Tuesday, December 16, 2008

A busy morning...

Well I spoke with all three doctors in the past 12 hours. This is good. I even have direct email communication with one of them. He doesn't know what he's in for... just think of all the spam I could send his way.

Ok. So all three agree now that R-hyperCVAD/M-A is the way to go. (The option is still on the table for me to get Vandy's experimental in-house program called MEGA, but I don't yet know if there's enough published info on that to get me comfortable with that treatment option.)

As a refresher, R-hyperCVAD/M-A is rituxan administered with fractionated cyclophosphamide, doxorubicin, vincristine, and dexamethasone, alternated with high-dose methotrexate (MTX) and cytarabine (Ara-C). I think the methotrexate can be administed intrathecally, which means directly into the spine. I'll pretend I don't know about that option, lest I have bone marrow biopsy flashbacks.

So I am leaning towards getting the treatment done at Emory with my Tiger Woods doctor, Dr. Flowers. He just seems to know his stuff. He said I can expect to be in the hospital for 5-6 days at a time, every three weeks, and it will likely be eight rounds total. (Quick math: 8 x 5 or 6 = 40-48 days)

At this point, my hardest decision is how I'm going to spend all this 'down time' in the hospital. Here are my options:
1) become wicked-good at on-line gambling and possibly squander our 401(k)
2) watch daytime soaps, talkshows, and see who 'my baby daddy' really is
3) scour all the notable check-out line magazines to keep on top of what Britney and Paris are up to
4) Explore the Bible more than I've ever been able to, read some educational books, make many new friends, and enjoy being still and silent for a season.

I think the 4th one will prevail. I take that back-- I *know* it will. Those other three options are like cancer in and of themselves.

It's easy to forget that each and every person will react differently to any given circumstance. For example, a doctor who treats ten different people will get ten unique outcomes. Once these drugs are put into my body, the doctors cease to have any influence. From that point forward, the body's cells themselves become the healing mechanism. That fact, alone, should be a miracle to us all. The true remedy here is not some smart doctor with impressive pedigree or the cocktail of particular drugs; rather, it's that each little microscopic cell will do its part to collectively heal me.

If that marvel alone doesn't evidence that we are indeed so wonderfully created, I don't know what does.

OK. The tree of trust is growing and I am so grateful that I'm not going this alone! Follow along. I think we will be glad we did this together.

Monday, December 15, 2008

Cytogenics results: positive for translocation...

This one will be quick, as I am still trying to process this info and learn what it all means. I think the clock is about to move pretty quickly to start treatment, as I was told this afternoon that my Cytogenetics tests came back positive for abnormal translocation.

What this means is that chromosome 8 rearranges when it gets near chromosome 14. This is called a MYC-rearangement.

As a result, my run-of-the-mill Lymphoma, which we knew to be diffuse large B-cell, is actually a more rare variant (just like Burkitt's) that is called c-myc DLBCL. Roughly 1% of Lymphomas are this type.

I have a lot to learn...

Friday, December 12, 2008

I am part of the 'Reluctant Members Club'...

Are we getting closer to certainty? Maybe. Here's the scoop...

I received a call a few hours ago from the Hematologist/Oncologicst from Vandy and he relayed two pieces of information. Firstly, he was irate that my Cytogenetics testing (to rule in or rule out Burkitt's) was still not complete and it would most likely be Tuesday. More waiting. Not sure what the hold-up is, but he assured me they were fighting those battles for me as best they can. Hmmm. I choose to believe him at his word.

Secondly, he said that based on the Pathology that Vandy completed, he had a recommendation for treatment that would be consistent regardless of what we learn next week about Burkitt's. He said that my Lymphoma has a 90+% proliferative rate. That means that the cancer is growing very, very rapidly. Most diffuse large B-cell Lymphomas have a 40-70% proliferative rate. Mine is closer to that of Burkitt's (high 90s) and therefore, even if it doesn't have the chromosomal anomalies of the Burkitt variant, it is still considered a 'high-grade' Lymphoma.

He was concerned that the standard R-CHOP chemo may not be effective against these aggressive, hyper-growing cancer cells. If we pursue the treatment consistent with Burkitt's (also a high-grade Lymphoma), then we would be covering our bases.

