tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17730056457952984592024-03-05T17:47:47.392-08:00My RecurrenceThe response to everyone who says, "You should write a blog about this."Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger156125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-73630966096212676942013-01-14T20:01:00.000-08:002013-01-14T20:43:50.798-08:00Tomorrow I will be Mrs. Michael HerlehySorry for the radio silence. Much has haopened. My typing has gotten worse because of my nueropathy and just always being sloppy. So maybe some things remain the same.<br />
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My mother once wrote me this strange email telling me the day and exact circumstances of when I was conceived. It made me uncomfortable. Some stuff you learn what to do with your kids from your parents and then, some stuff you learn what not to do. I won't be doing that. I think Conner wouuld be so traumatized he would be crying. But Kenna might laugh at it. Maddy would hate it as much as Maddy hates anything that's not mangoes and vanilla ice cream. <br />
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So I was conceived after a rockin party sometime in the afternoon of July 4th. I was supposed to be named Michelle since they thought I was going to be a girl. Now, ladies, just to be clear here, they might or might not have found the baby boy's um, package. I don't know about that part of the story. The important thing is, years later, it's by no means large but it's also not small. Just wanted to clear that up before we went any further. Especially with the ladies because I know how much they care about that thing.<br />
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Well, tomorrow I will be having a stem cell transplant replacing my lame stem cells with my sisters'. It took all this time but it is finally happening. <br />
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And from 3 pm tomorrow onwards, I am forever having woman blood cells. I have the opportunity to explore the softer sex. Maybe you won't make fun of me for watching, "After the Fall". Maybe I finally can see the attraction of Daniel Day Lewis. Maybe I will finally shop for sconces. I could have long, emotional, heartfelt conversations about what I ate at work, I will have good skin! Oh, the possibilities are so enormous. And guys, I will be your spy. You want to know why she doesn't want to share bathroom sinks with you even though her sink is just as messy as yours. I'll have the answer. Like, already, I can give you a tip to be romantic: the next time it's windy, brush the hair off her face gently. Huh? Ladies, you have to admit, that's what Daniel Day Lewis did in "The Last of the Mohekans", and that was during the outtakes.<br />
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My sister bravely went through a ton of crappy tests to get to this point and never stopped smiling even when she had a large needle poking into the side of her neck. I used to fight with the nuns all the time about life being random versus having a purpose foretold by God. Gobbledeegook. The universe is too big for us to believe we were chosen. The universe is random. But what we make from the randomness is what really counts. And I made a better relationship with my sister because of only my sister's courage and kindness. It just came in the form of stem cells.<br />
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My sister's cells are good cells. Strong. Vibrant. Stylish. Never had sex in Aftica, which really was on the check list. And from tomorrow onwards, I will actually, scientifically have female blood cells. Every time I go to Central DuPage Hospital, with their crack team of experts, they're going to come back at least three or four times telling me there's something wrong with my blood cells. It will be fun. <br />
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Thank you, Jackie. <br />
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That's the second time I thanked her and if you read the story that follows, you may agree that this first time was much bigger than this last time and this time Jackie is saving my life. <br />
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Ok, so you know those business lectures and books that tell you never to do something stupid at a business party. Well, I did something stupid at my first high school dance. And I was sober. <br />
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So this girl who was moderately pretty (for a kid with a face filled with zits, that was certainly pretty enough) and she asked me to dance. We were at one of those, "Welcome the Incoming Freshman" dances where only the Freshman go because nobody really cares that much about the Freshmen. Not seeing this at the time, though, I should point out that this girl was a senior. Another bonus, so I thought. Now she's above moderately pretty and into yeah, she's okay. We danced all night. She wouldn't let me go. For anything--not to even to go get some of that fine punch. I was really confused. Was this supposed to be really sexy or just stalker weird. She kept telling me to stare into her eyes and I was a Freshman boy so there are actually a lot more things I want to be straing at. So that was annoying. Nice but annoying. I can't see my current exceptionally pretty wife saying that, unless it was something like, "Stare at my eyes, dipshit. I don't want a pair of skis for Christmas!"<br />
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We ended up not going anywhere after the party and so as the guys say out there, "I got the Heisman". Fellas, please show your ladies what the Heisman is if you can. <br />
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The next Monday, I was the talk of the school, in a very bad way. Let me tell you, I was the king of the douchebags. The first impression, the first wholly, fully attended Freshman event (and then some since my stalker senior moderately pretty girl was there as well) and they all think, "This kid is a real douchebag." I guess I was dancing with this girl who, well, just ask yourself why she was at a Freshamn dance as a Senior but only wanting me to stare at her eyes. She was a little deranged. <br />
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Well, my sister saw me in the hall right after the gossip flew at school and pulled me aside. In the three minutes it takes to get to class, she gave me some great advice and completely solved the situation. <br />
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"Stay away. She's really off, as in touched. Crazy. Geeky. This chick is all of them and now you're in her clutches (I would have preferrred the word vortext there but I digress)." <br />
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I had to get out. My sister said this girl was going to stalk me and be really strange and completely ruin any potential reputation before it all began. And she almost did. So following my siter's advice, I cut our budding relationship off immediately. <br />
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Now before you think I broke this young lady's heart, the very next day she was following around Mark Mallon. Mark was another geek but he was a real geek. Had very little ungeeky qualities. Was unnaturally short and loved to play Dungeons and Dragons. Tried too hard to be cool. That type. She picked the perfect soul mate. This girl, however, was even lower than Mark on the coolness social scale of Immaculate Conception High School in Elmhurst. She said and did anything Mark mentioned. She'd even stand in back of him as he talked to his friends all lunch hour, just waiting for him, staring at his back. Really touched, indeed.<br />
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So the school moved on to ridiculing Mark Mallon and her and I was history. Thank you Jackie. It's actually great advice. You hear the same thing in politics all the time--when there's an embarrassing crises and it's true, admit to it immediately. People will then move on. President Clinton--yeah, I got a BJ in the White House. Fuck you, Newt. President Bush--there are no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. So let's stop looking and get the hell out of here.<br />
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I got a headache so I am once again going to pass on the editing. Sorry. <br />
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What was that girl's name? She's probably an actress now. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-78357903314125551722012-09-26T12:45:00.002-07:002012-09-27T12:53:13.937-07:00More stupid whining<br />
Sorry. It's been a long long time. i think I really needed a time away from everything, at least in my head. I wanted to try to forget, although that is a pretty ridiculous idea since everyone who has ever had cancer is aware of it every second they're awake.<br />
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I finished my SGN treatment. The FDA only allows a certain maximum number of treatments and I hit it. They do this because the side effects can get permanent. That's very believable.<br />
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I'm currently in a complete remission. Very excellent news. However, I still have a lot of side effects from the SGN. The bottom of my feet hurt so every step is a little bit of a shock. I have become a big fan of carpeting. My hands and lower arms are nasty, as well. It's really hard to handle small or slippery things like money. So every time I pay for something, I fumble all over the place. Sort of like a mentally challenged person.<br />
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This little vacation, however annoying it's been with the side effects, is essentially over next week. I will be seeing a doctor at Northwestern about getting yet another stem cell transplant. This one has a slight chance of killing me but it's probably time.<br />
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This transplant is different than the last one. First, I won't be killing my body and then injecting my own stem cells back into me. Instead, I will be killing my body and injecting someone else's stem cells into me. Now, before this year, something like this had a less than 7% chance of success. And it still has a 30% chance of ending in death. But this last year, some granola folks out in Seattle figured out that if patients like myself get into complete remission with SGN and then go for a stem cell transplant using someone else's stem cells, they have a more than 50% chance of success. They found the right chemo drugs but the bigger key was the fact that the patient needs to be in a complete remission. Still, 50% are the best odds I've had in a long time and probably the best I'll ever see. <br />
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The key is staying in remission. Studies have shown that the cancer comes back after two years, but I've never been able to last as long as the average person. And I'm already past one year as I got into remission while I was still getting treatments. I saw a doc in Seattle and the BOSS Dr. O'Connor in New York and they are both very nervous for me. It can come back any time and just because it's tired of taking this long coffee break.<br />
