---

If there's any bad news today, it is this: Parkland rotates its surgical team every three months.

Why is that bad news? you ask. Because the new docs coming in may look at the surgical schedule and conclude that there are too many cancer surgeries in one day on Oct. 11th — I'm the fourth — and bump me.

The good news is, I'm on the surgery schedule. With a bit of luck and prayers from all my family and friends, I should have this cancer ripped from my neck in a couple of weeks and start the recovery process (about 2 weeks long).

I'll spare you the details — unless you just really have to know the gory bits. Suffice it to say that I'm about to end this ordeal of "Waiting for Godot" because Godot finally has arrived.

Just to summarize a two- to three-hour operation. . . The docs will remove my right tonsil and about a centimeter around the tonsil (the margin) to make sure they get all the cancer. Then, they cut off my head. . . no, that's not right. . . (shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. . . ) ahhhhh, they make an incision in my neck and yank the lymph nodes in the chain of four where my malignant tumor lies. In all, there are about thirty lymph nodes in the neck (right-left, front-back) and this will only involve a minimal number of nodes. That's subject to change, however, once they slice off my head. (I assure you, I'll never miss it.)

Slice, dice, chop, peel. . . I feel like Ron Popeil is going to be right there with me the whole time.

Now if I only had a brain, a heart, "da noive". . . ooooooooooh, I'd be a real wiz; I might even do the surgery myself. But I suppose I'll leave that to the professionals.

I'm just happy to be "going home" and getting back to normal.

Come on, Toto!

---

Last week, I saw a medical oncologist (they play the chemo specialists in this melodrama) and he referred me back to the surgeons at the ENT Clinic at Parkland. Fortunately, I was able to get in for an appointment this week (Thursday is Cancer Day!) and I've been waiting for that appointment to be able to schedule surgery.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that the tumor in my neck is growing (eeeuuuuuuwww!!!). It's not only growing, it's becoming. . . well, a pain in the neck. (Quit complaining. I never promised you this would be pretty.)

The pain, thus far, is far from unbearable. On a scale of 10, it's about a 1. That's all. Not bad for a mass the size of a dolma in my neck. However, the pain came on suddenly. In fact, it came on while I was dancing Tango at a milonga last night. Then, it was about a 2. About like a moderately painful sore throat or a mild headache.

That's not so bad, you might say. I say that, too. But it dawns on me that this piece of crap in my neck is getting bigger and surgery is still, by my best guess, a couple weeks away. It may be time to wimp out and give in to the Dark Side. ("Walk toward the light, Luke. . . er, Larry!") I'd just as soon be pain-free but it may take more than Advil^® to ease the pain that might be forthcoming should surgery be delayed.

I am not a fan of painkillers. I've had to take them on occasion but they make me stupid. (Some say, it seems as if I'm addicted. But, no.)

We're not talking about migraine pain or giving-birth-to-a-12-pound-bouncing-baby-boy pain. But I've endured an abscessed tooth so bad I wanted to veer across the median into oncoming traffic while driving from Denver to Dallas over Labor Day weekend. (Ever try to find a dentist on a holiday? Now that's painful.)

I can tolerate a fair amount of pain. But I don't want to unless I have no other choice.

That's why I choose surgery as soon as I can hie me to a surgeon. Sharpen your scalpels, boys and girls. We've got a code red in the O.R.

---

I was reminded this morning by a friend that I'm not going to start healing after I have surgery to remove this cancer; the healing is already in progress.

Even though I see myself in perfect health in my mind's eye, I have been talking and writing about "going away to heal." The truth is, I started healing the moment I was diagnosed with squamous cell carcinoma. The conflict is in the way I've been talking and writing about it.

Language is a powerful tool. I'm sure you know that. It didn't make headlines on the Drudge Report just this morning.

Nevertheless, we use language very often in an unconscious manner, as I have been doing with my talk about healing in a linear fashion in the model of illness-diagnosis-treatment-healing. Fortunately, healing is not a linear process. We can speed up the process of getting back to good health by the way we think, talk, and write about our health.

