Radioactive

The American Dream

Just got back home from visiting Kristin and her boys in Raleigh.  Doug was in London, and was sincerely missed.  There was a scotch and conversational shortage without him.  The boys had colds and were running slight fevers. Kath drove Kris and the boys to the airport on Friday and they are now in California, visiting old friends.

We then took their colds with us to visit our dear friends,  the Matsons in Highlands, N.C.  We always have a great time with them, mostly laughing at ourselves and sharing adult beverages and fabulous meals.  John will claim to be the chef du jour, but will grudgingly acknowledge Sandra might have supported his work in some small way.  We left them at 6 a.m. this morning, drove through fog on the mountain and torrential rain the rest of the way home.  We are, literally, sick and tired.  Good luck with the colds you will get, Matsons.

Tomorrow at 7:30 a.m. at Moffitt,  Dr. Harrington will excise the melanoma from the back of my head.  I will let you know how pretty I am after the surgery is done.  Pics to come.

The Tuscaloosa Years

On theRadio:Barricades Of Heaven: Jackson Browne.
In my bloodstream: nothing yet

Today I would like to acknowledge a gifted doctor who gave me care, comfort, respect and encouragement on this absurd 25 year trip since I was first diagnosed with melanoma.

We were just months into our new life in the South, when I needed to see a doctor to get my cough and shortness of breath under control.  It was the spring of 1996.

After a battery of blood tests and x-rays, Kath and I went for our follow-up visit with Dr. Merle Salter at DCH, the hospital in Tuscaloosa.  The news was not good.  Scans revealed disturbing nodules in my lower left lung, and along with my symptoms, and blood markers, gave strong indication that treatment was needed,  which could not be provided in Tuscaloosa.  I was being referred to the cancer treatment center in Birmingham for further diagnosis and treatment.  Dr. Salter would make all the necessary arrangements for our introductory visit there.

It was devastating news, especially after moving my family and starting a new job in a new country.  The three of us sat together and as the diagnosis was explained,  my mind started racing, as probably did my heart.  I was having trouble concentrating.  Thoughts of Kathy and the girls without me, of work, where I had just committed my future to Affiliated Paper Company, were sporadically interrupting  the absorption of critical information.  My very life was in jeopardy.  Thank God that I had Kathy with me.  We all need an advocate to help us when we face life's most serious decisions. Information comes at us faster than we can compute.  We, the patients, need your help.

However, none of my previous doctors (and I had seen a few) had made me feel more loved and cared for than Dr. Salter did in that one visit.  It was a sobering meeting as she explained the depth and seriousness of my issues, never once demonstrating any concern for the time I was stealing from her, as we tried to get our heads around the staggering news we were hearing.

We finished our somber meeting and got up to leave.  She walked Kath and me out to our car, with her arm around my shoulders.  She made me feel secure and loved.  Her touch was mystical.  I honestly could feel her care.  She told me that she would pray for me,  and then Kath and I got into the car and drove home.  I am sure the good doctor  would not remember any of this.  But I will never forget her.  When I reflect on our short walk back to my car,  and Dr. Salter's touch,  I felt grace that was unknown to me, ever, at that point in my life.  If any of my Tuscaloosa friends could pass this post along to her, I would be forever grateful.

So we were off to UAB to meet with Dr. Miller at the Comprehensive Cancer Center.  After a thorough review of the tests and previous procedures, we were told there were, indeed, two pulmonary nodules in the lower left lung felt to be consistent with metastatic melanoma to the lung.
We were told, without treatment, my life expectancy was limited.  I told the doctor that I was a businessman.  I needed hard facts and then I would be able to better deal with the problem.  "Will you give me a year?",  I asked.  He could not guarantee that much, even with treatment.

It was recommended that I undergo further treatment with chemobiotherapy.   I would receive four courses of Mastrangelo chemotherapy, followed by subcutaneous injections of Interleukin II. Each session would  require three days of hospitalization a month.

Kath and I drove home to Tuscaloosa.  We had much to think about.