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The thing is, this transplant takes time. First, I have to find someone who is a match. Then that person has to find the time to do this. And it isn't easy for that person. I've already asked my sister and she has been really into doing absolutely anything.<br />
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With this political contest, there has been all kinds of talk about Ayn Rand. I used to be a believer. In particular, she said that people don't do nice things for other people--they're really doing it to make themselves feel good. Basically, it's all about me. <br />
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Ayn Rand never had cancer. It's just not true. People almost without exception, react a certain way when they find out you have cancer. They stop. Think. Slow down their speech for some funny reason. And they become overwhelmingly sympathetic. When you get that love, it makes you feel so much better inside. As if the love almost physically passes through. Yes, that feeling could simply be gas. But I doubt it. More than saying, "Hey, I have a broken leg." People usually shrug that off or even laugh. But not cancer. For some reason, everyone completely understands the enormity of the disease. <br />
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This isn't a selfish act. People aren't thinking like that because they want to make themselves feel better even if it is on an unconscious level. I generally don't like people. A good night to me would be to stay home and watch something on TV. I would take that over a night in crowded, smokey Vegas any time. But this event has made me love people. I am reassured by the fact that we are all flawed but we are all trying to enjoy the better things in life even despite the bad things that can happen. Like what Honey Boo Boo would say if Honey Boo Boo actually thought. <br />
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My sister is the latest example of this selflessness. The process that she would have to go through to give stem cells is a bear. They shoot you up. Prick you. Knock you out. Shoot you some more for 20 plus days straight. And then the procedure really starts. She doesn't care. Now I know people will say that it's nothing compared to saving a life. But it is. It's not like I'm asking her for a few bucks. Just because someone would naturally want to do it doesn't mean it will be a pleasant process.<br />
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Any way, who knows if she's even a match. With my luck, she won't be. That's when we have to go to the database. When we do that, it could take as long as 6 months. Also, because those stem cells won't ever be a completely natural fit, I'll almost surely have permanent side effects and some of them can be nasty. But I'll take that over the alternative.<br />
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By doing this, I can get out of the corner that I'm in. My disability insurance has already withdrawn a not too insignificant amount and they are looking for more blood. My health insurance has also been cancelled because I am technically not on the TDH payroll right now. So along with making less, I'm now paying for hoth the family's insurance as well as my own. I do get Medicare and that's not as much of a nightmare scenario as it is made out to be. The insurance I now have to pay for besides my family's is supplemental insurance for the stuff Medicare doesn't cover. <br />
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Don't get me wrong. We are not in need of money. Not at all. It's just that I can see a day when the disability checks can stop for good and the health care gets even pricier. And before I started all this, I promised I'd never dip into the savings I had built up for decades, all to stay alive an extra couple of months. I still believe that to my wife's objections.<br />
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So that's it. Thanks for wanting to hear from me. I don't know why. This is my whining opportunity and I usually don't disappoint. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-52733119449306905162012-03-29T20:22:00.005-07:002012-03-29T21:25:18.943-07:00Goodbye DadI was driving on Randall Road last Saturday, my birthday, when a quick breeze ran through my body from left to right. I checked to see if the air conditioning was on. Nope. The window was rolled up, too. Then I became very sad. Very sad. Because I knew what had just happened. My dad was saying goodbye to me. About ten minutes later, my phone rang and my sister told me that he had died.<br /><br />I know all of our dads are our heroes. And forgive me if this sounds familiar. By now, I'm sure you know that he was mine. But more than anything, he was just a good person. Maybe that is, in the end, better than being a hero. <br /><br />Timothy J. Herlehy owned an excavating business. But he wasn't an excavator. He was a builder. Yes, he built many office buildings and parking lots. But he also made Kachina dolls. He built four or five houses and probably hundreds of different rooms for friends and family. He built flawless fences. I was jealous of his precision in those fences. He made driveways. He made a board game. And most important, he made me a man. <br /><br />He made relationships that lasted much longer than the fences and driveways. He talked to his childhood buddy every week. I don't even talk to my college buddies every month. And he did it without Facebook. His life was always in building.<br /><br />One week, he went to an Indian Reservation and built there just because they needed someone like him to help. He made me a home whenever I needed it. He made homes for a lot of people. It wouldn't be uncommon to wake up and see some strange person sleeping on our couch or in a bedroom. When people needed a place to stay for a night or a couple of weeks or even months, my dad put them up. I had the privilege of being introduced to Kenny Loggins' cousin once because he stayed with my dad for awhile. Really, he was the cousin of Kenny Loggins. He looked just like him and besides, who would lie about being Ken Loggins' cousin? <br /><br />One of my favorite things about my dad was he made good things out of bad. One time late at night, he saw that I was hungry but couldn't find anything to eat. The next day was shopping day so you know, that night before the cupboards are pretty bare. This one was too except for a can of hominy. So he made that and while we both ate, he talked at length about the times he ate hominy and who eats it now and what goes with hominy. Hominy tastes like crap. I'm sure he knew it but he also knew what I have finally come to understand and that is, that it doesn't matter what you eat when you love and enjoy the people you're eating with. He told me some day we'll try some grits. I'm sure he was laughing inside because grits tastes like crap too. <br /><br />My dad's wake started at four pm and ended at eight. The whole time, the line rarely thinned. You would have thought someone was giving away Springsteen tickets. He spent his whole life doing what I just figured out. Being a hater doesn't help anyone. Being a builder, now that is something noble.<br /><br />Many people felt bad that he died on my birthday. They say that it was supposed to be your day. But I never saw the meaning of birthdays any more. Sort of a nuissance. Now, however, I feel much differently. If my dad were to die on any day, I'm actually glad it was on my birthday. Because I now know how to celebrate it. I'll do what he did his whole life. Why half-heartedly celebrate my life this one day when I can instead whole-heartedly celebrate his? That's what a builder would do. So every year on March 24th, I'm going to celebrate my birthday by visiting with his friends and family and saying goodby, again and again, to him.<br /><br />I am very sad now. I don't know if this is grief. I am just sad. I wonder if I'll ever laugh uncontrollably. I sort of don't care. Where does time go? Life sometimes slips by us.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-2206792914103774922012-02-28T22:44:00.004-08:002012-02-28T23:39:05.268-08:00I'm just blabbing. I've gotten so bad, I'm just gonna blab.I don't think they'll ever be a good movie about cancer. Certainly not an action movie. Matt Damon will never play me. Well, Matt Damon would never play me because I don't look like Matt Damon. He's cute. I'm more like Ernest Borgnine. Women have never fell in love with my looks. I usually need a couple of dates and long talks and walks along some body of water. The ladies like talking next to water. Then, eventually when I've done quite a bit of work and have exhausted almost all my jokes, they say some weird physical attribute is cute. Like my back. Really. Some girl, after knowing her for a long time and talking to her everyday about all kinds of stuff, said I had a sexy back. I didn't have a sexy back. It was a white, pale, fatty, baggy, lard. But you women, you will talk yourself into anything. Even a fatty lard back. <br /><br />The reason you can't ever make a world shit-kickin'-Titanic-Celine Dion-Sings-the-Soundtrack movie about cancer is because cancer is so damn slow. He is a creepy bastard that is so creepy he moves slower than you can even track. You wake up one day, you feel like crap. Then you feel like crappier. Then crappier. Suddenly, you just feel like that pocket of lard on my back. Just some lethargic, buzzed blob. While you're laying there, cancer is killing you. First your blood, then your lungs. You never suddenly feel a puncture and hop into a car, rushing to a emergency center. It just slowly moves, a centimeter a day. Until, pip. It's in. Meanwhile, as the blob, you develop a cough. You think it's a cold because if it were cancer, there would be this big pop followed by menacing music. And then Matt Damon would crash through your window and carry you to a hospital. Nope. Cancer is a slow bastard. <br /><br />Someone once described the devil as not someone who is red with a pitchfork and fire in his nose. Instead, the devil would be someone you don't know but who slowly but surely lowers standards, kills things quietly. Wait. Someone didn't say that. I think it was in Broadcast News.<br />But that is cancer. <br /><br />I'm supposed to be in complete remission now but I can't get over being sick. I am the blob right now. An Ernest Borgnine blob and I'm trying to get out of it. I can't even write well. The biggest bad news is because I've taken so many pops of oxy-anything, I've reached the Michael Jackson and Elvis level of drug use. Will I die on the toilet? I don't know. I like to poop. I like poop as much as the next guy. I think women every once in a while take a really great poop as well. But they have to quietly enjoy it. It would be great if a woman one day wrote on her Facebook wall, "I just took a great poop."<br /><br />Maddie has pink eye. I think I might have pink eye. But being a blob, I have to unravel all my problems to see if a number of them is related to pink eye. Just not feeling good. I can't remember when I had a whole hour where I felt no pain, nausea or discomfort. It has to have been a couple of months ago. My biggest and best wish right now is to spend a whole day feeling normal. Even Ernest Borgnine normal.