August 22, 2002|

Happy Birthday Art!

‘Happy six months old Art!’ That’s what you all should be saying to me. Technically, I’m 24 years old and my birthday is February 28. Truthfully though I was reborn six months ago when I was injected with my brother Billy’s stem cells.

To celebrate the occasion I didn’t receive a cake, a card, or even a present. Instead, I had an all day affair at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. At 8:35am, I was injected with radioactive insulin for my PET Scan. So much for staying radioactive-free on my birthday. At 3:45pm, I polished off the last drips of my Crystal Lite & Contrast mixture for my CT Scan. At 3:55pm, I was injected with the IV Contrast. So much for staying Contrast-free on my birthday.

Truthfully I was scared and am scared. The scans, ah, they’re cake. It’s waiting for the results that make the heart pound, the adrenaline flow and the mind race. The wheezing in my lungs, what could that be? And how about the pain along my spine, could the cancer have returned? Why has it taken me a month to get over a silly head cold? Why haven’t I gained any weight? Will I ever be healthy? Will I make it to see my next real birthday? The questions had been circling like sharks for the past two weeks. Tuesday. Is it possible to wait that long?

An Involuntary Reaction

The accordion player could have been a corpse for all I know. At first glance I thought it really was a skeleton wearing a seer-suckered suit, bifocals and mesh ball cap. A cheesy teethy grin lingered on his face. The light breeze from the bay could have been bristling his fingers against the keys. The stiff crosswind from the ocean, only 200 yards away from the makeshift stage where he sat, could have been the propelling force needed for the expanding and contracting motion of his arms. The two other members of the band didn’t look dead, but they didn’t look so hot either. They must have all been octogenarians. It was a peculiar sight to see that sunny Sunday afternoon.

When the trio launched into their first song, a smile crept upon my face. It was an involuntary reaction. Filled with worry, a frown doting my face, I had been battling the sharks. But the music, it almost made me giggle. The pace was slightly faster than a crawl, for arthritic hands can only move so fast. The guitarist strummed softly. The accordionist twinkled in and out. The drummer sang. ‘When Irish eyes are smiling…’ I couldn’t help but smile.

I was fastened to my bench. I wasn’t afraid of losing it-there were only seven people in the crowd- but I was enchanted. I must have looked strange- a twenty-something boy, sitting alone on a bench, grinning from ear-to-ear.

A few songs later the group played ‘Happy Birthday’ for an older gentleman seated near me who looked like Abe Simpson, bolo and all. The gentleman bounced up, grabbed a girl and did a lil’ jitterbug to everyone’s delight. ‘Good ol’ boy is 97 today!’ the drummer announced. I couldn’t help but smile.

The band took a break. It’s not easy to play five straight songs with arthritic hands. I went to the arcade and played skeeball and pop-a-shot basketball. I gave the tickets I had won to a cute four-year-old girl. By the look on her face, you would have thought I gave her gold. I couldn’t help but smile.

The band was back on, joined by another old coot playing a trombone. They were really jamming now. A crowd of twenty had formed. The 97 year old rose again and boogied. A father waltzed with his little girl. The rest of the audience cheered in delight. I couldn’t help but smile.

It was a little sad for me to leave Ventura Harbor that day. I still had to drive up to Santa Barbara that afternoon. I opened the door to my rental car, a PT Cruiser with wood paneling. I couldn’t help but smile. I rolled down the windows, cranked the CD player and drove along the California coast at 70 MPH. The sun was shining, the ocean was glimmering and the mountains were looming in the distance. For the afternoon the sharks had gone away. And I couldn’t help but smile.

August 14, 2002|

Farewell to My Tube

Today was a glorious day. After 186 days of bondage I was let free. Rather it was let free. Yank, yank, yank…pull! All it took was forty minutes, two pairs of scissors, three vials of Novocain and strong-armed Nurse Practioner named Joon.

