There is no such thing as a wrong note if the composer puts it there.
I read that line when I was twelve and trying to become a songwriter. I had already been playing music for a few years, different instruments thinking that one day I could just be master of all of them. That hasn’t happened yet. Anyway, I bought myself a book once that I believe was called “Tunesmith.” I could look up who it’s by but I’m too lazy right now. Also that book lost its cover because I dropped it while trying to read it in the bath when I was young. Poor planning on my part.
For some reason the line you read above absolutely blew my mind.
In music theory, there are rules. Things that are supposed to be followed to make sure that everything sounds harmonious and works out in the end. But, when the composer writes the piece, nothing is stopping him or her from breaking those rules for the sake of whatever. A wrong note is not a wrong note if the composer decides he wants his musician to play it.
This line came back into my head recently, in a totally different context.
We as a society get so caught up in creating our own perfect lives. We live vicariously through the false reflections we see in pictures on screens that flash through our consciousness every second. We create in our heads a version of ourselves that cannot possibly live up to reality. Our own hopes and dreams are allowed to silently echo inside the walls of our brains while our hearts scream out for more, or less as the case may be.
In a moment, I saw my life before me and for once in it’s entirety, it had a termination point. I have mentioned before that I gave myself a few good cries; I gave myself a few moments to truly feel sorry for myself and question why in God’s name it had to be me.
There is no such thing as a wrong note if the composer puts it there.
Looking back as I end this awful chapter of my existence, I finally realize. Cancer saved my life. Cancer will forever be the line drawn in the sands of my time that divides the mature from the immature, the fool from the somewhat-wise, and the wanderer from the leader that I know I can become.
There are a million things that cross our desks each day that make us ask, “why me?” But why not you?
As I listened to the doctor confirm my worst fears and saw my mother cry over me, I asked myself the same question. And then I stopped asking.
I have always been a person of faith. That is not to say my particular self-faith has always been strong, but I have always known that there was a plan for me and that like it or not, it would come to fruition without a doubt. Everyone has a destiny, and everyone has reasons to believe that theirs is wrong, or that they will never see it realized. I stopped asking. I stopped wondering. I stopped worrying.
Have faith. Whether you left your windows down overnight in the rain or your body’s own cells are slowly betraying you, there’s a reason. Be still. Have faith.
There is no such thing as a wrong note if the Composer puts it there.
Dios les bendiga. God Bless.
Matty P
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Friday, October 18, 2013
Normal
Hello everyone! For being such a writer, I'm bad at blogging. I have all of these monumental thoughts that scream to be written down in a blog, I just tend to have them at red lights, while I am otherwise occupied with work, or while I would rather watch the West Wing on Netfilx. I'm sorry guys. Just being honest. I love all of you though and I appreciate that you appreciate my blog. One of the greatest things about being a writer is hearing someone else tell you that they enjoyed what you created. Even better is hearing that it somehow changed them, changed their perspectives or even affected a decision they made. So I suppose I have been denying all of us enjoyment! Jeez. I'm a jerk.
Anyways, where we stand. As I write this, I am in the midst of my fifth cycle of chemotherapy. I am so torn as to how I feel about this.
To explain, as each of us reflects on his or her own life, we can all see various phases that we have gone through over the course of our time on earth. Each one, looking back, evokes memories: sights, smells, sounds. They can seem fleeting and even silly from the cozy nook that is hindsight; they can seem epic even if they were merely the musings of an immortal youth. At the time though, regardless of what they really were, each of them at one point or another represented our normal.
That's what this has become. Normal. I know that it is not normal to have cancer; in fact the word cancer itself refers to an abnormal growth of cells in the body. What I mean is that right now, this is my life. This is my normal.
I go to the cancer center, see the doctor, have him tell me that my levels are good and that I'm trucking right along. I go to the chemo suite, get plugged up, tease the nurses, take a nap, wake up, and leave. There are also some really sexy walks to the bathroom with my IV wheely-thingy in tow included in this song and dance. No extra charge.
After chemo, it's four to five days of feeling pretty crummy and sleeping a lot. Then one day, I wake up and feel alright. Three weeks later, I do it again. It is exhausting, but I have it easy compared to many; this is what makes me feel almost guilty a lot of the time. Especially sitting in the chemo suite watching people die. There is no hyperbole in that last sentence. It is a humbling and terrifying thing. If anything it makes me want to fight for them. It makes me want to live for them.
But it also doesn't stop my stomach from turning at the mere sight of the Cancer Center. It doesn't stop my mouth from watering (the bad kind, not the good kind, you know what I mean.) if I catch my mind remembering the salty flavor of IV fluids.
Our normals often change eventually; sometimes a relationship ends, you get a new job, you make a move for family reasons.
Sometimes, you beat cancer.
I will not have another scan until about a month after my last chemotherapy. At that point, my doctors feel extremely confident that they will then be able to declare me in remission. I am no longer in pain all the time. I no longer have tumors pressing against and just generally interfering with the general operation of my organs on a day-to-day basis. I have no idea how these drugs work. I just know that they are a miracle.
Not that long ago, my Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma could easily have killed me.
It is strange because growing up I always had such a morbid fascination with dying and death. Not so much the gory details, but the mystery of it. The majority of us will never know ahead of time how or when we may die, which can make the thought of one's final moments terrifying. In contrast, I always found that idea pretty freeing. Why would you want to know ahead of time, save for the opportunity to tie up loose ends and make sure you finally got around to that blog you were going to update yesterday? I smirk as I type that, but in all seriousness: I have been faced with my own mortality, and I'm going to win for now. I will wax poetic on death in another post because I think it is one of the most beautiful things about our human condition, but I will give you this.
We are all, each and every one of us fighting something; every person you pass here or there, every driver you see on the road, your mom and dad, all of us entrenched in battles for spiritual life and death. We all need each other. Regardless of what you believe, we are all each other has on this Earth. A wise person once told me that if we all took our problems out of our pockets and laid them in a pile together for all to see, most people would dive in immediately, grab theirs and run. Just know that. We are in this together, so help one another, and the world will be better. We all share the same terrible, beautiful human existence. We will all die. I just know that I won't die from cancer. And that's pretty freaking incredible.
I have one more chemo left. Two weeks until I never have to take chemotherapy again. Yea, I know, lymphoma can come back. But that's not how I roll. I believe that 80 to 90 percent of life is fought in your mind. I know I won't get sick again. I know that I'm going to do what it is I set out to do in this life.
I'm not gonna give up. You better not either. I don't know what you are fighting, but it is not bigger than you. It is not bigger than your spirit. Whatever it is, look yourself in the mirror and tell yourself that you are better than this, stronger than this.
WE are stronger. In that spirit I want to continue to thank all of you for your outpouring of prayers and support. We are almost there. One more chemo! Let's do this dance.
I'm really sorry if all of these ramblings made no sense. It's late and I just started writing. I love you all.
Matt
Anyways, where we stand. As I write this, I am in the midst of my fifth cycle of chemotherapy. I am so torn as to how I feel about this.
