Sunday
Oct052014

30. Apple of My Eye

Three years ago this week, I lay prone in a hospital bed, being treated for a pulmonary embolism and other complications from cancer-related surgery. It was not a fun time. Then, Kate walked into the room, turned off the television, took my iPhone from the table next to my bed, and seized my iPad.

"What gives?" I asked. "I didn't want you to find out from someone else," she replied. Those are words you definitely don't want to hear. My mind started racing. Was my embolism out of control? Did the pathology report indicate more cancer? I just stared into Kate's eyes, which I normally do with admiration for their beauty but now with concern. She placed her hands on my shoulders, put her face next to mine, and whispered: "Steve Jobs just died." Oh God. Not him. Not now. Tears welled up in my eyes, streamed down my cheek, and as I lay in that hospital bed, I felt the same might happen to me.

Jobs had been a huge influence on my life. For the longest time, it was as a consumer of his many products by Apple. I had used Macintosh computers since the late 1980s, and more recently the i-suite: iPods, iPhones, iPads. I always loved the design of these products and their ease of use. Moreover, as an early Apple customer, I liked being part of a counter-culture. There is something in me that bonds with underdogs over favorites, and in computing Apple was my underdog, introducing me to others who shared the same bond. And I would always buy the latest product from Apple, and rejoice in what it allowed me to do and how it made me feel.

I also admired Jobs' relentless pursuit of perfection, the trust he had in his own instincts, and not taking the easy way out by seeking consensus or ruffling feathers. A feather ruffler, he was. A true dichotomy: he could be a real jerk in how he treated people, yet he also could motivate them to do incredible things. Apple had been a deep part of my personality, and Jobs had been Apple.

But fancy gadgets aside, I grew to root for Jobs for another reason: he had pancreatic cancer. Initially, my rooting had a bit of selfishness to it. Jobs ran the company I loved the most, and I wanted to him to continue innovating great products I want to use. His disease tormented him for roughly seven years. And at each Apple event, I would see the physical toll that cancer and its treatments were taking on his body. The strong, fit genius began to show up looking much thinner and gaunt. His trademark black turtleneck shirt looked quite a bit bigger on his body. The jeans he normally wore began to fall off him. His face lost a good amount of its normal color.

Having seen his physical deterioration, my feelings began to change. Um, Jim, it's not about Stevo being around so you can continue to get more fun stuff. Instead, I began to feel admiration, true admiration, for Jobs as a human being. What he must be going through, no one should have to endure. And yet, he keeps going and going. What inner strength he must have! I didn't know the ins and outs of his condition, surgeries and treatments, but, wow, man, am I rooting for you.

Then I was diagnosed with advanced bladder cancer. And my whole relationship with Jobs changed again. Now, I knew. In the months and more ahead, I knew what the disease, treatments and surgeries do to a body, mind and spirit. They utter destroy you. Now, I knew. And so I began to follow Jobs' life from a whole different perspective. I read more about his condition and his treatments. I held my breath when I learned he was taking a medical leave from Apple. I grew scared when I learned of his cancer spreading. But then he returned to Apple, to roll out the latest, great product, and I felt totally uplifted. If he can survive his cancer, maybe I can, too. And if he can't...

My bond with Jobs was now as a cancer patient, and the outcomes of Jobs and other cancer patients affected my mind. I breathed more easily when I heard good stories from survivors. I took it hard when others died. And so when August 2011 came amount, I read that Jobs had given up the CEO position and said he'd become chairman. While many in the media wondered what this transition meant for Apple's future, I simply wanted to know what it meant for Steve. Is he going to be ok?

I didn't have much time to ponder the question. Within weeks, I entered the hospital for the surgery that would both save my life and almost kill me. My recovery was filled with agony and complications. So I wasn't thinking about Jobs as much as I would have liked. But he was there: Kate first knew something was wrong -- the early signs on my embolism -- when she saw me hallucinating: I was navigating an iPad with my fingers, but there was no iPad. Later, on that fateful day, she told me the news about Steve. Once I finally got home, my boys bought me a poster of Steve for inspiration, as I struggled with a long, difficult recovery and lifestyle adjustment.

