Take a stand.....

...whether I want to or not.

    When I first arrived at the hospital and they strapped me to the first IV bag, I didn't realize at the time the future relationship that would occur with the stand that holds the fluids.  You've all seen them, the IV stand that sits next to the bed or walks next to a patient as they move around a hospital or nursing home setting.  At first, it was just another piece of equipment in a room full of equipment, but now it's become more.

The stand is a simple medal stand about six feet high on a set of five small, squeaky wheels.  It's designed to hang the bags of various fluids on top where the potential energy will allow them to flow down through the system.  The fluid then flows into pumps which monitor flow rates to the body.  The pumps are electric with batteries that will run independently for a few hours, but the pumps need to be plugged in most of the time. The pumps have electronic displays that glow brightly in the night and they make noise as they pump.  The pumps lead to more tubes that flow to your body, and in my case the PICC line in my right arm.  This is the interface point.  The point at which the stand and I become one. 

When we first started, the only medication flowing was the IV drip, so the set up was fairly simple.  One bag, one pump, one plug, one length of tube.  The first few nights served as our courting phase.  The first trick was positioning the stand so that the tubes flowed naturally into my arm without causing pain at the PICC insertion site and without getting tangled when I rolled in bed.  I found that I had to lie still on just my right side initially.  Not being able to adjust one's sleeping position just leads to more restlessness. 

Due to the constant flow of IV fluids in addition to normal eating and drinking, I have to go to the bathroom a lot.  About every two hours the urgency is there that it forces you out of bed even during the night.  Remembering that the stand is plugged into the wall near the bed, the next trick is to maneuver the stand close enough to the bathroom so that I can reach the toilet without unplugging the units each time.  I figured out I had to relocate the outlets for the night and found a location where the cords would reach me in bed and I could get to the bathroom with only some minor rolling.  Each time the stand rolls it makes noise and the wheels become tangled in the power cords dragging on the floor.  It takes us time to learn how to dance together.

By Sunday, before they start the chemo meds, I was unhooked for the first time since I had arrived at the hospital from the stand so that I could take a shower.  I also managed a short exercise walk around the floor while they were preparing the other meds.  It had only been two days and I felt so liberated.  I could jump on the elevator and walk out the front door a free man.  But I returned to the room eager to get hooked back up to the stand and get my treatment started.  When they hung the chemo bags, they added an additional bump.  When they added blood, they added an additional pump.  The entire stand is now full and looks like some sort of strange Christmas tree.

Now that we're on a tight seven day window for the chemo, I'm no longer allowed long breaks away from the stand.  In fact I realized that I skipped a shower yesterday as I was engrossed with work when the daily chemo switchover occurred.  I won't make that mistake again.  I'm determined to maintain an exercise regimen of walking to stave off atrophy and boredom.  But now the stand must go with me.  We walk together around the floor of the hospital doing our laps.  We trip one another from time to time as we learn how to coexist.

I realize that the stand is now a huge part of my life in the present.  We are connected constantly and without it, I cannot heal.  I think about NEO in the matrix.  At some point, I'm going to want to yank this sucker out of me and walk free again.  But for now, we'll continue our dance and hope that I'm the ONE.

 

 

To sleep, perchance to dream

Thursday, January 30th

Finally a little better sleep during the night, I actually woke up at 6am and felt well rested.  That's typically when I write as I'm not ready to jump into full work until after my delicious hospital breakfast.  Mmmm.

Thursday was a good and productive day overall.  WBC down to 2.2 and the blast cells (bad guys) which were representing 97% of the WBC are dropping to 65%, so more good news.  All headed to zero most likely over the weekend which is the goal, then the reboot can begin. 

I've had a different nurse on every shift since I've been here, they've all been very nice and caring.  Today's nurse has been on the Oncology wing for a long time.  She shared that the second week after one comes off of chemo can be the more challenging one due to the zero white blood cells.  This was a little deflating as I thought the tough part was almost past, but I prefer to have the knowledge so I can prepare mentally.  It's always easier to know your opponent.  There still may be fatigue, infections, loss of appetite ahead.

The liver enzyme issue continues to show itself on the blood tests so they've ordered an ultrasound for first thing in the morning as I have to be NPO for the test.  Yes, that's me dropping some hospital lingo, NPO = Nil per os = Latin for no food!  That breakfast will have to wait until I return.  I'm not quite sure what we're chasing on the liver yet.  The elevated enzymes indicate some sort of dysfunction which could have been a preexisting condition or due to the chemo treatments.  Once again an unknown as crept into the equation and will all unknowns comes some doubt.  Is there cancer in there too?  Do I have an additional condition that will now interfere with the chemo treatments?  Too many questions flowing in.  The gastro doc didn't seemed overly concerned, but then again, doctors don't generally show their entire hands unless really pressed.  That's probably because they don't hold all of the answers themselves and in the end it just causes needless worry. 

