Chronicles of a
Cancer Patient

Hello everyone -

It’s hard to come up with a good way to say this in an e-mail, especially a mass e-mail, but I thought that perhaps this was the best way to let everyone know. Some of you may know that I’ve been particularly ill as of late, and that the doctors have had a difficult time finding exactly what the disease is. For those of you who haven’t heard any of this yet, consider yourselves lucky that you didn’t have to go through the months of playing the “Disease of the Week” game, where each week I would be whole-heartedly convinced that I had some exotic ailment like Malaria of the p.vivax strain, or the very unlikely Thalysemia, or the almost unknown Whipple’s Disease.

It was just a week ago that the doctors were aggressively testing for one of these strange, mystic diseases – when suddenly the tests all came back wrong and in just a couple phone calls, everything seemed to fall apart. At least, that’s how it felt to me.

A few more tests in a different direction confirmed the findings. I have cancer.

I have a cancer called lymphoma. This is a cancer of the lymph nodes and, I’m glad to say, a very curable kind of cancer. I’m told that with the proper treatment, 97.9% of lymphoma patients survive. Nevertheless, it is cancer and I’ll have to go through all of the cancer rituals to get rid of it. Chemotherapy will begin soon, followed by whatever else it takes to get rid of this.

This is difficult. But I can handle this, I will beat this, and I will come out a better man in the end. I am looking forward to being a cancer survivor.

If I can’t have my health, I’m glad that I still have my family and friends. It is a relief to know that I will have you all with me as I go through this. I understand that it is hard to know what to say in a situation like this, but please don’t be shy. This is a fine opportunity to make jokes about me losing my hair, etc., etc.

I look forward to seeing you all again soon.

Future Cancer Survivor,
Dave Hahn

P.S. – I’m afraid I don’t have the e-mail addresses of everyone that I’d like to send this to. Please feel free to pass this on.

Chemo Rookie

Hi friends,

A few of you wanted me to let you know how things went today, on my first day of chemo. I appreciate your support more than I can explain. I thought I’d let you know how things are going.

It was long. 6 hours. But most of that was just sitting and waiting. There are a lot of paperwork and procedures on the first day, and it certainly wasn’t the hospitals fault. I expected it to be long, and I brought some entertainment. And anyway, it’s certainly not like I had anything better to do.

The Cancer Center at Sherman Hospital was really great. Because it was my first time, they put me in a private room with one of those snazzy hospital beds and spent a lot of time explaining things to me. I received 9 kinds of drugs today, and the oncology nurse sat with me and my parents for the whole process, which I felt was really extraordinary, even if it might be standard.

The only thing I had trouble with was the one drug that was probably the least of my worries. They gave me some regular ol’ Benedryl to compensate for any allergic reactions I might have had to the chemo and the stuff couldn’t have been more annoying. Maybe it was an extra high dose or the fact that it was an IV drip. My head couldn’t stay awake, but my legs couldn’t stop moving. Picture Sleeping Beauty as a sprinter, or a cross between the Tryptophan-like tactics of poor John Kerry’s speech writers and the body of a dancing Napoleon Dynamite.

I came home drowsy and slept it off. A friend brought us a fantastic dinner, and since then I’ve felt – to my sincere surprise – really well. The nurse said that this would happen, that the steroids would make me feel spunky for awhile, but that I would drop after a day or two (so I figure I better get this e-mail out while I still got some spunk! Note: for evidence of “spunk,” see John Kerry joke, paragraph 4, line 4.).

The best news of the day is that the bone marrow test came back today and it showed that my bone marrow is completely clear of cancer. Had the cancer spread to my bone marrow, my chances of survival would have considerably dropped, so I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know that these bones of mine are clean.

To be honest, I was really anxious about today. There’s a lot of discordant information about chemo therapy – how it’s terrible, or how it’s not-so-bad, etc., etc. – and especially about the first day. I believe this dissonance is due to the fact that chemo therapy is a distinctly individual experience, and that each person is effected mentally and physically in decidedly different ways, even by the same drugs. As it turns out, today was a relieving, giant step toward getting rid of this dumb thing.

That being said, I understand the more difficult parts of chemo therapy are still to come, so I’m not counting my chickens quite yet. Nevertheless, I’m indescribably consoled by having experienced the chemo process firsthand and to have seen the immediate reaction my body takes to the drugs. I also feel very confident that I’m in good hands at the Cancer Center at Sherman, and that comfort, you can imagine, feels priceless.

Thank you again to all of you for helping me through this. Being the social person that I am, I’ve found that it has been the concern, affection and humor of my friends and family that has given me the most strength during the past weeks.

Future Cancer Survivor,
Dave Hahn

I will be going to chemo every two weeks for six months.

The particular kind of chemotherapy I am given is called ABVD.

There will be a passing exam at the end of this blog. Study hard.

The booster shots they give me during chemo encourage my bone marrow to overproduce red and white blood cells. This will ensure that I’m strong enough to continue the treatments.

It’s hard to appreciate how many bones you have in your body until they all start hurting at once. It’s over now, but yesterday my bones screamed out like a wicked choir in a clench-your-teeth-and-wait-for-it-to-pass kind of pain.

I’ve heard it said that if ever you wanted to forget your troubles, you should just wear shoes that are too small. I can say that by yesterday evening my mind was completely clear, save for the total focus on my over-producing skeleton.

I’m fine now. And I probably have more big, healthy red and white blood cells now than I’ll ever know what to do with. If we had a red blood cell contest today, I would beat all of you, so don’t even try it.

Dr. Crazy Finds Cure For Cancer

Mustard Gas was first used by the Germans in World War I to gas French soldiers. The gas only killed 1% of the soldiers exposed to it, but the side effects of the chemical were enough to significantly slow whole advancing armies and to contaminate large areas of land that could have been used in strategic positioning.