<br /><br />I need to reach the summer. If I can stay in complete remission at that point, I can enjoy a day or two or three. In the summer, my treatment ends. Before that, I won't have any relief because my side effects are getting worse and the drugs are getting less effective. But just the summer. A couple days at the beach where everyone can see my fat blob belly, four or five scars on my neck, a port in my chest and then, tada! My back. Someone should film this because in the middle of all this ugliness, I will feel so happy. Okay, so sure, there will never be an action flick about cancer. But maybe a horror movie starring my midsection.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-30843269097914164372012-02-27T00:28:00.003-08:002012-02-27T01:15:03.355-08:00It was good while it lastedI haven't posted in a while. No excuse. But I would like to update everyone even though I should be going to bed:<br /><br />I've been to the doc twice since the last post. Heck maybe three times. Good news. I had no cancerous activity in me at the time. But the drug and my history keeps everyone with extremely guarded optimism. This was a while back. Things have changed.<br /><br />My neuropathy is bad now. It hurts to type. I can't button my shirt really well. I can't write my name really well but I never did in the first place. Typing is bad, besides being painful. Fingers won't do much. I have a hard time going up and down stairs. My body aches constantly like having the flu. I can't sleep now at all. I'm getting used to my sleeping pills and the pain pills so they work less. I'm in either sharp pain of neuropathy or aches at all times of the day and night now. I'm trying to take some vitamins to help with the fingers. <br /><br />I can't tell my doctor any of this because he'll take me off the drug and I need the drug to survive. His reason is sound: the drug can debilitate me, meaning I could lose function of my hands, arms and legs. But I have to gamble that it won't. I need the drug and be alive more than I need to walk. And really, the biggest problem here is I have to be judicious with the drugs I ask for since they can catch on and give me tests that I might not pass.<br /><br />There is a great Peter Gabriel song on his second or third album (he never named them; he's an artist). it was about this burglar who liked sneaking in people's houses. The drums on that was excellent. I think he used Phil Collins so you know it's that hard, pounding. In this specific song it managed to be creepy and pounding. It gave you the feeling that Peter was slowly stepping and stepping into the house. <br /><br />Now, I hear Phil Collins' drums in my body. The cancer that has already snuck into my body and was in hiding for awhile, is getting bored and looking for some elbow room, stretch his nuclei. The right side of my neck is hurting every so often. The muscles around my neck start throbbing for a couple of minutes. Then it goes away. Only to come back and throb for a while. From experience, I know that only two things will happen: either the node will start to appear or the throbbing will stop, never to be heard from again. If the node pops out, it's cancer and it's game on again. If it goes away in the next couple of days, it was a cancerous node but the drugs beat it back so silly that it won't get up to fight again. <br /><br />This is a time I knew would always come but you're just never prepared. Before I had the reserve of SGN. But I used that up. Now I got no reserve. It's the slow march to the sea. For months, I was just hoping to just get the summer. In May, the treatment ends and Dr. O was going to give me a break for a few months as long as I didn't get sick. It would have been unbelievable. My first single day without drugs for four and a half years. That's more than a thousand mornings waking up to another reality. I just wanted the summer. But those drums. I'll give you an update with this as soon as it breaks one way or the other.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-13327458641499073832012-01-27T21:56:00.000-08:002012-01-27T23:22:37.869-08:00To my youngest and happiestDear Maddie,<br /><br />Today you gave me one of the best days of my life. I spent most of it with you. According to science, you will probably never remember anything. You're too young. I just wish that maybe today will come to you in a dream. And I don't think remembering it or replaying will be good enough. I wish you could have felt today. If you can feel it in your dream, that will be cool. <br /><br />You dream that we went to the pool. You were afraid to go down the alligator slide because you don't like getting water in your eyes. We bobbed together and did all the cool things dads do with their kids in pools. And then we came home. You had half of mom's peanut butter and jelly sandwich (she packed you a lunch) and a whole banana. One day you were trying to figure out how to say the word banana and you looked at me while you were figuring out like it was an algebra question. Then you cried because you didn't want to take a nap only to fall asleep within five minutes of laying down in your bed. You woke up and watched Nemo. And then we went to your Father Daughter Day. We both wore pink. You were supposed to play hot potato but you loved the music so much, you decided to dance instead. You made me dance with you. It's hard to dance to children's songs, especially when people are waiting to play hot potato. Your happiness is so infectious that you got everyone to stop playing hot potato and half the party danced. Hot potato be damned. You are only two but you got twenty or so people to dance because you like to dance. A lot of dads dancing and Maddie, let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. But it was beautiful to me. You created it all. Your happiness.<br /><br />The thing is, Maddie, this will all end for me. In a couple of months, I'll have to stop getting treatments. It was my last good bullet and I really enjoyed my time. The side effects have caused me to have extreme pains in my hands and feet. The pain has traveled up to my knees and to my shoulders. My lower legs are lumpy and it's hard to walk. Every step hurts now and I'm running out of drugs to help it. Every day I have to wake up and relearn how to ignore the pain. This must be what it is like getting old. But it's been easier because of you. I swam and danced today. The pain was somewhere but it wasn't on that makeshift dance floor. It was still one of the best days of my life. <br /><br />Don't lose your happiness for anyone. Nobody should ever take it away. I hope that includes me. <br /><br />I'm sorry, Maddie. I wish I did something different to change what is happening to us right now. I will cheat you. It hurts really, really bad to think of that. I can't now. You're sleeping. I need it too. I'll see you in the morning. Maybe we can have a better day. I have a feeling the closer I get to ending my last magic bullet, the better my days will be. let's keep laugh. Stay happy. Always stay happy. That will be your gift to the world. Maybe it is my gift to you.<br /><br />Love,<br /><br />Your DadUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-70226587521466186182011-12-30T19:25:00.000-08:002011-12-30T20:52:46.035-08:00Excuse the typos.As a father of one son, I worry, as do many fathers of one son, about my line. It sounds so unbelieveably arrogant and it is. But I think there is some evolutional physiological make-up to it. The line is my line of succession. Having one son means that this branch of the Herlehys only goes through him. This is stupid and did I mention arrogant? But I think of my grand-parents and how hard they lived and struggled and just believe it would be a big shame to ever continue the history of the world without at least someone waving their flag. My grand-father pounded in railroad ties most of his life and met his wife right on the job because she was the cook. The day after my father graduated from eighth grade, my grand-father put him alone on a caboose and told him he had to ride on that train all summer and spray fertilizer. To repeat for dramatic effect, he was alone on a train, working every single day during the summer after eighth grade. Today, of course, my grand-father would arrested but they needed the money. From there, my dad was used to working non-stop from morning to night. I figured out that he worked two jobs for around forty years. <br /><br />Everybody has similar tales about their parents and grand-parents and as far as I'm concerned, they're all heroic. It's what makes us the biggest, bad-ass country in the world. And even if we all have those stories, none of those people should ever be forgotten. Just because there were thousands of them, it doesn't means they can't all be our heroes.<br /><br />Having one son means I only got one shot at getting the succession line right. Considering all the crap that is out there, it is conceiveable that my one son could go on to be a meth addict, never marry, have no kids (at least none that call him Dad) and the world will never see this branch of Herlehys ever again. Or, he could turn out worse and become an announcer for Fox News. Hey, I gotta get in any dig I can. And it did happen to Mike Wallace.<br /><br />Anyway, I never considered the fact that my dad remarried and had a son named Luke. I just had lunch with Luke and he seems to be such a good person. He's very honest, respectful, diligent and smart. In fact, one small thing I noticed is actually quite a gifted trait. He has a unique ability to tell you things that you might not want to hear and still make it sound okay. Anyone who is in any kind of business understands how this is a rare and valued talent. The only other guy that I know who can tell you that you've screwed up in a nice, understanding, hey-everyone-is-an-idiot-sometime way is my partner Greg. These next months, Luke is studying to be a lawyer and when he passes the Bar, he'll make a great one because it seems like half of a lawyer's job is telling clients things they don't want to hear. It's sort of strange that honesty is often rare.<br /><br />Luke said he read my latest post and nicely mentioned that I have yet to kill my typo problem. He did it very well. Luke was understanding with other things, too. I wasn't a very good half-brother. I was too involved with my own life in college to realize that I had a little brother who could have used an extra older ear in his life. But he turned out great. And to brag here for a second, he got a swimming scholarship at Ohio University, came within two seconds of setting an all-time school record and did through hard work, which meant he got up at five in the morning to swim in a cold pool. Yes, while you and I were getting home, he was getting up. <br /><br />Today I realized that Conner can, in fact, go on to be a loser meth addict without any kids who would call him Dad. It's just perfectly fine! Luke is also there and it doesn't seem like he enjoys meth all that well. It looks probable that some kid, some day, will be annoyed by his Dad because he constantly tells stories of his parents and grand-parents.<br /><br />So sorry for the typos. I now use an iPad and it sucks for punching out any message longer than a noun. Still, that is no excuse. I'll get better at this. I swear. In the meantime, maybe we all can re-evaluate this whole male-carrying-on-the-family line thing. It's probably a little pre-historic. And fuck it. In three generations, if we're not fried from having no ozone or debilitated from having no oil, nobody is going to remember any of us anyway.