To explain, as each of us reflects on his or her own life, we can all see various phases that we have gone through over the course of our time on earth. Each one, looking back, evokes memories: sights, smells, sounds. They can seem fleeting and even silly from the cozy nook that is hindsight; they can seem epic even if they were merely the musings of an immortal youth. At the time though, regardless of what they really were, each of them at one point or another represented our normal.
That's what this has become. Normal. I know that it is not normal to have cancer; in fact the word cancer itself refers to an abnormal growth of cells in the body. What I mean is that right now, this is my life. This is my normal.
I go to the cancer center, see the doctor, have him tell me that my levels are good and that I'm trucking right along. I go to the chemo suite, get plugged up, tease the nurses, take a nap, wake up, and leave. There are also some really sexy walks to the bathroom with my IV wheely-thingy in tow included in this song and dance. No extra charge.
After chemo, it's four to five days of feeling pretty crummy and sleeping a lot. Then one day, I wake up and feel alright. Three weeks later, I do it again. It is exhausting, but I have it easy compared to many; this is what makes me feel almost guilty a lot of the time. Especially sitting in the chemo suite watching people die. There is no hyperbole in that last sentence. It is a humbling and terrifying thing. If anything it makes me want to fight for them. It makes me want to live for them.
But it also doesn't stop my stomach from turning at the mere sight of the Cancer Center. It doesn't stop my mouth from watering (the bad kind, not the good kind, you know what I mean.) if I catch my mind remembering the salty flavor of IV fluids.
Our normals often change eventually; sometimes a relationship ends, you get a new job, you make a move for family reasons.
Sometimes, you beat cancer.
I will not have another scan until about a month after my last chemotherapy. At that point, my doctors feel extremely confident that they will then be able to declare me in remission. I am no longer in pain all the time. I no longer have tumors pressing against and just generally interfering with the general operation of my organs on a day-to-day basis. I have no idea how these drugs work. I just know that they are a miracle.
Not that long ago, my Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma could easily have killed me.
It is strange because growing up I always had such a morbid fascination with dying and death. Not so much the gory details, but the mystery of it. The majority of us will never know ahead of time how or when we may die, which can make the thought of one's final moments terrifying. In contrast, I always found that idea pretty freeing. Why would you want to know ahead of time, save for the opportunity to tie up loose ends and make sure you finally got around to that blog you were going to update yesterday? I smirk as I type that, but in all seriousness: I have been faced with my own mortality, and I'm going to win for now. I will wax poetic on death in another post because I think it is one of the most beautiful things about our human condition, but I will give you this.
We are all, each and every one of us fighting something; every person you pass here or there, every driver you see on the road, your mom and dad, all of us entrenched in battles for spiritual life and death. We all need each other. Regardless of what you believe, we are all each other has on this Earth. A wise person once told me that if we all took our problems out of our pockets and laid them in a pile together for all to see, most people would dive in immediately, grab theirs and run. Just know that. We are in this together, so help one another, and the world will be better. We all share the same terrible, beautiful human existence. We will all die. I just know that I won't die from cancer. And that's pretty freaking incredible.
I have one more chemo left. Two weeks until I never have to take chemotherapy again. Yea, I know, lymphoma can come back. But that's not how I roll. I believe that 80 to 90 percent of life is fought in your mind. I know I won't get sick again. I know that I'm going to do what it is I set out to do in this life.
I'm not gonna give up. You better not either. I don't know what you are fighting, but it is not bigger than you. It is not bigger than your spirit. Whatever it is, look yourself in the mirror and tell yourself that you are better than this, stronger than this.
WE are stronger. In that spirit I want to continue to thank all of you for your outpouring of prayers and support. We are almost there. One more chemo! Let's do this dance.
I'm really sorry if all of these ramblings made no sense. It's late and I just started writing. I love you all.
Matt
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
A Fortnight's Stay
Ok. I know, I'm terrible at this.
I need to keep you guys posted on what's going on, and I'm sorry that I have not been. I have mentioned it before, but I've always been a person who in life feels that if you are mentally strong, it will be that much more difficult for physical ailments to take you out.
So, I guess in my own little world I felt that by not writing I was not accepting my disease, and therefore weakening it. I know, odd.
Anyways, here's an update. I have since received my second treatment. It went really well, and I didn't have any negative effects from it. The first three or four days after, I do have some bouts of nausea, but the medicine they give me really helps. I have been able to keep working at the Pelicans.
I have in the past few weeks truly realized how many people read my blog and are praying for and thinking about me. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. I have people come up and tell me that they are reading my blog and praying for me and it just blows me away. Some people I don't know. People stop me at the Pelicans and ask me how my treatment is going and how I am feeling, and it is just amazing all the love I am receiving. I just hope you know that it does not go unnoticed.
I have always thought of myself as a strong person; I have the ability to see a goal through and get done what needs to be done. Before this battle, I wasn't so sure about that fact. But when you are fighting for your life, you realize what is important. I have a lot of people who have come from being acquaintances to being dear friends, simply because they are showing me what should be simple: friendship and support. It isn't always easy to befriend someone who perhaps can't always be out late at night or party all the time, especially at my age. And that is frustrating for me. But I want those of you who keep asking to know that it really means a lot to me. And for those of you who haven't been able to hang out all the time, I still love you, and I know that life is life, and that means you don't see some people for a while, and that's ok.
The last few weeks have been the hardest since before I got diagnosed. Two weeks ago I went in for my regularly scheduled treatment and was told that I was being pushed back a week because my white blood cell count was too low. White blood cells are the cells that fight off infection, a big part of what we know as our immune system. To put it simply, if your WBC is too low, you are more susceptible to diseases and will have a tougher time fighting one off if you do contract it. That said, my lowered counts mean that if I got sick, even a cold, it could put me in the hospital. It also means that my body was not in good shape to handle the barrage of drugs involved in a chemotherapy infusion. So I was pushed back a week, and told that following my next treatment, I would receive a shot called "Neulasta," that would help my body rebuild my immune system and prevent my counts from getting too low again.
But, I can only get it following a treatment, which my body was too weak to receive. The next week (last tuesday) I went back to get my treatment. I sat down in the infusion suite, head held high and optimistic about my counts being back up. The nurse took my hand and spoke softly about the Pelicans game that her and the nurses attended (I gave them tickets last time I went as a token of gratitude for their awesome care). She prepped my finger to get a blood sample so they could check my counts.
Can I just say that I have had surgeries, been in pain because of tumors all over my body, had a bone marrow sample taken, and been in the hospital more than any 25 year old should, and getting my finger pricked by a tiny needle is my least favorite thing in the world?
Anyway, she took the sample and disappeared for what felt like hours. Still hopeful, I turned to see her approaching. She slumped down in the chair in front of me and immediately the look on her face said it all. I looked at her, exasperated, and said, "Really?
She looked at me and said, "Really."
My counts were again too low for treatment, and she told me that the only thing I could do was eat well and exercise, as if running hundreds of laps around a 6500 seat baseball stadium in the August heat didn't count. Talk about frustration.
I left the office, downtrodden, for the second week in a row. If there is something I hate, it is a problem to which I can't really actively contribute to the solution. I have been eating better, trying to rest, and trying not to focus on the fact that my particular strain of cancer is one of the fastest-growing. Although my scan said that my biggest tumor is 85% reduced and the smaller ones are all gone, I still live with the fear of it someday returning, or growing without treatment.