You see for 186 days I have had a triple lumen Broviac catheter lodged in my chest. The white tubing extended internally from the largest vein in my neck to six inches above my nipple. From there it dangled externally to my waist. It was a completely necessary device, especially given the amount of medication and fluids I have received in the past few months. It was a bother, though. You ever tried sleeping with a tube in your chest? Twice, in the middle of the night no less, I tossed and turned, consequently twisting the tube underneath me, tearing the stitches attaching the tube to my skin. Twice. Then there was the one time when I played basketball and bruised it. And I couldn’t even count the number of times I stepped on it accidentally. Through all of those misfortunes, I never felt any pain. It had literally become a part of me. Will I miss it? Sure, but not for very long. Now I can return to playing contact sports. And now I can take off my shirt off without scaring little kids…uh…maybe not. Dang I need to gain weight!

Solitary Drinking

Since June 14, 2001, I have not partaken in the consumption of alcohol. On that fateful night, I had a glass of champagne to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Twenty minutes later my lymph nodes were causing me so much pain that I had to leave. I hopped on a subway, grimacing and wincing in agony the entire ride home. Thankfully I had an emergency stash of pain pills which subsided the discomfort. From thenceforth I vowed not to drink alcohol and have steadily consumed cranberry juice on the rocks in its place. (NOTE: I never was and never will be a “big drinker.” One glass of Merlot is my limit. I nurse that baby all night long.)

So Monday afternoon I did an experiment. I took a drive down to the local liquor store, purchasing a bottle of mid-level quality Merlot which the salesperson recommended. Why go cheap? Celebrate! But why go expensive? If there’s pain you certainly don’t want to drink the rest of the bottle.

I arrived home and busted out the corkscrew. I tried my darndest to open the bottle without breaking the cork. Being out of practice, I split the sucker in half. Could this be an ominous sign?

I sat down at my computer, half glass of wine in hand, preparing to do my e-mails for the day. For three hours I sipped, waited and typed. Nothing. Not even a twinge of pain. Other than the slurred speech and lack of dexterity, my experiment was a success. Seriously though, could this be a foreshadowing of good news from my PET and CT Scans next week? Stayed tuned to find out!

The Birth of Q-Tip Canning

Y’all can just call me Q. As in Q-tip. As in I look like a Q-tip. That’s what I have been hearing lately. Monday I received a lesson on living with curly hair from a local curly hair expert. Her introductory advice- “Embrace the curls.” We then moved on to a half-hour long discussion of product, style and history. “You missed out on the awkward curly hair phase. Junior high school was especially rough. Bad hair cut, curls everywhere, kids being cruel, you missed out. Q-Tip, embrace the curls. You were given a gift. Embrace the curls.”

There is a rumor to dispel in all of this. I did not get a perm. OK, so it looks like a perm. On bad hair days I feel like an aged 80’s rocker minus the Van Halen shirt. It’s out of control afro-ness, but it’s all-natural. No perms for this boy.

D-Day is Everyday

I also learned this week that the creator of www.curehodgkins.com, Matt Terry, passed away on May 26, 2002. Truthfully, I didn’t really know Matt. We had exchanged e-mails a few years ago, linking our web sites. That was the extent of our relationship.

When I read the e-mail from his mother detailing what happened, my heart sunk. It’s hard to verbalize my thoughts and feelings on this subject. I can only picture it and even then it is metaphoric form.

In my mind, I visualize all of the people I know battling cancer. Vividly I see a scene reminiscent of the beaches of Normandy. We are out at war. I look around and see fellow patients. They are not friends, though. They are more. They are fellow soldiers and comrades. There is an unexplainable bond that unites us.

I glance to my side and see those who entered the war the same time I did. Some are still alive and fighting while others are down and injured. A few have fallen, never to arise again. A few have successfully navigated the beach, therefore ending their tour of duty. They are no longer in battle and you rejoice for them. Some later though, unfortunately, are called back into action. Regardless, we band of cancer patients are all fighting and when one goes down for good, you feel like a part of you went down with them. For all those out their fighting, keep on. Someday we shall win. And if you do fall, never to return, know that your life was not lived in vain. We have a special bond that shall not be broken.

