: Not A Trilogy

Here's something I learned while I was in the hospital: a sponge bath really isn't enough of a bath for me. I was glad to have Christi try (and really, no offense to my nurses, but none of them were "sexy fantasy nurses") to sponge me clean, but the highlight of my stay was definitely the day I was well enough to have a shower. Looking back, I don't know if I was motivated by health or my own bad odour.

Now you might think that six days in a hospital mostly spent lying down would be excruciatingly boring, but it wasn't. Being tired and being uncomfortable kept me busy enough, but having lots and lots of visitors was the real panacea. I had lots of visitors but not a whole lot of interaction; mostly I enjoyed hanging out with my eyes closed listening to people talk.

My roommates had lots of visitors as well. At times it became a bit of a shouting contest, but even when you whisper in a semi-private room there are no private conversations. Knowing so much about people I couldn't see through a curtain made me feel like I was on "The Dating Game."

But all the racket never bothered me. I guess it was the realization that there's a direct relationship between the decible level of one's visitors and the number of people who care. So it just felt like room 413 was full of patients with friends and families who cared.

Operation Detail Dump pt. III

All in all the time I spent in my hospital room was pretty positive. If I graded the experience as an employee evaluation, I would say it "exceeded expectations."

The doctors and nurses at TGH were generally great. They were positive and helpful, if a little laissez faire; I now know that with all the patients they are juggling at any given moment, one can help oneself a lot with self care. Things like how often I should walk, how much I should drink and pain management will all go better if (and I hope there isn't) a next time.

For the first few days I had no compulsion at all to get out of bed. Light squirming to avoid bed sores, ankle turns and leg lifts to avoid clots and breathing exercises to open my lungs were about all I could handle, both physically and mentally. The breathing exercises were especially hard. All I was required to do was six deep inhalations through my nose followed by sharp exhalations through my mouth, then a few coughs. The problem was that the desired result, loosening of phlegm, was pretty uncomfortable. And it bugged the heck out of my mom that the sign on the wall imploring me to breathe was hung off-kilter.

What was not difficult was the food. Although the hospital was kind enough to bring me breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I never ate a speck of it. Christi brought me homemade smoothies and soups and my mom found an excellent and healthy sandwich joint a few blocks from the hospital. Of course, even that food went largely to waste. I had a nibble here and there out of a primeval sense of self-preservation, but I felt not a pang of hunger during my entire stay.

On only the second day it was time for me to get out of bed. Thank goodness these sorts of things are done in baby steps. Here I am enjoying my first extra-bedular activity:

(dig the off-kilter breathing sign and the sexy white stockings)

If I look bad in this photo then the photo isn't doing a good job. I felt like death warmed over. I was sweaty, nauseous, tired, and hyper aware of my IV, catheter and epidural lines. After less than ten minutes I was helped back to the horizontal position whereupon I fell fast asleep.

But it was not for nothing. The next day I took my three tubes for an assisted walk into the hallway. If I had to guess I would say that I walked thirty yards before crawling back to my bed for another sleep. But it was easier than sitting up the day before.

And the day after that I walked further. And the day after that further again. As I gradually shed one tube after another, I was starting to feel like Dustin Hoffman in "Marathon Man." You can't stop me now!

Well, if I don't wrap this post up I will have written myself out of the hospital without divulging all sorts of fun stuff. So I'll sign off now, only two weeks after my surgery on a day when I walked 2km for a coffee, drove myself to an acupuncture appointment and surprise visited my friends at work.

Until someone tells me different, I feel great.

Operation Detail Dump pt. II

After the operation I awoke in the Step Down room. Christi and mom seemed to be there every time my eyes cracked open. And it's a good thing, because I had two immediate needs: a bad case of cotton mouth and the itchiest face in the world™.

The woman attending me was dressed like a nurse but didn't seem to know how to nurse. Every time I needed something she asked another nurse to either assist her or do it outright. Christi asked for some Benadryl to be put in my IV. This is something she is more than capable of doing herself and it's too bad she didn't, since the dose given me seemed to have no effect. It turned out I had only been given half the recommended amount. When you have oxygen tubes below your nose and an NG (acronym! (nasal gastrointestinal)) tube in your nostril, it's really hard to do a good job scratching your face.

As for my dry mouth, I was only allowed to suck on the occasional wet toothpick sponge. The nurse gave me one when I asked, but then left a pile of individually wrapped sponges next to a cup of ice. Even in my doped-up state I was wise enough to know that unwrapping a sponge and soaking it was beyond my capabilities. If I hadn't asked for her to prep some I feel like there would have been sponges and ice cubes on the floor in no time.

