Here we go again...

So, some of you know and most of you don't, but my old friend cancer has made a comeback.  You may or may not recall a celebratory "no more chemo" post on the ol' FB a while back.  Well, we did the customary follow-up CT scan and found a friend in a different place that merited some further investigation.  The PET scan was done, and that sucker lit up like a light bulb.  After the customary poking, prodding, and investigation by an array of "-ologists", I was destined for surgery number two to remove another hunk of colon (because who really needs one of those anyways) along with my newest friend.

Through all of this, I refused to believe it was the "c word", and latched onto the "inflammation" hypothesis the doctors were pitching wholeheartedly.  My attitude was, "get in, get it out, and let me get on with my chicken doctoring."  Well, it didn't quite go as planned--turns out I was being uncharacteristically optimistic, and some quick "real doctor" work revealed that it actually was cancer.  And not just your run-of-the-mill colon cancer...nope, this tumor was waaaaay down deep in my belly, and hugging some pretty important vessels.  That day's surgeon must've not been up to date on his malpractice insurance policy, as he opted to close things back up (quite nicely, I might add) and pass to the A-team.

Spent a few days in the hospital with some super-sweet nurses and a bunch of beeping things before they let me out so I could make the trip to Emory University (yeah, where the Ebola patients went) in Hot-lanta.  The surgical oncologist deemed my tumor--heretofore referred to as "Eugene"--inoperable because of his close proximity to my aorta (the huge artery that takes the blood straight from your heart to everything else) and another vessel called the superior mesenteric artery (SMA, for short) which basically supplies blood to all of your intestines (all of which are necessary for life, apparently).  So he referred me to a medical oncologist--those are the guys (and girls) that specialize in chemotherapy and all of its evil/life saving intricacies--the idea being that some specialized chemo could shrink Eugene down to a size that would render him operable.

The journey continued, and we met with the new doctor yesterday--he's kind of a smart guy from Lebanon originally with a lot of letters behind his name who's spent more time in school than I have (which, as most of you know, is really saying something).  He informed me that my "condition" is an exceedingly rare one--go figure--so we're going to take things one step at a time and see how things progress.

It's not my first chemo rodeo, but there are some new players drug-wise.  And with new drugs come new side effects.  Last time the main side effect that plagued me was constant nausea--so much so that I wouldn't eat for 24 to 36 hours at a time while I was receiving treatments.  Cold sensitivity was more annoying than painful--I mean, who enjoys drinking iced tea without ice or not being able to walk across the floor in their house without socks.  This time, they're predicting less nausea and more from the other end, if you get what I'm saying.  The other issue that's caused me far more distress than I ever would have thought is the prospect of losing my hair.  If you'd asked me a year ago if something like losing my hair for a potentially life-saving treatment would have been an issue, I'd have laughed.  But it's so much more than just hair.  However, just like everything else, we'll take it as it comes; and we're going to fight this thing with every tool we have available to us.

My family, friends, and colleagues have been absolutely irreplaceable through everything.  Going into the surgery, Chris and I were thinking everything was going to be just fine--then they found the mass where it was, and things became all too real all too fast.  His dad (the closest, geographically, of all of our relatives) headed south immediately from North Carolina to be here with us, and my parents came as soon as they could get things in order on the homefront.  I have, quite possibly, the most understanding and supportive colleagues I could have ever dreamed of.  My French chicken doctor brother has been holding things down in the office, visited me daily in the hospital (Yoda card and flowers in tow), and has served as an unwavering voice of encouragement and optimism through the whole process.  All of my clinicians and professors, along with the rest of my PDRC family have been the closest thing to a family that I could ask for in a new place far from home.  Each and every text message, phone call, and FB shoutout from friends and family near and far brightens gloomy days and helps turn frowns into smiles (yeah, I realize that's cheesy, but it's true).  There are a select few of you out there--you know who you are--that listen to my whining day in and day out, help me hold it together when it feels like everything is falling apart (like when it feels like there isn't enough oxygen in the room), and don't judge me when I say I want to do things like write a blog.

More updates and insight into my brain and Eugene's status shall come.  I'd like this to be a resource for whomever wants to stay up to date on what's going on--that's not to say that I'm under the impression that there's a mass of people out there hanging on my every word, but if you're sitting on the toilet and looking for something to read here and there perhaps this can be a resource.  Ask questions, leave comments.  I have no secrets, and if this can serve to help out someone in a similar position that would be even better.

Peace to all...except cancer...F*CK CANCER.