As it is-A report with pics.

December.
I've been into hospital again, for the forth time.  This visit was another 'debridement of the wound to the left thigh'.  A short stay. Two nights. Light general anesthetic. 


The wound would not heal.  Radiation has made it difficult for the natural healing process to complete.  A centimeter long section of the original incision would not bind leaving an opening, leading to a tunnel of necrotic fatty tissue under the path of the wound to the drain site where a yellow fluid oozed.  I changed the dressing twice a day. 

With stiches,

and without

We, the surgeon, my carer and partner Jo and I decided to fix the problem surgically.  I was wheeled in on November 24th to the same operating theatre as the first, on September 29th. I was dispatched to the place where memory does not keep records and two thirds of the wound was superficially cut open.

The cleaned superficial incision. A shot taken of the theatre screen monitor.

A saline solution blasted the 'non-viable' tissue away and the wound was prepared and then stapled with 20 stainless steel staples spaced at about 8mm along the length of the cut.

Taking care of the wound.

 I stayed in the same ward, at the same hospital blessed with same crew of nurses in a different room. I was comfortable and tender and on a steady does of analgesic, (Endone). I am now at home on a course of antibiotics too treat two bugs which showed up on the culture which they grow from a swab taken routinely at the time of surgery. The body reacts to bacteria by inflaming the site with fluid and white blood cells.  The penecillin will kill the bugs, the inflamation with settle and the wound will dry and heal. Bedrest and a positive attitude will give the best opportunity for all of this to happen.  Bedrest is not as easy as you might think but its worth the effort. I know you know I am right.   

Another thousand words.



Grattitude in my Attitude.

Crikey-How long has it been?  Compared to the young man in the Bali goal for 2 more weeks after found in possession of 25 gams of cannabis, about the same.
Or disappeared political prisoners awaiting a trial in China, not very long.
Or road trauma victims where the carnage is so easily avoided and the pain is so harsh on friends and  relatives, for all of whom the recovery is so difficult, also not very long.  Long enough however to consider carefully the attitude with which I approach all of my experiences. 

As far as pain is concerned, I found it is the work of the mind that sets the disposition.  My attitude is drawn from a combination of my values and my pride. My ego requires that I identify with personal qualities which comply with my chosen values. Therefore,  I am strong in the challenge of overcoming a radiated wound, nearly 3 months without earning a wage and learning to walk with dexterity and strength.  I am proud and strong sayeth me from the mountain of my blog. What is this strength?  Will power?  Force of personality? An association of images that I like to like?   I sense a veil here.  I smell the smoke and see the mirrors. I am a searcher and I seek a shift in attitude so that I fly better. 

Grattitude is grace in understanding a source of energy with us and around us and is what we are.  Grattitude is thanks for that presence in the awareness it is love. Love is the mystery, the binding force, the infinite incarnations.  It is the incomprehensible night sky.  I for one am deeply grateful for the presence of this mystery.  I cannot hope to understand how love weaves into suffering like white lines on the highway at night, or where it is going, but I can give thanks.  

My mind is released from the fight.
Desire is a fire smoking nearby.
Fear is a movie showing everywhere.
Anger is angry and shows up from time to time with a gang out to create harm. 
Grief lurks behind dragging pity along to see the show.
Love is presense, always has been, always will be.
For that I am grateful for it gives my mind a bed to sleep on.

The Mongrel Hour

I did go to hospital from Thursday the 3rd to Sunday the 6th of November.  Like a tax on my system a lot of my physical resources were taken up building new tissue for the unfinished gnarly section of the wound (shown earlier).

As son as the 'dirty' section was cleaned up and sewn together allowing new healthy tissue to bring the wound together, I felt better.  I was last on the surgery list since the wound is technically referred too as 'dirty' due to the necrotic (dead)  material.  The ice cold anesthetic took the journey from my wrist up my arm and in the last moment I felt a rasp in my throat and I was gone. In Post Op (post operative care) I had a drain from the wound and a little more swelling and a tight feeling where the new stitches were sewn, but I felt lighter, still tender but not burdened. A man next to me was struggling as he came to consciousness. He wanted to stand but couldn't. He seemed to be in pain.  There was so many of us.  I was in a section where eleven operating theaters were available and all were in use.

Surgery for the third time, showing the surgeons signature which marks the spot.

Now the work begins.  In hospital I had a couple of meetings with the in-house physio therapist  who advised how to progress with rehabilitation.  The wasted, hard muscles of my thigh and those around my knee (Rectus Femoris, Sartorius, Vastas Medialis and Abductor Brevus), have stopped working for the moment and encouraging them back into service is all about pulling at scar tissue, within the wounds tolerance.  I do several stretches every 2 hours and then cool it down with ice.  I can feel progress but its a dog of a job.  Last night I woke in a dream at midnight watching a list of names for 'wound' in a thousand different languages.  Together with the image was a pressing urge to get these stupid muscles working.  I pushed, prodded, iced, strained and entreated the dead leg to wake.  By 2.00 am I felt the leg had noticed the urgency in my tone and had responded positively.  I am able to walk in a fashion without the aid of crutches for half a dozen steps.  If I can get my leg to bend at the knee past 90 degrees I will be able to explore what might be possible on a stationary bike.  Once on the bike, I fancy things will start to get better a quicker pace.

