A Day of Too Much Cancer
July 9, 2012 
35 Comments
Finally having the day that broke this camel’s back reminded me how compassionate others can be.
Two years after having my diagnosis upgraded to Stage 4 metastatic disease, it happened. I finally had my SUPERSIZED come apart last week. I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised. Working where I do, I’ve been able to keep a clinical and statistical lid on the simmering pot for quite a long time. Some who know me well, especially my wife, later told me they were waiting for the day when the volcano could no longer lay dormant and emotions would erupt unexpectedly.
My personal Vesuvius vs. Pompeii finally arrived last Monday. I will tell you, as the town laying in the shadow of the volcano the siege came unexpectedly and with surprising force. The event was triggered by not one catalyst in particular, but by a series of smaller pre-quakes which passed largely unnoticed.
An early morning meeting with a colleague took an unexpected turn when the discussion focused on me. What was I really feeling? Did I really believe that my outcome COULD be a bad one? How was my family dealing with it? What are my odds? These are questions and issues I have dealt with and answered freely for a while now. I wasn’t particularly shaken by the discussion. In fact I went back to my desk and sent an email containing three entries from this blog with a note saying, …these might give you some more insights into my life… thanks for asking. Task done.
Shortly after that, there was a phone call with a newly-diagnosed patient who needed some fellow-patient insights on treatment and side effects. His case was very similar to mine. Within 15 minutes we bonded quickly as members of this brotherhood do. I signed off wishing him well and asking him to keep me posted on his progress. Task done.
Then I read through a clinical study. It was the type that occasionally crops up and causes me to miss a heart beat or two wondering which outcome group I would fall into. Task done.
Finally, there was another project that required me to check on some of my cancer brothers on Facebook…
As I stared into the screen, I was confronted by an entry from a fellow patient I have come to know quite well despite the distance. I knew he had been hospitalized the week before. His entry read… Countdown to chemo- T minus 5 hours. I slept well and am not really nervous to get this started. A few positive thoughts and prayers wouldn’t hurt however!! Here’s to the next chapter in the journey! As if that wasn’t enough, his photo, although he was smiling, was a far cry from the man I remembered.
Ground zero… Eruption.
I was shocked. I couldn’t breathe. Within seconds, I found I was sobbing at my desk. At last, too much cancer had gotten to me.
No one wants to get teary-eyed at the office, no less be found sobbing at their desk. I turned my chair around to face the window and pretended to be reviewing some materials. I couldn’t tell you what I was looking at for the moment. Three times I tried dialing my wife who was away for the day. Three times I hung up. I knew I wouldn’t be able to coherently relay what was going on at the moment. I thought of my college friends in the South Bay and Orange county. I stopped mid-dial on both of those calls as well. My calls would only have caused them to wonder what was going on and I would not be able to squeeze out an audible and comprehendible answer.
When the coast was clear, I plotted a course out the side door with a short recovery in the men’s room that was followed by a beeline to another colleague’s office. She, a double cancer survivor, took one look at me and I started again. But I was at least in safer territory. She looked at me and said, “Dan, I know what you’re going through… you are thinking about coming off of treatment in several weeks…” She was right. My wife and I have spoken of this several times in the past few weeks. In fact, she was the first to spot that fear in me.
Although I recovered a bit, every 5 minutes brought on a new eruption. I knew I had to call it a day and hastily asked for ”permission to escape cancer” which was immediately granted.
Driving back to the South Bay, I took time to stop and look at the ocean. I was still in the throes of my meltdown, but the cool breezes at least provided some comfort. I knew I couldn’t go home yet and face my boys in this condition so, when I thought I had recovered sufficiently, I welcomed two stops I had to make.
It was these stops that reminded me how compassionate others can be. At both stops the sight of a familiar face caused me to loose it once again. At both stops I was taken in and given an opportunity to let my emotions out and breathe. They passed the tissues and just listened. They let me take the time I needed to recover. They found ways to make me laugh. I am grateful for their kindness. It’s remarkable given that I have just gotten to know them to any extent in the past few weeks.
By the time I arrived at home, I was finally calm enough to dial my wife and, among much gentler tears, relay what had happened to me that day and soak in her comfort.
If this journey has taught me nothing more than to acknowledge the mercy of the angels around us–those well known and those who present themselves when needed–it is beyond a doubt a journey worth taking.
