Mike recently had checkups with two of his doctors and all indications are that his recovery continues to go well. Great news. He is running twice a week now, and still on schedule to do the Peachtree 10K on the 4th of July.
His next scan will be a PET Scan on July 20th, with the results given to us on the 23rd. Please send your good vibes on both of those days, and we'll post the results as soon as we can.
In the meantime, we are racking up lots of "deck time" here, and looking forward to a long stay at the beach in May.
Mike and Terry
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
What a Difference a Year Makes
Sometimes 365 days can seem like a very long time, while at other times it seems like things that happened a year ago took place just yesterday. Terry and I kept our 2009 appointment book with all of the medical events from last year in it. Every week or so we look at it to remind us of, well, where we were at that time last year.
This week a year ago, I went through the worst period of my treatment phase. We drove my brother Jim to the airport on March 31 at around 1pm, and about 7 hours later I was being admitted to Piedmont Hospital for what would turn out to be four days. Terry's urging to not wait until the next morning literally saved my life. In the middle of that night I had a cardiac event that was brought on by my second round of chemo two weeks earlier. My heart was racing at 180 beats per minute, and I was sleeping through it! Even after the nurse woke me up after responding to the monitor's alarm, I couldn't feel my heart beating that fast. If that event had happened at home, I would not have survived. The cardiac event was compounded by me reaching the lowest point possible with my white blood cell count--which had been predicted. I spent four days in a dilaudid fog, which included some horrible nightmares, and some other dreams that had me convinced that 1) I had been left by my friends at the men's Final four tournament (while still in my hospital gown and bed), 2) Terry had come one day to take me to the airport to do a speech in Kansas, and 3) the timers on my many IV dispensers were bombs, so I needed to take out the IVs before the timers hit zero. Thankfully, the first one I took out alerted the nurse who rushed in and managed to convince me that it was just a dream. "Right, easy for you to say."
Terry and I have marked this as the worst days of my treatment and her most terrified period, but because of that we also marked the next week as the time when we can say I started to get better--which I celebrated today by running three miles outdoors on a drop-dead gorgeous spring day. Last night we spent several hours of "deck time", recalling how much we love to do that, and missed it so badly last year--and thinking back on where things were this time last year.
We are not naive enough to think that our battle against cancer is over forever and I still have some lingering and some permanent effects from the radiation and chemo, but we are definitely feeling great about how much of our lives we have gained back in "just" 365 days.
To all of you out there who helped us in any way and sent those good vibes when they were needed so often, we want to say again--thanks. So, go out, find some Prairie Dogs, smile at one of them and then kick the shit out of it for us.
Mike
PS--I picked three of the Final Four teams, including Butler. I'm probably dreaming that, too.
This week a year ago, I went through the worst period of my treatment phase. We drove my brother Jim to the airport on March 31 at around 1pm, and about 7 hours later I was being admitted to Piedmont Hospital for what would turn out to be four days. Terry's urging to not wait until the next morning literally saved my life. In the middle of that night I had a cardiac event that was brought on by my second round of chemo two weeks earlier. My heart was racing at 180 beats per minute, and I was sleeping through it! Even after the nurse woke me up after responding to the monitor's alarm, I couldn't feel my heart beating that fast. If that event had happened at home, I would not have survived. The cardiac event was compounded by me reaching the lowest point possible with my white blood cell count--which had been predicted. I spent four days in a dilaudid fog, which included some horrible nightmares, and some other dreams that had me convinced that 1) I had been left by my friends at the men's Final four tournament (while still in my hospital gown and bed), 2) Terry had come one day to take me to the airport to do a speech in Kansas, and 3) the timers on my many IV dispensers were bombs, so I needed to take out the IVs before the timers hit zero. Thankfully, the first one I took out alerted the nurse who rushed in and managed to convince me that it was just a dream. "Right, easy for you to say."
Terry and I have marked this as the worst days of my treatment and her most terrified period, but because of that we also marked the next week as the time when we can say I started to get better--which I celebrated today by running three miles outdoors on a drop-dead gorgeous spring day. Last night we spent several hours of "deck time", recalling how much we love to do that, and missed it so badly last year--and thinking back on where things were this time last year.
We are not naive enough to think that our battle against cancer is over forever and I still have some lingering and some permanent effects from the radiation and chemo, but we are definitely feeling great about how much of our lives we have gained back in "just" 365 days.
To all of you out there who helped us in any way and sent those good vibes when they were needed so often, we want to say again--thanks. So, go out, find some Prairie Dogs, smile at one of them and then kick the shit out of it for us.
Mike
PS--I picked three of the Final Four teams, including Butler. I'm probably dreaming that, too.
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