The Ocean Course

 

The Ocean Course

In My Bloodstream: Lisinopril,  Amlodopine,  Omeprazole, Tamsulosin
On The Stereo: Watch Robin Williams on Golf and Scots  (beware the profanity)

The Ocean Course behind us, as we were having breakfast at the clubhouse.

This week The PGA was held at The Ocean Course, on Kiawah Island, South Carolina.  As it happened, we were there in 2014.  I had just begun a trial infusion program at Moffitt Cancer Center, in Tampa.  So why are we there?

I had also recently survived an AVM, had been given Last Rights, developed a staph infection on the head wound, and was being ignored by the brain surgeon, Dr. Correnti, in Fort Myers.  

In summary, the immunotherapy trial had given me a chance to live.  And the developing infection on my brain, was now moving to kill me.  An incredible "good news - bad news" situation.  The ultimate.

And we were mired in no-where land.  Between a doctor who was willing to let me die, without help, and a group of cancer specialists who want to give me a chance.  But could not, if I did not deal with my brain infection, first.  It looked, again, like I was slated to die.  There was no recourse.  Correnti was willing to be rid of me.  He was tired of my badgering.  He was lost and would not ask for help.  So die I would.

It was our anniversary, and it was now on schedule to be our last. I grabbed my bride, and headed off for one last fling.  If our time together was almost over, we wanted to live as we always had.  To the fullest.  Laughter and love.

And off we went to Kiawah.  We played Osprey Point on our first full day, and the Ocean Course, on the second.  It was as spectacularly scenic as it was difficult.  There were no easy holes.  The track was long.  The layout, like many links courses, was confusing, with complicated sight lines.  There was an abundance of long water carries.  And the wind seemed always to be against us.  Despite the difficulty, we had a sensational time.  We felt blessed to have an opportunity to play, and to stay at the club.  Together.  An adventure we thought would be our last.

                         The dining room, with our meal complete and the dregs of our bottle of wine.

While at breakfast, before our departure, I received a call from Dr. Tran, a brain surgeon at Moffitt.  He told me, directly, that I would die if I did not get rid of the infection.  There would be no need to continue in the clinical trial.  I had previously told him of my problem with Dr. Correnti.  He told me not to worry about him anymore.  Dr. Tran wanted to operate post haste. He told me to get back to Tampa and he would operate in two days.  He had already opened a spot for me.  One more chance.  And I was not sure.  We had battled cancer for years.  I was worn out by the ups and downs.  I told him I would talk to him at Moffitt when we returned.

And in two days, I was wheeled into the operating theater.  For a massive, difficult, and long surgery.  We were advised the operation was no sure thing.  The infection had been settled in and getting worse for months.  And who knew what other problems they would find, when they re-opened my skull.

My memories of The Ocean Course.

So this week has been the pits.

I left you last week, letting you know that I was cruising along nicely.  My leg wounds were improving, my swollen head might be shrinking, and the infusions were a piece of cake.

None of that really happened.  Wishful thinking.  Maniacal optimism.  Whatever.  What I thought was improving did not.  My leg wounds continue to seep.  As do the scabs on my head.  I have had headaches.  And on Friday, I called the nurse at Moffitt, to inform them I probably have developed colitis, diverticulitis, or pancreatitis.  Infusion side-effects, I suspected.  A ridiculous set of circumstances.  Cancer, apparently, can be a nuisance.

I am unable to go out anywhere with people, without a hat to cover my wounded head.  I am unable to walk without pain.  My left foot is swollen.  And I am tired.

I remain housebound, on the couch, with my leg elevated. At times like these, in Fort Myers, my friend Dave used to wheel his a few houses, down to our house.  Now, I am left to my own devices.

Kathy has been patient and loving.  Despite our situation.  We still do not know if the melanoma inside my head has responded to the infusions.  And the clock ticks on.

And we continue to push through.

Love from Florida.

jrobinmullen@gmail.com