Three years later, it is still difficult to think that a person so strong and so vibrant, a mind so powerful, could be struck down by a disease. But, you know what, that is life. Life is finite, and something ultimately will take us all. Our purpose, my purpose, it to make the most of each day. We don't know how many we have, so we shouldn't waste them. Each morning, I thank God for giving me that particular day. I decide what I am going to do that day to make things better for my wife and kids. I spend the day determined to have one, unique experience that puts a smile on someone else's face or one on my own. And I reflect on those moments at night. Then God willing, I get to get up and do it again.

At his last event with Apple, this one announcing the second generation iPad and right after I had been just diagnosed, Jobs wrapped up his keynote with something special: he spoke of his admiration for the families of his employees. He knew how hard his staff worked to make the latest Apple gadget great, and that their efforts had perhaps deprived them of more time with those they loved. He wanted to say he appreciated all of them, and would look to help them going forward. Jobs' last public moment was not a marketing pitch. It was not a technology vision or a cultural comment. It was about family.

Three years later, there is one less person in the family.

Friday
Jan242014

29. Adjustment

Cancer survivors are different than other people. Not better. Not worse. Just, um, different. Many cancer survivors, and others who have had serious medical problems, live in a world that few others we know have experienced: what it's like to face the prospect of near-term death, and then been given a (temporary) reprieve. The short-hand I use to describe my situation is Life 2.0. It is life, of course. But, to use a sports analogy, it's a whole new ballgame.

People see me now, see that I look just about the same physically, and conclude that my life has been restored to normal. They don't see the body parts that are no longer there, leaving me with alternatives (if that) that sometimes can be a struggle to use. They don't see the mark left by the experiences I endured just to have a shot at life. They think of me as cured, when I actually live with the threat of recurrence.

In this sense, I am not surprised nor judgmental. What I have noticed is that people tend to think linerally and in relatable categories. When they see cancer survivors, they see our life arc as Normal, Crisis, Normal. This is the only way they can relate to us. They understand Normal, as in our lives pre-diagnosis. And they understand Crisis: an event has occurred, and it is bad. They get that, if only from a detached point of view. When they see you again, with you having emerged from crisis, they relate to you as back to normal. That is their frame of reference. When colleagues at work ask me how I'm doing, I sometimes reply: "Well, I'm still here." To them, "still here" means still at the company, and they nod. I actually mean something quite different.

These and other people are unable to see that I live in a different category now. Physically and mentally, I am in a space that is not Crisis but is not Normal. For lack of a better word, I call it Adjustment.

Physically, the illness and surgeries have imposed life-style changes. Certain bodily functions are more complicated to perform than my previous normal. My body is more prone to infections, dehyrdration and weakness. Mentally, sometimes I am brought back to that terrible time, triggered by learning of another person with cancer or, innocently enough, the sound of an advertising chime I heard a lot when I was sick. For a moment, my body tenses up and my heart beats a bit faster.

Another difference from Normal: since I must deal with the possibility of recurrence, I go through more medical scrutiny than others. Since my new systems malfunction from time to time, I see a lot of medical mechanics in white coats and blue gowns. As a result, I spend more of my time at the doctor and hospital than, say, the latest happy hour.

For instance, in 2013, I had 56 medical appointments. Some were routine, involving blood draws for the millioneth time. Others fixed, or attempted to fix, a problem or side-effect. Still others were one of many addressing a bigger problem, which culminated in yet another surgery. Case in point: in the fall of 2013, I suffered from a urinary track infection, a common and sometimes serious side-effect of my condition. Perhaps coincidentally, at the same time, my neobladder stopped working altogether. Welcome back to the hospital.