These are the things I deal with on a daily basis, on top of trying to make enough money to support myself and trying to ensure that I can soon get a full-time job that has insurance in case it ever comes back.
I am so blessed. I have an amazing family that not only has been here before, but that accepts me for me and supports me in my daily struggles. I have friends that tell me that my bald head is handsome, that my music is awesome, and that I can do anything I set my mind to, including defeating this disease.
I want to thank all of you for your constant support. I want to thank those of you to whom I have never spoken but that pray for me on the daily. I want to thank those of you who shoot me a text or call or email just to see how I'm doing. There are days (more often than not, thank God) where I feel normal. Save for the lack of follicular activity on top of my head, you wouldn't know I was sick. And perhaps I feel a little guilty for how good I feel given the circumstances.
When I go to get chemo I see people who are dying. People who are getting treatment just to be able to survive long enough to see their grandchildren born or walk their daughters down aisle. For me this is a temporary stop, a fortnight's stay at the worst hotel I've ever been to. I will survive, and I hope to see more of this life, including walking daughters down the aisle and seeing grandchildren born. But I couldn't do it without the amazing set of companions that God has set before me. I couldn't do it without the daily affirmation that not only am I stronger than cancer, so is my team of friends and family. Thank you.
Tomorrow I will re-enter that infusion center, and I hope that you will join me in praying for high blood cell counts and a stress-free treatment. Again, I thank all of you for your thoughts and prayers, and will be talking to you sooner than later.
Let's do this dance.
Que dios les bendiga - God bless all of you.
-Matty
I need to keep you guys posted on what's going on, and I'm sorry that I have not been. I have mentioned it before, but I've always been a person who in life feels that if you are mentally strong, it will be that much more difficult for physical ailments to take you out.
So, I guess in my own little world I felt that by not writing I was not accepting my disease, and therefore weakening it. I know, odd.
Anyways, here's an update. I have since received my second treatment. It went really well, and I didn't have any negative effects from it. The first three or four days after, I do have some bouts of nausea, but the medicine they give me really helps. I have been able to keep working at the Pelicans.
I have in the past few weeks truly realized how many people read my blog and are praying for and thinking about me. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. I have people come up and tell me that they are reading my blog and praying for me and it just blows me away. Some people I don't know. People stop me at the Pelicans and ask me how my treatment is going and how I am feeling, and it is just amazing all the love I am receiving. I just hope you know that it does not go unnoticed.
I have always thought of myself as a strong person; I have the ability to see a goal through and get done what needs to be done. Before this battle, I wasn't so sure about that fact. But when you are fighting for your life, you realize what is important. I have a lot of people who have come from being acquaintances to being dear friends, simply because they are showing me what should be simple: friendship and support. It isn't always easy to befriend someone who perhaps can't always be out late at night or party all the time, especially at my age. And that is frustrating for me. But I want those of you who keep asking to know that it really means a lot to me. And for those of you who haven't been able to hang out all the time, I still love you, and I know that life is life, and that means you don't see some people for a while, and that's ok.
The last few weeks have been the hardest since before I got diagnosed. Two weeks ago I went in for my regularly scheduled treatment and was told that I was being pushed back a week because my white blood cell count was too low. White blood cells are the cells that fight off infection, a big part of what we know as our immune system. To put it simply, if your WBC is too low, you are more susceptible to diseases and will have a tougher time fighting one off if you do contract it. That said, my lowered counts mean that if I got sick, even a cold, it could put me in the hospital. It also means that my body was not in good shape to handle the barrage of drugs involved in a chemotherapy infusion. So I was pushed back a week, and told that following my next treatment, I would receive a shot called "Neulasta," that would help my body rebuild my immune system and prevent my counts from getting too low again.
But, I can only get it following a treatment, which my body was too weak to receive. The next week (last tuesday) I went back to get my treatment. I sat down in the infusion suite, head held high and optimistic about my counts being back up. The nurse took my hand and spoke softly about the Pelicans game that her and the nurses attended (I gave them tickets last time I went as a token of gratitude for their awesome care). She prepped my finger to get a blood sample so they could check my counts.
Can I just say that I have had surgeries, been in pain because of tumors all over my body, had a bone marrow sample taken, and been in the hospital more than any 25 year old should, and getting my finger pricked by a tiny needle is my least favorite thing in the world?
Anyway, she took the sample and disappeared for what felt like hours. Still hopeful, I turned to see her approaching. She slumped down in the chair in front of me and immediately the look on her face said it all. I looked at her, exasperated, and said, "Really?
She looked at me and said, "Really."
My counts were again too low for treatment, and she told me that the only thing I could do was eat well and exercise, as if running hundreds of laps around a 6500 seat baseball stadium in the August heat didn't count. Talk about frustration.
I left the office, downtrodden, for the second week in a row. If there is something I hate, it is a problem to which I can't really actively contribute to the solution. I have been eating better, trying to rest, and trying not to focus on the fact that my particular strain of cancer is one of the fastest-growing. Although my scan said that my biggest tumor is 85% reduced and the smaller ones are all gone, I still live with the fear of it someday returning, or growing without treatment.
These are the things I deal with on a daily basis, on top of trying to make enough money to support myself and trying to ensure that I can soon get a full-time job that has insurance in case it ever comes back.
I am so blessed. I have an amazing family that not only has been here before, but that accepts me for me and supports me in my daily struggles. I have friends that tell me that my bald head is handsome, that my music is awesome, and that I can do anything I set my mind to, including defeating this disease.
I want to thank all of you for your constant support. I want to thank those of you to whom I have never spoken but that pray for me on the daily. I want to thank those of you who shoot me a text or call or email just to see how I'm doing. There are days (more often than not, thank God) where I feel normal. Save for the lack of follicular activity on top of my head, you wouldn't know I was sick. And perhaps I feel a little guilty for how good I feel given the circumstances.
When I go to get chemo I see people who are dying. People who are getting treatment just to be able to survive long enough to see their grandchildren born or walk their daughters down aisle. For me this is a temporary stop, a fortnight's stay at the worst hotel I've ever been to. I will survive, and I hope to see more of this life, including walking daughters down the aisle and seeing grandchildren born. But I couldn't do it without the amazing set of companions that God has set before me. I couldn't do it without the daily affirmation that not only am I stronger than cancer, so is my team of friends and family. Thank you.
Tomorrow I will re-enter that infusion center, and I hope that you will join me in praying for high blood cell counts and a stress-free treatment. Again, I thank all of you for your thoughts and prayers, and will be talking to you sooner than later.
Let's do this dance.
Que dios les bendiga - God bless all of you.
-Matty
Thursday, July 11, 2013
My Thoughts on Chemo.
Ok. Again, I'm super bad at keeping up with this blog. To be fair, it's been a busy past few weeks.
I hope everyone had a ballin' 4th of July. I had my brother's family in town and it was good to hang out with all of them and see my nieces and such. Family is always your family, don't forget that. Hopefully yours is as supportive as mine is.