Blessings to all our caretakers, loved ones, friends and acquaintances who catch us when we fall.
Dan,
I’m sending out vibes of peace to you.
Thank you, Tom. Back on the upside. It took me a while to even get this account into words!
Dan…you inspire me! With much gratitude…
Dan, I send you Love and Understanding – to you who give so much to everyone.
Dan, I’nm sorry you had such a bad day but in a way I think it sounds cathartic and will give you a bit of peace and allow you to prepare yourself better for the phase of being off treatment. Mark
Thanks for sharing Dan. I oblige my pc patients to come in with their partners. It is not a choice. They are an integral part of the program. Blessings to you and yours. Look forward to meeting you soon.
Mine has been there every step of the way. Now that I am still on Lupron, she accompanies me to my oncologist every other quarter in an effort to make things feel more routine. This fall, when I come off, I beleieve she may go to every visit for the next four quarters. That’s provided she can get the time off. She started this week at the Pancreatic Cancer Action Network… Just call us the cancer couple. I made her promise not to catch it like it did…
Best,
Dan
Dan, I wish you better days, the high ground in always better that the valley. Your situation makes you a much better representative at PCF since you can truly empathize with those you serve. Bless you, you are my hero.
Bill
I wish I had felt it through the ether and reached out to you that day. I know the meltdowns I’ve had over false positives, and cannot even imagine how you hold it together when facing something so real. Love from the other coast!
Thank you, dear friend.
While cancer treatments can be scary, coming off treatment can be scarier still: It’s when we’re left to fight our cancer on our own, without meds, and then we get the report card on what the treatment did, or didn’t, do. Scary, indeed. Hang in there, my friend. Beaming best karma to ya! B
Dan. You are an inspiration. Sending you happy and positive vibes.
Best, Akiko
Wow. I’m with you, Dan. In some ways being off treatment (4 months now) creates greater anxiety than resting in the comforting arms of Firmagon over the preceding 3 years. Is my heretofore undetectable PSA increasing? If so, how fast? What level should it reach before I end my “holiday?” Is that blood in my urine just another minor manifestation of radiation (the gift that keeps on giving) or an ominous sign that the cancer’s back? (Which is how it manifested itself in the first place in 2008.) Should I get a PSA test now or wait until the requisite 3 month interval?
Above all, though, were it not for the sweet angel of mercy in my life, my wife Susan, and a few others nearby, this journey would be unbearable rather than merely anxious. Thanks, friend, for putting into eloquent words my inchoate feelings.
all the best,
Craig
Dan,
It takes enormous courage to share this with the world. Thanks for doing so.
I wish you the best as you move into the next phase of your treatment.
Steve
Dan
You were a few weeks ahead of me in the treatments. My last lupron shot is July 25th. Your postings have helped me all along the journey. It’s a scary thing when we think about it too much.
Know that I will think of you and wish you positive vibes. Stay strong brother.
Your willingness to share openly and heartfelt is a gift to all those who journey the road of cancer and the wives and parters who want to be there for their loved one.
So happy you reach out and find comfort from people who genuinely care and love you.
The future can be scary at times, but if we stay in the moment we will be fine. I recently heard Heaven is living as if everlasting was right now.
May God’s grace be your guide.
Wow! Thanks for having the courage to share this. Sending the best spirits i can summon.
Dan,
This brought so much of my personal experiences back to me, I fully understand the feelings and shed some tears of my own in shared brotherhood.
Dan … all the best to you.
Hi Dan
Just a note to tell you how much I admire what you are doing with your Blog. I am in a somewhat different spot, but moving toward the same goal of victory over prostate cancer. At 72, my pc has recurred following surgery in 2007. I am following a supplement program and diet to maintain my active life, thus choosing to rely on my body’s ability to fight. However, I actively seek information such as you generously provide. Thank you for doing that.
A prayer for you, your strength and your family.
Tom
Dan
You bring me to tears being a stage IV PCa
patient but someone mentioned that this was for me a new normal. Let us all stand together & keep fighting with our chins up
Bob,
And fight on we will. Who cares if we need to carry a box of Kleenex in our field kits!