Other appointments have been easy on the body, but tough on the mind. Each time I visit the oncologist or surgeon, I sit in the waiting room and a weird feeling comes over me. Memories of the past. Then, when I meet with the doctor, I hold my breath before I hear the results of the latest body scan or blood test. The doctors even want to know about seemingly normal aches and pains, because some can be an indicator of recurrence. And, inevitably, I am sent for more tests. The Circle of Life. I can see how some cancer survivors become hypochondriacs.

Still, there have been lighter moments. At a recent visit with my oncologist, he said that if my remission continued another year, my odds for long-term survival jump to 75 percent or so. Hey, that's great, I said. But...weren't we talking about the same odds a couple years ago, only in the negative direction? Do I get to choose which 75 percent I believe in? Whatever happened to that "statistic of one"? He smiled. I smiled. But we both knew.

This is kinda the life I now have. I don't recount it here to complain about my condition. After all, I have been given a shot at extended life. And that's been worth all the suffering, trauma and life-style changes I've had to endure. Instead, I recount all this to explain how I, and possibily others like me, live in a stage of life, Adjustment, that exists somewhere between Normal and Crisis.

Others cannot really process the concept of my adjustment, mostly because it requires a rather extensive knowledge of the situation and the abiity to relate to it. To many outside my circle of family and friends, they cannot relate to the former, and they have strained capacity for the latter. The result: many casual relationships, those formed by common experiences or interests, have become weaker. We simply have less in common.

The flipside: my relationships with family and close friends have become stronger. I'm more engaged in others' lives, and they with me. Recently, Stephen suffered a concussion, believed it was 2012 and not 2014, and worryingly asked Kate, "Where's Dad?" thinking I might be in the hospital or worse. (He's better now.) It tells you a lot when that's one of his initial thoughts during an experience like that. For me, I spend much more time thinking about how I can help my boys transition to adulthood.

Also, I have this newfound ability to relate to people with medical difficulties. Indeed, friends seek me out just for this reason. I've joined the club of cancer survivors, and developed a nice bond with them. Compared to others, we speak a different language, focus on different things, and gain enjoyment from different experiences. As I've mentioned before, cancer survivors are a great club to belong to, but you don't want to pay the admission fee.

So my experiences have shifted the composition of people I interact with and where I invest my energy. Much less involvement with a large number of situational relationships based on experiences that are no longer important to me. Much more with those inside my extended family, select cancer survivors with whom I share a new bond, and new friendships I've developed during my recovery. The common threads? Less time spent on transitory matters. More time spent on fewer, core matters of life and how to live it.

Another change: changing for change sake. When Kate floated the idea of moving to a different house, I thought about the economics of the decision but also about leaving behind the past. We moved. When I looked at my car and its maintenance costs but also its own illness-laden memories, I did exactly the same thing. Gone. One area I decided to keep for a time: work. When I went back to work in 2012, I knew I needed to remain at the same employer into 2014. Then, and only then, would I, as someone with a pre-existing medical condition, no longer risk being denied health insurance if I changed employers. (Obamacare created this new protection.) Now the calendar has turned, opening up options for me.

Life 2.0 is about building a new life, embracing a new appreciation for it, and introducing change where and when I can. It means carefully selecting which elements of my past to bring into my future, and closing the book on everything else. But all these decisions and changes don't happen all at once. They take time. In this sense, Adjustment seems like a transition state to something better. I haven't fully gotten there yet. But when I do, I'll let you know what it's like.

Monday
Jan202014

28. Reminded

Every time I hear about it, I'm reminded

Every time someone dies from it, I'm reminded

Every time I go to the doctor, I'm reminded

Every time I see my scars, I'm reminded

Every time I get a pain I can't explain, I'm reminded

Every time I pack my bag for the day, I'm reminded

Every time I visit the restroom, I'm reminded

Every time I prepare for bed, I'm reminded

Every time I wonder what survival odds really mean, I'm reminded

Every time I realize I can fall asleep now, I'm reminded

Every time I go to an event I couldn't before, I'm reminded

Every time I see beauty in the sky, I'm reminded

Every time I exercise my weakened body, I'm reminded

Every time I see how Kate still bears emotional scars, I'm reminded

Every time I'm alone in the house, I'm reminded

Every time I lay awake in the dark, I'm reminded

Every time I talk to God, I'm reminded

And I wonder if it will ever leave me

Saturday
Apr202013

27. Role Reversal

Kate and I were up early this particular morning, Time for another drive to the hospital. Yet another surgery.