My own healing process (which I've been inventing along the way and on which I hold several patents) started the moment I heard from Drs Randy Askins and Robert Wyatt that the plug they vacuumed from my neck was malignant. I not only began to see those malignant cells as black, amorphous, nasty critters that were aggressively devouring me from the inside out (lovely thought, eh?). . . I began to see my army of knights, wearing their brilliantly reflective armor, defend me at all costs, thrust their lances and swing powerful, sharp broadswords into the mass of gelatinous, black cancer cells, slicing and dicing them, killing them so they could never again hurt me.

Silly, right? Nope. I not only visualize this army slaying my cancer, I talk about it in those terms. Now, I'm writing about it using that metaphor. Even if this does no practical good in killing my cancer, it bolsters my attitude and makes it easier to fight the cancer on real terms, dealing with the disease on a human level, fighting the bureaucracies I've had to deal with just to do something as simple as make an appointment. I see myself as one of those knights in shining armor, doing battle with and slaying the dragons that stand in my way.

Next time you catch me using language that doesn't serve my goal of returning to health. . . speak up! The power of YOUR language could help me save my life.

---

My new friend, Willie Baronet, is quite an artist. His drawing style is primitive but pointedly sophisticated.

We've decided to trade images and I want to show you the piece I selected.

You can visit Willie's blog here and see some of his amazing drawings.

This is the one that inspired me. The title is, "Because of Darkness, We Can See the Light."

Appropriate, I think.

---

Today, someone listened.

Dr Drew Rasco, an oncology resident at Parkland came into my exam room. . . excuse me. . . the exam room in which I had been placed. . . and sat there while I told him my concerns about the side effects of chemo-radiation therapy.

He sat there and actually listened to me as I explained my understanding of the possibilities of side effects from both chemo and radiation.

I know. I'm repeating myself. But the important part of this is that he actually listened to me. There. I said it again.

One of the most difficult parts of dealing with this disease is the fact that the doctors haven't been listening. They may hear me. They may see my yap flapping. But they're not listening. If they were listening, they'd be aware of the fact that I have deep, abiding concerns about the side effects of chemo and radiation. And they would take those concerns into consideration. But they don't. Or don't seem to.

With chemoradiation therapy of the oropharynx, one of the first things to consider doing is removal of some or all of the teeth, prophylactically. It's Standard Procedure. The radiation can do some nasty things to both bone and soft tissue. Leaving the teeth intact — particularly if they are not in very good shape, as mine are not — is an invitation to a host of problems. Healing becomes an issue because of the lowered level of oxygenation. Even if there is no bone damage rising to the level of osteoradionecrosis, there is usually that lower O₂ level that prevents tissue from healing, thereby diminishing the possibility of implants, and opening the mouth to infection.

Okay. . . that's probably the last of my screeds on the grim details of side effects. . . that aren't going to happen!

That's right. It's T.M.I. So, instead, let's focus on the more encouraging aspects of my visit with the esteemed young resident; that being his agreement with me that cancer treatment IS barbaric.

And let's focus on his recommendation that instead of chemoradiation and its attendant risk of nasty side effects, that surgery would be an effective treatment and would give me a much greater quality of life, whatever time I have remaining — 6 months, 2 years, 10 or twenty years. Whatever that time is, I'm at peace with it. There were no guarantees with chemoradiation. There will be none with surgery. There are no guarantees in life.

This is extraordinarily good news for me. My worst fears of about losing my teeth, possible bone loss, dry mouth, and all the many possible side effects from chemoradiation therapy are now moot. What side effects there are from surgery are well within the realm of my ability to handle them. . . and have a good quality of life, too.

My feet were on fire in the parking lot as I did the Happy Dance. When the driver in the car three cars ahead of me evidently couldn't pay for his parking, I jumped out of my car, sprinted the short distance to the attendant's window and gladly paid the four dollars for his parking fee so that I and the ten cars behind me could move forward and leave the parking garage. I wasn't mad. I was just happy and hungry and wanted to eat a burger at my favorite spot, Club Schmitz.

I was happy because today, someone listened.

Indeed, there IS a God.

---

Well. . . .