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-13583085456667827612011-11-30T22:33:00.000-08:002011-11-30T23:03:15.836-08:00My kidney is someone's lab experiment.Cancer is great. Yes, it is. At least tonight it is.<br /><br />When I was ten, I had only one goal life. I wanted to be the next Walter Payton. Only without the pain killer habit. I went to football practice, ran and hit as hard as I could and then came home to practice again. I'd come inside when it was dark and before I'd go to bed, I'd practice inside. During school I would draw up plays. Teachers would tell my mom that if I would just ignore football for ten minutes, I would possibly be a good student. <br /><br />Then one day I went to the allergy doctor. The right side of my back was hurting that day as it did about once every month. When it hurt, man it pretty much shut me down. The allergy doctor did what few allergy doctors do, he saved my life. He told my mom that I should get an X-ray. I complained and whined. But then I got another X-ray and then a CT scan. All of them showed that I had a blockage going from my kidney to my bladder. A month later, I went into surgery at Loyola Hospital in Maywood. When I came to, my mother said that the doctor had to take out my kidney because it was a shrivelled-up ball of nothing. And she said that because of it, I could never play football or any contact sport again. While I was crying, my mother told me that I should use this as a sign. Instead of making it a tragedy, she said that I should turn it around and make this event meaningful. It took a couple years but eventually I realized that I liked being creative. I never would have found writing and creativity without getting my kidney out. <br /><br />Tonight, I walked into Maddie's room. She was startled, dazed and confused and now awake and without her binky. Where was it? She was crazy upset. She couldn't find her binky. We looked around for about a minute. And then I found it on the ground under her bed. I gave it to her and she put it into her mouth, grabed her blinket and went right to bed. It was only us two. It was a rare, innocent moment. And I loved it as much as any moment in my life. A healthier me would have been worrying about work, if I would have ever bothered to get out of bed in the first place. But this was not the case tonight. The cancer is here. It is still bad. But tonight it is great. It has yet to make me stop. But it has been successful in making me slow down.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-45102990988650783892011-11-18T21:39:00.000-08:002011-11-18T23:11:19.550-08:00Just a silly little thing.A friend of mine, Amy Markley, and I are huge documentary fans. One day we figured out that people who love documentaries would rather watch something really boring than watch a really exciting fiction movie. Literally, that same night I got hooked into a doc about Tom Petty. Sherri came downstairs and said, "What in the world are you watching? You don't even like Tom Petty." As usual, she was right. Wives are always right even when they're wrong.<br /><br />Recently I saw a doc that was very interesting, much more interesting than Tom Petty. By the way, I challenge anyone to name a relatively well-played Tom Petty song that isn't about transportation. Free Falling. Running Down the Road. Break Down. See? I am digressing here. <br /><br />Back to the doc. It was good. You can still watch it on HBO. I'm not sure about Netflix, mainly because it seems like the only movies on Netflix are eighties karate or coming-of-age movies. Or both.<br /><br />Bac to the doc. I don't know what it's called. But it was about this law in Oregon that allows for assisted suicides. First the movie followed the political part of the issue, basically the passing of the bill through a special election. Really. More people in Oregon believe you should be able to kill yourself. <br /><br />That was sort of boring, like an interview with Tom Petty. The other part of the story, however, followed this woman who had liver cancer. She was smart, funny, caring, creative. Sort of like my wife, except the caring part. Um, just kidding. I kid. <br /><br />It seems like liver cancer is an unbelieveable bear. Despite her best effort, she was struggling and in a heck of a lot of pain. Finally, she decided she needed an assisted suicide. The pain was unbearable. And believe it or not, planning for death seemed easier and cleaner for her. Her belly really protruded from her body. She was taking a bunch of morphine. Yes, morphine. Not even an oxy. She was doing a lot of hard stuff. She was ready.<br /><br />But then something weird happened. She started feeling better. She had already scheduled her suicide and it was only a few days away. So, she rescheduled. Now, I'm the father of a daughter who takes dance classes. And you can't ever, ever, ever take a day off. They are the dance Nazis. And I'd like to point out that if a lady in Oregon can reshedule her suicide, why can't my daughter rescheduke a dance class every now and then? <br /><br />Back to the doc. So the lady was feeling better. And one day she said, "Ya know, I realize this is gong to sound naive, but I wonder if I'll ever have to schedule that suicide ever again. Maybe it won't come back." The production crew followed the lady for a month or two and, well, as you can guess, the cancer came back. A couple more months passed and she was worse than before. Eventually she was bed-ridden and went through with that suicide. <br /><br />It was both fascinating and sad to see the lady and her husband go through with this suicide. I'd love to watch it again, but I know it would be too difficult to get through. Even through the story had many memorable moments, that statement when she was seemingly getting better about how she didn't see the cancer coming back really got to me. I'm obsessed with not seeming like that. I just don't want to look foolish when the prognosis isn't so good. <br /><br />But still, I guess I have to look foolish today. I just got back from the doc and from receiving my sgn treatment. I've already passed the average patient's experience with this drug. I believe that the majority of patients come off the drug by around the fifth month. Some come off the drug because the cancer comes back. Others, a good many others, come off the drug because the side effects become too debilitating. <br /><br />Way back in August, I had scans done and they showed that I was almost in a complete remission. Just a few spots here and there. That was an amazing feat, by the way. I mean, I had it all over my body and in really large boulder sizes. <br /><br />My doctor, who once couldn't make one of my appointments because he was testifying to Congress about it, is just amazed. Each time I come in, my blood counts get better. I'm almost to a normal level. He said he doesn't want to scan me again for a couple months unless my bloodwork turns bad. I guess I don't need it.<br /><br />Here's where I look naive. The doctor and the statistics both say that the prignosis for the next year or two or three is good. The deal is, I gotta make it one full year. If I can do that, the stats are, as Conner would say, really Boss! If I get a complete remission, I could stay that way for the next two years. It's not overwhelmingly the case but a good portion of patients have no problems for that amount of time and even later. The drug is too new to know how much later that is. Some people are still going.<br /><br />Now the chances are about the same that the cancer will come back. Could be fifty-fifty. I'm not sure. But even if it does, often the cancer is more manageable. Of course, tomorrow I could relapse and the cancer would not be so nice. In fact, it usually acts like it's really pissed. Like your son took the car to a crack house in the city, got into an accident and had his hooker call you to tell you. That pissed. <br /><br />I've heard and seen great news like this before. I told the doctor that the pattern has always been the cancer goes away and then within a month it comes raging back. But today and the next many days after, I am going to choose to be naive.<br /><br />Like Tom Petty's career, this story doesn't end just yet. It's going to be tough to get to one year. The side effects are doing a number on me. I suffer from a lot of fatigue and a heck of a lot of something I mentioned before, nuerapathy. My hands and feet give me a hurtun real bad. Even though I spent the last two months getting off of all kinds of drugs, I can't function without pain killers and neurapathy pills. When I'm on them, the pain doesn't go away. It just gets a little tamed. I also often have a hard functioning. Walking can be hard.<br /><br />I'm getting tired. I'm going to go. I hope this makes sense. Before sgn, I just wanted to make it to Christmas. Now, my goal is much more ambitious and at the same time, more naive. I'd love to see Conner graduate high school. I don't think my body will take the shock of the cost of college. So I'll just keep to graduation. That is my silly goal.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-33030658801634530282011-10-28T21:18:00.000-07:002011-10-28T22:18:18.832-07:00It must have been that guy's walletDon't give any money to breast cancer causes. I know, I'm pissing off everyone who's had relatives with that monster. But hear me out. <br /><br />You get out of the elevator on the seventh floor of the NYU Cancer Center building and it resembles one of those Mexican buses. Ya know, it's jam packed, people are elbow to elbow, hanging out of the windows and even sitting on the roof. And somone usually has a chicken. When the nurse finally calls your name, three hours after you checked in and after some very sick person coughs all over you, the nurse repeats your name three or four times while you crawl over the bodies. <br /><br />In the meantime, two floors up, people exit the elevator and are soon greeted by the calm, soothing voice of the receptionist who asks you to have a seat and oh, there are drinks for you free of charge. After a trip to the kitchenette, people prance across the carpetted floor as classical music plays and then land in a soft, comfortable chair. A couple minutes later, a nurse comes out to see you and apologizes for the long wait.