Radioactive

Side Effects

In My Bloodstream: Pretty Standard Stuff
On The Stereo: One: Mary J Blige, featuring U2

Let me begin by showing a visual of my poor head and how, or if, the healing process is progressing.

                                              Last week, prior to Moffitt visit on Monday

                                                                          Today

So what do you think?  This old head has had a series of operations dating back to 1995.  Can you believe that?  And, after all that work, taking it apart and putting it back together, this is the best I've got.  Joseph Merrick showed more improvement.  Good grief.


                                                               
Sometimes it is impossible for me to separate what I was from who I am.  Cancer was not the singular cause of my current condition, but it certainly has wreaked the most havoc on me.  My internal and external features are not at all what they might have been.  And my psyche teeters relentlessly.  The holes, scrapes and scratches of the body's exterior can be patched and buffed to some acceptable level, but the damage to your heart and mind are what concerns me most.  I have managed to hold my own, when it comes to cancer.  But mental misfortune is what keeps me off balance, and provides the greater challenge.

Easter has passed, and Kath received a short text from Seattle, promising pictures of the grandchildren.  Zach has a birthday this week,  and that reminds us, that we have not seen him for the majority of his life.  He would not likely recognize us, if we met him on the street.  These are the real wounds, that cripple, and drag down your spirit.

Otherwise, we had a lovely weekend with friends.  The Hannas and Senecas joined us for dinner on Saturday evening, after which we watched a dvd of Andre Rieu and his orchestra, a gift from our dear friends, the Van Fossens.  It is entitled, Falling In Love In Maastricht.  If you ever get a chance to see his concert, do not miss it.  You cannot help but be uplifted by the music and joy.  Spontaneous clapping, singing and dancing, filled our living room.  What a fun night we had.

Sunday evening was spent with the Duggans, in their house.  Easter dinner with family was, for some reason, more emotional than I expected.  We stumbled, during our conversations, on the fact that we were likely the last of our families, to maintain any Christian beliefs.  All of our combined children have moved away from faith, and their children will not, in all probability, attend any church in their lifetimes.  Our grandkids will celebrate the joy of bunnies, chocolate eggs and presents from Santa Claus.  It is acceptable to tell children about bunnies and Santa, but not about the very reason for Easter and Christmas.  Material gifts have overtaken spiritual needs.

I guess it is the new, more modern world.  I just do not know if our ongoing quest for love, peace and forgiveness  can be taught by rabbits and Santa.  I have believed that we should strive to leave the world in better condition than we found it.  I'm not sure we have fulfilled that commitment.  I know, at least,  I have not.

Sadly, this morning's news brought us the bombings of Christians in Sri Lanka, by radical Islamists.  One more generation of people abandoning the church, and the radicals might not have any targets left for their hatred.

Kath and a few of my close friends have said, way too often, that all things come to Robbo.  Their point being, that whenever I am lost for information, it will show up.  It will, out of nowhere, just appear.  Often in the most unexpected places.  If we are talking about a movie, or an actor, or an athlete, and the name simply cannot be remembered, I will find it, in an ad, or magazine, or on tv, or mentioned in another non-related conversation.  A movie, whose title escapes me, will show up on the channel guide.  It has, and still happens, regularly.  I consider it my most useless special power.  A systemic byproduct of my gift, is that my thought process tends to drift from a straight line logic.  I wander and wobble to the end.  I will get there, but not without some unplanned stops.  One particular thought leads me to another and then another, all seemingly unrelated, until I eventually arrive back at the point.  For instance....

I posted a picture, a few weeks ago, of our family at the ground-breaking of SkyDome, which was to be the new home of the Toronto Blue Jays.  Soon after construction, the team moved in, and that year, the right fielder was a solid hitting George Bell.  The question of the day was, "What do George Bell and Michael Jackson have in common?"  The answer?  They both wear a glove on one hand for no apparent reason.  You see, George could not even catch a cold.  He kicked more balls around the field than Pele.  But very few fly balls ever saw the working part of that glove.

As an aside, we took our girls to see Michael Jackson in concert, around the same time period.  He put on a fabulous concert.  That young man, however, had some issues.  He was, apparently, not thrilled about being black, and was undergoing some sort of treatment to give him a lighter-colored skin.  And what, you ask, has that got to do with my story about side effects.

As a consequence of my immunotherapy treatment, one of my many side effects, is vitiligo.  I am one of about 200,000 Americans who, annually, get this disease.  The drug, with no prior warning, caused discoloration of the skin on my arms.  My normal color has never  returned, and I suspect it likely never will.  The clinical researchers agreed to its addition as a possible side effect, and we patients were given another document to sign, agreeing to that potential.  So, I see that as one of my contributions to the study.

So, to conclude this narrative, I have what Michael wanted.  The only difference being, that what he coveted, I most certainly did not.  There is probably some life lesson in this, but I am already too exhausted to explore any more.

                                                                Vitiligo on both arms

                                                                     Right ear, tipless.

The more obvious external damage, are the scars, residual of surface skin cancers.  Other, more devastating melanoma surgeries, were deeper and difficult.  Sometimes, not as obvious to the untrained eye, but nonetheless, more critical and consequential.

The hieroglyphics are sites yet to be excised, but the large scar across my chest was the result of a lymph node, dead center, which erupted on the surface, causing considerable alarm to my doctors, and also to us.  The day that we visited Dr. Jacobs, in Naples, there happened to be a waterspout on the gulf.  One of the nurses broke into the examination room to tell us to come to the balcony, as it was nearby and clearly visible.  The absurdity of all of us gathering to view the waterspout, when I was there to arrange an immediate surgery struck me as ridiculous.  The surgeon believed me to have melanoma, and I am suddenly a tourist, instead of a patient.  The possibility of my death played second fiddle to a funnel of water.  At least on that day.

As I have told you, earlier, the operation and recovery were painful and difficult.  The surgeon worked from the middle of my chest, where the boil-like eruption had manifested, to the armpit on each side, in search of additional  nodes which might be inhabited by melanoma.   The scar has never faded and is a reminder of another uncomfortable battle with cancer.  Only, in this instance, there was no melanoma, only a single lymph node, performing its appointed task.  The remaining mess was collateral.  The price you pay.

In this case, there had been three cancer sites, excised and stitched.  One on each shoulder and another, central, on my back.  Of more interest, are the remains of the "flap" surgery from 1993, in Toronto.  That surgery, you might remember, was in a lazy "s" shape, so that enough skin could be used to seal the massive wound, post melanoma removal.  The scar starting from the middle back, downward to the left, is the result of the removal of the lower left lobe of my lung.  The good news for me - I cannot see them, except by picture.  So they are mostly ignored and I am able to believe that my back is perfect.  Suspended disbelief.  If a scar gives you character, then I am, all things considered, some character.



Please make any comments to jrobinmullen@nexteppartners.com
They are appreciated.


More to follow. Adieu.