Best regards,
Dan
SID NEW TO THE BLOG I AN 87YRS OF AGE. 6 MONTHS AGO DIAGNOSED . STAGE 4. METASTASIS IN THE SPINE. NO PAIN . JUST RECEIVED SECOND INJECTION OF LUPON, AS WELL AS INFUSION OF ZOMETA. I SUPRISE MY SELF HOW UPBEAT I FEAL ATTITUDE IS GOOD . MAKING THE BEST OF MY LIFE. I DO EVERY THING I ALWAYS DID, JUST HAD TO SLOW DOWN . LIKE TO SHARE INFO . EXCUSE THE RUN ON THE COMPUTER. IT IS NEW TO ME
Sid,
Thank you for sharing. I wish you great success with your treatment. You do exhibit a great attitude… I love it!
Stay in touch,
Dan
Thank you for your strength in sharing your journey. Your courage to write your personal accounts is reaching many others who think they are alone. God bless you and your wife Dan and I am praying for positive outcome following your Lupron treatments.
Dan:
You get a hug when I see you tomorrow.
:O)
We are on the trial for new med, hopefully it works
Sending you a huge hug.
Dan,
your blog is one of the best things that have happened on my journey,IV. My melt down was also at work. I made it out of the office almost down the stairs and remember tears, yelling etc and little of driving home. It was what I needed. 1 and half years Luprn/Zometa and I am doing well
rgds Michael..oh ya I saw you on your plane ride in the Coachella Valley
Michael,
Thank you for sharing. We are not alone! Stay well.
Thanks. I looked for something like this to help me think about what I needed and your entry helped me. Stage IV also.
Love,
Margaret
We are given a death sentence at birth. Some of us are given the opportunity to experience an extreme speed bump or two along the way before the death sentence is acted upon.
Keeping this in mind has helped me through the process.
I was stage 10 following surgery in 2007. I have been on Lupron/Casodex for four years and have recently gone from undetectable PSA to 0.01. I am getting the Provenge treatment which works for some and not others. I believe it will work for me.
I have not had to change my life style and life is good even at 72.
I have another motivator but that is for another time.
Dan et al, hang in.
I read this elsewhere where the title related to your angels…I am glad that you acknowledge them, because angels in all forms need to be acknowledged. Ive been a doc of chinese medicine for 24 years and treating my husband’s PC for 22 years, draining off the cancer chi through the prostate point in the ear–auricular therapy. he’s had no conventional treatments. when he talks about his PC he wont acknowledge my work. he wrote a book called “the prostate snatchers”, even in that he barely speaks about my treatments, or that chinese medicine for PC is valid… as an angel it would be nice to be honoured that way.
The surgeon was so positive prior to the surgery.
I, too was very positive in discussing my Prostate
cancer with relatives and friends. It is my second
cancer, having had stage 3 Hodgkins Disease
over 30 years ago and successfully treated with
chemo and radiation. “If you’re going to have
cancer,” I said, “Hodgkins and Prostate are the
ones to have.”
I noticed the difference in the surgeon’s tone and
words immediately after the surgery when he
didn’t sound as optimistic. I now heard very aggressive,”
“radiation oncologist” and a tone that wasn’t so
sure. The margins were narrow
yet clear, the lymph nodes were clear but the
seminal vesicle had been infiltrated. I met
the radiation oncologist yesterday. She’s
intelligent, thorough, experienced and has
already discussed my case with Zelesky at
Memorial Sloan Kettering. They both agreed that
if my PSA was 0, there was no need to go
ahead with radiation. Well my PSA is not 0 as
everyone was hoping it would be. It wasn’t high
at ,26 but it wasn’t 0.
Now I’m scheduled for another PSA in 2 months.
I’m now in limbo, I’m not optimistic that the
Prostectomy did the job. Will the PSA go up?
Do I have aggressive cancer in my body?
I told my wife last night that I believe it’s going
to be a fight and I’m ready to fight. But inside
I wonder if I’m truly ready. I have so many conflicting
feelings roiling inside of me: strength, fear,
anger, compassion (for my suffering wife),and
resolve that win or lose I’ll fight the good fight.
I’m determined to enjoy the life I have left be it
5 years or 30 years. I’m grateful for the 32 years
I’ve lived since my first bout with cancer and
I’m determined to do what I can to enjoy 30
more. Best to all, Gary
Gary,
I and so many others know exactly how you feel right now. We are here for you and we hold you and your family in our prayers. Email me anytime you need to talk.