So what does chemo for a high-grade chemo look like? Well, it's pretty hard-core. It's called HYPER-CVAD. For the spelling bee champs out there, that's "rituximab with hyperfractionated cyclophosphamide, vincristine, doxorubicin, and dexamethasone, alternated with courses of high-dose methotrexate and cytarabine".

There are 8 drugs in the regimen. I would be in the hospital for 3-5 nights every treatment. I would need 8 treatments, three weeks apart. I would need a peripheral inserted central catheter, or PICC line, surgiacally implanted in my chest near my heart to take the IV. Dang.

The list of 'most common' side effects is longer than my niece and nephew's Christmas lists combined. I don't even know what half of these words mean: Myelosuppression• Hyperuricemia• Stomatitis• Nausea and vomiting• Neurotoxicity• Stomatitis• Vesicant• Cardiotoxicity• Hyperglycemia• Gastric irritation• Hemorrhagic cystitis• Alopecia• Insomnia• Constipation• Acute encephalopathy• Pulmonary toxicity• Pigmentation discorder• Diarrhea• Infertility• Hepatotoxicity• Fever• Cerebellar toxicity• Conjunctivitis• Flu-like syndrome• Typhlitis and necrotising colitis.

What I'd like to do, now that there appears to be a hint of art mixed in with the science, is seek yet another opinion from Emory and Piedmont on this approach. I'd hate to under-treat this. In the meantime, I found a great Leukemia/Lymphoma message board that will be a good resource for fact-finding from others in the reluctant members cancer club.

The actual phrase the Vandy doc used was, "If you can put up with the misery of HYPER-CVAD, you should." Misery, huh. Is there such a thing as joyful misery? We'll see.

Monday, December 8, 2008

What's for dinner? My own words...

Well I just knew at one point I'd have to eat my own words. Not that I'm too proud to do so, but there's just not much to hide behind when things have been quilled out in these cyber scrolls. On my original entry, I ended with, "Let us just sit for a moment, at these crossroads of uncertainty, and meet God right here."

I was just notified by the kind folks at Vanderbilt that they just received the block (my appendix tissue) *today* and sent it off to have the necessary genetic behavior 'MYC tests' conducted by a third party. Even with rush treatment, it will likely be the end of this week until we receive the results. [Thought to self: would chemo on Christmas Day be an option, just for fun?]

So, while I thought I'd pull over at these crossroads for a minute or two, looks as though it may be more like a week or two. Or three. While an immediate reaction could be one of frustration and impatience, I am content due to a comforting realization I had over the course of the weekend: in my 'healing', so to speak, cancer is only a footnote.

What I mean to say by this is that I now see the world through a new lens -- one through which walls of fear, judgement, doubt, and lack of true peace, are cracking right before my very eyes. Some of them are even tumbling down to the ground. While I initially thought I'd have to focus all my faculties on 'beating cancer' and healing my body, I'm quickly learning that the true healing that was needed was a healing of my heart. [Gosh, this is hard to put into words... and sounds a bit sappy. I will resist the urge to try to sound cool here.]

What made this realization very real and apparent to me was that, for the past week, I have felt a peace that I've never known. Let me type that again because I don't want to gloss over it: I have felt a peace that I've *never* known. I'm comfortable in my own skin. I feel physically terrific. I'm more thankful for every waking moment than ever before. I am starting to truly cherish my wife and the bond of marraige [think 'in sickness and in death']. I see the true beauty of friendships. I make no assumptions about tomorrow. I am not ashamed or nervous about sharing my faith in Christ [especially because it is growing in leaps and bounds].

Most of these fears I did not even know I had. Perhaps in seeing more freedom from them I've been able to recognize the hold they have had on me all along.

I would wager that most of what we choose to do, or not do, is driven on fear. What will happen if I fail? What will they think of me? What will I do next if that doesn't work out? What if I don't get what I want? What if they reject me? What if I don't get my way? What if I'm wrong? What if it hurts? What if I just plain look silly? What if they think I can't afford better? What if I'm actually right?! What if I end up thinking that God isn't really there because he didn't answer my prayers?