August 1, 2002|

Undercover Brother

Eager anticipation has marked my summer. You think it would occur because of the various milestones I traversed through, eating normal foods again, regaining weight and strength, and the reduction of medication, just to name a few. Fact is, those all don’t compare to the joy of looking in the mirror and seeing a new creation. Yes, I have hair. But it’s…dark…and curly? BWOING!

I have heard many reports from cancer patients about the changes in the color and texture of their hair. My first two chemotherapy treatments did little to confirm those occurrences. I still was a dead straight brown-haired boy. But as the month of June staggered into July I noticed a stark difference in my appearance. My straight locks twisted and turned. This morning, in an attempt to see the extent of the transformation, I combed my hair, gelling it with the finest Aveda products, only to BWOING! five minutes later. Now I know how the other half lives.

So now the ongoing internal debate rages on in my mind. What do I do with my do? Do I let it grow to Afroic proportions? Do I resort back to the tried-and-true Carson Daly forward and up? Do I grow a curly mullet? Do chics dig curls?

Hanging with the Peeps

Next to the tried and true “How are you feeling,” the second most asked question I hear is “How do you spend your days now that you don’t work?” In response, I frequently mumble something unintelligible and sneak away. I feel I should have a good answer, like writing a book, sewing a sweater, or solving world hunger. What do I do? I water my dead garden. That takes a couple minutes a day. I spend all day Tuesday at Memorial Sloan Kettering (AKA Memorial Slow Kettering) reading Teen People and Vogue as I wait to receive my IV immune booster and see Dr. Perales (“Your hair looks funny. Ha, ha! See you next week.” in his stately British Portuguese accent). I roller blade in Prospect Park, hence my recent rash of black and blue marks. I drive to Starbucks daily and read various non-fiction works and periodicals. (Is there anything more addicting than using your Starbucks card?) Where does the rest of my time go?

As I drove the 14 hours back to New York from Chicago last week I reviewed my past two months. It’s been a whirlwind of activity, but doing what? Don’t know. I pulled out my trusty Palm VIIx and glanced at my calendar. Hmm…weekends spent at weddings, bachelor parties, summer camp, and entertaining out-of-town guests, countless days of lunches and dinners in Manhattan. Call it what I want, but it’s been the summer of “hanging out.”

Being a former (and current) workaholic, it has taken a major life-threatening illness to teach, and reteach me a valuable lesson. People are important. Many times previously I have written on this subject, but it never seems to get old, and I constantly need internal and external reminders. Did a book visit me in the hospital? Did a garden send me a reassuring and optimistic e-mail when I needed it? Were any of my accomplishments, awards or stuff there to hear me complain when I needed to vent?

I have found this to be more and more true. One of the more interesting confirmations has been what I discovered the Bible says about relationships. Christianity is based on relationship. God is made of a relationship between three parts. Adam wasn’t happy in the Garden of Eden, the most desirable place ever created, until he had someone to share it with. And heaven, it’s not about receiving material goods that we didn’t get here on earth. It’s a giant reunion and feast, shared with others we bring along with us!

This is not to diminish the importance of production and work. Where would the earth be without us lovely type A’s? If type B’s ran the world, nothing would EVER get done. But in the end, what matters? People. Family. Friends. Relationships.

The Merry Month of August

August could turn out to be an exciting month. If I am rid of the CMV virus in two weeks, my Hickman Catheter is removed. I can once again show my bare chest without scaring all the ladies. Ummm, well, maybe not. On August 21, I have both a PET Scan and CT Scan. Those are the big ones, so get your prayers ready. If those look good, well, watch out. And, if I forgo my haircut for the month, I could probably add another half inch to my ëfro. JJ Walker, here I come.

July 18, 2002|

As I now write I am home in Ohio. Quick trip to Youngstown, see the folks, the homies, the kids, then drive to Chicago for my second (of four) weddings this summer. Yep, it’s the season again, wedding season. Exciting to see friends from all walks of life come together for a weekend to celebrate and catch up.