The dashing Dr. Brian Masters (my brother-in-law) brought me another delicious lunch meal complete with a piece of chocolate cake that was phenomenal.  When my kids cut my hair into the Mohawk, they borrowed the clippers from their uncle.  It turns out the rechargeable clippers were not working so Joannne purchased a nice new set for them.  Brian was gracious enough to shave his head, I think more out of necessity than solidarity for me, but still, he looks good.  He's lobbying to play himself when the blog turns into a big Hollywood movie.  I can say with sincerity that having him here through this has been a great relief, even more than chocolate cake.

I was able to get a ton of work done today which also felt great.  The weather has been cold and rainy due to the northern weather pushing its way down.  I still don't seem to get much sympathy from friends and family in the Northeast on this point.   My friend John told me that his kid's ski club was cancelled due to cold!

Overall, a good day.

Dinner and a Movie

Wednesday, January 29th

Sleep is still a struggle.  I fall asleep very early in the night around 9pm and sleep well through 12:30am when vitals and blood are drawn.  That process takes 20 - 30 minutes but thoroughly wakes me up.  Each time they draw blood through the PICC line they flush them with saline, it seems like a lot of saline.  It's cold and you can feel it rush into your heart and instantly through your system.  My head feels like it's swimming in it and it makes it difficult to relax back to sleep. They have asked me if I want sleeping medication and I keep refusing.  I generally don't like taking drugs for anything.  In this case it seems silly since I'm swallowing 10-15 pills a day plus dripping chemo into my blood all day.  We'll see how it goes.

The other factor for restless nights is now I know that the results from the blood labs taken at midnight will be back by 3:30 - 4:00 am and I start wondering what the new results are going to look like. And, now that I've resumed work there are the standard list of 100 things that need to get done that would keep me awake back home.  I was unable to fall asleep at all through the night to the early morning vitals check.  My only payoff was that the WBC results came back at 7.7!  Really firing away to zero now.

I had lots of visitors today.  My friend Anthony was in town from Vero and stopped by.  Joanne cleared her schedule and was able to spend the better part of the day with me.  My sister Cynthia stopped by.  My other remote siblings sent along a great care package with some lotions and a big comfy blanket.  The weather has actually been cool and rainy outside and the hospital is a cold place by nature, so the blanket is a welcome addition.  

Joanne and I were able to snuggle in bed and try to take a short nap in the afternoon.  But she quickly realized that between nursing visits, room cleaning, food services, and doctor rounds, there's very little rest at the hospital.

The lead Hematologist popped back in today to say hello.  He definitively confirmed that I do not have M3 which I was starting to suspect anyway.  I asked about probability of a marrow transplant being required and was wasn't ready to commit on that one.  He's trying to sell it like it could still go either way and we just have to wait for lab results.

Minor note for now, a blood test showed an elevated enzyme in my liver which is unrelated to the Leukemia.  It could be a possible side effect of the chemo, but they're going to monitor and test further.  It's like going in for an oil change, might as well fix it all while I'm here.

My mom came in for the evening and we watched a movie on my laptop. She brought in some great Italian food from Brio, but it was very spicy.  When I was ready to go to bed I started to feel nauseous. I'd been doing so well fighting back the chemo, now I was going to do myself in with Italian food!  The good news was that I held strong and made it through the night.  I'll have to watch the diet a little closer.

Even prisoners get time in a fitness yard

Tuesday, January 28th

I forgot that Monday came along with a room change.  When I was admitted the Oncology floor was booked out so I was admitted into the Women's Oncology area.  Apparently I don't have the right bits to be hanging around on that floor.  So my mom helped me pack up my room and wheel everything upstairs.  I quickly learn that the previous room was a penthouse with a great view of an active construction site out of the front of the hospital.  My new room is a broom closet overlooking the physical plant back lot.  There is a nice lake in the distance with some houses, but definitely not an upgrade.  Think Shawshank cell without the bars.  I may need to start a tunnel. Or at least get a poster of Raquel Welch.