Mustard gas is a chemical weapon that is dispersed in aerosol form. There is little, if any, immediate effect, but 4-24 hours afterward, those exposed to the chemical experience severe blistering of the skin and lungs. Exposure to more than 50% of the body is usually fatal.

Between the 1940’s and the 1980’s, mustard gas (in liquid form) was one of the key ingredients in chemotherapy for Hodgkins Lymphoma. During World War I doctors found that exposure to mustard gas slowed cell division in those exposed to it, which is the main objective of most cancer treatments.

That’s right, mustard gas is used to cure cancer. Even today it is still used in some places, it is the first drug in the MOPP chemotherapy cocktail.

I, however, am treated with a newer kind of chemotherapy cocktail, ABVD, and nobody’s giving me mustard gas. It’s no wonder, though, that chemotherapy has gotten such an intimidating reputation over the years.

My chemo nurse said something last time about how great it was that I had such a supportive family during all this. That is definitely true, and I understand what she means. But I couldn’t help but think, are there families out there that are not supportive? Are there families out there that say, “Now honey, you know I love you, but I just don’t support your decision to have cancer.”

Or maybe it’s worse, maybe there’s a whole group of Tumor Rights activists out there that have bumper stickers and t-shirts that say things like “Metastasis Is a Right,” or “Tumors Have Feelings Too,” “Chemotherapy is Murder,” etc.

Perhaps when I go in to the Cancer Clinic tomorrow for chemotherapy there will be a big crowd of Pro-Tumor protesters with signs and megaphones, chanting and throwing paint on me.

Revenge of the Vinblastin

Today was the second chemotherapy treatment. Peanut butter cookies today. I wasn’t as excited about that. Anyway, I’ve put on 9 lbs. in two weeks, so maybe that’s ok.

The cookie selection was really the most interesting part of the whole session. There wasn’t much to it. They took the blood tests, I saw the doc, they pumped in the drugs and there were no problems. I watched a movie and listened to music.

And I’m glad I’ve got my headphones (thanks Cindy) with me, because I kind of wanted to tune out the Room. Say what you will, but the community atmosphere of the Chemo Room isn’t really my thing. Picture it, the poor guy next to you is having trouble as the chemo burns away his veins, everybody in the chairs – especially the older ones – are pretty hard up and not in the talking mood, the nurses are going on and on about hemoglobin and saline drips, and somebody down the way is trying to drown their troubles in Oprah. I’m not saying that I really have a problem with being there, I guess I mean that I don’t want to be there anymore than anybody else would want to be there. My parents sat by me the whole time reading the paper, and I assume, listening to the cancer chatter of the Chemo Room. My poor parents, I don’t think I could read the “feel-good” Chicago Tribune and soak in the vibe of the Room’s suffering all at once. I was happy to escape.

The doctor was quick today. There is a Chemo Room in his office that is way worse, I think, than the place I go. He mentioned in passing today that I should maybe think about switching Chemo Rooms to come to his. A little marketing on the doctor’s part – very clever, pal. In his Chemo Room, all the recliners are facing each other, there’s no dividers, there’s one TV in the corner blaring daytime TV for the blue-haired, early-bird-special kind of clientele. There, I picture myself in forced conversations about youth and future plans, and possibly being awkwardly introduced to grand daughter’s when they come to pick up Grandma. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a social guy, and I’m usually golden with the blue-hair club, but when I’m at chemo, I just want to blend into the fake leather and watch my sappy movie.

I also heard from doc today that it’ll be more like 6 months of chemo instead of 4. Bring it on, doc.

The results from my heart scan are back. I have a mild enlargement of the heart (the left side for those of you studying for the test). This is called Left Ventricular Hypertrophy. The nurse says that it’s likely from both being anemic and the tumor being wedged up against the heart for so long. I don’t know much about it, but it’s mild, and it doesn’t sound like that much of a problem.

Mom and Dad took me home and I climbed up into my hammock between the trees (thanks Rick) for the rest of the afternoon.

And I went to work tonight and played piano. There was really no reason not to, and I like my job – playing piano and surrounded by people. I do find that my fingers are not as coordinated as before chemo, but it’s a very minute amount (that might be more related to a lack of practicing lately and perhaps not the chemo), and its probably imperceptible to people listening. Or maybe it’s not and people are being kind. Either way, it’s not a problem yet, but I have heard of this kind of thing happening later in treatment. No worries, future bosses, it goes away.

I’ve run this by a few friends, and they don’t agree, but I’m planning on looking like Vin Diesel when I lose all my hair. I also plan on driving around in sweet cars and using one-liners that scriptwriters will write for me.

Wanted: Scriptwriters. No experience required. Must like Vin Diesel.

My friend Katie is a nursing assistant in a hospital’s radiation department and teaches patients to knit hats for their cold heads. She sent me two of her finest creations. Thanks Katie!

Hospital patients evacuated
Officials were trying to evacuate 10,000 people — patients, staff and refugees — out of nine hospitals battling floodwaters or using generators running low on fuel. About 300 people were stranded on the roof of one two-story hospital in the New Orleans suburb of Chalmette.

Yet even as they tried to evacuate, many hospitals faced an onslaught of new patients — people with injuries and infections caused by the storm, people plucked from rooftops who are dehydrated, dialysis and cancer patients in need of their regular chemotherapy or radiation treatments…

Source: Associated Press, Link: MSNBC

North Texas ramps up its hurricane relief efforts
…A cancer care center in North Texas, meanwhile, said it is available to assist cancer patients who were displaced by the hurricane.

Carrollton-based Patients’ Comprehensive Cancer Center said it is available to help patients who are currently undergoing chemotherapy, radiation and biological treatments…

Source: Dallas Business Journal