I am learning that we all have an open-ended invitation to LIVE without fear. Abundant life. Today. Right now. Maybe I'm comfortable sitting at these crossroads becuase I am healing right now in the parts of body that God truly cares about. It's a lot easier to put a finger on sickness in our physical bodies and a whole lot harder to find the other ailments that really do make us live life the way we do.

Maybe this cancer really is a footnote. Being healed of cancer will one day take a distant back seat to the true healing that's happening. I hope you can join me in that for yourself... without the cancer part, of course.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

With a twist...

Our visit today at Emory was terrific; however, I got a call from the oncologist at Vandy just a few minutes ago that is giving me a lump in my throat.

Emory was fantastic. Their cancer center has scale enough to convey comfort to a potential patient, yet is personalized enough to make one feel ‘known’ (not the feeling of steerage I perceived at Vandy, on occasion). I got another blood draw (must be at least the 6th prick since all this started), and then we were greeted by a very nice social worker who sat with us to hear our story. A social worker?! Of course! This is how it should be done: surely someone needs to make sure every newly-diagnosed cancer patient has adequate access to information, is managing the stress/anxiety in an appropriate manner, and has the relational support resources to see them through the valley. The social worker was able to turn us onto some new resources regarding fertility, as well as some support groups that I think we’ll eventually explore.

We then met with the fellow of the doctor we were there to see. She took in most of the nut-and-bolt information on my situation, did a quick exam, and then fielded preliminary questions. Then, the main course was served: Dr. Flowers, director of the Lymphoma program at Emory. This guy… is Tiger Woods! I really mean it—my doctor… is Tiger Woods! He must have a twin. You be the judge:




His mannerisms were even the same. You could swap out the white jacket for a putter and autographs would’ve been in order. And the best part, is that when Tiger wants to win, he wins. I expect no less from Dr. Flowers.

He is on the inside track for Lymphoma research and advancements in treatment. He said that the first thing any person must do is have a professional Heamatopahologist at a teaching institution re-diagnose the cancer as a confirmatory step before any treatment commences. In my case, this is what Vandy was enlisted to do. Remember this piece of info, as it comes in handy later. If indeed it confirmed that I have diffuse large B-cell Lymphoma (DLBCL), then the R-CHOP would be in order. He echoed nearly 100% of what we had heard at Vandy… which fortified my hope and optimism.

I then shuffled across to another building to get an EKG (a few electrodes hooked up to my chest) and Echocardiogram (an ultrasound of the heart) to ensure that my heart is healthy enough to withstand one of the chemo poisons, Adriamycin (which can cause congestive heart failure). I think things looked ok, based on the quips of the technician who was doing the read. I found it humbling to lie on a table and see my very own heart on a screen, beating every single second, without fail. It really is more delicate and fragile than I ever imagined. Truly a miracle to think that it’s working when we sleep, when we’re awake; when we rest and when we exercise… and is one of so many absolutely critical human elements. I laid there in awe. I felt like I was staring a big piece of the ‘life’ in me.

Well after a relatively uneventful afternoon, working from home and trying to ward off an occasional headache, I got an inbound phone call from the doc at Vandy. He told me that the reason he had yet to get back with me was that their Pathologists were not completely satisfied with the reading of my appendix tissue slides. They requested that Piedmont here in Atlanta mail up the entire block (specimen) so that they could re-cut their own new slides, and run some additional stains (tests on the cell patterns).

More specifically, my original path report had noted that the Ki-67 protein had a proliferative rate of 90%. This simply means that the rate at which the cancer cells are replicating themselves is very fast. There is a rare form of AGGRESSIVE Lymphoma (vs. my supposed type, which is an INTERMEDIATE grade) called Burkitt’s Lymphoma that has effectively a 100% proliferative rate. The cells themselves are the same large B-cells. If mine is this rare type, it would require more aggressive and potent chemo – not R-CHOP, per se. Hmmm.