Shock the Dawg

I arrived home to find a new collar on our dog, Cosmo. She (it’s a she, go figure. My dad asked for a male dog at the pound. For two weeks we thought it was. Then we realized the dog was missing an organ crucial to it’s being a male, if you know what I mean. How we were duped for two weeks is beyond my understanding…) is the most wild dog I have ever met. She used to jump and nuzzle next to me at night in bed. I put an end to that. She knows not to mess with me. It’s not that I don’t like animals. It’s that I don’t like OUR animals. Three dogs and four cats. They rule the house…except for when I am home.

I digress. Cosmo had this new collar. It wasn’t just any collar, but a shock collar. If at anytime she runs out of the house and we can’t catch her, we push the red button on the remote control and give her a shock. She no longer runs away, that’s for sure. Whenever I see the dog now, I just mouth a little “zap!” and she goes running. Aw, technology at it’s finest. It’s great to return home to obedient animals.

Up Close and Personal with Matt Lauer’s New Do

Last Friday, Amy Grant and Vince Gill performed live on the Today Show. Having been a huge Amy Grant fan since conception, I felt obligated to join the horde of camera-frenzied tourists and watch them perform the requisite three songs. I remember attending my first Amy Grant concert 14 years ago at the Richfield Coliseum. I even went to school the next day. Eleven years ago the whole family treked to Blossom Amphitheater in Cleveland to see the “Heart in Motion” tour. Frank and Billy sat with their fingers plastered in their ears the entire concert. “It’s so loud!” Kids these days, never appreciating finely crafted pop music.

So, my friend Anne and I must have been the only native New Yorkers in the crowd. First off, no sane New Yorker would get up that early. Secondly, no New Yorker would go see Amy Grant and Vince Gill. New York City didn’t even have a country radio station till last year! Despite the early time, we had a great time and even got on TV for two seconds. And yep, Matt Lauer’s new hairstyle is awfully short.

The Redemption of Artichoke Canning

As of Tuesday afternoon, I can actually brag that I am not a complete gardening failure. For as of Tuesday, I had a tomato plant that was growing. Sure my purple-wave petunias are out of control wild, but everything else is brown and shriveled. My first foray into the world of horticulture had been unkind, until this tomato plant sprouted in the past week.

I thought it (and all my plants) would morph overnight from this tiny stem to this gargantun monster. Boy, was I wrong. It was a really slow process that occurred over a month of heavy watering, weed-picking and pruning. And it was completely unperceptible to the naked eye.

I find it’s growth fascinating, maybe more on a personal level than anything. It’s not just the accomplishment of being able to grow something, it’s the analogy that comes with it.

The person, leader, man I wanted to be two years ago, I know I am becoming. Recently I looked in the mirror and concluded I look a lot different. It’s not external- the new long, dark, curly hair or Calvin Klein-anorexic model build- but the internal.I wanted the growth, the maturity, the wisdom, like the tomato plant, to happen over night. Instead it took small incremental growth of meditation, prayer, and self-analysis watered by pain, hardships and trials. Now is the time for the next step, to produce a hardy crop. I look forward to doing such. And I anticipate eating a big beefy tomato come August.

July 7, 2002|

Artichoke Canning?

Recently looking at my garden, I concluded that I am not my mother’s son. Well, most likely, I am. I just didn’t inherit her talent for gardening. I think she bleeds MiracleGro. In utter contrast, when my plants see me coming, they hide underneath the mulch.

So it comes as no surprise that I have had few success stories in my first batch as Artichoke Canning- Gardner Extraordinaire. My petunias are looking spectacular, I must admit. But you really can’t screw up petunias. Everything else, though, is looking like death. My tomato plants are one step from shrinking into oblivion. My hiccus curly is shriveled like it was in the bathtub too long. And these little red flowers, I don’t remember their name, hang low like they are in mourning. I once read that singing to plants help them grow. Hmmm…I think that may quicken their demise given my voice. Hmmm…Maybe I’ll have to have Mom come out for a garden resuscitation trip. Ah, the joys of being a home renter.

