Where to begin....

Treatment was more unpleasant than usual, simply because I lost my appetite immediately. But the worst (and still continuing) struggle has been recovery this time. I was in the hospital for three days this week on hydration, nausea medication, and lots of pain killers. This was all a direct result of my second lumbar puncture from the most recent treatment. So, what again is a lumbar puncture? It's the spinal tap I've referred to previously. The doctor takes a big needle and injects chemo into the nervous system via the lower back, while also taking a sample of fluid to make sure everything is still cancer-free. Sometimes, there is an imperceptible "leak" of fluid from that puncture. This causes more--and more severe-consequences than you might imagine. It caused severe headaches and back/neck pain for me a couple months back. That's especially true when anyone with this problem is more vertical than completely flat. This time, think instant stomach flu in addition to that. I'm back home now and eating normally again -- anyone need some spare painkillers? I'll cut you a deal. So, the next time you want to crush your enemies without them really knowing what hit them, knock them out and give them a spinal tap. They will be bedridden for a week and won't be able to figure out why.

What else can I relate? How about a little Q&A:

What shouldn't you say to someone with cancer.
One of the guys who works the desk downstairs has a wife with cancer. He is clearly concerned about it and asks about my situation all the time, too. But he made the mistake of being completely misguide on this issue: he asked Susan the question, "Did Dan work out before this?" Susan replied that I actually did a little bit, "Sure, why?" "Because I told my wife that maybe she wouldn't be so wiped out from the chemo if she had already been in shape before she got cancer." Wrong. Chemo is incredibly harsh chemical treatment. It's essentially poison that brings you to the brink of destruction in order to kill something your body won't kill on its own. Don't ever tell someone with cancer that they are essentially ill-prepared because they didn't use the Stairmaster enough. It's just not true. And don't tell them that anyway.

What should you say?
You should say, "how can I help?" and then help them when they give you the answer. I met a guy in my most recent treatment session who was very appreciate of his well-wishers but who wasn't interested in their "I know what you're going through speeches." He liked me, however, because I actually did know what he was going through. Incidentally, this guy was from what I'll call a "very" Jewish family from Brooklyn, which made it difficult to understand his "yinglish" (yiddish-english) at times. Anyway, they brought so much food for Shabbos dinner on Friday night, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry for him. He took it pretty well, though, and ate a fair amount. No one in chemo will ever ask you for lots of food--maybe afterwards but not during.

That's all for now. Have a good weekend!

Lots of people ask me what I do with my free time these days. I tend to avoid going into detail when I answer this question, but since I haven't written a substantive post in a long time, I would like to give you a "Day in the Life" of Dan Fritz. It's challenging for me to talk about how I am doing in terms of physical condition day to day as opposed to what my prognosis is, since my physical condition is very rarely anything approaching pleasant. Ever since my fourth hospitalization for treatment (i.e. the second full "cycle"), my prognosis has been very positive. This is something for which I am indescribably thankful. The chemo therapy has been effective at combating the cancer, and I am confident that I will (to put it bluntly) survive and recover fully, never to deal with this type of cancer again. But while saying that, I don't want to give the false impression that I actually feel well on a daily basis. This is merely being straight forward about what it's like every day. You can see why I might not want to rehash that when talking to someone--I don't really want to think about it, and I don't want to kill the conversation by repeatedly reporting unpleasant things. Nevertheless, the following is my life these days. Maybe it will give you an idea of what chemo therapy is actually like.