Since I'm in the radio biz, let's reset. It's been a few weeks since I was officially diagnosed, and I am almost two weeks out of my first chemotherapy treatment.
First off, since there seem to be a lot of misconceptions about what chemotherapy actually entails, I'll tell you what it's really like. First off, no, chemo is not a big machine they put you in, or anything like that.
Seriously, apparently a lot of people think this. Gave me a good chuckle.
Chemo is a series of drugs that are given one at a time over the course of several hours. Different kind of cancers may involve different drugs, but some of them are tried and true and used all the time. The infusion place where I went for my treatment was a really nice big room with many comfy recliners, TVs, toasty warm blankets, and really nice people. Not the worst place to get poisonous drugs put into your body.
My first course of chemo was longer than the rest will be, since they had to hit my system pretty hard and start fighting the bad cells. I was there from 9am until almost 5pm. The first hour was steroids and anti-nausea medicines. Two different anti-nausea medicines to be exact. After that the drugs were given in quick succession. My only immediate complaint is that it is a lot of liquid, and so you have to drag your IV from your seat to the bathroom multiple times. Note: there is no cool or smooth way to do this.
While getting treatment, I watched TV, played on the computer, took a nap, and just generally chilled until it was over. They do a lot to make sure you are comfortable and well-informed about what is going on as the treatment progresses.
I was a little tired afterward just from the experience, but did not feel sick or anything. In fact, I went to work at the Pelicans game right after I left treatment!
In the week after treatment, I awoke only twice feeling a bit queasy. I wouldn't even call it nauseous. But the doctors gave me Zofran (which was a brand-new trial drug at the time when my father had cancer over 20 years ago), which gets rid of nausea, so I took that and was fine 30 minutes or so. It's pretty amazing what these drugs have been able to do to help your body fight efficiently.
I had my port put in this week. It is a small surgical procedure to insert the medical plastic that will save my veins the trouble of having to carry all these drugs for the next five treatments. I feel like the Terminator or something; I've got this creepy foreign object under my skin.
I sort of feel bad that I don't feel worse, if that makes any sense. I see a lot of people on some of the support sites I am on and I feel like they look sicker than I feel. I know I will lose my hair, very very soon, and that may affect how I view my body as I get to the middle of this fight, but I know that the medicine I am being given has as its core objective that I be completely healed and thus feel better. My mother actually called the doctor today to inquire as to why I feel so much better. She saw my father go through much the same sort of treatment (though his was admittedly more intense) and wondered why I was not as sick.
The doctor told her, "The medicine is supposed to make him feel better. Hopefully he will keep feeling better and better!"
So there you have it. I am scared to lose my hair as vain as that sounds. I have a pretty weak head of hair to begin with, so what do I care? It's still just strange to imagine how I will feel when there is no outward doubt any longer that I am fighting this disease. How will people treat me? I'm curious and nervous to find out.
Thanks for reading, I hope that this finds you and yours well. I thank you for your prayers and notes of concern, they really do mean a lot, each and every one of them.
One chemo down, five to go. Let's do this dance.
God bless,
Matty P
I hope everyone had a ballin' 4th of July. I had my brother's family in town and it was good to hang out with all of them and see my nieces and such. Family is always your family, don't forget that. Hopefully yours is as supportive as mine is.
Since I'm in the radio biz, let's reset. It's been a few weeks since I was officially diagnosed, and I am almost two weeks out of my first chemotherapy treatment.
First off, since there seem to be a lot of misconceptions about what chemotherapy actually entails, I'll tell you what it's really like. First off, no, chemo is not a big machine they put you in, or anything like that.
Seriously, apparently a lot of people think this. Gave me a good chuckle.
Chemo is a series of drugs that are given one at a time over the course of several hours. Different kind of cancers may involve different drugs, but some of them are tried and true and used all the time. The infusion place where I went for my treatment was a really nice big room with many comfy recliners, TVs, toasty warm blankets, and really nice people. Not the worst place to get poisonous drugs put into your body.
My first course of chemo was longer than the rest will be, since they had to hit my system pretty hard and start fighting the bad cells. I was there from 9am until almost 5pm. The first hour was steroids and anti-nausea medicines. Two different anti-nausea medicines to be exact. After that the drugs were given in quick succession. My only immediate complaint is that it is a lot of liquid, and so you have to drag your IV from your seat to the bathroom multiple times. Note: there is no cool or smooth way to do this.
While getting treatment, I watched TV, played on the computer, took a nap, and just generally chilled until it was over. They do a lot to make sure you are comfortable and well-informed about what is going on as the treatment progresses.
I was a little tired afterward just from the experience, but did not feel sick or anything. In fact, I went to work at the Pelicans game right after I left treatment!
In the week after treatment, I awoke only twice feeling a bit queasy. I wouldn't even call it nauseous. But the doctors gave me Zofran (which was a brand-new trial drug at the time when my father had cancer over 20 years ago), which gets rid of nausea, so I took that and was fine 30 minutes or so. It's pretty amazing what these drugs have been able to do to help your body fight efficiently.
I had my port put in this week. It is a small surgical procedure to insert the medical plastic that will save my veins the trouble of having to carry all these drugs for the next five treatments. I feel like the Terminator or something; I've got this creepy foreign object under my skin.
I sort of feel bad that I don't feel worse, if that makes any sense. I see a lot of people on some of the support sites I am on and I feel like they look sicker than I feel. I know I will lose my hair, very very soon, and that may affect how I view my body as I get to the middle of this fight, but I know that the medicine I am being given has as its core objective that I be completely healed and thus feel better. My mother actually called the doctor today to inquire as to why I feel so much better. She saw my father go through much the same sort of treatment (though his was admittedly more intense) and wondered why I was not as sick.
The doctor told her, "The medicine is supposed to make him feel better. Hopefully he will keep feeling better and better!"
So there you have it. I am scared to lose my hair as vain as that sounds. I have a pretty weak head of hair to begin with, so what do I care? It's still just strange to imagine how I will feel when there is no outward doubt any longer that I am fighting this disease. How will people treat me? I'm curious and nervous to find out.
Thanks for reading, I hope that this finds you and yours well. I thank you for your prayers and notes of concern, they really do mean a lot, each and every one of them.
One chemo down, five to go. Let's do this dance.
God bless,
Matty P
Friday, June 28, 2013
Let's Do This Dance.
Ok. Sorry again about taking so long to write again. There have just been a lot of developments very quickly, and I've been very tired lately and dealing with other things and just have not gotten around to it.
First a quick rewind: Last Thursday I had a surgery at MUSC in Charleston in order to try and get a large enough tissue sample to make a diagnosis. It was an actual they-put-you-to-sleep kinda surgery, something I had never experienced. I was nervous about going under, as I had heard different things about it, as well as some of those crazy stories where people wake up in the middle of their surgery, or can feel everything even though they are supposed to be asleep. I know. Only me would have read enough ridiculous stuff to even have these thoughts cross his mind before a surgery.
But, anyways none of that happened and the surgery was a success in multiple ways. Firstly, I got a sweet scar that the ladies already seem to be impressed with. Second, the doctors were able to get enough of a sample to make a firm diagnosis. So, notebooks out, please.
Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma, Stage 3.
Got your wikipedia page open yet? Very nice. Essentially, the most common of the Non-Hodgkins Lymphomas.
DLBCL is a very treatable and curable kind of cancer. Interestingly, it is not as common in people my age as it is in older adults. But, when it occurs in someone my age, it has a 90-95 percent cure rate.
Me and my family met with our oncologist, Dr. Mullins, this morning and we laid out a tentative treatment plan. Although we have a diagnosis, the doctors want to make sure they get the written report in hand to be one hundred percent positive that they are treating the right disease. This should probably be tomorrow or the next day. On Monday, I am having what is called a MUGA scan, to make sure my heart is in good shape before starting chemotherapy. This is totally normal procedure and not evident that they think my heart will explode or something when they put the medicine in me.
Now, when you get chemo, you can either do it in your veins directly (IV), or get what is called a port put in surgically. A port is basically just that, a port they open on you that they can easily access and not go through your veins. I chose to have a port because after a while the chemo drugs can mess up your veins. Unfortunately, I need to start treatment immediately, and can't get a port put in until maybe later next week. So, my first treatment will probably be through an IV, likely on Tuesday. It shouldn't mess my veins up that bad though with just one.
The treatment plan is called R-CHOP. It stands for a bunch of drugs that are too long for me to type. But each one has been proven to cure this disease, and that is the aim of my doctor. I will likely have to have one treatment for a few hours every three weeks for six cycles. This is the best possible news and hopefully will take care of this cancer.
That's the plan for now. Thanks if you are still reading because this is super long. I just feel a responsibility to keep the many family and friends (some I have never met, which is really cool) updated because you have shown me so much awesome support. It took a while to get this diagnosis and get going, and I admit that this whole thing still just seems surreal. But I know that there is a reason for everything in God's timing, and I'm super excited to see that through. Yes. I am scared. And sometimes it hits me harder than others. But, unfortunately there is nothing I can do but fight this and move past it.
We have the plan. I've got my team behind me and I couldn't be more ready to kick ass. Stay with me on this and I'll keep all of you updated. Your thoughts and prayers are forever appreciated. I love you all.
Let's do this dance.
-Matty
First a quick rewind: Last Thursday I had a surgery at MUSC in Charleston in order to try and get a large enough tissue sample to make a diagnosis. It was an actual they-put-you-to-sleep kinda surgery, something I had never experienced. I was nervous about going under, as I had heard different things about it, as well as some of those crazy stories where people wake up in the middle of their surgery, or can feel everything even though they are supposed to be asleep. I know. Only me would have read enough ridiculous stuff to even have these thoughts cross his mind before a surgery.
But, anyways none of that happened and the surgery was a success in multiple ways. Firstly, I got a sweet scar that the ladies already seem to be impressed with. Second, the doctors were able to get enough of a sample to make a firm diagnosis. So, notebooks out, please.
Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma, Stage 3.
Got your wikipedia page open yet? Very nice. Essentially, the most common of the Non-Hodgkins Lymphomas.
DLBCL is a very treatable and curable kind of cancer. Interestingly, it is not as common in people my age as it is in older adults. But, when it occurs in someone my age, it has a 90-95 percent cure rate.
Me and my family met with our oncologist, Dr. Mullins, this morning and we laid out a tentative treatment plan. Although we have a diagnosis, the doctors want to make sure they get the written report in hand to be one hundred percent positive that they are treating the right disease. This should probably be tomorrow or the next day. On Monday, I am having what is called a MUGA scan, to make sure my heart is in good shape before starting chemotherapy. This is totally normal procedure and not evident that they think my heart will explode or something when they put the medicine in me.
Now, when you get chemo, you can either do it in your veins directly (IV), or get what is called a port put in surgically. A port is basically just that, a port they open on you that they can easily access and not go through your veins. I chose to have a port because after a while the chemo drugs can mess up your veins. Unfortunately, I need to start treatment immediately, and can't get a port put in until maybe later next week. So, my first treatment will probably be through an IV, likely on Tuesday. It shouldn't mess my veins up that bad though with just one.
The treatment plan is called R-CHOP. It stands for a bunch of drugs that are too long for me to type. But each one has been proven to cure this disease, and that is the aim of my doctor. I will likely have to have one treatment for a few hours every three weeks for six cycles. This is the best possible news and hopefully will take care of this cancer.
That's the plan for now. Thanks if you are still reading because this is super long. I just feel a responsibility to keep the many family and friends (some I have never met, which is really cool) updated because you have shown me so much awesome support. It took a while to get this diagnosis and get going, and I admit that this whole thing still just seems surreal. But I know that there is a reason for everything in God's timing, and I'm super excited to see that through. Yes. I am scared. And sometimes it hits me harder than others. But, unfortunately there is nothing I can do but fight this and move past it.
We have the plan. I've got my team behind me and I couldn't be more ready to kick ass. Stay with me on this and I'll keep all of you updated. Your thoughts and prayers are forever appreciated. I love you all.
Let's do this dance.
-Matty
Monday, June 17, 2013
A Soldier Before Dawn
I don't like to admit that I am an overly impatient person, because I do have my moments of virtue in that regard. Heck, a large portion of my working life has been with kids, working at various Boys & Girls Clubs and tutoring people from young age to college-aged adults in a foreign language. So I have my moments of patience, more than a few.
But trying to get a diagnosis for this disease is killing me. In my professional life as a journalist and as a radio personality, knowing what is going on in the moment is vital. I thrive off of the latest information, minus speculation, and use that to make the best decision possible.
So, when the phone rang today and the screen illuminated the number and location of my oncology doctors, I assumed that this was the call that would shed light on what stage of lymphoma I had and at least fire the gun to get us off and running toward starting chemotherapy.
But no. Not yet. Not enough tissue to make a diagnosis. Need to schedule another biopsy. The words flowed off the tongue of the nurse so effortlessly but for some reason didn't quite fit into my ears; they definitely did not make it into my brain. Every other word spelled out my most recent and hated fear: the unknown. More of the unknown.
From the advantageous perspective of a few hours later, I know that there is more that we do know than there is that we do not. I do have lymphoma. Most likely Hodgkin's, the so-called "Cadillac of Cancers." My bone marrow and bones are not involved, meaning it is most likely stage 3. Very treatable with chemotherapy.
But until the doctors can narrow down a firm diagnosis, they cannot formulate a proper treatment plan. To use a treatment for one form of lymphoma on another could prove to be disastrous. So, I understand the necessity of knowing exactly what enemy we are up against. But still. The unknown is where we sit at the moment.
I am scheduled to meet the doctor tomorrow to set up for my surgery later this week or early next week. Your continued prayers are appreciated as always. I know that I'm going to beat this. There is no other option than victory. That is a given. But right now I feel like a soldier before dawn, ready for the battle of his life that he knows will lead to the promised land. My finger is on the trigger and I can see the finish line. I just need my orders and I can start running.
Thank you all for running alongside me. Let's do this dance.
I'll keep you all posted.