King of My Colon? Not Yet…

It’s been almost three months since I have had a normal colon. Since then, I have dropped close to twenty-five pounds. In the words of one of my friends who recently saw me for the first time in months ‘You look like Billy! You’re so skinny!’ (Me: ‘NoooooOOOOOO!!’) After much procrastination and silliness (in my estimation) by Dr. Perales, I am finally taking medication to clear up the irritations in my intestines. I won’t delve any further into details. You know what they say about dinner conversations- to be polite don’t talk about religion, politics or colon activity.

Driving Miss Crazy

My Jesus Fish fell off my bumper just the other day. It was quite appropriate timing. Driving in New York City brings out the ‘best’ in people, including myself. I think God had been observing my driving and deemed me unworthy of such an article on my car. ‘You frickin BLEEP BLEEP! Get out of my lane!!’ ‘What are you doing?!? You just BLEPITY BLEEP BLEEP cut me off! BLEEP!’ ‘PEDESTRIANS right of way!! I’ll never be able to turn! BLEEEEEEPP!!’

Getting Special Love at Special Love

Last weekend, after eight long hours of stop and go traffic on I-95, I made it to Special Love YAC Weekend, a camp for young adults age 18-35 recovering or battling cancer. (www.speciallove.org). My friend Jen had been emphatic about my attending as a counselor for the little kids camp. I didn’t think I was just yet ready to be a counselor in such an environment. I still have way too many issues to work out. But I was game for going as a participant.

There was almost a cult-like feel to the weekend. Most campers had been attending Special Love for years, first as campers then as counselors. They all had very intense and fiercely loyal feelings for each other and for the camp itself. I must admit that I felt more intrigued watching the group interact (the trained social scientist I am) than I did participating. I recalled my studies of group dynamics, noting how powerfully one single commonality can incredibly unite a group, despite regional, racial, religious and gender backgrounds. Some had cancer when they were babies. Others were still in treatment. It didn’t matter and it wasn’t really discussed. There was no ice-breaking introduction of medical history or diagnosis (that was what late night one-on-one discussions were for). The underlying premise of the camp was known and understood. A given in the whole equation, if I must continue in scientist mode.

I had a few striking conversations and observations that I am still processing.

– In this cancer business there is always a factor of uncertainty discreetly hanging over one’s head. I had a great discussion with a guy in his thirties who had a very rare case of testicular cancer ten years ago. Recently he had an occurrence of pain, which he naturally concluded was a return of the cancer. Thankfully it was just a kidney stone. (Nothing much we said, just a kidney stone. Ha!) Probably the most difficult thing to deal with cancer is not the actual disease, but the uncertainty of it. If you know what and when you are fighting, you know what weapons are required, emotionally and physically. If those two variables are unknown, what can you do? It is truly a plaguing of the mind.

– One of the most troubling sights of the weekend was seeing a few of the campers smoking, especially a camper who had a sun tattoo on his back with the names of recently deceased campers circumscribed in the middle. I wasn’t personally offended by the smoking. Everyone has a coping mechanism for dealing with such stress, which is totally understandable. Rather I felt such sadness and heartbreak for them. Why put yourself through the rigors of treatment again? Why risk your spared life? Why increase the odds of adding your name in that sun?

– Perhaps most agonizing was my learning one of the volunteers of the camp is battling stomach cancer. I didn’t find out till the drive home. I thought she was a normal healthy Gen Xer. How much different my interactions would have been had I known! Ugh! I wasn’t mean or anything, but I would have been more upfront with my hope and my driving force. I would have asked her more questions on a deeper level. I would have… You never know! You never know.

I learned many a lesson that weekend. I also had some fun to boot. I hope to someday be a counselor at the children’s camp when my colon is functioning and I am catheter-free (no swimming or soccer with a catheter! D’oh!). I have a feeling I will one day be a part of that Special Love cult, if given the opportunity. You never know. You never know.