<br /><br />You get what I mean? Breast Cancer is the cool kid. Hodgkin's is the fat kid who never washes his hair. So please, if you're gonna run in some half marathon for a cause, run for the fat kid. <br /><br />The last post, boy was it depressing. Well, I have some better news. In fact, I think it's great news. The big lump in my boob is not cancerous. It's just a big lump in my boob. The medical peeps say it's probably a reaction to the heavy meds they've been shooting into me. But that conclusion took awhile to figure out. <br /><br />First I had a mammogram. Ladies, I think you will agree that it's not the most comfortable process. The last time I was asked to get into so many positions, I was single. <br /><br /> A couple minutes later, a radiologist came out and asked me to come into her office. My friend Todd is an excellent poker player. He rarely loses money and that's when he's in Vegas. One night while at the best casino on the strip (O'Shea's), he taught me the ins and outs of playing the game. Since then, I've even learned to catch a tell every now and then. A tell is when someone does something that tells you what kind of hand he or she has. It could be all kinds of things. A tell from a doctor is when they pull up a chair next to you. Then you're in for serious shit. But this time, the doctor didn't pull up that chair. She sat in her own and told me that she believes the lump isn't cancerous but only a biopsy will tell. <br /><br />About a half hour later another doctor was performing a needle biopsy on me. Because my lump was right under my nipple. She took her very long needle and stuck it directly into said nipple. Then she poked back and forth. She did this for about a minute and quite nicely apologized the whole time. Then she did it again. After looking at my cells and not finding any cancer, she did a third time to be sure. Again, she found nothing. As I mentioned in my previous post, very pathetically, I was in need of a break. I got it. Yeah baby. It was probably the wallet.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-38164666399548555852011-10-27T18:31:00.000-07:002011-10-27T18:49:03.408-07:00Well, that was fun.I have a lump in my left boob. It's either a lymphoma relapse or breast cancer. Odds are on the relapse. If that is the case, then the best treatment out there for hodgkin's is no match for my monster. Basically, since this didn't work, it's doubtful anything will. The tumors are back and this time they're not leaving. The best I can do now is slow it down. I'm very tired. I never thought it was unfair that I got this. People get diseases every day. My buddy Scott, Cari and Susan at work all have Crohn's. But I do think it is very unfair that I have never been able to enjoy a relapse. I'm going on year four. That's 1,460 days. It's hard. Every morning I get up and the biggest goal is to find the time to forget, to feel better or hide what I feel. Most of the time I can get an hour or two at night. Within a couple of months that will be gone. I just wanted a couple more months. If you're tired of reading about my whining once again, I'm sorry. I wish I could write about something else. I think I'm going to have a beer. It will hurt. But I don't give a fuck.<br /><br />Oh, one other thing. After we landed in New York, the guy in front of me deplaned but he left his wallet on his seat. I picked it up and gave it right to the flight attendant. I didn't even check to see how much he had. Wouldn't that good deed get me a month or two without this disease?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-53109856447412723122011-10-05T21:23:00.000-07:002011-10-05T21:28:30.768-07:00A note to my kidsIronically, I can't figure out how to embed Steve Job's 2005 Stanford Commencement Address. <br /><br />But Conner, McKenna and Madison, I'd like you to read/watch this. Everyone can too if they want.<br /><br />http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/10/05/steve-jobs-stanford-commencement-address_n_997301.htmlUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-18408148859995607332011-10-05T17:58:00.000-07:002011-10-05T20:50:45.733-07:00Am I going to have to eat herbs?Steve Jobs died today. Cancer doesn't care who you are. I, as well as everybody in design, owe him a big favor because he showed the world that design matters. If used correctly, design can be more than just an aesthetic pleasure. It can change everything and anything. <br /><br />I've gotten lucky the last two times Icame ro New York. About a month ago, I happened on a good deal for a hotel in the downtown area of Manhatten. The cab driver pulls up to the hotel and across the steeet was some kind of busy construction project. I go up to the lobby and holy cow, thar's Ground Zero. The hotel overlooked Groumd Zero. My room overlooked Ground Zero. I could barely sleep.<br /><br />A month later, today, I weasled my way into another downtown hotel deal. This was on Wall Street. I'm in the middle of the Occupy Wall Street protests. I went down to take a look at it. I gotta say, there is an aweful lot of earth tones down there. A lot of wool, too. It smelled of a college dorm and looked like a college lecture just got out. There are a couple hundred youngsters and lots of police people. The people are yelling stuff. The police aren't. I decided to chime in and I yelled too. I screamed, "My underwear is riding up my ass!" And, "Let's hear it for 100% Cotton!" Only some people cheered me on but I think they were French tourists.<br /><br />I don't care what anybody says. These protests aren't about the inequalities in our economic system. No, this protest is wholly and solely the result of the Grateful Dead. You see, if the Grateful Dead were still touring, all these young people who look like the haven't showered in a few weeks would be spending their time enjoying the confusing riffs of the Dead. They'd be doing the white guy dance, chewing on some mushrooms and then talking about the waning influence of the middle class in our economic and political lives. I usually picture a teepee, too. I never understood the attraction but my friend Sarah somehow enjoyed the Bands sounds. There's no Grateful Dead now. Where are you Gerry Garcia?<br /><br />I see Dr O'Connor tommorrow. My run with this treatment is about up. My gut hurts. I'm itching more. I have lump on my boob. I don't have a plan B. I wanted to go to Houston but now I'm not so sure if I even can get into the trial. I'm getting tired. Unlike most cancer heads, I've never really had a remission period. It's hard to wake up, notice that you feel like crap and realize that oh yeah, I have cancer. I'm doing that everyday. A rough count puts me and cancer reintroducing ourselves to each other for about a thousand mornings now.<br /><br />Every time someone with cancer dies, I do something I'm not very proud of. I count the years they struggled with it and compare myslf with that hoping to go as long. Steve Jobs went almost eight years with his monster but he went to Switzerland and ate nothing bit herbs for a while. I'm only butting up to year four. It would be incredible if I went as long as Steve Jobs. I hope I don't have to eat herbs, though.<br /><br />One other thing, being down here allowed me to see the grave of my hero, Alexamder Hamilton. He was the father of our economy. He made sure our dollar was worth something. He forsaw the intricacies of interstate commerce. He led a bayonett charge in the last major battle of the war. He wrote most if not all of President George Washington's speeches and with him, helped forge a brand new society. Thomas Jefferson and Hamilton fought over what type of country this should be. Jefferson wanted a country of gentlemen farmers with a weak and non-existent federal government. Jefferson won, for awhile. After the Civil War, the country slowly but surely tilted all the way toward Hamilton. He is most likely the only Founding Father who foresaw what we are today. He was an orphan who ran a trading company at nine years old. At thirteen, he was turned down by Princeton because he told the dean he wanted to finish college in three years. Only being thirteen years old, the Dean thought he was crazy. Almost as admirable in my mind is how he was human. He was very vain. His son died in college after he was challenged to a duel, a fight over his father. You would think he would stay away from duels but he didn't and died as well, at the hands of Aaron Birr (even after he shot his bullet into a tree). Yes, he was vain and he did cheat on his wife one time. But I compare that with his rival, Jefferson, who owned slaves and betrayed Washington. I'll take Big Al. It was cool seeing his gravesite. Sad, too. I was so inspired to be so close to his actual body. But then I heard about Steve Jobs. I hate, hate, hate death.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-27776050144989119382011-09-29T22:24:00.000-07:002011-09-30T01:03:38.295-07:00My dad is probably like a lot of dads in othat he has always given me great advice on life. But unlike many dads, that advice always came at strange times. <br /><br />In the summer, I would work for my dad's comstruction company as a laborer. Do any of you know what that is? The laborer is the guy on a construction team who hasn't quite learned how to drive a tractor or move a dump truck. So he has to do all the dirty work. And on a construction site, the dirty work is filthy dirty. If a hole needs digging, the laborer digs it. If something needs smashing, a laborer smashes it. If a sewer needs cleaning out, hold your nose and grab your shovel. A good laborer needs to be strong, tireless, steeled nerves and bicepts, oblivious to the mud, crap, feces and screams from the foreman. Ad willing to do absolutely anything and do it quickly or else you"re fired. I was nothing like that. I was more like Woody Allen grade a hole. Or maybe even a little Felix Ungar. Yeah, probably more Felix Ungar. It was all just too dirty, too heavy, too hot, too disorganized. I was too whimpy, whiney, clutzy and soft. Getting sludge out of a sewer hole holds no fascination for me, especially when the forman of the job is a drunk guy with a Scottish accent, calling you all kinds of unbelieveably naughty yet wildly creative names. The c word to Scotty is just the beginning of a sentence. And I am to him, a retard. <br /><br />It wasn't that I hated construction. Construction hated me. <br /><br />About two or three times every summer, my dad would trick me. He'd pull up in his truck and yell, "I got another job for you. Get in and grab your shovel." Then we'd drive in complete silence. I was afraid to say anything because I knew I was Felix Ungar out there and knew that he knew. <br /><br />Most of the time, my dad would start the conversation deftly talking in abstracts. Right away, he'd get all deeper in the discussion. And then he would talk about life and school and what he expcts from me. Stuff like looking people in the eye when you talk to them, the importance of a good firm handshake, how to treat ladies, moms, dads, girlfriends, business partners, etc. <br /><br />My dad, like many dads I suppose, is a truly wise man. As a kid, he would walk all the way to Wrigley Field from his home in Elmwood Park to see the Cubs play. He got in by striking a deal with the groundskeeper. He could watch the game but then he had to clean up the garbage in the stands afterwards. So he did that. And then he walked back home to Elmwood Park, about twenty to thirty miles each way. My dad was destined for law school and started taking some classes. But then a family tragedy struck, my uncle Jimmy died on a construction site. My grandfather was too devastated to go back to that same construction site to work. So my dad did. And my dad kept doing it. He gave up his dreams to help his dad. He knows a few things.<br /><br />My dad would go on and on. And by the end of his impasion lecture, we would be facing a mall entrance. He'd take me shopping. For the rest of the day, he'd tell me to get anything. He'd push shirts on me, sweaters (it was the eighties so you can easily visualize the style), socks, underwear, anything. I always thought it was funny watching the sales people react to seeing a kid who has dirt in his teeth, hair and any nether region and smelled like River Forest's finest poop. Eventually I'd sheepishly get only one or two things. I felt bad for spending his money. Even so, it was a great feeling.