As the car motored down the road, I wondered how the surgery might go. How long would it take? Would previous problems make the surgery more difficult? What kind of recovery are we looking at?

This surgery was to be done at Fair Oaks hospital in Fairfax, Va., and not at my usual haunt, Loudoun Hospital. So it took a while to figure out where to park and, once in the hospital, where to go. But cancer patients must have a kind of GPS in them, pushing them to the right places no matter the hospital. And so it was in this case.

Lo and behold, there was the surgery area. A bit nicer than the one at Loudoun Hospital, but largely the same. My sister Cathy was already there, sitting in the waiting area, reminding me of that night, after my major surgery, when I awoke oh-so-briefly in the ICU to see her sitting next to my hospital bed. Soon, Cathy would be joined by two more sisters, Chris and Joan. And then my mom emerged from behind a door. A family affair, to be sure.

As a group, we talked about the surgery. If no complications reared their head, it could be a pretty straightforward one. Of course, the last time I had that thought before a seemingly easy surgery, Dr. Schenk came out of the operation concerned that my cancer had returned. So in our family conversation, I didn't take anything for granted. And neither did anyone else. My mom's face looked especially worried.

Now, it was time to prep for surgery. Time for us to part ways. Only this time it was not me walking through that door that said "patients only." It was my mom. For this surgery was to be not on me, but my dad. My role, as well as my sisters', was to sit in the waiting room until everything was done.

What led us to the hospital this day? Several weeks back, my dad had herniated a disc in his lower back, causing incredible pain that began just above his bottom and ran all the way down one leg. I knew of this feeling, having had two back operations. I reached out to my mom, explaining that if the surgery went as planned, my dad could well wake up and discover the searing pain completely gone from his body.

My dad had already lived an amazing life. He, like my mom, grew up during the Great Depression, an experience that forever shaped their outlook. Once World War II broke out, he volunteered for the Navy, offering his expertise as a medical doctor in training. Providing medical care to returning servicemen also would define my dad's future. Once the war was over, he finished medical school, with my mom the chemist as the bread winner during this time, became a neurologist, and joined the Veterans Administration hospital system, where he spent the totality of his professional career, initially in New York where my parents were born and raised, briefly in Philadelphia, and then for 50-plus years in Washington, D.C.

During his career, my dad specialized in medical care for patients afflicted by multiple sclerosis, or M.S. for short. He conducted studies spanning decades and decades, offering a rather novel conclusion that M.S., long thought to be a hereditary disease, also could be contracted through a virus, a finding that still sparks controversy in the medical community. As part of his research, he developed a scale to help physicians match specific forms of treatment to specific stages of the disease, which is progressive. The scale, known as the Kurtzke Disability Scale, is one of the standards in medical care to this day.

I first learned of my dad's scale during remarks made by colleagues at his retirement ceremony. Having fathered eight children, I thought the scale referred to the dysfunctionality of his offspring. When I mentioned this to him later, he smiled and looked out in the distance, as if intrigued by the notion. But, no, he reminded me, it was indeed for something else.

My parents have quite the relationship. It's hard for me, or any of my siblings, to think of one without the other. When I had cancer, and in the Zombie-like state caused by chemotherapy, Kate took me over to my parents house. It was a quiet night, with few lights on, due to the light of the long summer day, and barely a noise to be heard. My mom, of course, made dinner for all of us, of which I ate very little. This being my first foray outside my house since I began treatments, I could barely hold myself up in a chair. But what I witnessed was special.