June 27, 2002|

Down with da’ CMV

OK. So I am starting to really hate CMV. Friday afternoon I was napping away after a long week when I got the call. “Your CMV count is 13 cells. We need to admit you. Hope you don’t have too many plans this weekend.” Talk about a bummer.

I was pretty disgusted the whole weekend. How ridiculously unfair! I was put on the Neurology Floor. ‘We don’t have too many walkie talkies on this floor. They’re going to like you.’ Walkie talkies as in people who are conscious. Goodness. And then, even more unbelievable, I got put in isolation. Why? Para influenza (the flu) was still coming up on my blood tests. I have been testing postive for para flu for 7 months! I’ve had to have shaken it by now! So let’s review the situation again. I feel absolutely fine, I get an IV treatment twice a day for an hour, I am not allowed to leave my room, anyone who comes to visit has to wear a mask, gloves and gown, I have no computer and a TV the size of my pinky. Sounds like jail. Art was very unhappy.

Thankfully I was released on Wednesday afternoon. I still must continue the IV foscarnet for the next six weeks. At least I can do it from the comfort of my own home. Tuesday I officially cleared the flu. Seven months! I was given the OK to head to the patient lounge, which has an outdoor patio. It was hot and humid, but I would have stayed out there all night.

I am frustrated as well can be discerned. It’s hard not being able to plan more than three days in advance. It’s even harder for a Type A organizational wizard like myself. My Palm VIIx is screaming to me. It wants to be used more. Simply can’t.

This all boils down to my immune system or shall I say lack there of. It’s weak, very weak. Everyone carries CMV in their body. Your immune system keeps it in check though. Not mine. It may take another 3- 6 months till it does. This is going to be a longer recovery than I imagined.

Who Rocks the Body who Rocks the Party? Dr. Salib Rocks the Body who Rocks the Party!

At least my dry skin and acne is under control. Dermatologist Dr. Stacey Salib coming through in the clutch! Granted I have more tubes of lotion (5 to be exact) to put on, but if it works, it works. ‘Does your brother have dry skin? That would be fascinating!’ Uh, no. If I had Billy’s skin, it would be soft as a kitten with a pinkish hue. Him and his moisturizers. Pearberry! Woo hoo! Anyway, major props to Dr. Salib for cleaning up the skin problem.

I still have major diarrhea. Hopefully we’ll get this under control. I am down to my 7th grade weight- 135 lbs. I still am heavier than Billy, but not by much. I eat like a horse, but it doesn’t stick. I am definitely pro-colon but anti-diarrhea.

Random Notes:

– My tomato plants look like death. Does anyone have any helpful hints? The rest of my flowers are doing great. Miracle Gro is the stuff.

– I had my first ‘real’ steak two weeks ago at Smith and Wollensky in Chicago. It was excellent! The sides dishes were mediocre though. Ruth’s Chris is still my very favorite.

– My new apartment/house has an refrigerator (or icebox, for us Youngstowners) with a crushed ice machine. I have got myself sick making snow cones.

– In Chicago we played the coolest game. It’s called WhirlyBall. It’s like Quidditch (of Harry Potter fame) but only you are in a bumper car instead of a broom. Highly recommend it if you are ever in Chicago.

– This weekend I am traveling again to Special Love (a little cheesy, I know), a camp outside of DC for young adults 18-25 with cancer. I am eagerly looking forward to trading war stories. www.speciallove.org

– another web site for you: http://www.rmdh.org/index.htm

– And while you are at it, give Webmaster Patrick a congratulations, he’s heading to Nashville on a promotion/transfer with WebMD!

