More Good News (or really the lack of any news)

We met with the oncologist today.  Blood results came back and everything was in the ideal range.  Tumor markers have returned to their normal levels; kidneys, iron, white blood cell count, etc. are all fine.  So, thankfully there is nothing to report.  Next week, I return for my final round of chemo.  Around the end of February, I will have another CT scan done to see what residual masses, if any, remain; of course, the less, the better.

Then, best case scenario, I will go on a long-term regime of surveillance.  The doctor didn't discuss this, but from what I have read online, this consists of regular blood tests and CT scans.  Worst case (ok, maybe not WORST case,) I would need the "chicken dinner" surgery to remove any remaining masses.  I call it the chicken dinner because it reminds me of cleaning a chicken.  The masses would be removed from the lymph nodes and possibly lungs.  This would most likely be performed laparoscopically, thank goodness.  Apparently there are a few doctors in San Diego who perform this surgery, but hopefully that is a bridge I won't even see.

So that's the latest and greatest, and I couldn't have asked for better news.

Because Inquiring Minds (seem) to Want to Know...

Ok, I've been thinking about this post for a while.  From various half-asked questions and comments, I am guessing that there are those of you out there that would like some more particulars about various aspects of TC, chemo etc.  So here we go, we'll start with the juicier tidbits.  If discussion of intimate body parts and functions disturbs you, blur your eyes and scroll down to the cuddly teddy bear and continue thereafter.

For the original surgery to remove the testicular tumor, the urologist makes a slice in the groin, basically in the pubes about where your underwear band rests.  The cut is not made in the scrotum because the surgeon doesn't want to risk disturbing and thereby possibly spreading the tumor.  In my mind's eye, I then see the surgeon reeling in the errant testicle by the cords, but I didn't ask and don't like to dwell on that level of detail!

After the surgery, for 99%+ of all TC conquerors you still have one good, working testicle.  Problem is the bad one was stealing more than it's fair share of blood in its attempt to take over your body, so chances are the good one has possibly shrunk and hasn't been pulling its weight for awhile.  Good news is (here's a thankful shout out to the ever resourceful and thoughtful Mother Nature) once the bad one has been removed, your brain realizes something's wrong and it's time for the remaining boy to kick up both testosterone and sperm production.  So for the vast majority of men, after a few months, sperm and testosterone production tend to kick up to fairly normal levels.  Bottom line, I shouldn't need testosterone supplements and the sperm is doing just fine thank you very much.  Although, apparently during chemo, the sperm is toxic, therefore condoms are certainly a man's (and a woman's) best friend.

Let's talk hair.  As shown in previous posts, the stuff on your head starts coming out in clumps, so I took the initiative and shaved it all off. It keeps trying to come back, but I am fairly certain it would look horrific so I shave it off every week or so.  Facial hair has thinned too, I couldn't grow a decent mustache or beard at this point.

On to other bodily hair.  My eyebrows, eye lashes and arm hair seems mostly unaffected.  Chest and underarm hair has thinned maybe by 50%.  Pubes and upper leg hair by 70% or so.  It's lower legs are an odd story.  The inside of the calves is mostly unchanged, outside though the hair is completely worn off.  Maybe it's from rubbing against my pants or something.

Chemo time.  Because I will have a total of 20 days of chemo treatments, and the drugs are so caustic they burn the veins, I opted to have a port implanted in my chest.  Here's what it looks like before being implanted:

That circle-shaped part is about the size of a Hershey's Kiss with the top bit off (it all comes back to chocolate with me).  The port is implanted just under the skin and the catheter runs directly into a vein near the heart.

Here's what my port looks like today (complete with shaved chest from when they implanted it):

That bruised-looking area under the scar is where the port sits under the skin.  There's a slight lump under the skin, but that's really the only indication that it's there. When I go in for chemo the nurse sanitizes the lump with alcohol, sprays it with a coolant and jabs a needle like this into the port:

Frankly, it doesn't hurt much and I never feel it when they take it out.  I love having the port.  It saves the nurse from searching for a vein each time I go in and it frees up my arms and hands from having tubes in them while I am in chemo.  Maybe psychologically it helps too because I can't really see it when going through chemo. I really just see a tube going into my chest and that's it.

I hope that this helps answer some niggling questions that have been out there.  I will soon post on what an average chemo day is like.  Drop a line if you'd like a specific topic/question addressed.  Thank you all for your love and support!

Round 3 is Over!

Yesterday marked the end of Round 3.  It has been different than I anticipated.  No horrible hiccups this time.  I think I've learned to keep the nausea under control when it tries to fool me sneaking up in the guise of hunger pains.  The big change this time has been fatigue.  Not sleepiness, just simple, deep fatigue.  Thursday during chemo, I did nothing but kick back, close my eyes and sleep/rest on and off. Yesterday was slightly better, but sometimes the fatigue is so deep that reading emails and talking is just too much.  So, I have been taking it fairly easy.  We both crashed last night around 8:30 and called it a week!

