SwampLog: Blogathon 2005

Devin Gets Cancer: Part Four, Climbing Back

February 24, 1995. I had gone through six session of chemotherapy and radiation treatment. Looked garish. Had the bumpiest skull this side of a Klingon. Wished for death by the third session, and had a visit by God that doesn't sound nearly right on screen.

And there I am, in Doctor Jameson's office, hearing him say something else.

"You're in remission."

I didn't know how to react. Was I grateful, had I become accustomed to the cancer, was I suspicious? It was all of these things in the end. Jameson listed out a schedule for me to have tests run to make sure the cancer didn't come back over the next five years, but the words kept ringing in my ears.

"You're in remission."

When someone I know finds out I have beaten cancer --

Wait. I didn't "beat" cancer. Not by myself.

If it weren't for Jameson and his amazing staff, or my circle of friends like Marty and Thomas, or my family, or the folks at the American Cancer Society... I wouldn't have survived. It was a group effort, and together, we beat cancer.

I'm damned lucky. I have a perspective on life now that I didn't have before. I have a life. And I'm living it right now.

Devin Gets Cancer: Part Three, Radiation Vibe

Since the growth was directly under my larynx, the odds of me keeping my voice were 30-70.  Doc Jameson agreed with me that going after the growth with chemo and light radiation treatment would be the better way to go for the long term.

I had heard horror stories about chemotherapy, and no one could really tell me why.  The one person who I knew that had gone through treatment, Blender, wouldn't talk about it.  The night I decided to go with chemo, I gave him a $20 bill and said, "We're doing chemo."  He proceeded to get me rip-roaringly drunk.  That was the last time either of us mentioned it.

There are now three ways you can get chemotherapy, but ten years ago, the "pill" wasn't available outside of a research project.  You either had to get the treatment as an injection similar to a flu shot, or on an IV drip.  The drip was more effective with my immune system, so that's how we went for the six sessions.

The radiation was a bit more subtle -- a small gun, aimed at the area my growth inhabited, caused a warm sensation on my neck.  The chemo was different.

I read somewhere that chemo kills you by degrees.  After the third session, I believed it.  I couldn't keep any food down for a day after treatment, and my once stocky frame was less and less defined.  At my lowest, I had dropped to 138 pounds (67 kilograms).  Then, after the third session, I was in the shower.  My hair started coming out in clumps while I was washing it.

I got pissed.

Pissed at God, pissed at science, butmostly, pissed at myself.

Outside of my inner circle of friends -- Marty, Thomas, Blender, and Joe -- very few people know what I was going through.  I would pass off the stomach distress as bad pizza or whatnot.  But I was NOT going to walk around looking like I had mange. 

I grabbed my razor, and shaved my head.  Bald.

This made it impossible to ignore.  Jackasses at the club would see the head and comment, "Hey, what, are you going through chemo or something?  Har."  When I would tell them, "Yes, I am," it shut them up in a hurry.

When I went to see Doc Jameson for my follow up from the third session, he gaped at my skull.  "What did you do?!?"

"Screw this.  I'm tired of hiding behind a full head of hair!  I'm facing this thing head on, and this cancer can suck on it!  If people can't handle it, they can, too!"

Jameson tried not to bust out laughing.  "You lost some hair, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did!  And that's the last time I'll ever lose hair from this.  If any more comes off, it'll be form me!"

"You goofball."

It was my turn to gape.

"You do remember I told you that there would be some gradual loss, then nothing more, right?"

He was right.  He did tell me that, but in my rage, I had completely forgotten it.  Which, in the long run, was fine, because I think having the bald pate caused me to quit hiding behind everything else and face my cancer once and for all.

Devin Gets Cancer: Part Two, Bearing The Bad News

The blood work came back with the same results: I had throat cancer.  No two ways about it.

When I was told this, there was a weird rushing sound in my ears, and the doctor, in quick order, gave me the name and number of an oncologist, who could better work with my treatment.  I know he did, because I had the phone number in my hand a couple of hours later.  I'm certain I wandered around Presbyterian Hospital for a while, and when my friend Chris found me in the hallway, he took me across the street so I could have a sub sandwich.

I had not been working at Dallas Alley for a few months, but was still quite friendly with the staff.  So, that night (a Wednesday), I went to see Blender, a bartender who had gone through prostate cancer treatment two years prior.

"They were right.  I have cancer."

I was expecting ... well, I don't know what I was expecting.  Blender came around the bar, hugged me.  I cried for a very long time.  He didn't say anything.

He asked me precisely what kind of cancer I had, and I couldn't tell him.  None of the paperwork I had with me had the official diagnosis on it, and he got pissed.  That's when he told me to get on the horn the following morning and call up the American Cancer Society.  They'd get me the information I needed.

By the time I got to see the oncologist the next week, the ACS told me everything I needed to know about my cancer: what it was (stage II oropharangeal carcinoma), where it came from (genetics, most likely, since I didn't smoke or live in a high-risk pollution area), what the survival rate was for the stage I was in (quite high -- over 80 percent), and what my treatment options were.