I spent about 18 hours in the Step Down room floating in and out of consciousness, doing battle with my itchy face, before they needed to clear me out for some more pressing patients. A super-capable nurse took over and transferred me into my semi-private room. Along the way she assured us that my first nurse was in fact a real nurse. Huh.

Things were looking up; I got a room with a view.

Operation Detail Dump pt. I

I thought I should write down my remembrances of my hospital experience before they are consigned to the dust bin of my aging brain.

On the morning of Monday, November 7th, I woke up before my alarm, which was set for 5:15 AM. The first thing I did was look out the front window, and sure enough my dad was already there. A quick shower and a long brushing of the teeth later, Christi and I were ready to go. Traffic is pretty light at 5:30 as you might expect, so we got to Toronto General in no time.

Finding the surgery admitting room was no problem. A shockingly cheery man with an Eastern European accent asked us to sit down in the steadily filling room. A very short time later we were sent into another waiting room. Sitting around, both Christi and I noticed that the photographs hanging on the walls were all quite nice. If I had to guess I would say that a few well-traveled surgeons with nice cameras had supplied them.

Being foolishly self-conscious I thought I would try to have a bowel movement - it was a regular part of my morning that my body was too shocked to consider - but no luck. I didn't like the idea of something happening on the O.R. table even though I'm sure there's a very medical way to deal with it. These are the things you think of when you're trying to avoid visualizing your major organs being shuffled.

Next a man asked me to come to a change room where I exchanged my clothes for a hospital gown. I had worn my "Unlucky" shirt at my mom's suggestion. Now no one would get the joke!

The change was followed by a thorough belly-shaving. As a hairy guy I had no problem with this.

The third room of the day was the large but-as-yet-not-full pre-op room. Now things were starting to look more hospital-like; bright lights, white floors, lots of med students and lots of machines. Here a nurse brought me a fresh-from-the-dryer blanket. I wasn't cold but it sure made me comfy and secure. While a R.T. (acronym! (Respiratory Therapist)) started my arterial IV, the nurse measured me up for anti-clotting stockings. In a very ego-fuelling way it was nice that she considered me a medium but "perhaps we'll need a large since your legs are so muscular." That's from bike racing lady!!! I don't know what size she decided upon in the end, but as she was rolling them on she kept urging the two male doctors to check them out. They demurred. By this time the RT had given up on my IV. My wrist was poked full of holes but the artery hadn't been found. She apologized profusely but I was okay. That freezing works like a dream.

Just as the room was starting to fill up and really buzz I was rolled into my operating room. I sat up to receive my epidural. While this was going on one of my surgeon's staff (who was not operating on me) dropped by to say hi. She's the sister-in-law of one of Christi's friends, so there's not a strong connection there. I thought it was nice of her to do so. Laying on my back again, the anesthesiologist put a mask over my face and asked me to count to ten. I don't think I made it to two...

Staples

If you do not want to see my incision, do not click on the links below.

Do Not Click Here

And Definitely Don't Click Here.

I Finally Broke The Log Jam

I had barely been eating enough food to keep up with a girl's gymnastics team until last night, when I had a break through.

My mom's poppyseed cake.

This is a cake that goes way back to the days when the Irish began inhabiting the shores of the Mississippi river dividing Wisconsin and Minnesota - which is to say that my mom's mom made it for her family.

At any rate, today I ate all my porridge for breakfast, had a good chunk of Kirsten's lasagna for lunch, and a medium-sized piece of Trevor and Adrienne's chicken pot pie for dinner.

And one last piece of cake for dessert.

Cancer Walk

Today the two cancer-sufferers got out for a walk.

It was slow but we were both happy with the pace.

Home-in-again

If you are not from Toronto you will have to believe me when I say that today was an absolutely wonderful day to go home.  My step father John picked up Christi and me in his nice, tall truck.  Normally I hate SUVs but today it was kind of nice.

Some observations: our bed at home is more comfortable than my bed in the hospital, the music at home is better than the chorus of pings at the hospital, and my dog and my cat are fantastic roommates. 

So far today my wife has only picked me up, checked me out, fed me, undressed me, dressed me, rented me movies, and warmed my bed.  

Although it's hard to predict when I will be awake and when I will be asleep, if you don't mind the risk of catching me sleeping I'd be happy to have some visitors.  

Starting Over

Imagine being 12 months old but having a 42 year old brain; acting like a baby but being self-aware enough to know the militude (I made that up, it means "the opposite of magnitude") of your accomplishments.