It was a long week on Saturday. I'm now, at long last, moved out of my old apartment and into a new (to me) abode. This is where I'll be for the time I'm going through with whatever therapy I go through.

That may be a month or several. . . but I'm ready for it.

Still no word from MDA, by the way. I'm growing less hopeful.

Today, I have an appointment with a medical oncologist at Parkland. The chemo doctor. Draw blood. Answer questions. Informed consent. . . that whole thing.

I'm sorry to be so sketchy today. I'm in a hurry and things are happening as quickly as ever. The lovely thing about Parkland, though, is that I have all this down-time while I'm waiting to reflect on what is to come.

That reflection and all the reflection I've done in the past 2 1/2 months is leading me to a simple conclusion. I'll reach that conclusion shortly. As they say, "All will be revealed in good time."

That's all I got right now. I need to head to the hospital for my appointment.

I'll keep you posted.

☆

I would be remiss (not to mention, tied to a stake and flogged) if I didn't thank my family and friends for helping me move this past weekend.

My sister, Lorraine, and John, my bro-in-law, came in from Henderson in East Texas to take the majority of my belongings to storage. Larry and Jeramy helped me with moving into the house here in Guh-raaaaand Praaaai-rieeeeee. My friend, Dan — he of the explosion in Dallas several weeks ago — loaned me his truck to haul my stuff to the edge of the earth. . . and then fed me late Saturday night before my last trip. He's my hero. And Liz, his wife, offered comfort and solace — and good advice — at the end of a grueling day.

To all of you, I offer you my undying gratitude. THANK YOU.


More soon. . . .

---

I'm so blessed with friends who share themselves so lovingly. This is a sample of the kind of emails I'm getting from all over the world:

Subject: Hang on...keep dancing

Message: Hi, Larry....just wanted to drop you a line and tell you that I'm thinking of you.

I read your latest blog and am pleased that I am (presumedly) the lone blip in the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean (hey! everybody, looky there! that's me! I'm famous! I are far). How marvelous this world of technology that we can communicate in such a way that we are only a click away.

Oh, Larry, I have to tell you that I am so concerned for you, oh, what the hell, let's not mince words, I am scared shitless for you. I read your blog and laugh along with you but I know that you are facing so many challenges and so many unanswered questions (how will you support yourself? Where the eff will you live? What about medical insurance?). I know you've heard this from many others before me, but if I were a millionaire I would make expense the least of your worries. Have you considered a guest shot on Oprah? Bill Gates? (Life is so full of inequities....the haves sure HAVE and us have nots sure HAVE NOTS).

Alas, I am but a mere schmuck in the scheme of life (albeit a dancing schmuck) so all I offer you is my shoulder and maybe I can foot the cost of a happy meal or a venti double caramel machiatto. All kidding aside, I can send you a few bucks if you promise not to donate any of it to Move On.com or the democratic party. Bah-ah-h-aah-aha-ahah-ha-ha!!!!

Tell me where to send it; it won't be much but it will make me feel better knowing you can have clean underwear for your treatment.

Not to depress you even further but have you considered state aid (food, shelter, medical)? Disability from SSI? As a state gov't worker, I'm sure there are programs to help you. Too bad you're not a Vietnam vet....you'd get the world served to you on a silver platter. It's not pretty but you gotta get what you can, sweetie. And no, somehow I can't envision you laundering your food stamp money to buy dance shoes.

On a somber note, I lost my aunt in 2006 to the big, bad, ugly C-word. (I'm sure you've heard everybody else's horror story of losing a loved one to the big, bad, ugly C-word so I'll spare you the endless drama blah-blah-blah).

So my darling Larry, just hang on, okay, and keep dancing. Reminds me of the sage wisdom passed on to me as a member of a dance team by the instructor. She would scream in her gravel gurdy voice, from the edge of the dancefloor, "If you f**k up during the routine, JUST KEEP DANCING."

Okay, my friend, ready and.....5-6-7-8!

Love and aloha from the lone blip in the Pacific Ocean.

Ida :)

---

Push time has arrived. I need some help with the move this Saturday.