When I went to see Doctor Jameson, I had an idea what I wanted to do to get after this growth under my throat.  He agreed.  We were going to go after it with chemotherapy and radiation.

Devin Gets Cancer: Part One, Breaking The News

I had just gotten done with my first physical I'd had in seven years. My father told me, in that way he always did when he wanted to shame me into doing something, "If you have something wrong with you, you won't know it until it's too late."

Dammit.

So, I had them poke and prod me incessantly for a few hours. Blood work, glands checked, reflexes measured, puffs of air blown into my eyes and hard plastic cones shoved into my ears. Thank Bog I wasn't 35, or I would have had to start singing "Moon River."

After the date came and went for them to call me back in to the doctor's office so I can get the results, I began to get a little anxious. There's a phone call to set up an appointment, three days late. I'm huffy.

When the doctor finally walks into the brightly lit room, I'm pacing. "Come on," I'm thinking, "out with it."

He says hi, then opens my file folder. Looks at it again. Looks at me. "We want you to have some more tests."

"More tests? C'mon, you have to know me better than I know myself after all that."

"Nevertheless, there's something that we need to make sure of."

"What, do I have cancer or something?"

Silence. The kind of silence that doctors use to let stuff sink in. Hard. They have to teach this kind of stuff in medical school.

"Maybe you should sit down."

He tells me that there's some abnormal readings from my white cells from the blood work, and it's consistent with cancerous lymph node transmission. He'll have the blood work done by the end of the week. It's a rush job.

At least, I'm pretty sure he told me this. It was kind of dark and fuzzy in there, all of the sudden.

Why I'm Doing This

I'll talk more about the American Cancer Society and the magic they do later, but I wanted to give you a few fast facts about cancer first.

In the United States alone, there will be over 1.3 million people diagnosed with cancer in 2005. The majority of new cases are attributable to preventable variables like smoking, poor diet, or lack of exercise.

Early detection of cancer in any form is crucial -- self-exams and regular check-ups account for over three-quarters of successful treatment. Successful, of course, means that the person survives and continues to remain healthy.

I found out I had throat cancer on October 16, 1994. I found out entirely by accident, and was in no way prepared for how drastically my life would change in that moment. We'll talk about that throughout the day. But know this, and please understand something singularly simple: cancer is not an automatic death sentence, and how you live with cancer directly affects how you will live after it.

A Few Words From Our Sponsored

Devin,

It was nice talking with you today regarding your desire to raise funds for the American Cancer Society through the annual blog-athon. Most of all, I was very pleased to hear feedback on your positive experience with the American Cancer Society during your cancer journey. What I think most people don't realize is that we are so much more than a fundraising organization!

The American Cancer Society is the nationwide, community-based voluntary health organization dedicated to eliminating cancer as a major health problem by preventing cancer, saving lives, and diminishing suffering from cancer, through research, education, advocacy and service.

A few highlights to share:

Research - We are the largest not-for-profit funder of research in the US-over $2 billion to date! Through a peer review process, we strive to fund the best science, including junior investigators who may not yet qualify for the larger government grants. In fact, 38 of the researchers we funded early in their careers went on to win the Nobel Prize-an impressive statistic we are enormously proud of!

Education - An American Cancer Society priority is to raise public awareness on how to prevent or lower your risk for cancer, the diagnosis and treatment of cancer, and ways to improve quality of life to all sectors of the community. In addition, the medical community relies on us for cutting-edge cancer information and continuing education in the field of oncology.

Advocacy - By raising awareness of our legislators at every level on the needs of the general public and cancer patients, we are able to encourage changes in policy on issues such as tobacco use, insurance coverage for cancer screenings, navigation, and indigent care, to name just a few.

Services - Your local American Cancer Society offers a variety of services to patients in need in our community. These include support groups, one-on-one visitation, transportation to treatment, guest room services, gift items, and medical equipment, etc. In addition, because of our strong collaborative partnership with local medical systems, we have access to a strong referral network to help patients access all available resources in their community.

Comprehensive cancer information is available on our website, cancer.org, and cancer specialists are available to answer your questions about cancer 24/7, 365 days a year at 1-800-ACS-2345.

One way to get involved in the fight against cancer on the local level is through our signature event, Relay For Life. This overnight event takes place on a local track, where 8-10 walkers per team take turns walking throughout the night to raise funds for our mission (after all, cancer never sleeps!) There is a Cancer Survivor Celebration and moving luminary service to remember those who have lost their battle with cancer, or are still engaged in the fight, as well as numerous other fun activities to keep things rocking throughout the night. We have 11 events scheduled for 2006 in Tarrant/Denton County in these communities: Arlington, Azle, Benbrook, Burleson, Denton, Fort Worth, Keller, Lake Worth, Mansfield, Northeast Tarrant County, Saginaw. There is one near you, so call your local American Cancer Society at 817-737-9992 to get more information and join us in the fight against cancer in 2006!!

I hope you find this information helpful. Please let me know if I can be of any further assistance, and THANK YOU for choosing to support our lifesaving mission -- I look forward to hearing of your success!

Lesa M. Robison
Development Director
American Cancer Society, Fort Worth Metro