I've spent the last 4 days being heartily congratulated for drinking, sitting up, peeing, moving my feet, walking, and having a bowel movement.

None of it feels belittling though. Every one of these actions feels like a very big deal to me!

Winding down for my last sleep in the hospital. It will be nice to be home but I will definitely miss this electronic bed.

Freaky

When my epidural machine exhales it sounds exactly like Christi whispering "Kev."

Thank You To Our Sponsor!

Well, it didn't take me long to start talking about cycling again; my bed is made/serviced by Hill-Rom, which sponsors the Sound Solutions team. So although I'm not sipping Cherry Bomb Coffee, quaffing Steam Whistle or riding my Orbea bike, I am recovering in a Hill-Rom bed!

The Day After

Greetings from the other side!

Here I am with my friend Jeero. Thanks Ross! I also got a massive flower arrangement from the good people at Shaw Media. And of course I am keeping busy with the iPad from all my work buddies.

The surgery was quick and I'm told it went well. My family has been at my side watching me sleep ever since. It's ironic that Christi gave birth to both of our kids but I'm the only one who's had an epidural. I am feeling no pain.

On the bummer side, the cancer did get into some lymph nodes. My surgeon cut out everything he could find, but I'll be crossing my fingers for good news on the pathology report and my next CT scan.

The Bikes Are Hung in the Bike Room With Care

I can't promise this will be my last bike-related post, but it will be a post about my last bike race of 2011.

Yesterday I participated in my second Canadian Cyclocross Championships. I was a fair bit slower this year, but on the flip-side I was far less nervous. The race went great. The weather was nice (maybe too nice) and I had loads of family, friends and teammates cheering me on seemingly at every corner.

The last two laps I battled it out with this fellow:

(click to see my poppy)

I've been at events where I've raced against guys with vocal cheering sections, and when they're cheering for the other guy it really sucks. So it should come as no surprise that I gapped him on the last lap to at least win one small battle.

Had I not fallen three times I might have nabbed a better placing, but all the dirt on my back only proved that I rode with everything I had - it's such a good feeling knowing that all your effort is spilled out on the course - no regrets.

I ended up 24th out of 55 starters in the Men's 40-49 field. Not great, but I bet I was the first guy to cross the line with cancer. Or at least the second.

- - -

This will be my last post for a day or two, so some house cleaning is in order:

• Apologies for the depressing turn at the end of the last post. I was quoting my kids where a cheerier paraphrase would have sufficed.
• I'm checking in at 6:00 AM for what should be an 8:00 AM surgery. If all goes well it will only take 4-5 hours.
• After that I'm in ICU (acronym!) for a few hours, followed by a day or two in a step-down room.
• Once I'm out of there I can start taking visitors if Christi deems me lucid and handsome enough to do so.
• If she's up for it you might get a guest blog post or two from her. Hopefully she won't Wally Pipp me. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wally_Pipp

As I've said to all of you who have wished me luck: a safe flight depends on the pilot, and a safe surgery will depend on my surgeons - but if there is a tangible benefit to having an army of loving family, friends, teammates and colleagues behind me, I will be the healthiest guy in the whole hospital.

See you on the other side,

Kevin

Tucking In

Tonight I tucked Owen & Frankie into bed. Since they are sleeping at Grammie's (Christi's mom, Liz) tomorrow night, I won't be doing so again for at least ten days.

Really, ten days without tucking one's kids into bed is not that big a deal. Heck, there are nights I don't want to tuck them in. But tonight kind of felt like a big deal.

Many people have asked me how they're doing with my cancer. I think they're doing pretty well and I hope it's not taking up too much of their day to day thoughts. But the truth is that I don't know. How do you crack into the brains and emotions of a nine and five year old? I think what they really want is a definitive answer to a simple and beautifully childish question: will Daddy die?

Perhaps it's not such a childish question after all.

Alliance/Alliance Atlantis/Canwest/Shaw Media

You should be so lucky to work where I work.

You guys are the best.

(click to embiggen)

D-Day Minus Four

Today Christi and I went down to TGH (Toronto General Hospital for those of you fortunate enough to not have entered the world of hospital acronyms) for my pre-op.

Most of it was pretty mundane. Here's the proof:

• They X-Rayed my chest.
• They drew my blood.
• They performed an EKG (acronym!)
• They swabbed me for superbugs.
• They checked my current medications and supplements.
• They took my blood pressure and temperature (pulse is still under 60 bpm.)
• They gave me a more detailed rundown of the procedure and the timing.

The closer I get to the operation the more I think: "But I feel fine!" But as I stated a few days ago, I won't be pulling a "Steve Jobs."