<br /><br />Back in the car, during his speeches, he often came back to the same theme: make sure you always have options. It's important in anything you do. Always have options. Always. Always. Because when you don't, you're stuck. And then your life, your career, even your relatiomships are no longer favorable to you. You lose the ability to control that pesky sucker called fate. When you're stuck and have no options, you are at the mercy of others, the elements of the situation, outside influences, all out of your control. When you end up stuck, sometimes you end up unhappy.<br /><br />All too often, I write about the pain of cancer. I do that because I want to make sure you understand. I know that before I had it, pain would be the biggest mystery to me in my mind. What does it feel like? What feels bad and how does it feel? But now, the pain still sucks but it's just pain. A needle stick is just pain. My feet are just in pain. Pain isn't the worst thing about cancer. The worst thing is that I'm running out of options.<br /><br />Frist, there's the obvious. My treatment options aren't so vast after this one runs out. They're going to get less effective and have more side effects. I can see an end. Bummer. But tonight, I am not troubled by that. <br /><br />I want to be a husband to my wife. I want me to do everything husbands do that wives love. But I can't. I wish I could take my wife out to a romantic dinner and then come home and watch porn and do the nasty, wild thing. What? Couples don't watch porn before they get it on? But how then do you all get arosed? Plus, if there is no porn, then it only lasts about eight minutes, all depending on how easily it is to get the rubber suit off.<br /><br />But the porn be that as it may, I am fresh out of ways to make me seem cool. Like Brad Pitt cool. The Fonz cool. I'm fat now because of the steroids and I can't get myself into shape. I'll last about ten mintes into the twenty minute ab work out. And I know this bothers my wife. She works out so hard and works so hard to take care of herself and then she looks at me sucking the third popsicle of the hour while I jiggle to get comfie on the couch. I can't have nice hair because I barely have hair. I am not who she married. And she quite frankly has to be sick of this. Every day she sees me laying in bed in the middle of the day, taking long hot baths to soothe the nodes. And it must be numbing. Brad Pitt is too cool for cancer. And to her, the marriage deal was in sickness and in health but enough is enough. Nobody wants to get laid by the slovenly, old, fat, tired laborer. <br /><br />I want to go back to work to show her I am creative and smart and hard-working again. I can't. I am tired and I am out of options on making sure my wife has reasons to be in love with me. She's never said anything about this. I know she would be embarassed by this whole thing. And probably upset. But this blog needs to be honest or it's not going to be my blog. I need to once again sweep her off her feet, while my sting and tingle.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-84115771767746517972011-09-22T23:09:00.000-07:002011-09-28T14:18:29.867-07:00I have become richie cunningham and love every himdrum minuteThere is a curse to the drug that I am currently taking--sgn. And that is, one day it will end. Now, naturally, you've read enough of these insipid, whiny posts to think that I am referring the medical end, that the Monster comes back and he'll be driving some Monster truck. But that is incorrect.<br /><br />My friend Jerome once went on a rant about the 1985 Bears that was quite enjoyable, as Jerome's rants always are. Basically he wanted them to go away. They are always around. They will not get beyond that point in time when they won the Super Bowl. And, unfortunately, everyone is reminded of that every time you see a car commercial. By my math, that Super Bowl is almost three decades ago. Good god. Hasn't anything happened to any of them since? And then Jerome would talk about Chuck Noll. He was the coach of the Steel Curtain Pittsburg Steelers when they dominated the seventies goimg on to win a multiple of Super Bowls, not only one as is the Bears' case. For all everyone knows, the guy is still alive. But maybe not. He's not one of those tired ex-jocks on ESPN saying the same crap. He doesn't do car commerxials. He's nowhere to be found but he must be somewhere. I clearly get Jerome's point. It's classier to not live so much back there. <br /><br />I always thought it class that made Chuck Noll not care to be faous or relevant. But now I completely understand. He's happy. Or at least that's what I see and that's about all that matters in this case.<br /><br />The killer thing for sgn isn't the medical ending but the humdrum life ending.<br /><br />Even at its most boring, I love every single day. I hug every single day. I feel bad when the day goes away. I have had a lot of dreams and ambitions in my life. But I never thought the dream of having peace would be the best one of all. I have "serenity now!!!" <br /><br />Because of the diligent work of our company CFO, Michael Volkman, I am on long term disability. I get paid just a little less than my actual salary at tdh. So I don't worry about money as much. In high school we always heard about that statistic of like how often a boy thinks about sex and the actual statistic is like every five seconds. Well, yeah, that was correct for me. But then in my thirties, sex turned into thinking about money with the same frequency but without all the animal, midget, wig-wearing, rubber suit bondage nonsense that accompanied my sexual imagination. <br /><br />So that leaves worrying about very little. And somewhere on all of our worry list, there will be a point where you can more than handle it. The bills. Te wife. The kids. All those things that made you look old are gone. And that's when I became Chuck Noll. Or, for the non sports types, Richie Cunnomgham. Oh sure, my ambition may still bethere but now they're only about having fun.<br /><br />I wake uo whenever I damn well please on the weekdays. On the weekends, I have to look like I want to be up early so as not to appear as the lazy douchebag I have become. But anyways, it's about ten o'clock. For breakfast, I eat whatever I damn well please. Naturally, that means I hit the sugar and faux sugar products with glee. I slumber for a while waiting for the drugs to kick in. Then I do whatever I damn well please. Today, I stared at my crappy stocks and tried to remember when they actually made me money.<br /><br />Eventually, my new dreamboat comes home. That would be Maddie. Now, granted, she has more ah, lets just say endearing traits of her momma. She lives in an orderly world. But I forgive that because she loves to laugh. No, really. We love to joke about anythimg. She loves to dance as well. The house doesn't need lights when Maddie is home. She is electricity. But not break-dancing Electric Bugaloo. That would be bad and one of her mother's not so endearinf traits. <br /><br />Eventually, Maddie goes down for a nap and I go back to doing what I damn well please. <br /><br />Then starts the procession of Herlehy's, coming home from school. Now, I really can do whatever I want.<br /><br />The wierd thing about it all, though, is what I want to do is nothing. I find my wife and kids to be enough in my world. Oh, and my dog. This is all good for me. At one time in my life, I would want so much more. And there are so many things I wanted to so. But not now. The other day I thought about going to Ireland and thought that I could stop travelling to be awed and inspired. <br /><br />I have pain, yes. And it is really bad pain. And it very rarely leaves me. But I have been an asshole so many times to so many people from college to texas grad school to new york to everywhere. I'll bet every single person who reads this has a Michael Herlehy Is An Asshole story. So the pain well, it's a little payback that sometime, somewhere I pissed off the Gods and people and the natural order of things. I fucked up. Whatever it was. I'd give you examples but it's late and I should try to sleep. Then again, maybe I won't. Who knows.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-83452902183221088712011-09-20T00:24:00.000-07:002011-09-20T00:42:19.154-07:00Really boring military metaphors await you. Just not today.I'm going to start writing again. I needed to get away. And just as important, I needed to figure out how the hell to type on this damn ipad. It's very different. You'll unfortunately see a lot more typos. <br /><br />I have been taking my last bullet, the sgn drug, for a couple months now. I am almost in complete remission. Still I don't feel like celebrating. My feet and hands sting for most of the day. It's like I slammed my hand open face on concrete. And then did the same for each limb. The sting is pretty sharp and constant. It's less in the morning, though and in the evening after I take this drug. <br /><br />I have written some stuff to the kids. It's on my other computer. I started it when I was first diagnosed. But the writing became too emotionally difficult. I've burned bridges because things are too emotionally difficult. I'm going to write more later. Thanks for hanging in there.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-32294400007450000872011-08-10T23:29:00.000-07:002011-08-10T23:57:08.627-07:00I need you to shove it backIt was my anniversary today. She is such an unbelievable person. If you want loyalty, don't get a dog, marry a farmer's daughter from Northern Michigan. Make sure she's not a drunk, though.
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<br />I'm in a lot of pain right now. It's not jack bower pain. It's an ache. It's pretty much all over. My hands feel like really bad arthritis. My head would feel better if if exploded. My midsection still pings with every breath. I have less energy than that Carol Burnett Show character, Speed. Tim Conway reference. My throat hurts.
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<br />The throat is the biggest psychological burden. When you were young, you used to get the flu and your throat would getmswollen. Well, mine are swollen beyond that point and it is all the time. My nodes hurt. I'm getting to the bottom of the tank. I used to wake up and tell myself I gotta rally and that would get me going. Now, there is nothing to rally. I was hoping this drug would bring me back and give me some strength to fight the next year. It is instead sucking everything out of me. And I just want to take my little girl to the park. Cancer is robbing me. It's robbing her. It's robbing her kids and her family of some or many purely happy moments. She'll have the crutch of not having her dad. She'll think that in quiet moments. Robbery. It will take a piece of her forever. She's going to be too young to even remember us going to the park.
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<br />It would be nice if, one day, hopefully twenty or thirty years later, one of you would be sitting around and thinking about something stupid we did together. And you decide to find one of my kids and maybe even after a long search, you call them and tell them. Twenty years later. Cancer gets robbed then. That bastard disease gets a little shoved back from one of my friends or family. That makes me feel better right now.