One of my goals is to maintain some sort of fitness level while I'm here.  Jogging and burpies are out at the moment, but just getting out and walking is key.  It gives me a break from my room and I can already tell I'm experiencing atrophy from sitting all the time.  My nurse is a little more strict today and will not allow me off leash for the walk, so I have to take my IV stand with me.  The floor at the hospital is small, I GPSed it off my phone and came up with 0.1 mile per lap.  The IV stand has wheels and I was able to pound out a 15-minute pace for a mile.  Even after that short amount of time, I feel tired and am ready to sit down.  But I will continue to push for longer and more frequent sessions.

The blood news continues to improve.  WBC down to 42,000!, but platelets were low so they added a bag of those.  Another Hematologist from the group stopped by on rounds today and dashed my hopes a little.  I have been clinging to hope about the sub-type of AML, routing for M3 and no bone marrow transplant requirement.  All of this to be revealed by the pathology report that I thought was coming soon.  He shared that the report would take 10 days and that more frequently than not, AML did require a transplant.  He encouraged me to put it out of my mind (good luck), that the current treatment approach does not change and we just have to wait for the report.  I'm ready to get Chief Hadley to go to the lab with his motivational stick.

My brother-in-law stopped by with lunch saving me another meal from food services, can't tell you how good that feels.  I also love having my own clothes. I see many people in the hospital clothes which might be out of necessity, but it's definitely a comfort to be in familiar garb.

I think of one of the famous lines from the Shawshank Redemption: “Get busy living, or get busy dying.” I can tell you, despite my occasional boredom….I am very busy living.

Walk a mile with my IV stand

Monday, January 27^th – Walk a mile with my IV Stand

One of the thoughts that went through my head during the restless portion of this night was the bed I was in.  I started imagining all the people who had been in the bed before me.  All the stories, all the fear, all the hope, all the triumphs, and all the defeats.  Must be 100s of stories before mine, I hope most of them turned out well.

Monday was a good day overall.  I began what I felt would become a routine for me over the next month.  I had my morning vital sessions with the nurses, took my medications, ordered and ate my breakfast, and was let off the IV leash to take a shower.  In fact, this AM I ducked out of the room for 15 minutes and walked independently around the hospital floor for exercise.  Just me, no IV stand.  It felt great.  10 laps to make a mile.  I vowed that I would continue to press myself outward from the confines of my room.  I keep having visions of Shawshank Redemption each time I spend too much time in the room.

Day 2 of 7 of heavy chemo was starting and once I was hooked back up, I broke out my lap top and forced myself into working mode.  I typically work from home with the computer and phone as my main tools.  My intent was to continue working as long as I can to feel productive and stave off boredom.  It all worked pretty well.  Given that I still don't know the full plan or prognosis of my illness, I decided not to share information with my work colleagues yet.  This creates some awkward moments when people ask, "How's it going?", "What did you do this weekend?", etc.  Walking a mile around a hospital floor is hard to explain. But for now I feel like it's the best course of action and will help keep me sane.

More good news on WBC, the number had dropped further to 125,000. My hemoglobin was low however, so I was given a single bag blood transfusion.  O+ for all you donors out there!

Overall a very successful day.  Still no side effects, I was able to be productive with work, blood counts are headed in the right direction.  At home, the kids made it through their first day at school and Joanne her first day at work.  A challenging day for them as they would have to face people who knew about me and look them in the eye.  We were able to talk at night and with the iphone Facetime feature, see one another.  Very powerful.

The only disappointing news of the day is that the report has not returned from the pathologist about the AML subtype.  I still carry anxiety and hope around those results.

Nighttime is for demons

Sunday, January 26th, 2014 - Nighttime is for demons.

While the day time at the hospital is filled with light, activity, visitors, the night can be a very lonely and distressing time.  The visits from the nursing staff continue every few hours which makes uninterrupted sleep impossible.  I've never been a person who falls asleep easily and each time I wake up, I have to repeat the process.  And now, there's much more on my mind than usual.  To start with, the PICC line that was inserted the night before is bleeding under the bandage and soaking blood on my sheets.  Along with my super high White Blood Cell Count, I have a super low platelet count which makes clotting a challenge.  My gums are still struggling to form scabs from the dental work on Thursday and I continue to taste blood in my mouth.  The nurse has to redress the entire PICC site which is a long process as they must take extra precautions to minimize infection at the site.  It takes almost an hour but the nurse gets the area cleaned and a new bandage on.