My hero, Dan McMurry, has offered the use of his truck to move but I need some strong backs and shoulders to make this happen.

I'm working to get everything packed and broken down for an easy move.

Storage is the destination for almost everything. For budgetary reasons, that storage is about an hour away, at Cedar Creek Lake. The drive is about an hour from North Dallas, one way. So, I need someone who can commit to much of the day on Saturday. Pay is limited and food and beverages are on me.

Can you help? Or do you know someone who can?

I appreciate any help you can offer.

Call me at 214-650-7924.

Thanks.

---

I am amazed at the response I'm getting from readers of this blog. Responses from all over the world, in fact.

The map you see above shows just a few of the nearly 2000 visits ALIMT has received in only two months.

Even now, the email list I use to send out notifications of new blog entries is less than a hundred. It started with about half that number and has grown as I've talked to people who want to be kept up-to-date.

This blog was only ever meant to keep a few friends and my family apprised of my situation. It seems it's turning into something bigger. I'm not sure, yet, what that something is. I'll know it when I see it.

Thank you all. . . from the pit of my rumbling stomach to the depths of my heart. . . for reading and commenting when something touches you.

My feelings for you are inexpressible.

☆

An email from the Tango Dallas Yahoo Group just arrived about a benefit milonga being held in my behalf.

I must confess that I've been aware of something going on about that but I've been otherwise occupied and didn't know all the details.

Maybe I should design a commemorative t-shirt that says, "My friend, Larry, got cancer and all I got was this stupid, f*****g t-shirt. We both want refunds."

Available in Tango Black only.

Or not.

My gratitude for this demonstration of support leaves me speechless.

---

What is the nature of being? My being, in particular.

That's a question I'm being forced to consider by the radiation oncologist I saw today, Dr Phuc Nguyen (pron. noo-win or, simply, win). (I don't write these things so much as I just pass them on.)

After passing muster today with the Parkland Hospital business office at the brand new Simmons Ambulatory Surgical Center, I hurried over to see Dr Nguyen at UT Southwestern, armed with questions about the radiation portion of the treatment Parkland is recommending.

My major concern has been — and still is — the possibility of disfigurement because of osteoradionecrosis. Basically, it means that the radiation kills the bone it's aimed at; in this case, my jaw. According to Remy H. Blanchard, Jr, MD, DDS, in an article published on the eMedicine website, "Incidence [of osteoradionecrosis (ORN)] is increased in patients receiving combined chemotherapy-radiation." This is the protocol Parkland is recommending for me. He goes on to say, "The RTOG (Radiation Therapy Oncology Group) requires their members to report radiation toxicity including ORN; however, the disease is probably under-reported."

The chance of this happening is fairly low. . . about 10%, according to Dr Phuc Nguyen. But if it does happen, I'm 100% f****d, according to me. In any event, if my teeth are not in very good shape — and they're not — they will likely pull them, prophylactically.

Click for larger view







The doctor says that, at a minimum, my lower right molars would come out. Probably, he says, all of my teeth would be extracted. The reason being, if left in during the radiation and there are problems — such as mucositis, an inflammation of the lining of the oral cavity and/or xerostomia (dry mouth) — the healing process would probably be much longer and cause complications if my teeth were removed after the radiation.

Even if I don't lose bone in my jaw, my appearance will change (probably) dramatically because of the loss of my teeth. I have no idea at this point whether I'll be a candidate for implants or even dentures after this is over. My teeth have never been my best feature; let's tell the truth here. But they're natural and serviceable, if a bit on the crooked side.

What I'm feeling right now goes waaaaaay beyond vanity. Vanity, as far as I'm concerned, is petty self-consciousness over insignificant appearances. This, my friend, is some scary shit.

Some have said, when I mention my concerns about disfigurement, that it's a small price to pay to be alive. I mean no disrespect. . . but they're not the ones paying the price. And as far as I'm concerned, simply being alive is no substitute for a decent quality of life. Others may disagree and that's their right. But I, too, have a right to my beliefs concerning my life. Though some may think I'm foolish, wrongheaded, or simply stupid for valuing the vessel as much as — or more than — the wine, this is my vessel we're talking about. And my wine.