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-22389514446553982312011-08-06T23:11:00.000-07:002011-08-06T23:14:47.704-07:00Did you see that?Can't type long because I'm having trouble seeing up close. At first I thought it was a symptom of getting old but now I know that it has progressed quickly and that means sgn is the cause. It's very hard to see close up so sorry if there are a lot of typos. Will inform you if it gets better. Have to tell my wife. That's going to be a difficult conversation.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-29109410710508256772011-07-24T21:21:00.000-07:002011-07-24T22:27:09.970-07:00Something stupid about godThe quality and quantity of my blogs have gone way, way down. It's become a boring, self-centered hack-fest. Ys, it's become a lot more like me. Good thing your replies are much more interesting. It reminds me of this one time when working at Tom, Dick and Harry. <br /><br />I was the creative director for Moosehead beer. One day this intern named Drew asked me if he could do an ad. I sort of laughed and talked on and on about how advertising is harder than it looks and it takes creatives years to be any good. He smiled and asked again so I gave him an assignment. I did a little work on the side on the same assignment because I didn't think he'd come up with anything. But a couple of days later he comes into my office with these great headlines. Much, much better than anything I did for that assignment or, it seemed, for the whole account. <br /><br />I sort of didn't now what to say to him. So I don't think I said anything but good job. He knew he had me and walked out of the office very confidently. Since then and here the rest of his stay he gave me that look like, "You think you're so cool, but you're really an idiot. Of course, that could just be the same look he gave everyone because I see that same look on everyone of this generation. They seem to hate us more than we hated our elders<br /><br />Any who, ever since that episode, I've come to accept my writing limitations. When people ask what I do, I say I'm in training for the Olympics. I never m mention what event. An intern could do better work in half the time and without really even caring when it comes to writing. I'm better off trying to luge.<br /><br />Still, like most In one generation older than me, I need to blame someone else. So it is the iPad. If you've seen people at cool with one, don't worry. They're not that cool. There's no key pad so typing is difficult. There are also no arrow keys, no mouse and no screen arrow so it's even more difficulct checking over work. So I don't do it as much anymore. Sorry. Whtat's worse than having cancer? Having to read about it from guy who haw a stye more apt for power tool instruction manuals. Speaking of writing about cancer...<br /><br />The constant pain I had in my chest way, way back when I wrote more interesting and grammatically correct blogs is back. Breathe in and I get a dose of sharp pain. Breathe out and I get a dose of sharp pain. It shoots up and down my arm and lef side. The average day now is back to being a struggle of ot thinking it sucks.<br /><br />What sucks worse is the worrying begins. Pain is either really good or really bad. There isn't any in between in this life. It all depends on which cells are dying. I won't know which until the end of this week. Until then I will worry and breathe and breathe out. <br /><br />A couple of long time hodgers have passed away in the last couple of months. Last week a doctor in Los Angeles told a mom that she should take her six year old kid home because he is going to die in one week and the doctor can't do aything else for him. Now I see two problems with this situation. First, the doctor. I was told by three doctors that I woud die in a couple of months and I think I am still alive. I could be dead but I think I'm not because I have this stupid fucking computer. <br /><br />My econd issue concerns the mom. Sometimes medical people say one thing and the patients hear something else. So I can't blame the doctor completely. What went down might not have went down exactly as told. But I also have some pent up, unfair animosity toward the mom for accepting this answer from the doctor. I just don't understand it. Why accept the worst possible solution? If I was one of those criminals on death row, man, you wouldn't see me calmly walking down the aisle. I'd be kicking, screaming, struggling everything and anything to try to get away and if you want to shoot me, go ahead. <br /><br />So my point is, it"s mentally tough some days thinking about that poor six year old boy and the whole situation of the adults around him. The kicker, and this is where I lose the few of you I have left, is many many people talk about how god will take care of it. No He (or She) won't. God won't do shit. God doesn't help athletes win games. God doesn't make people rich. God doesn't help six year old sick boys. Six year olds shouldn't be sick in this first place. A God who lets that happen is an asshole. If I was God (and by my writing, clearly I am not), I wouldn't let that happen. My friend Todd or my other friend Jerome both hate people and they wouldn't even let that happen. So with every sharp pain breath as I check the web for the latest news on the hodgers, I think god is an asshole. I'm sticking to that until I talk to him or her personally. But I doubt I will be doing that.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-49990934414572297952011-07-06T16:52:00.000-07:002011-07-06T17:48:43.767-07:00My last bulletI spent the airplane ride writing down a list of the resons why I need to start sgn-35. I knew it was my fallback treatment, the Alamo of my cancer. But there's only so much, ya know.<br /><br />I had a lot of reasons and I was going to just rattle them off to Dr. O'Connor in the hopes of getting him to understand that I had grown almost without notice, sick. My tumors were large and can be noticed even torough my clothes. I was getting cramps in all parts of my body. The constant bee stinging of my body had gotten worse and now even a good painkiller like any of the fine oxy products couldn't mask it. I was losing sleep. I had lost my appetite. I was sleeping a lot. I had so much constant pain I didn't know I had pain.<br /><br />In O'Connor's office the next day, after the usual three hour wait (I've actually waited longer. It's good to bring digital fun to any cancer doctor's office.), he walked in and without even waitng for me to say anything, he said, "it's that time." <br /><br />I said, "I'm beat." And that was that.<br /><br />In about one montth, doctors will be able to order sgn-35 and patients can get it as easy as a getting Tylenol.. The FDA just announced that it will have an answer to it's approval in mid august. But I didn't know that then. I had to wait until the company that produced the drug opened a clinical trial. You'd thiink that during this waiting period, I'd feel desperate. But actually my spirits brightened a bit. I knew I was at least going to have a good summer. <br /><br />Even with the slightest of drugs going through my body, I get a little buzz-buzz. This time I felt nothing although I hear the real side effects start after the second infusion. And boy are they side effects. Even though the drug saves the lives of many, many patients, a percentage of them wish they never had it. The debilitation can be that bad. <br /><br />Probably like many of you, at first I found that attitude was strange. Here is a drug that saves your life but you wish you had not taken it. Upon reading further and talking to them, it just gets to be too much. I undertand that. But still, I hope to never have that attitude.<br /><br />A friend from college once made me aware of how impractical Bible stories were. She used the example of the Virgin Mary. So there is this girl who says she's never had sex but now she's pregnant and she says that God is the Daddy. Umm, sure. And then there's the healing of the blind and curing of the sick. What if Jesus simply had some really good drugs with him? He never really said he had special powers. We said that. He"s always been humble about the thing. He just said his Daddy is God.<br /><br />Well, if he did, he had some of this sgn stuff. It's damn good. I feel better and better every day. I'm ready for my second treatment and i already want to take the step of getting off all drugs. That's quite a statement if you've ever seen my pill-popping routines. McKenna and I once tried to figure it out and I stopped at around thirty pills on a bad day and twenty on a good day. Now, just maybe, I can actually get down to zero, although I'd have a tearful good-bye with my painkillers. <br /><br />From January until April, I had grown used to a different life. It was dark. It hurt. Badness was too close. Now I am amazed at my new one. I mean, I can actually get up and not feel like crap? Get out. You say that people can make it up a flght of stairs without getting out of breath? No shit. I've harped on it before but it deserves a second, third and fourth mention-- you people got it easy. You got it great. Waking up is now so so cool. I love the day. I love the morning. I love every breath. Taking a big sigh is worth another sigh. I love just being. <br /><br />Let's see how far we can ride this motha.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-17321609992334410052011-05-03T22:19:00.000-07:002011-05-03T22:23:53.161-07:00Where I'm at right now.This was written by someone else who fought the Hodge. It sums up what I feel. To everyone, I'm sorry I haven't emailed, called, faxed. If you read this you' might get it.<br /><br /><br />This was posted years ago by a warrior named Andy (Nickel1). The line about dealing with your disappointment in other people came to mind when reading recent posts. This piece addresses that issue well...<br /><br />"How to beat cancer"<br /><br />Be prepared for a marathon. It will be a long fight so pace yourself. Be prepared to go it alone if necessary, but get ready to go the distance.<br /><br />Don't expect others to do as you do and do not hold others up to your standards. Not everyone can go the distance with you. People will come and go as best they can. Accept what help they can give you when they can.<br /><br />Conduct yourself in your everyday life in a manner that will give you no reason or excuses for your behaviour when you look back on this time. Make the present so that you have no regrets. Don't drink or do drugs that are not needed. Be a leader so that others may follow.<br /><br />Have heros. Be inspired by your heros, and be inspiration to others around you. You may be their hero.<br /><br />Fight. Fight 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. Fight when you wake up, fight until you go to bed, dream about fighting in your sleep. Want to win so bad that you can taste it in your food and in your drinks.<br /><br />Willpower. Have plenty of it. Tell yourself you will get better every day and believe it so that you make yourself better through sheer willpower. Aspire to be great and expect nothing less than total victory. Refuse to lose or even entertain defeat. You will stu<br />mble but a champion always rises to keep going. Be that champion.<br /><br />Stay focused. Do not fight battles that do not need fighting and take you away from this fight.<br /><br />Hate it. Hate cancer like nothing you have ever hated before. Save all your hate for it and it alone. Love everyone and everything else. Life is good so don't let it go by.<br /><br />Have no mercy, no pity, no compassion, until every last cell of it is dead. Rejoice in every victory no matter how small.<br /><br />When in doubt, fight it out. You won't win if you stop fighting. It's OK to be afraid but don't stop fighting and do whatever it takes to win. Have faith and it's OK to cry.<br /><br />Most of all, always walk proud. Even if you are in a wheelchair, a bed, or can't walk at all. Maintain that air of strength on the inside, because you know its better to die like a lion than live like a lamb.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-52759807150324317342011-03-27T21:52:00.000-07:002011-03-27T22:50:47.868-07:00I raise my head up. There. That's done.The first half of my day--<br /><br />10:00 am Wake up. Feel this annoying itch. Sometimes I have a headache. My nose is running. I have a bad cough, which doesn't make much sense since I never sick and have both a runny nose and a cough at the same time. Usually one has followed the other. The itch is really the one, though. First, an electric shock shoots at random spot on my body. Right away the spot itches. I itch the spot. Another spot gets electric shock. It goes on non-stop. Decided to go back to bed for a while. Until the itch goes away. <br /><br />10:30 am The itch doesn't go away. Why do I have these sharp pains? Why itch? What's up with my nose? Oh yeah, I have cancer. The tumors in my neck make it sore. I'm sore in all kids of other places too. Getting up at this late a time in the morning is embarrassing. So I figure I need to make a mad dash for the kitchen to get some breakfast.