Left alone in the dark, it was the first time that emotion really started to hit me.  I cried.  This was all becoming very real.  I tried to search my emotions to determine what was making me cry.  It wasn't really fear, as I feel there is only one acceptable outcome here.  But when my thoughts turned to my family, it was hard to hold back the tears.  Perhaps it was the thought of letting them down at some level.  My wife and kids had all been in on Saturday afternoon to see me and you could see fear and uncertainty in their eyes, that's still hard to absorb - demons.  As I let some emotion go I felt that it was probably therapeutic on some level, but then I found myself wanting to stamp it out just as quickly as weakness.  I need to be strong for myself and for all around me.  I'm not sure what the right answer is here yet, but both crying and being strong feel good.

Sunday morning was the start of the 'heavy' chemo which I was actually looking forward to.  Bring out the big guns and let's get this on.  Of course, other parts of my brain were concerned with the potential side effects; nausea, loss of appetite, mouth sores, fatigue, gout, hair loss - demons.  Chemo affects everyone differently, but there were a lot of medications added to my regimen to head off these side effects.  Before we got started, I was cut lose from the IV stand long enough to take a shower.  I had only been here two days, but it felt hugely liberating to walk independently from the stand.  I had to wrap my right arm in a full-arm plastic glove to protect the PICC site, but I was able to take a shower, very nice.

By 9:00 am the first bags were hung.  You could tell the seriousness had gone up as multiple people had to come into verify the bags being hung off the IV stand.  Serial numbers were read aloud and cross-checked with my wrist bands to make sure I had the right juice.  Nasty chemical warnings were written all over the bags, and notes when up on my room door warning people on the outside that some serious shit was going down inside.

The rest of the day passed on an upbeat swing.  I was finally in the middle of treatment, the pre-chemo drugs had already lowered by WBC to 185,000, there were no initial side effects, and I had plenty of visitors throughout the day.  My wife, Joanne, brought my kids back in and we were able to play a round of Sorry. (A nod to irony.)  Good for them to have something to do while in the hospital room rather than just stare at their sick dad.  My daughters drew and colored a bunch of pictures and taped them up in the room.  The one that said "Never lose hope!" brought tears to my eyes even during the day.  Since my hair is going to be a goner at some point, I had them bring in a set of clippers and give me a haircut which I needed prior to this ordeal anyway.  They settled on a Mohawk for starters which I thought was a fitting battle hairdo. Next week we’ll paint on the Braveheart face paint.

The other revelation we had was to bring in outside food to the hospital.  Saturday night Joanne brought us some nice dinner and Sunday they brought in lunch.  I could tell this was already a huge improvement over ordering off the cafeteria menu at the hospital. Don't underestimate the power of some good food for a loved one!

With the weekend running down and a new school / work week upon us, it was time to plan for the week.  It seemed like the best thing to do for the family was for Joanne to take the kids back to Vero and resume 'normal' life.  The routine would do them all good.  Of course, that was a hard decision for Joanne, who just wanted stay with me and help me heal.  We were still leaking out the news of the past few days to family members and close friends who were now experiencing the shock that we had been through.

By Sunday night I was still encouraged by the lack of ill side effects from the treatment and was still putting down normal meals. Maybe this would go smoother than expected.  I feel like I was due some good fortune.  Then I looked down at my PICC site, bleeding again!  Another specialist was called in and had to redress the site again.  This time he added a powder to help the blood clot.  It seemed to look good, but I was growing concerned about how many times we'd have to go through this procedure, as the night returned, so had the demons.

 

Just a little prick

It’s a very good thing I am not afraid of needles.  

Friday is really just a continuation of Thursday as I was still settling into the hospital.  A crush of people from the doctors to the nurses to admissions folks all rolling through to get things started.  Once they start strapping on wristbands with ID information, you know it's getting real.  The next step was to hang an IV bag; even more real.  It was now 1:30am and my head was still swimming from the events that just went down over the last 12 hours. 

First I was processing what the Dr. had told me.  Yes, this was Leukemia (still in shock).  There are sub-types of Leukemia and we needed the blood work to come back to determine which type.  ALL & AML are two of the most likely types.  Both would involve extensive periods (months) of chemotherapy (scary word).  I will lose my hair (not the end of the world) and I would most likely become infertal.  That one actually provided a light moment, since I'm 45 with three beautiful children and no desire to have four, it didn't seem like a huge trade off.  I asked if they could guarantee the infertility, he said no.  I'll have to file that one away.  While it didn't affect my decision, certainly someone who goes through this as a younger adult would have to take steps before proceeding with treatment. 