God Bless -
Matty
But trying to get a diagnosis for this disease is killing me. In my professional life as a journalist and as a radio personality, knowing what is going on in the moment is vital. I thrive off of the latest information, minus speculation, and use that to make the best decision possible.
So, when the phone rang today and the screen illuminated the number and location of my oncology doctors, I assumed that this was the call that would shed light on what stage of lymphoma I had and at least fire the gun to get us off and running toward starting chemotherapy.
But no. Not yet. Not enough tissue to make a diagnosis. Need to schedule another biopsy. The words flowed off the tongue of the nurse so effortlessly but for some reason didn't quite fit into my ears; they definitely did not make it into my brain. Every other word spelled out my most recent and hated fear: the unknown. More of the unknown.
From the advantageous perspective of a few hours later, I know that there is more that we do know than there is that we do not. I do have lymphoma. Most likely Hodgkin's, the so-called "Cadillac of Cancers." My bone marrow and bones are not involved, meaning it is most likely stage 3. Very treatable with chemotherapy.
But until the doctors can narrow down a firm diagnosis, they cannot formulate a proper treatment plan. To use a treatment for one form of lymphoma on another could prove to be disastrous. So, I understand the necessity of knowing exactly what enemy we are up against. But still. The unknown is where we sit at the moment.
I am scheduled to meet the doctor tomorrow to set up for my surgery later this week or early next week. Your continued prayers are appreciated as always. I know that I'm going to beat this. There is no other option than victory. That is a given. But right now I feel like a soldier before dawn, ready for the battle of his life that he knows will lead to the promised land. My finger is on the trigger and I can see the finish line. I just need my orders and I can start running.
Thank you all for running alongside me. Let's do this dance.
I'll keep you all posted.
God Bless -
Matty
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Feel Sorry for Yourself Sure, But Don't Accept the Apology
I know, I know, you read the title and you're like, "Jeez, Matt, lay off the painkillers."
I'll get to that in a minute. First, an update.
Went to MUSC for my second CT Scan-Guided Biopsy. The first one of these I had at Waccamaw, and let me just say that MUSC is world-famous for a reason. Don't get me wrong, I got great care at Waccamaw and appreciate everything they did for me, but this time around was much easier than the first one.
A CT-Guided biopsy involves numbing you up, and using the guidance of multiple CT scans during the procedure, they stick needles into wherever your biggest tumor is and pull out pieces of it for study in order to better diagnose you. The first time around, I went in with just my standard morphine drip (which don't get me wrong, is great). They numb the site where they go in, which for me was the left side of my chest, with Lidocaine. And then they went to work. The moment that they pull the tissue out there is a loud pop, as if it were like a spring-loaded syringe. That moment is really painful.
So, you can understand why this morning I was very nervous and perturbed at the idea of having to repeat this oh-so-fun procedure. However, when we got to MUSC and they got me checked in and into this season's most popular smock (which shows off my best features), the nurse informed me that I would be less than conscious for this procedure. I was stoked. Long story short, she gave me some happy juice, just enough where I couldn't feel a thing and kept informing the doctors and nurses what a "fantabulous" job they were doing. It was nice, but I've been groggy and tired all day. No fun.
The good news: The doctors mostly agree that my bones and bone marrow are not involved, meaning I am most likely stage 3 and not stage 4. Also, I should probably start chemotherapy within the week, which I can't wait for. Yea I know that sounds weird. But with the amount of pain I am in daily, chemo is the only way I am going to get better. So I can't wait to start.
In all of this madness of doctors, hospitals, biopsies, and discussion of treatments, it is really easy to get overwhelmed. It is really easy to get trapped in the pattern of "why me?"
The one thing I have realized is this: it is okay to feel sorry for yourself. But not for long. I had a moment, about three or four days ago, where I had myself a good cry. I let myself realize that I was scared, and also realized that what I was about to go through really WAS scary. So it is okay to feel sorry for yourself, but don't accept the apology. Don't ask "why me," ask "why not me?" I am of the belief that everything happens for a reason, and there is a purpose in all of this for me, and for all of you. Stick with me, and we'll see this through til the end.
At the end of my biopsy today, as I was half-awake and in a fog that would take down a small plane, the doctor who flawlessly performed the procedure and made sure I was virtually pain-free looked at me in the eye and said, "You did great, you're going to be great. We are going to cure this and you will be just fine."
So, whatever your battle is, don't ask why, turn and face your fears and run head-first into them. Feel sorry for yourself, sure...but don't accept the apology.
Thanks for your prayers and concerns. I love you all.
Matt
I'll get to that in a minute. First, an update.
Went to MUSC for my second CT Scan-Guided Biopsy. The first one of these I had at Waccamaw, and let me just say that MUSC is world-famous for a reason. Don't get me wrong, I got great care at Waccamaw and appreciate everything they did for me, but this time around was much easier than the first one.
A CT-Guided biopsy involves numbing you up, and using the guidance of multiple CT scans during the procedure, they stick needles into wherever your biggest tumor is and pull out pieces of it for study in order to better diagnose you. The first time around, I went in with just my standard morphine drip (which don't get me wrong, is great). They numb the site where they go in, which for me was the left side of my chest, with Lidocaine. And then they went to work. The moment that they pull the tissue out there is a loud pop, as if it were like a spring-loaded syringe. That moment is really painful.
So, you can understand why this morning I was very nervous and perturbed at the idea of having to repeat this oh-so-fun procedure. However, when we got to MUSC and they got me checked in and into this season's most popular smock (which shows off my best features), the nurse informed me that I would be less than conscious for this procedure. I was stoked. Long story short, she gave me some happy juice, just enough where I couldn't feel a thing and kept informing the doctors and nurses what a "fantabulous" job they were doing. It was nice, but I've been groggy and tired all day. No fun.
The good news: The doctors mostly agree that my bones and bone marrow are not involved, meaning I am most likely stage 3 and not stage 4. Also, I should probably start chemotherapy within the week, which I can't wait for. Yea I know that sounds weird. But with the amount of pain I am in daily, chemo is the only way I am going to get better. So I can't wait to start.
In all of this madness of doctors, hospitals, biopsies, and discussion of treatments, it is really easy to get overwhelmed. It is really easy to get trapped in the pattern of "why me?"
The one thing I have realized is this: it is okay to feel sorry for yourself. But not for long. I had a moment, about three or four days ago, where I had myself a good cry. I let myself realize that I was scared, and also realized that what I was about to go through really WAS scary. So it is okay to feel sorry for yourself, but don't accept the apology. Don't ask "why me," ask "why not me?" I am of the belief that everything happens for a reason, and there is a purpose in all of this for me, and for all of you. Stick with me, and we'll see this through til the end.
At the end of my biopsy today, as I was half-awake and in a fog that would take down a small plane, the doctor who flawlessly performed the procedure and made sure I was virtually pain-free looked at me in the eye and said, "You did great, you're going to be great. We are going to cure this and you will be just fine."
So, whatever your battle is, don't ask why, turn and face your fears and run head-first into them. Feel sorry for yourself, sure...but don't accept the apology.
Thanks for your prayers and concerns. I love you all.