My treatment works in three-week "cycles" (not to be confused with the treatment cycles, which are two hospitalizations, lasting about six weeks total). For all intents of purposes, part A of my treatment is no different than part B. Both last four days at a minimum, and the remaining two weeks+ are recovery. I feel horrendous by the fourth day in the hospital, and I can't get home fast enough. I usually haven't eaten anything (maybe some jello or pudding) for two days. I actively block all thoughts of what just occurred, because the thought of having to repeat that every three weeks is horrifying to me. I spend the next few days focusing on feeling better and being able to--say--drink water normally. What does "focusing on feeling better" mean? It means that I could literally lie in bed for six hours concentrating all of my energy on combating my physical condition (fatigue, gastro-intestinal trauma, nausea) and thinking positively. I also sleep/nap quite a bit at this point. Many times I don't even feel like watching television. As proven by my online Word Twist scores, my ability to focus and my hand-eye coordination is compromised for a while, in addition to simply having no excess energy to spend. My blood levels continue to decline for another week to a week-and-a-half after leaving the hospital, so it's not abnormal for me to actually feel worse with each progressive day of recovery during that time period. Blood transfusions are the only way to counteract that feeling, and I get those on a regular basis anymore. After blood transfusions--which could easily take 8-10 hours--I feel relatively good. Before transfusions, it can be difficult to get up and take a shower. If I am lucky, and I actually do feel well (relatively), I cannot leave the house, because my immune system is compromised. I stay inside and turn on my air filter. Even though my outlook is good and I am who I am, I sometimes suffer from anxiety in the middle of the night. I wake up sweating profusely, and I have negative dreams. I sometimes try to pre-emptively strike this by taking full, deep breaths before going to sleep. Other times, I simply wake up at 3:oo am and cannot get back to sleep for as much as five hours. This is not because I'm not tired but rather because I usually have something on my mind. Susan wakes up much of the time and it turns into a (generally comedic) middle of the night slumber party. Ironically, I count myself lucky when this happens. Some other problems I face: severe upper back tension, lower back pain and throbbing (from tests and a medication called Neulasta), headaches, bla bla bla. I tell you this simply because many people actually want to know this.

By the middle of my second full week of recovery, I feel able to get out of the house, and my immune system is good enough to allow me to do that. I meet with some people and grab some Starbucks. I do almost all of my book reading during this time, and I catch up on emails much more vigorously. I get winded if I walk very far due to deconditioning, but I still maximize my mobility at that time. I start getting ideas about pet projects I want to continue working on from months prior, and I even white board a few ideas. Like Word Twist, I play a lot more online words games and Sudoku to sharpen my mind. I eat almost whatever I wish, though I still typically avoid uncooked foods, including salads. During this week, I still have to go to the doctor a couple of times, but at least I don't have mid-cycle chemo at that point (that's usually the week prior if at all). And then...and then...I have to go back for another round of treatment. It's unavoidable for me to feel bad about this, like someone who is about to be whipped yet again. I engage in a tough mental battle on the Sunday night before re-entering the hospital, but I take solace in knowing that the treatment is curative. I then go through the hospital motions again and the cycle repeats itself. So, I don't recover over the months in the usual sense. I recover for three weeks at a time and start from square one over and over again.

Unfortunately, there's not much usable "free time" in what I just described. There is a constant physical and mental struggle, which I engage with as much vigor as possible without being foolish or needing to prove my strength of will to anyone. I relate this to you simply to inform. It can be said of this whole ordeal that "it is what it is," not good or bad but merely temporarily unlucky. Life-threatening, yes--but ultimately providing some clarity of thought and a little perspective.

So, how am I doing? I'm fine.

It's been a while since I posted, but there is nothing big to report. I just returned from a 4-day stint at the hospital, which means I have a good two weeks of recovery starting now. I received 4 units of blood, which should help prop me up for the next week or so.

After a rough round of treament and recovery this week, I am feeling a bit better and was enjoying some of the sun outside today. The tulips are out, and I would recommend a look. Tomorrow brings another blood transfusion and mid-recovery dose of chemo (just one day of treatment). This weekend should be pretty good once my blood levels stabilize.

By the way, it should say "4/14" below...

After another two units of blood last Monday, my condition improved late in the week. This weekend was very enjoyable, especially with the good weather, and tomorrow (3/14) starts my next round in the hospital.

The second half of my week was less than desirable, prompting a blood transfusion of three units of red bloods cells and some platelets on Saturday. After that all day episode, I have another unit or two on Monday (4/06). I am hoping to feel better thereafter.