The elephant in the room is always around the prognosis, is this going to kill me?  No one wants to ask the question straight out and it seems like doctors don't want to address it straight up.  The most comforting words I'm getting right now are that all treatment plans lead to a cure at the end of the road, but still, it's hard to keep one's mind from the dark side.

Hospitals are 24/7 operations and as I finally tried to get some sleep at 3:00 am, I quickly realize this is going to be very hard to do.  Besides all the thoughts bouncing around inside my head, there's a lot of external noise.  Inside the room there are lights everywhere and the IV machine is pumping fluid.  The hallway outside the door is non-stop activity as the people who are working the night shift are in the middle of their day and tending to patients.  I can hear what sounds like a younger patient calling out every five minutes or so, I can imagine how scary this setting is for a child.  On top of the inside noise, there's a train just outside the hospital that rolls through about every hour. Going to be hard to sleep.

At 3:30 am the chance for sleep is officially over.  A two-person crew comes rolling in with some heavy equipment and announces that they're here for my PICC line.  This stands for Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter and is supposed to be far superior to the normal IV line in the arm as they can both deliver medication and draw blood through a 3-headed contraption sticking out.  The procedure takes almost an hour as they use ultrasound to locate your vein in your arm around your bicep, then thread the lead down to your heart.  Because the anatomy is more favorable, this is typically done through the right arm.

The procedure is fairly pain-free other than the actual stick in the arm to insert the line.  The line is secured with a bunch of adhesive. 

Exhaustion won at 5:00 am, until the nursing shift changed over at 7 am.  Each day starts with a review of the printed Plan of Care for the day.  Today was filled with tests, sadly a somewhat welcome distraction from the hospital room. Chest X-ray, more blood to be drawn, then I was wheeled through the bowels of the hospital to other departments for EKG, ultra sound on my kidneys, bone marrow biopsy, and ultra sound on my heart.  Each stop took over an hour and chewed up the day.  I was feeling good about how thorough all the tests were, but as I was visiting through all these rooms with specialists and equipment, I began to think about how much all of this was going to cost. 

I returned to my room in the late afternoon, my wife by my side still in shock about everything going on.  I was growing more anxious about starting some sort of treatment.  Other than some IV, I had not received any medicine to address my illness and I kept thinking about how the doctors grew more alarmed about my blood counts as they learned more information.  I really wanted to take some sort of pill and get on with it. By late that evening, the Hematologist returned to review the plan.  The blood results confirmed AML as the type of Leukemia and he started laying out the course of treatment.  It would involve a sequence of phases; the first called induction, the follow ups called consolidation.  The induction phase would last a full month with two days of pre-chemo drugs, then seven days of 'heavy' chemo, followed by 3 weeks of recovery time.  From there we would flow into cycles of two weeks at home and two weeks back in the hospital for consolidation treatments which would last two weeks.  Then repeat the home / consolidation phase as needed.  At least there was a formation of a plan and we could start figuring out how to plan our lives out.

One of the last tests that needs to happen is genetic testing of the bone marrow biopsy.  AML is broken down into sub-types; M3 and non-M3 variations.  M3 is the most straight forward of the bunch so I'm already rooting for that outcome.  The other variations lead to different paths that might also involve bone marrow transplants.  Not rooting so much for that choice right now.

I try to picture the cute talking animated DNA strand in Jurassic Park when I tell this next part – it makes it less like a T-Rex coming after me. AML is caused when blood cells are going through their normal job of separating into twins to make new cells.  Under normal circumstances the cells divide evenly and split the chromosomes down the middle leaving each with a good copy of your DNA.  In AML, one of those cellular divides went wrong and a greedy twin steals extra chromosomes from the other.  Once a bad copy is made, it will now keep getting copied and without checking it will over produce.  So my blood was filled with bad white blood cells to the point where it was clogging up circulatory system.  Where a normal system is supposed to have 10,000 white blood cells per microliter, mine was initially tested at 215,000!  So, the treatment strategy here is to use chemotherapy to kill off ALL the white blood cells then allow the body to regenerate the good ones.  The question remains if the body is capable to make good copies still.

By that evening I was pretty exhausted with the poor night's sleep and the full day of activity.  Thankfully one of my sisters, my brother-in-law, and mom all live close by the hospital so my family is able to stay with them.  It allows us to focus on the plan of care and keep the kids distracted from the event while playing with their cousins.  I finally was prescribed some drugs including the pre-chemotherapy set which made me feel like I was finally taking the first step.  And besides a few interruptions for vital signs, I slept like a rock.