The Vandy doctor then said, “Ok, I need to scare you now. You need to know there is a very high co-existence between HIV and Burkitt’s Lymphoma. Many people who have HIV get Burkitt’s, but having Burkitt’s does not necessarily cause HIV. Are you at risk for having HIV?” Once I clarified with him what those risks are (blood transfusions, sex with an infected partner, intravenous drug use), he deemed it highly unlikely that I would have HIV. In fact, he told me to ‘put it out of my mind, as it would be highly unlikely’. But it was highly unlikely that a healthy 31-year old would get cancer, so while I put it out of my mind, I’ll be honest--- it’s just hiding behind some other part of my brain, still there.

Having broken the ‘no-google’ rule yet again, I’ve since learned that Burkitt’s is either Endemic (common to children in Africa), or Sporadic (Europe/America). While there will be 60,000 new Lymphoma diagnoses this year in the US, only 100 (!) will be Burkitt’s. There were only 12 in Australia in all of last year. Wow, this one is pretty rare. So remember all that I said about being comforted by having one of the most common sub-types of Lymphoma? That may be soon put to the test!

One final piece of info that plays into this Burkitt’s Lymphoma possibility. Well, three pieces, really: (1) it most commonly occurs in young males and adolescents; (2) it most commonly presents in the abdomen; and (3) it most commonly exists OUTSIDE the lymph nodes. You guessed it. All three of those apply to me.

So while I’m certainly going to wait until the pathology confirms or denies the existence of this rare, very aggressive form of cancer called Burkitt’s Lymphoma, I can’t help but think a shift may be happening here. The doctor told me NOT to start R-CHOP until we find out. R-CHOP would not be strong enough to knock out Burkitt’s. Great thought, eh? No topical cream on this one.

More to come… the next few days could get interesting. I trust you are doing well and I cannot thank you enough for being a part of my life at this time.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Blah.

I feel crummy today. A combo of nausea and a migraine... and I haven't even started chemo. Oddly enough, this is the first time I've actually felt crummy in a week or so. I guess it's a reminder that this isn't going to be any fun.

Monday, December 1, 2008

It's all relative...

A quick update on me, and then a story. I am going to Emory on Wednesday morning for a third and final opinion on diagnosis and treatment. I don't expect anything too new, but am willing to seek treatment there if they impress us. I am told we have 16 viles in cryogenic storage. So unless Candace wants 17 babies, we should have enough to work with. I say that in jest because there is no guarantee that fertility procedures would even work, but at least we have options there (we think). And finally, in order to make sure my heart is healthy enough to withstand the chemo, I am getting an EKG on Thursday. I would start chemo at the end of this week, or early next week... as planned.

On my next entry, I'll tell you a little more about one of the chemo drugs in particular that really gives me the jitters, as well as some amazing acts of love from my friends. Now, on to the story...

I had dinner tonight with a new friend at one of my favorite local restaurants. He and I are both 'corporate' people, which meant we had enough in common that could go unspoken and leave room for more meaningful discussion. This was the first time we've sat down with one another, which offered a first-time glimpse into each other's lives. What I learned has given me great inspiration.

He has a brother who lived his entire life perfectly healthy until a massive seizure his freshman year of college (1992) revealed a very large brain tumor. After three major brain surgeries and some radiation, things looked promising. Thirteen years later in 2005, after he had been living life as a normal young man, another seizure came which again revealed the reemergence of yet another large tumor in his brain. The best medical minds in the country offered only two options: risk serious infection and death via another operation which would only temporarily relieve the problem; or, do nothing and live no more than a number of months. He chose the latter option, yet is still alive today. He is able to play his guitar and take trips and spend time with his family. This young man is truly living.

Unfortunately, my friend never knows when 'the call' may come, telling him that his brother let go, but he takes comfort in (a) that his brother is continuing to live a normal life one day at a time and (b) that his brother has a relationship with the Lord and knows where life leads us when it ends. My situation looks very simple and manageable in light of his. I am inspired by his perseverance and will to live, even if in stark defiance of all medical odds. I only hope I have the courage to do the same, should I bet met with that same crossroad.

"You do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes." [James 4:14] I tend to react to statements like this with a "yeah, yeah -- I know", but hearing the stories of the present sufferings of others, and even being faced with more uncertainty in my own life than ever before, is widening the door into the place where I know the truth of those words. Tomorrow... if it comes, is a gift, indeed.