June 12, 2002|

Normal

Let’s start from the beginning. A few weeks ago I celebrated my three-month transplant anniversary. According to protocol a few things were to happen. First, my diet restrictions were eased. No vendor hot dogs just yet, but I am allowed to eat just about anything else. Secondly my medications would taper down to just the bare essentials. Thirdly I would have to do a barrage of tests to see how the transplant was working. The first test was a CT Scan. It returned similar results from a month earlier. Nothing exciting. A few nodes here and there still showing up on the radar. The next test was the PET Scan. The PET Scan is the newest and most sensitive scan on the market. Basically it shows cellular activity. Cancer cells are identifiable by increased reproductive activity in an area of the body. Amazingly my PET Scan came out normal. My first reaction when Dr. Perales told me was ‘Define normal.’ ‘Normal,’ he said, ‘as in no cancerous activity.’ I was quite shocked. He didn’t know what to make of it either. My transplant is a relatively new procedure with few cases to compare against. He didn’t know if this was expected or not.

It is still great news. I never thought I would hear that news. ‘No cancerous activity.’ Golly. Anyway, in regards to the discrepancy between the CT Scan and PET Scan, from all of my medical learning, I deduced that those nodes are just scar tissue. I can’t really feel them like I used to. More importantly the pain is gone. It wasn’t till I started shooting hoops (of course I got reprimanded for it) that I realized I could run pain-free. No left leg pain. And the hips and groin area are pain-free also. Something’s working. Something’s working! Dang Billy may actually be doing some good beyond giving me hairy knees.

I still have some major issues to deal with. Don’t get too happy just yet there Sparky. Yesterday I had a colonoscopy. What a pain in the butt, literally. Haha! We are trying to see why I am having so much diarrhea. The prep work for the colonoscopy is just brutal. Clear liquid diet plus phospho-soda. The Nazis must have used such to make the Allies talk. Brutal.

I also have some major skin rash issues. My face looks like I am thirteen again. Acne galore. The rest of my bod is all dry and itchy. Tomorrow I see a dermatologist thankfully. Lastly I keep on losing poundage. I am below my junior high school weight now! Goodness!

“Oh, THAT Art!”

Saturday I went to see my friends Mike and Beth get married. Yep, it’s marriage season again. Interestingly, on three different occasions, three different members of Beth’s family met me and said the exact same thing, ‘Oh, THAT Art! You got a lot of people praying for you.’ The poor girls who I just met and was sitting with at our assigned table thought I was some celebrity. ‘Long story,’ I replied, ‘long story…’

It really hit home to me that night that there are so many people out there praying and thinking about me. They have no clue what I look like, what I act like, who I am. It’s mind-boggling to me. I think of the members of the Church of Rock in Youngstown. Since the church began two years ago, my name has been printed in their bulletin under the prayer requests column. I laugh thinking about the number of people who must wonder who I am and why I have been on that list for so long. But yet they pray.

Don’t take me off just yet. The PET Scan may have come back with amazing results, but there are still many prayers left to be said. I wince at the thought of how much rehabiliation I need to do this summer. I tried to jump and touch the backboard one day. It was fairly easy when I last tried three years ago. I must have jumped 5 inches off the ground. Arms flailing, not even coming close. It was so embarrassing. And it’s not only the physical, it’s also the mental and emotional work. My brain doesn’t work like it used to. My writing has slipped a bit, if you haven’t noticed. I can’t imagine going back to work. I doubt I would have the necessary mental stamina. Goodness. I still have far to go in the healing process. Very far to go.

So anyway, thank you for your many prayers and thoughts. You may know who I am. You may not. Thank you regardless. They are working. They are working.

June 7, 2002|

It has been two weeks since I last wrote. While I would like to fill you on all the various stories- eating Big Macs, locking myself in the Ronald McDonald House laundry room, pining over vendor hot dogs, relearning the intricacies of driving in Manhattan, assembling IKEA furniture, making snow cones, getting my first haircut at SuperCuts, etc.- I realize I would not be able to do justice to all of the various adventures. Therefore I will write a more substantial update later on this week.

I also will have more details on my latest PET and CT Scans. The PET Scan, I am happy to report came back normal…as in normal activity…as in no lymphatic activity…as in no cancerous activity. Quite a shock for me, I am still not sure what to make of it. The CT Scan came back the same from two months ago. The PET is the more senstive scan showing cellular activity while the CT just shows unusual masses. We’ll stick on that level of technical analysis for now.

More coming later this week…