I'm getting this thing out of me.

Yikes! Surgery Date is Moving Up!

This calls for a video post:

Remember the Second Time You Fell In Love?

Not the first time. The first time you fall in love your head feels so swampy that it's hard to walk a straight line.

The second time you fall in love you have a bit more control and are able to appreciate how everything suddenly seems more amazing.

That is how I feel these days.

Last Time...

This is a positive thought. I am not the first and I will not be the last person to espouse this philosophy, but if you preface everything you do with "This may be the last time I..." then I guarantee you will get more from the experience.

Yesterday I lined up for the start of what will hopefully not be my last bike race. (Just to deflate the drama a little more, I'm registered for another race this Saturday.) Knowing that I won't be racing for sometime, knowing why I was riding so slowly, knowing so many people came out just to support me, I rode better than I have in weeks.

It goes without saying that I savoured every turn of the pedals. The fact that my results weren't half bad was one hell of a bonus.

Thanks to my friend Rob MacEwen for the shot; this picture truly does say a thousand words.

Look how happy this guy is:

I Have A Date With a Knife

My surgery is now booked: November 14, 2011.

My operation will be a distal pancreatectomy, meaning that I'll be lighter by a spleen and half a pancreas:

(Tumour not to scale?)

If all goes well the entire lesion will be removed and nothing else will be found. Other possible outcomes include the removal of as-yet-undiscovered lesions, inability to remove as-yet-undiscovered lesions, non-discovery of as-yet-undiscovered lesions, and the usual dangers of surgery and anaesthesia for which I have already signed consent forms.

A slight kick in the pants I received when Christi and I met my surgeon and some of his team on October 27th was the fact that my surgery will be followed up with chemotherapy.

Somehow this made me feel more..."cancery." Looking back, up until that point, while fully aware that I had cancer, I sort of saw myself as just a guy who needed an operation. The thought of chemo really drives home the fact that I have a disease.

On a related/unrelated note: you can fool a lot of people in this world, but you can't fool your mother; my brother Chris and I picked her up from the airport on Thursday, and it only took a few minutes to get from "hello" to "I knew you had cancer." There was obviously shock and tears, but I'd say she's holding up remarkably well. I think a great fear for any parent is leaving young children behind, but equally great is the fear of outliving your children - so I can imagine the swirl of her thoughts.

Best to wrap up on a happy note: my Interneting and TV watching is way down because I'm spending so much time with people I love.

Today is a Big Day

I'm meeting my surgeon. Hopefully that will be good.

I'm telling my mom. That won't be good.

My Wife

A cheer for my wife:


Caring
Honest
Responsible
Insightful
Sexy!
Thoughtful
Intelligent

Yaaaay, Christi!

Dates

The idea of a "cancer birthday" was first introduced to me by the giant soapbox that is Lance Armstrong. (His story is a nice one, but as a cyclist I see him as perhaps the largest obstacle ever to drug-free cycling.)

Mine is October 20th, 2011.

Catching up on my New Yorkers, I read a devastating article in the June 13/20 issue. "The Aquarium," written by Aleksandar Hemon about the ruinous consequences of his nine month old daughter's suffering from atypical teratoid/rhabdoid tumor (A.T.R.T.). In it, he talks about "the moment that divided our life into before and after." Always a gatherer of great thoughts instead of a great thinker, I was pleased to have someone else crystalize so clearly how Christi, myself, and my brothers are feeling.

And then it got me thinking - and this is not a great thought - that my parents will always know a different date.

My mom comes in from Scotland on October 27th. That will be her date. My dad returns from India October 30th. That will be his date.

My reason for not telling them is simple: they will both enjoy a few extra days of before. I hope they see it that way.

Everything Is Different Now

Cancer is the punctuation to my every waking thought.

One of the Good Things About Cancer

The people who love you love you even more.

Meet My Lesion

Size: 3.5 x 3.3 cm
Location: mid body of the pancreas
Metastasis: unlikely
Age: a lady never tells
Likes: causing intermittent stabbing pains and nighttime aching in the stomach, stiff back, lack of sleep, and long walks on the beach
Dislikes: rude people, good surgeons

A Little Background on Finding the Cancer

In late August some back pain flared up. This was nothing new to me - a couple of times each year I pull or tweak something, but a massage and a few days of light activity always does the trick. I happened to be vacationing with friends and family at a rented cottage, and the biking was great so I rode through the soreness. At the same time I started having some pretty sharp pains in my stomach. I can't really recall when during the day or how often they occurred, but it certainly didn't seem like a big deal.