I will post more soon, but wanted to give a quick update.  Looking forward to two weeks off and slowly building back to normal.  I meet again with the oncologist in a little under two weeks.  Interested in what he has to say.  He had mentioned the possibility of running a CT scan possibly before or during Round 4, presumably to get a visual of how things look on the inside.

Thanks as always for the comments, emails and cards.  We are doing well, things are looking great and, for the moment, it's a race to the end of chemo!

Round 3 Begins With Great News!

We met with the oncologist yesterday before beginning day 1 of Round 3.  He said that the blood test results came back fine and that the blood tumor markers have returned to normal.  Of the various tumor marker levels tested, he only had the HCG levels which started at 7,808 pre-chemo, fell to 89 after the first round of chemo and have fallen back to the normal range of  less than 2 after the second round of chemo.  Great news!  Only down side is I can't test positive for a pregnancy test anymore.  That's ok, I will pass up on that experience in exchange for a cure.  All the other numbers looked good too.  So, we hold the course through two more rounds of chemo.  If the pattern holds true, tonight is the night for hiccups from hell.  If the previous cures don't work (touching my toes while holding my breath, reclining on the bed, etc.) I have a medicine to take.  Frankly though, I am loathe to take anything I don't have to.

What TC post surgery and half-way through chemo is really like

People often ask how I am feeling or how things are going.  They are understandable questions and the underlying sentiment is one of genuine concern.  Trouble is there is no easy answer.  I have found that my previous vocabulary doesn't quite work to describe current experiences, feelings and bodily functions/responses.  Sounds fun doesn't it.

It's similar to someone who has spent her/his whole life playing chess.  You've learned the rules, the various strategies, attacks and defenses, etc.  You derive great pleasure out of playing with various opponents and the accompanying banter.  You lose as much as you win, but that's all in the game.

Then you wake up one morning and the rook has been mysteriously replaced with a toilet paper role.  That's OK, after all you can figure out what to do with it.  Each day though another piece gets replaced, until eventually all the original pieces are gone, replaced by random odds and ends.  Some have disappeared completely.

It takes just about all the concentration you can muster to keep track of what the pieces might be.  Then the board itself changes to a circle that occasionally spins.  The rules continue to change as well, sometimes several at the same time, sometimes reverting to the norm. Your opponents don't see any changes; everything has remained the same for them.  They can understand that something has changed for you, but are unable to see it for themselves.

So how have the rules changed?  In no particular order:

• acid relux
• hurting gums
• nausea (still not sure if that's the right word for it.)
• hellish hiccups (worst side effect by far)
• gas
• fatigue
• physical weakness
• crazy cravings for fat and salt
• sweet things no longer sound appetizing
• tinnitus
• random digits going numb/twitching
• hair thinning (to use the doctor's words)
• variations in stool ;)
• slight memory loss
• a port in my chest
• 4 inch scar in the groin
• numbness on the inside of sensitive body parts
• oh yeah, and missing a testicle!

All of these aren't present all the time and usually by the end of my two weeks off, most (but clearly not all!) have disappeared.  So there you have it.  All in all I can't complain because we are beating this thing and it could be so much worse.  But just because it could be worse, doesn't make it a picnic either.

Halfway there!

So round 2 wrapped up last week on Monday with a follow-up white blood cell booster shot the next day.  Thursday was the first day in two weeks where I didn't have to go to the hospital to be poked or pricked for something.  Frankly, that's one of the best things of being on an off week, actually being able to do something for my lunch break.  Granted, I haven't done anything more exciting than flop down on the couch in my office and take a nap, but that sure beats blowing an hour to have my blood drawn.

Me in all my bald glory.

I think I am getting used to being bald.  It still surprises me when I reach up to brush something aside and don't find hair, but I have broken myself of trying to wash my hair in the shower and being worried about bedhead when I wake up from a nap.  I haven't shaved it since we first did it two weeks ago.  The hair is putting forth a valiant effort in trying to come back, but I suspect it would be pretty patchy.  The gray hairs grow the fastest.  Maybe tonight I will lather it up again and shave it clean. 

There is at least one upside, everyone tells me I look younger, much younger.  One of the chemo nurses said he had been staring at me and my bald head all day, trying to remember who I reminded him of.  He finally decided it was Ricky Schroder.  Now, that was a blast from the past.  I got that so often in middle school that my parents and I had this schtick down where I would hear a gaggle of girls following me in a mall pointing and whispering, "There's Ricky!" I would give my dad a signal and he'd say fairly loudly, "Come on Ricky" and one of the girls would normally faint from an overdose of teen estrogen or whatever causes such excitement.

Lord Google Image couldn't oblige me with any pictures of Ricky bald, so I did up my own with Paint (hands-down the best free program to come with a PC).  I leave it to you, dear reader, to pass judgment as to any resemblance.  Either way, I'll take it as a compliment.

Pick the real Ricky...