My parents talked of the days early in their marriage. Their first apartment, which was not elaborate. Their first dinners, even less elaborate. Their definition of entertainment, which hardly lived up to the word. Throughout the talk, I saw on display the special connection that my parents have with each other. The affectionate glances, the warm touches, the harmless rolling eyes, the gleeful laughs. These two have lived a life many of us would envy. It hasn't been always easy, far from it -- I always wondered how my parents raised so many kids on a public-sector salary -- but their love is very real. And it has made everything they've done together possible. My mind could barely process anything that night, but I did process that.

Because I had gone though the pain and treatment that my dad was now experiencing, in the weeks leading up to surgery I would counsel my mom on how to help my dad. Make sure he took the steroid pack, the initial treatment to relieve inflamation around the nerves. If this doesn't work, the doctor will send dad to get cortisone injections directly into the affected area. Three sessions is the rule of thumb, and don't put off any session.

If the injections didn't relieve the pain, get surgery scheduled as soon as possible, I urged. For goodness sake, don't wait. In my first back surgery, which plagued my mid-1990s, I waited way too long and ended up with permanent problems. But in my second, 10 years later, it could not have gone any better. That's because I didn't wait. What's more, the surgeon who would operate on my dad is the same who gave me relief years before. So, mom, you should feel good about that.

Throughout my dad's painful ordeal, I found myself playing a very different role. No longer the patient, I was the advisor and comforter. Actually, my brother Bob, the second neurologist in our family, my dad being the first, was the true advisor. His help, indispensable as always, came in the form of telling my folks the standard of care and getting my dad to see his friend and surgeon, Dr. Tushar Patel, as quickly as possible, no small feat in our modern-day medical system.

My advice, though, came from experience as a back surgery patient, perhaps the first time in a long time that I thought of something medical without cancer being the subject of it. A different, and welcome, experience, to be sure. Of course, what I didn't know was how a patient 86 years old would fare once his body was cut into. My dad, not uncommon for someone in these elder years, had medical issues that could complicate the surgery. A respiratory system weakened by Legionnaire's pneumonia, which had almost killed him. A pulmonary system plagued by embolism. And the natural erosion of protective muscle that affects someone advanced in years.

While I thought the surgery could be pretty straightforward, the worried look on my mom's face was an informed expression of caution. My mom emerged again, which meant that my dad had been wheeled out of the prep area, down the hall, and into the operating room, a route I knew well by now. Together, we sat and waited.

People in the waiting room have a different experience than the patient, of course. You're awake, obviously, and not put to sleep, much less have your body opened up. It seems odd to talk about something else, because something else pales in significance to what is occurring on the other side of that door. Some walk around or pace. Others grab a bite to eat, which makes sense since many surgeries are performed during breakfast hours. But, mostly, people just try to make time go by. No rhyme or reason to how. Just that it occurs.

I reflected on a prior hospital stay of my dad's, when he barely escaped from pneumonia. One night, he coded, and as luck or God would have it, right at the time that Bob had stopped by. Bob immediately summoned the doctors and nurses, stabilized my dad, and rushed him down to the ICU, where he was sedated and a breathing tube inserted into him. Days later, the doctors woke him up and removed the tube. But they didn't know for sure whether my dad had suffered any lasting damage.

"What's your name?" "Do you know where you are?" they asked. Groggy and sore, my dad struggled to respond, which slowly improved with time. That's the thing about patients under sedation or in pain, our mind doesn't have an on-off switch -- it's more like a slow, gradual focus, much like adjusting a picture with a camera, and that's if you're lucky -- a fact seemingly ignored by doctors everywhere.

Later, I asked my dad, "Who is President?" He turned his head, contorted his face, and said "Clinton,' which was correct, followed by a loud belch. I took that not as a sign of the pent-up air in my dad"s body, but as a political comment, he being no fan of the White House occupant, "He's fine," I concluded.