Looking back, I suppose the first sign was the way I was riding. Over the course of a week I rode 110, then 85, then 65 kms, and I had some pretty terrible bonks on each ride - this was after a summer where I had shown more jump, power and top speed than ever before. It kind of pissed me off that I seemed to be losing my form just as Cyclocross season was about to begin.

Christi and I decided to do a small cleanse once we returned to the city to shake off all the food and beer we'd enjoyed at the cottage. I thought that maybe my stomach was alerting me to some new allergy, (I have none) so chopping out wheat, sugar, and booze for a week seemed like a good approach. And I can honestly say that during that week my stomach hardly bugged me at all. My back, on the other hand, was still quite sore. Since this was not normal for me I redirected the massages I usually have done on my legs to my back - with no luck.

So in mid-September with my stomach flaring up and my back still barking at me I went to see my doctor. The most likely cause was a bacteria called Helicobacter Pylori. So I filled a prescription and started popping pills. But I was immediately distracted by the arrival of my new cross bike. The night I picked it up I had a great Thursday ride with my SSOL (Sound Solutions) teammates. That next Tuesday Owen and I hit the first Cross at Centennial session - where I won the end of night race (which is very informal and not always hotly contested) for the first time ever. I was brimming with excitement and suddenly felt like I was flying.

But the very next day I woke up feeling flu-ish and limped into the first race, where I completely sucked.

Does this look like a guy who's doing something he loves?

Christi and the kids had come with me and we retired to the St. Catharines Best Western for some swimming, mini golf and dinner at The Keg with some friends. I was determined to race better the next day, and I did. But as 'okay' as I was feeling on the bike I was feeling worse and worse off the bike. I was feeling run down: I couldn't seem to get through a full week of work, I was going to bed early, and worst of all, I wasn't enjoying the taste of Steam Whistle!

Since the pills weren't doing anything tangible for my stomach I went back to my doctor; he quickly booked me in for a gastroscopy and an ultrasound. The gastroscopy was my big hope. I'm not sure what I expected them to find, but I was pretty confident that some ulcer-type thing was to blame. (Although I admit I was not comfortable with the idea of succumbing to stress, since I naively consider myself above that sort of thing.) The procedure itself was no big deal, but outside some spots of irritation there were no major findings.

The next day was my ultrasound, but I unwittingly blew the timing on this one. Now I know that a gastroscopy that fills one's stomach with air does not enhance the accuracy of an ultrasound the very next day. The woman scanning me said she couldn't get a good look at my pancreas because of it - although in retrospect I think the mass was probably visible but not visible enough to confirm. Either way I had to book another appointment.

While all this testing and re-testing was going on I squeezed in two more races. I came DFL (dead f*cking last) in both. It may seem silly to keep going on about this, but how I feel on the bike informs how I feel in a very major way. I am certain that if I was still beating the guys I was beating last year I may not have pursued my problems with the same amount of gusto; underperformance is a great motivator!

Here's where I can start getting specific. I went in for my follow-up ultrasound on Tuesday, October 18th. This was the first time I got the feeling something was wrong. The fellow scanning me took an awfully long time going over the same area. He left the room a few times and asked my who my doctor was. I'm sure that information was on my form, but I immediately thought: "This guy wants to call my doctor right now."

That afternoon I was in an edit suite when my phone rang. My doctor's assistant asked if I had a few minutes. Every call I'd ever had was just confirming that my blood work or ECG was clean, so this was bad sign number two. Knowing something bad was coming I felt remarkably calm and disconnected as the assistant told me with such sweet kindness: "You have a mass that's about four and a half centimetres in your pancreas. The doctor wants you to have a CT scan. I'm calling you right back with your appointment."

On Wednesday the 19th Christi and I met with my doctor. I always knew he was a veteran, but I am still impressed with his bedside manner. What he told us was as factual as possible with no sugar coating, but the room was filled with his confidence and sureness as he made it clear that despite the fact I was a healthy, young, non-smoker, there was a chance I had pancreatic cancer. The only difference between me and Steve Jobs was a slightly fuller resume and a few billion bucks. Christi was a rock in the meeting. She knew what all the medical words meant and asked many questions that were out of the realm of my swimming brain.

The next morning I was in the hospital getting my CT scan. Again, this was not an unpleasant experience. The technicians were positive and friendly, and the scan itself was kind on cool. It was done in minutes.

Which meant it didn't take long to get the call on Thursday, October 20th that I did indeed have cancer.

So, to the best of my recollection, those are the facts and markers. There have been a lot of tears and even more emails since then. I'll share my thoughts and feelings - so many of them wonderful and uplifting - in the following posts.