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

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

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

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

"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