Back to the present day, about an hour had gone by, and Dr. Patel came through the door. Tushar is a handsome, tall, dark man. So much so that one of my woman friends seeks out Tushar every time she has a orthopedic problem. The verdict? Surgery is complete, my dad is resting, and the nerve pain likely is gone. That's all good news. But he wasn't finished.

One problem occurred during surgery, which will affect my dad's post-op treatment and recovery. To get to the disc area, Tushar had to retract a layer of protective material around the spine, which upon touch tore open and disintegrated. That was the wild card of operating on someone so old. Just plain wear and tear. The tear resulted in spinal fluid being released, which in a healthy person remains sealed in a sack.

The impact: my dad had to lay absolutely flat on his back for several days, with any incline in his bed to carefully managed, initially by nurses and later by my mom. But, after a while, the sack, put back together by Tushar, should heal and my dad otherwise okay. So, good result with a curveball, if you will.

Tushar wasn't finished. Now, it was the two of us talking about my condition. For the past several weeks, I had experienced an odd pain in an odd part of my back, roughly in the middle and to the left. It occurred when I voided my neobladder. The pain was not as severe as my dad's, just a twinge. I thought it was just a muscle pull related to learning how to use the new contraption in my pelvic area.

However, pain around the spine or kidneys is not something that doctors take lightly with a cancer patient. So I was put through a battery of tests, which identified something called an arachnoid cyst, which on the c-scan looked like a piece of Lego lodged next to my spine. I talked with Tushar about it over the phone a few times, and was examined by his physician assistant. He didn't believe the cyst to be cancerous -- good -- but to remove it, if it needed to be removed, would not be easy. Rather than go through my back, as with other forms of back surgery, instead my chest would be cracked open. Not good. But Tushar would have the final say.

In the waiting room, we stepped aside from my mom and sisters to discuss the situation. His conclusion: no need for an operation, no need for worry. The pain would likely go away on its own, which happened almost once he commanded it, and the cyst likely would not grow in size. If either happened, he'd revisit the diagnosis. But in the meantime, enjoy the fact that "you're one of us." One of us? Initially, I thought he was referring to being a friend of Bob's. But then he looked at me in the eyes a bit longer and finished his thought: "among the living." I hadn't talked with Tushar while I was coping with cancer. But he kept asking Bob about how I was doing. Today, he could finally express his support in person.

Relieved that I still belonged to Tushar's club, it was time to check on my dad. As I approached the doorway, I could see my dad, laying flat on his back, as directed, and my mom helping him drink. It was odd to enter a hospital room with the bed intended for someone else. But then I realized why I was there: to provide comfort and reassurance to my dad. Quite a role reversal from my prior hospital time.

He was still foggy from the anesthesia, and still deaf in one ear, a condition outside the scope of this particular surgery. I leaned over him and began to talk through his immediate recovery. Was the back pain gone? Yes, he thought. That's good, it means the surgery worked. From here, his focus needed to be on protecting his spinal sack, of course. After that, it meant building muscle strength around the disc, which would take time, so don't rush it. But he should be up and dancing afterwards, which made him laugh.

He needed to void his bladder, but my mom struggled with helping him. Hey, I know this stuff pretty well, I thought. So I gently took the pee bottle from my mom's hands, and proceeded to do what needed to be done. I cleaned up, my mom placed my dad's sheet back over his upper body, and he looked relaxed.

Then he talked about my recovery. His spoke with true wonder about how surviving advanced bladder cancer and having a neobladder inserted into my body was "a miracle." This was not the first time he expressed this sentiment to me. But it was clearly important for him to say at this particular time.

I responded by telling him what I learned. I had confronted the prospect of near-term death, and been given a reprieve. But I know I'll be back there again, hopefully not for a while, and the big task for me was making good use of the days in between. I don't want to waste a single day. My dad, 86 years old and weak from surgery, summoned enough strength to make a point. With eyes glistening with emotion, he touched my hand and said: "I still have things I'd like to do, too."

Yes, you do, dad.

Saturday
Mar232013

26. Is It a Gift?

Not exactly the word I would use to describe cancer. But I see her point.