My Cancer Journey Begins - Jan 23, 2014

I'm 45 years old with an active lifestyle and no family history of cancer.  So when a cold started at Christmas time, I was annoyed but it seemed normal enough.  I was playing tennis and jogging attributing the shortness of breath to the remnants of the cold.  After an indoor tennis tournament I sprouted a few cold sores on my lips.  Nothing new for me….annoyance, not alarm.  I also developed a few bruises, but they came from traumas on the tennis court, so again we explained away any early warning signs of what was about to come.

Separately, my wife had been telling me that I had chronic halitosis and she was concerned with my overall health.  She kept saying that I had bags under my eyes, bad breath, and a pale complexion at times.  I wanted to see if I could address the bad breath so I moved a scheduled dentist visit up two months to 1:30 on the afternoon of January 23rd.  As the cleaning progressed, I could tell - and the tech was saying - that there was a lot of bleeding in my gums.  I had noticed that even regular flossing was producing unusual bleeding.  By the time the cleaning was over I looked like a vampire after a very good meal.  But what I had was a growing pit in my stomach.  The dentist came in and was alarmed immediately.  I could tell she thought something serious was wrong and suggested that I get a blood test immediately.

I drove directly to the walk in clinic and by 3:30 pm they drew blood and sent it to the lab.  The PA was also concerned given the sequence of events and the symptoms.  I still was finding it hard to believe it was going to be anything more than a new prescription.  I went home and waited for the results to come in.  At 5:00 the preliminary tests were back and showing positive signs on Leukemia.  Full details would take another 90 minutes, but the shock had already set in.  I called my brother-in-law who is a hospitalist in Orlando and starting talking though options with him.  When he heard the actual blood cell counts, he immediately jumped on his phone to an Oncology colleague who advised him that I should get myself checked into a hospital pretty quickly.  By 7:00, the numbers were confirmed and there was no denying it.  Acute Leukemia and I needed treatment in short order.

We live in Vero Beach, Florida which has a great community hospital, but I don't have a primary care doctor (as I'm never ill), and we had no idea about the capabilities in the town.  They're building a new cancer center, but completion is still two years off.  My wife is a physical therapist and deals with many patients who go to Orlando or the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville for their treatments.  We had to make a decision to keep things local to Vero for convenience or go to Orlando where we know the treatment level is going top notch.  By 9:00 we were packing up our van, kids, and dog for a road trip to Florida Hospital in Orlando, where in addition to a recommended doctor, we have extended family.

My brother-in-law had jumped in and made all the arrangements during our 2-hr trip, so that when I arrived I was ready to check in and brought right to my room.  Now after 11:00 at night he had even called in the lead Hematologist to meet with me personally to discuss my case.  We reviewed the sequence of events I outlined and they began to draw blood to conduct their own confirming test.  In a matter of 10 hours, I went from unsuspecting guy going to a teeth cleaning all the way to the newest cancer patient at Florida Hospital.  The anxiety was high with everyone with all these new unknowns.  The grounding force in the room was the Hematologist who laid out the different scenarios that all seem to point to a cure down the road.  But without answers, the mind will permeate through all the different possible outcomes, and at least one of them is scary.

Sometimes, positive and humorous thoughts are impossible without a script.

The Big C

In 2010 Showtime television launched a show called The Big C, which is described as “a suburban mother faces her cancer diagnosis while trying to find humor and happiness as well.” Cancer, brought to you over 3 seasons in 30-minute segments with carefully worded punch lines and poignancy, no commercial interruptions. I admit, I never watched it.

Now here I am, a suburban father, facing a cancer diagnosis and searching in every corner of my hospital room for some humor. I have no script. I couldn’t do a retake of my facial expression when I got the diagnosis. No one fixed my hair or make-up before I said the words to my wife, “I have leukemia.” No child actors had to reshoot the scene….my kids cried on the first take.

So maybe my story will not be critically acclaimed….and I sure as hell hope it lasts longer than 3 years. A lot longer. So here, over the next – well, however long it takes – is my story. I hope there will be humor. I hope there will be poignant moments. I know there will be tears. I can tell you unequivocally there is fear. But I also hope – no, dammit – I believe, there will be triumph.

I tell my story not for ratings or Emmy awards. First, I know there are people who want to know what is happening, and this is a good way of getting out the details efficiently. But long term, someone may come here because they have started a similar story of their own. (I don’t wish it on anyone.) Or a loved one is beginning their journey. Hopefully my story can give you an idea of what to expect so that maybe it’s a little less horror story, and more a drama of hope and inspiration.

Brian Duncanson – aspiring cancer survivor