Matt
Monday, June 10, 2013
The 'C' Word
Ok. I'm sorry it has taken a lot longer than it should have for me to get another post up. I feel terrible about leaving you guys in the dark. Thanks so much for continuing to read and pray for me. It means a lot, seriously.
Anyways, an update. I had a bone marrow biopsy last Wednesday. To settle the debate that I fell into prior to this procedure, yes. It is probably the most painful thing I've ever experienced. If I get any requests for it I may outline the procedure in detail, but trust me, it's gross.
The real point I wanted to get to in this post is what it feels like. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally, the moment that the "C" word becomes a possibility.
I have to be honest and say that I have always been a person who believes that there are no coincidences, that most thing are pre-ordained in some capacity and sometimes when you have a premonition, it is true to some degree.
Well, I have always kind of had a premonition that I would get cancer, as morbid as that sounds. I just didn't think that I would be 25. I suppose that it's better I get it now than later, but still it is strange when something like this comes to fruition.
I will never forget going from having pancreatitis one day to having cancer the next, but I amazed myself with how I handled it.
After my first scan that first evening in the hospital, the report came back reading more like a script for an episode of "House" than anything. All that was missing was the possibility that I had lupus (spoiler: It is never lupus).
The words "mass," "metastasis" and "lymphoma" stuck out as if they were circled, underlined and typed in size 70 font. There is still even in the face of printed proof those moments of, "well maybe it's this," or "well they could just be wrong."
But after some more scans and more reports, the doctor comes in and confirms your worst fears.
Even while knowing that my type of cancer is very treatable and curable, there is an immediate moment of your life flashing before your eyes, your regrets and dreams that you haven't quite achieved all come to you in that moment.
And then, acceptance, and getting ready to fight.
When my father got his diagnosis of cancer 22 years ago, my mother looked at him with tears in her eyes and said the same thing that she said to me that day just a few weeks ago: "This is going to be the worst day."
And that's how you have to think of it, every day after today will get better. Yea, I hurt. But the funny thing is I can't wait for chemo because I know that my symptoms will immediately get better after my first treatment.
It is alright to feel sorry for yourself, I have come to realize, if only for a few minutes. But I'll write on that later.
Thanks so much for your thoughts and prayers. Back to MUSC tomorrow for what will hopefully be my final biopsy. If all goes well and I'm not too tired I will try and write about it. See you all soon.
-Matt
Anyways, an update. I had a bone marrow biopsy last Wednesday. To settle the debate that I fell into prior to this procedure, yes. It is probably the most painful thing I've ever experienced. If I get any requests for it I may outline the procedure in detail, but trust me, it's gross.
The real point I wanted to get to in this post is what it feels like. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally, the moment that the "C" word becomes a possibility.
I have to be honest and say that I have always been a person who believes that there are no coincidences, that most thing are pre-ordained in some capacity and sometimes when you have a premonition, it is true to some degree.
Well, I have always kind of had a premonition that I would get cancer, as morbid as that sounds. I just didn't think that I would be 25. I suppose that it's better I get it now than later, but still it is strange when something like this comes to fruition.
I will never forget going from having pancreatitis one day to having cancer the next, but I amazed myself with how I handled it.
After my first scan that first evening in the hospital, the report came back reading more like a script for an episode of "House" than anything. All that was missing was the possibility that I had lupus (spoiler: It is never lupus).
The words "mass," "metastasis" and "lymphoma" stuck out as if they were circled, underlined and typed in size 70 font. There is still even in the face of printed proof those moments of, "well maybe it's this," or "well they could just be wrong."
But after some more scans and more reports, the doctor comes in and confirms your worst fears.
Even while knowing that my type of cancer is very treatable and curable, there is an immediate moment of your life flashing before your eyes, your regrets and dreams that you haven't quite achieved all come to you in that moment.
And then, acceptance, and getting ready to fight.
When my father got his diagnosis of cancer 22 years ago, my mother looked at him with tears in her eyes and said the same thing that she said to me that day just a few weeks ago: "This is going to be the worst day."
And that's how you have to think of it, every day after today will get better. Yea, I hurt. But the funny thing is I can't wait for chemo because I know that my symptoms will immediately get better after my first treatment.
It is alright to feel sorry for yourself, I have come to realize, if only for a few minutes. But I'll write on that later.
Thanks so much for your thoughts and prayers. Back to MUSC tomorrow for what will hopefully be my final biopsy. If all goes well and I'm not too tired I will try and write about it. See you all soon.
-Matt
Saturday, June 1, 2013
"Everything Gives You Cancer"
--It's a joke that I used to make all of the time. Heck, I still say that when someone chastises me for my strange love of the way gasoline smells or tells me that the cigarette in my mouth is going to give me the disease.
The funny thing is, while experts and researchers are constantly pumping out new drugs and treatments for cancer, not as much is known about what causes one's cells to all of a sudden grow and reproduce uncontrollably.
Sure, there are things we all know MAY cause cancer, from tobacco in all its forms to the little pink sugar packets on the table. But I am not "laboratory mice," so it is probably not smart for me to get lost in the whys or hows of my cancer.
Putting that aside, I can't tell you what having cancer feels like. But I can tell you what it feels like to me.
I will first say that I never get sick. I mean never. I have always been of the belief that most illnesses begin and end in one's mind and can be overcome mentally. Most think this is horse-poo-but I have always subscribed to this, and rarely have I been sick for more than 24 hours.
That said, the first thing I noticed was my shoulders hurt. Both of them, and no where else. It was almost like an arthritic pain, which I do have in my knees from injuries playing tennis in high school, but the shoulder pain was new. I assumed I may have injured one or both of them sleeping on a friends couch or something, and my doctor put me on steroids. The pain went away while I was on the medicine, but returned soon after I completed my regimen.
Back to the doctor, and more steroids. The steroids were great because they made me not hurt, but as soon as the regimen was completed again, here came the pain. It hurt so bad I could barely lift my arms some days.
Within a few weeks I had back pain, and then the kicker. Stomach pain like I had never experienced. It radiated my whole abdomen and into my back. I couldn't sleep it hurt so bad. So, after a sleepless weekend, my parents decided to take me to the hospital. I was immediately admitted with a case of pancreatitis, inflammation of the pancreas.
I swear I have never since before I was 21 been interrogated about my drinking habits as much as I was that first night in the hospital. One of the biggest reasons to get pancreatitis is heavy alcohol use. The doctors did not find my answer "I'm a 25 year old dude, what do you think?" sufficient or humorous. Doctors. Tough crowd. They ordered a CT scan of my abdomen, and later an MRI of my chest and abdomen.
I will talk more later on about actually being told for the first time that I may have cancer and how my family handled it, but long story short, these tests showed masses in my chest cavity, on the lower right lobe of my lung, on my adrenal glands, and cysts in my kidneys. This prompted the biopsy, a ridiculously painful procedure that I'll detail later as well.
All in all, I'm still not afraid. I know that God has a reason for this test, and I will get through this and realize what is in store for me yet. Cancer sucks, but being tired all the time and in pain is a small inconvenience in light of what others suffer every day around the world.