<br /><br />10:40 am Lean up, ready for the mad dash.<br /><br />10:45 am Still ready for that mad dash.<br /><br />11:15 am Get out of bed.<br /><br />11:18 am Get down stairs. Hope to God that Sherri doesn't send a text asking to pick up Maddie from the babysitter early. I see no texts.<br /><br />11:22 am Throw in two waffles. Go out to the garage for a Coke Zero. Put the same waffles down again. They're much better crunchier. While waiting, send a text to Sher lying to her, telling her that I've been up for a while, feel great and have been waiting for Maddie for like an hour. What's up?<br /><br />11:30 Sherri writes back that I should rest and Maddie's going to nap at the baby-sitter's house. Basically, she didn't believe anything I wrote. Smart woman. I love them smart.<br /><br />11:45 Finish waffles. Prepare my daily cocktail: 2 pills to help with the itch even though it doesn't work, two pills to help with the shooting pain and these will kick in at about four o'clock but will suffice beforehand, two oxycodone that used to do wonders for all the pain now only helps marginally, one pill to keep me from getting an infection even though I probably got one, DayQuil. I down the pills first. <br /><br />11:47 Back at the breakfast table. I lower my head. Too tired. Too tired for everything. Can't do this another day. <br /><br />12:15 Head still down. <br /><br />12:20 Pills kick in. Clean up. <br /><br />12:35 Check the internet. <br /><br />1:15 check my To Do list. Pick one thing. Put a new phone in the kitchen. Plan on doing that.<br /><br />1:30 Going to lay down instead. Tired.. <br /><br />1:31 I itch.<br /><br />2:00 Get ready for the babysitter and Maddie.<br /><br />2:05 Babysitter arrives with a cranky Maddie. <br /><br />2:10 Feed Maddie a cookie and grapes. She loves cookies. See the dog itching.<br /><br />2:35 McKenna comes home. She talks to Maddie. We talk about her day. It was boring. The dog is still itching.<br /><br />2:50 Sherri arrives. She immediately takes over and thanks me for watching Maddie and how I should lay down because I did a lot. This time I tell her the truth and say I didn't do anything because I had a hard time getting going. She says to lay down. She knows what I did and thankfully, somehow and someway it was enough for her.<br /><br />3:00 Play with Maddie. She likes to dance. A lot. To the same song.<br /><br />3:30 Tired. Go up to bed for a nap. Itching still a lot today. Try to hide itching from the dog. <br /><br />3:45 Fall asleep. <br /><br />4:15 The sharp pains are back. This itch, man, where did this come from? And my body is sore like I went boxing in the sun. What is wrong with me? Oh, I have cancer.<br /><br />4:16 The plan is to race downstairs to get my pills. So I sit up in bed. Then I itch.<br /><br />4:30 Still sitting up. Can't lift my head. I itch. <br /><br />4:35 Make it to the pills. I'm out of breath. <br /><br />4:45 Play with Maddie. Tell my wife how I have this huge To Do list and how I'm going to redo everything that needs to be done around the house. Think of the phone. Don't even bring it up. It's not getting done today.<br /><br />5:15 Think of all the people out there ready to go home. Think about how after five was my second favorite time at the agency since I get to do work without interruptions. I'd come up for air a couple of hours later. Only one or two people are left. I'd walk around not because I wanted to see someone. I didn't want to see anyone because I just loved the sound of an empty ad agency. It's still has energy but it's so quiet.<br /><br />5:16 Is dinner ready?<br /><br />5:30 Dinner is ready. After dinner I lay down. Oh, and I itch. Wonder how long.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-69643226023344141572011-03-25T00:36:00.000-07:002011-03-25T01:02:54.101-07:00Party like a rock star at the Olive GardenI'm getting beat to hell. The cancer is coming at me now in so many different ways that my body just can't keep up. I sleep a lot. I lay around a lot. I don't like going outside for anything. I'm out of breath most of the time. <br /><br />Starting the year, I had two magic bullets--two treatments that are surefire winners. Bendamusstine is the better of the two. I took it. I can't take it any more. The other treatment is SGN. I don't think I'll last past the first treatment because its major side effect is bad nueropathy. I already have bad neuropathy. For folks in that condition, the drug puts them through ungodly pain and in some cases, paralysis. <br /><br />So the cancer grows now. Very little will be able to stop it. And it is making me subhuman. The other day I spent a couple of hours itching. Now, I don't mean itching and watching TV or itching and eating. Just itching. For two hours. After that I didn't stop itching but I went on to doing other things as well. <br /><br />Sherri and I got an email from my mom about our birthdays (sherri's is the 25th, the day after mine. Is that cool or what? I've never forgotten her birthday.). In the note, there was a reference to "days full of happiness" and she ends it all with, "May you have the best times of your lives." Wow. Days full of happiness. I don't understand how someone could write such a callous and clueless thing. And she's my mother. If I can get ten minutes of happiness, it's a good day. If I can get ten minutes without itching and find full happiness at the same time, well, then a celebration is in order. We're going to the Olive Garden!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-34592644506553987402011-03-23T23:48:00.001-07:002011-03-24T01:15:05.791-07:0044 going on 80Happy Birthday to me. I'm 44 today but that's just a number. Clearly that's a number.<br /><br />Thank you for all of your birthday wishes. I know it's been awhile since my last post. I also know I've shut a lot of people out as far as emails and stuff. In particularly Kiki and Brandy. It all got to be too much and right now it's too much.<br /><br />We're all just worn out. SInce we last talked, I was taking one of only two dependable treatments out there that has shown good results in banging down the many cancerous tumors that have grown throughout my body. At the halfway point, the tumors in my chest have gone down dramatically or disappeared. But that was the last I would see of Bendamustine. <br /><br />My platelets are at a very, very low level and if Dr. O'Connor were to give me bendamustine or most chemos they would kill me, So he gave me some rituxan once every week for four weeks. Rituxan is a different type of drug in that it isn't considered a traditional chemo. It is a very popular drug with non-hodgers but isn't really used with us Hodgers because we generally don't have the type of tumor this drug would kill. However, Dr. O really looked at my case and noticed that I'm actually more of a tweener. I have both the hodgkin's tumor cells and non-hodgkin's tumor cells.<br /><br />But even Dr. O'Connor admitted that it's not nearly as effective as bendamustine and quite frankly, I can see, feel and touch my tumors and they're growing. They've taken over my right side. Everything is worse. My itching is bad. My chest pains are back. New tumors are popping up and really I can do very little except scratch my head. Yes, that's an itch. I go from respiratory infection to the next without a break. Last week, my wife said, "I was worried for a while there. And you me. I don't worry about a lot of things." This morning I noticed that I can't live without almost thirty pills. My life now depends on a lot of pills. And even with them, I'm in pain and in danger of dying.<br /><br />I tell you, I'm just really tired of fighting. Everything is difficult. I'm heading downhill. I feel so embarassed. The cancer is even affecting my dog Nala. I itch constantly now. Every five seconds or so my body would light up with a spark and then an itch. Nobody can do anything about it. Now, my dog Nala itches all the time. She's never had any allergies. And she doesn't have fleas. But she itches.<br /><br />More than anything, cancer is relentless. It keeps coming after you, your body and your senses. I beg for it to stop many times during the day. I just wish I could feel normal for an hour. I'm tired now. I'm going to sleep. I itch through my sleep. I wheeze. I cough. I twitch because of the growing tumors. And that's when I'm resting. I will post again with a clearer head. But please send me good vibers, pray, do whatever. I would appreciate that. Please don't call my wife about this. She has enough on her mind and day. She knows all of this and more. We're trying. Sorry for the typos. I'm going to bed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1773005645795298459.post-78600293057559370472011-02-07T20:57:00.000-08:002011-02-07T22:13:25.987-08:00I'm running out of heroes.Kirsten died today. She was one of the refractory Hodgers that I looked to and said, "If she can do it, then I can." She was just working out only a couple of months ago and seemed to be her energetic self. She lived in Vancover and couldn't stand the fact that the Olympics were in her town, wreaking havoc on her daily life. She kept telling people to go home. She was very funny. <br /><br />Kirsten found the Hodge at about the same time I found mine. But she had been through a couple more clinical trials than me in that time. That's basically what killed her. All those treatments, all that poison in your body, it just ruins things in the process of trying to make you better. Her platelets were slammed down by so many treatments that they eventually gave up on her. She went into the hospital and the staff gave her transfusions. By then it was too late. With her platelets so low, the cancer had a chance to really get ahold of her body and it did. <br /><br />My plan to jump from treatment to treatment is a failure and I know it more and more every day. I now understand what Custer felt like when he took that last dip into the high grasslands of eastern Montana. It's sort of like, "Oh no. What have I done?" Luckily I have more time than Custer. Now, I have heard from some of you that my entries have become more somber. I'm sorry for that. If you don't want to feel that way and I'm making you feel that way, please stop reading this. <br /><br />My daughter, McKenna, makes bracelets and hair pins out of duck tape. Yes, I spelled it right. Her tape is duck tape and you can find it at Target. It's a cheap rip off of duct tape, the big daddy of any tool chest. The bracelets go for fifty cents and the pins go for one dollar and fifty cents. She is donating all proceeds to cancer research. She'll probably make about six or seven bucks. <br /><br />McKenna knows. She talks around it every day. It's on her mind and I can tell that she wants to remember us and the moments. I thought she would be the one who can be immune to this. She used to have her own cool, fun world until I came around and ruined it all. I'm really going to miss her when I'm gone. She's the one who is most fascinated with life and because she is, it makes her the most fascinating person in mine. <br /><br />Her bonehead teacher decided to give the class an assignment to read this story about a kid who's mom died. The kid has this struggle because he is losing memories of his mom as he goes through his life and he is very upset about this. I can't believe that fat slob of a teacher gave my daughter this book to read but he did. He's a fucking moron. Her book report, written in perfect English and exquisite penmanship, talked of her being in a similar situation and I could tell for the first time that my death is on her mind. A rush went through me as I read this book report. What the fuck have I done to my kids?<br /><br />I'd like to say that McKenna and all my kids can take the place of my hodge heroes. I think they deserve it. I've always admired them. What parent hasn't admired what their kids can do? But it's not quite hero worship. While looking up to them, I'm so damn busy worrying about them at the same time that it just can't qualify. I love my kids. I wish that was enough. One day it won't be enough because I had a stupid plan but it was my only plan and it failed. In the meantime, does anyone want to buy a bracelet?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3