Will I get over it?

I hope so.

Will I make it through to some place on the other side of this, some place with a little peace?

I pray to God. Daily.

---

Today, I've been in a rather sober mood. I'm practically drunk with sobriety.

There's not much to pull myself out of a funk by the bootstraps. . . the boots are old and the straps are frayed.

I could go on like this all day long, mixing metaphors till I'm drunk with my own word power. . . muuhahahahah.

Enough digression. Let's get to the point at hand.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. . . sober. So, I'm sitting here minding my own sobriety, when I hear, Blink! My email commands my attention in its oh-so-subtle manner.

Sitting there among the spam for cheap software, Canadian drugs, and Nigerian phishing schemes is an email from my friend, "Eye" Lipson.

Now, Eye has a sometimes quirky sense of humor, particularly where language is concerned, but, today, he also had a wonderful sense of timing.

He had no way of knowing I was in a funk about my situation but he thought enough about me to pass on the perfect cartoon. It brought me to my knees and I'm no longer sober.

Enjoy.

---

I've recently been chastised for not updating this blog often enough — and rightly so. I made a commitment to keep my friends and family up-to-date on the progress I'm making in taking care of this cancer. I promise to be more diligent in writing more often.

Here's the latest poop on the crap in my life. Or is that the latest crap on the poop in my life? Or the latest. . . aw, shit. I'll figure it out and let you know.

M.D. Anderson, in Houston, as you may remember from a recent post, is a possibility for treatment. Still no word from them on whether that will happen. I plan to be a squeaky wheel this week and find out something more definitive than "we'll contact you in 3 to 5 business days."

My time this past week has been taken up by packing for my move out of my apartment on Sept. 15th. My sis and brother-in-law drove all the way in from East Texas to take some furniture back home with them to store in their barn until I need it. Most of my stuff has been packed or is in the process of being packed, either for storage or for moving into temporary quarters.

That brings up an interesting question: Where are you going to move, Larry? My standard answer is, I have no idea.

My answer seems to catch most people off guard. From my perspective, they seem to expect that I've already lined something up that will be my new "home" for an extended time. Not an unreasonable expectation.

To most people, the thought of being a week away from a move and not knowing where they are going to hang their hat is — to put it mildly — terrifying. I, on the other hand, am both grateful to be leaving this place I've called home hell for 9 years and excited that life demands not that I provide a roof over my head but that I remain flexible in order to move quickly should my situation warrant it. Buying is out of the question. A lease would nail me to the floor and be expensive to wriggle out of it should I need to haul my carcass — whoops! Bad choice of words — to Houston.

I appreciate the concerns of all of my friends who have asked that question. It makes sense that it be the first question asked. But I think the real question being asked — What are you doing for shelter when you move? — is not the best question to ask.

Over the past two months, I've learned a few things about what it takes to deal with having a serious illness. I'm still a novice at this but one thing I have nailed — I know because I'm tested daily — is one of the things it takes to engage in battle with this disease.

My friend, Liz, is fighting her own battle with a disease that is on the retreat, from all appearances. During a recent chat, she put into words what I've been learning — especially during the past two weeks — that it takes a strong sense of adventure to fight a major illness.

When she said those words, I knew, finally, how to express my need to remain flexible in the face of uncertainty, to open myself up to whatever the universe brings me instead of digging in and building a fortress (literally and figuratively).

Esther Hicks, noted speaker of things New Agey, talks about pulling in the oars and floating downstream instead of straining to row against a raging current. I've come to believe that this is true. It's not the same as just giving up. Not at all. It's more like making lemonade out of lemons. (We mix our metaphors with such brass; do we not?)

For all my friends and family who have asked that dreaded question, I would like to suggest a question that is more on target. That question is, What are you doing to keep a sense of adventure? The answer is, I'm holding myself open to the possibilities the universe has to offer and trust that God will guide me to make the right choices regarding all my needs — basic or otherwise — as I take each step forward on my journey. I pray each day for the wisdom to know what's right. And I hope you'll say a prayer for me, as well.