God bless you all and thank you for your thoughts and prayers,
Matty P
The funny thing is, while experts and researchers are constantly pumping out new drugs and treatments for cancer, not as much is known about what causes one's cells to all of a sudden grow and reproduce uncontrollably.
Sure, there are things we all know MAY cause cancer, from tobacco in all its forms to the little pink sugar packets on the table. But I am not "laboratory mice," so it is probably not smart for me to get lost in the whys or hows of my cancer.
Putting that aside, I can't tell you what having cancer feels like. But I can tell you what it feels like to me.
I will first say that I never get sick. I mean never. I have always been of the belief that most illnesses begin and end in one's mind and can be overcome mentally. Most think this is horse-poo-but I have always subscribed to this, and rarely have I been sick for more than 24 hours.
That said, the first thing I noticed was my shoulders hurt. Both of them, and no where else. It was almost like an arthritic pain, which I do have in my knees from injuries playing tennis in high school, but the shoulder pain was new. I assumed I may have injured one or both of them sleeping on a friends couch or something, and my doctor put me on steroids. The pain went away while I was on the medicine, but returned soon after I completed my regimen.
Back to the doctor, and more steroids. The steroids were great because they made me not hurt, but as soon as the regimen was completed again, here came the pain. It hurt so bad I could barely lift my arms some days.
Within a few weeks I had back pain, and then the kicker. Stomach pain like I had never experienced. It radiated my whole abdomen and into my back. I couldn't sleep it hurt so bad. So, after a sleepless weekend, my parents decided to take me to the hospital. I was immediately admitted with a case of pancreatitis, inflammation of the pancreas.
I swear I have never since before I was 21 been interrogated about my drinking habits as much as I was that first night in the hospital. One of the biggest reasons to get pancreatitis is heavy alcohol use. The doctors did not find my answer "I'm a 25 year old dude, what do you think?" sufficient or humorous. Doctors. Tough crowd. They ordered a CT scan of my abdomen, and later an MRI of my chest and abdomen.
I will talk more later on about actually being told for the first time that I may have cancer and how my family handled it, but long story short, these tests showed masses in my chest cavity, on the lower right lobe of my lung, on my adrenal glands, and cysts in my kidneys. This prompted the biopsy, a ridiculously painful procedure that I'll detail later as well.
All in all, I'm still not afraid. I know that God has a reason for this test, and I will get through this and realize what is in store for me yet. Cancer sucks, but being tired all the time and in pain is a small inconvenience in light of what others suffer every day around the world.
God bless you all and thank you for your thoughts and prayers,
Matty P
Thursday, May 30, 2013
The Beginning of the End....for my Cancer That Is.
Wow.
Those of you that know me, know that first and foremost I've always been a writer. I've always felt the unshakeable feeling that I was bursting from the inside out with emotion and words that would only leave me alone if I committed them to paper.
Of late though, I've been waist-deep in the enemy of all who hope to share their words with the world: writer's block. Bad. I felt that nothing I had to say was good enough, felt that nothing that I had to say had not already been said by someone able to say it with with more wit, enthusiasm and intelligence. I felt I had nothing more to say for the longest time. Then I got cancer.
Today is the first day in a long journey that I intend to win. It came as no surprise thankfully that when the doctor told me today that I have lymphoma, as that is what we had been told was the best possibility. It's very strange to hear the sentence out of my mother's mouth, "Well, thank goodness he has lymphoma!" The doctor is not yet sure what kind of lymphoma it is. It could be T-Cell or Hodgkin's lymphoma. Both are very curable. I probably will not start chemotherapy for a few weeks, as I have an appointment at MUSC in Charleston to get an additional biopsy. As soon as we know for sure what it is, I will immediately start treatment. That's when the fun starts.
But I don't write this blog to make anyone feel sorry for me, or anything like that.
I am writing because I finally have something to say. I finally have a story to tell. This is my tale. My tale of a disease that has fought and won against many a foe, but one that I plan not only to beat, but tear into a million pieces and flush down the metaphorical toilet of life.
The sentence "I have cancer" is one that most of us never believe we will have to say, to ourselves or anyone else. Well, I do have to learn to say that phrase. But not for long. I can follow it with the words "for right now," or "and it doesn't scare me."
I plan to tell the story. My story. And I won't mince words or spare any details.
I've often written and said that there are several reasons that human beings have been so dedicated to applying our words to paper since time immemorial. One of them is to show that we were here; to show that what we are experiencing now has been experienced before and has been defeated before, no matter if it is heartbreak, death, or disease.
Well, here I am. And here you are. And here we are. Whether you are reading this is as I begin my battle in May of 2013 or many ages hence through the power of the internet, here we are. I'm going to make it, and so are you, whatever your fight entails. Come with me on a journey unlike any other. I don't know everything that's going to happen, but one day I will look back and know it all.
Screw cancer. As my friends and I always say -
Let's do this dance.
I love you all. Talk to you soon.
Matt
Those of you that know me, know that first and foremost I've always been a writer. I've always felt the unshakeable feeling that I was bursting from the inside out with emotion and words that would only leave me alone if I committed them to paper.
Of late though, I've been waist-deep in the enemy of all who hope to share their words with the world: writer's block. Bad. I felt that nothing I had to say was good enough, felt that nothing that I had to say had not already been said by someone able to say it with with more wit, enthusiasm and intelligence. I felt I had nothing more to say for the longest time. Then I got cancer.
Today is the first day in a long journey that I intend to win. It came as no surprise thankfully that when the doctor told me today that I have lymphoma, as that is what we had been told was the best possibility. It's very strange to hear the sentence out of my mother's mouth, "Well, thank goodness he has lymphoma!" The doctor is not yet sure what kind of lymphoma it is. It could be T-Cell or Hodgkin's lymphoma. Both are very curable. I probably will not start chemotherapy for a few weeks, as I have an appointment at MUSC in Charleston to get an additional biopsy. As soon as we know for sure what it is, I will immediately start treatment. That's when the fun starts.
But I don't write this blog to make anyone feel sorry for me, or anything like that.
I am writing because I finally have something to say. I finally have a story to tell. This is my tale. My tale of a disease that has fought and won against many a foe, but one that I plan not only to beat, but tear into a million pieces and flush down the metaphorical toilet of life.
The sentence "I have cancer" is one that most of us never believe we will have to say, to ourselves or anyone else. Well, I do have to learn to say that phrase. But not for long. I can follow it with the words "for right now," or "and it doesn't scare me."
I plan to tell the story. My story. And I won't mince words or spare any details.
I've often written and said that there are several reasons that human beings have been so dedicated to applying our words to paper since time immemorial. One of them is to show that we were here; to show that what we are experiencing now has been experienced before and has been defeated before, no matter if it is heartbreak, death, or disease.
Well, here I am. And here you are. And here we are. Whether you are reading this is as I begin my battle in May of 2013 or many ages hence through the power of the internet, here we are. I'm going to make it, and so are you, whatever your fight entails. Come with me on a journey unlike any other. I don't know everything that's going to happen, but one day I will look back and know it all.
Screw cancer. As my friends and I always say -
Let's do this dance.
I love you all. Talk to you soon.
Matt
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