Balancing pain with rest is a careful calculation.  If I can avoid the painkillers by ensuring that I do not over exert myself I sleep better and heal better.  However there are times when I have felt stressed by the discomfort and popped a couple of pills which in general are opiates or similar.  I sleep around two hours at a spell and move around then sleep again.  Its a mongrel of time and nothing seems easy.  A carers job must be at least as difficult as the nong getting things right again.  It's  a testy difficult, ornery, painful,stupid, frustrating, aching, dip-shit mongrel hour and I can see the seconds pass in a time zone I have never seen or heard before. 

A Step Back

When the Lump was removed it was sent to the lab for analysis. The results came back confirming what the surgeon felt from touch. It was 95% dead. 


I saw him on the 26th of October. He removed the dressing which was letting off an odor that even the dog avoided.  He (the dog), has been very attentive, sleeping by my side, checking up on me and being generally very companionable. But while that dressing stank he took to the other room.


On seeing the surgeon who, as far as I am concerned still owns my leg until it gets healed, removed the dressing.  Underneath was a 250mm scar 80% of which was nicely healed, however 20%,  about 50mm was a gnarly, granulated gash of rotting skin.  Hence the stink. I wasn't feeling that flash either.  The photograph is below, placed out of view since it's not a pretty sight. Scroll down if you must, it's there.  I am resting and taking penicillin every 6 hours, letting nature do its work. I see the Doc again on Monday the 31st October when, I hope, he will declare good progress and I will not have to go back to hospital. 


This blog will come to an end soon.  The story of the Lump is nearly over.  With this set back, small and not unexpected, I feel an increased resolve to  get through it.  Right now, it is something of an ordeal. I can manage about two hours of sleep and then I have to find ways to distract myself from the discomfort.  I'm watching the iconic series 'Roots' which is captivating.   


























A little lower-you will smell it about now........

Rehab-Go Go Go

I did not know the condition of my flesh following  radiation would delay healing and  rehabilitation.  See the image to the right showing blistery, sore, dry and mottled skin; that's how it is all the way through.  What the picture shows is the place where the radiation exited after being targeted on the front side of the thigh. 

Now in my fourth week since the final night of surgery I am completely dependent on crutches. I cannot allow any weight on the wounded leg since it simply cannot take it.  The muscles are not responding as a response to healing. They have switched of for the time it takes for everything to knit together.  When I was first out of hospital the leg was a weight I nursed and carried short distances within the house.  Now I can simulate walking by placing one foot in front of the other however my heel will not touch the ground first because the muscles are not in service.  Each day a small improvement is noticeable. I wriggle a little more or move my hips and bend the limb up a little and down. My general endurance is slightly better.  I can go for a 100 meter walk and require a solid 30 to 40 minute rest to recover.

And it hurts.  Not an unbearable discomfort but a dull ache that ranges from 4 to 7 on the hurtometer depending on the measure of activity.  Anything over 5  requires a response. Recently I have found resting with the ache gives relief.  Sleeping is quality time for the forces at work.

A surge of activity,
An army of volunteers,
A mass of work,
While I nod off in the sun, in the window seat.
Flat out and crutches, the good leg heavy lifting for the wounded one.
A dream illustrated an exquisite piece of work, worth waiting for.

Nothing short of the absolute best.

The Aftermath-Sunday 2nd of October

This morning, the day after the second round of surgery I was out of the woods.  The pain was not present and I found myself pressing the morphine button out of habit rather than a response to pain.  I was glad to let it go and stopped around lunchtime.

I had many visitors this day, family and friends bringing goodwill, chocolates, flowers, children and their love and support.  I became very tired by the end of the day and started to fray. At last I slept only to wake at around midnight to a frightening display of hallucinations induced by the morphine.

On my back and unable to move other than to wriggle to a more upright position the moon outside my window was crescent shaped and half way across the sky.  The Fitzroy Gardens bathed in moon light and the city lights were a comfort. It was a beautiful sight. As I rolled my head away from the view and closed my eyes an intense world revealed itself.  An interior view of existence which described my return from an emotional experience during which I had successfully survived the bloody removal of a 'thing' that had held on violently to the fabric of my thigh.  The sense was that it had not gone willingly.  The wound felt like a battle ground soaked in dark red blood, my body felt gutted and with the recollection of the event tears welled in relief, grief and exhaustion. I felt bonded to the surgeon in blood and tears as though together we had fought bravely.  My sons and their mother appeared, in my hallucination, lined up and pressing into my awareness like a singers in music video, brand new, amplified, with natty clothes and accessories, happy and explosive in their egos.  My family and friends all pressed into this one small space which was also an entire landscape illuminated by the visceral reflection of light bouncing from the walls of my wound.  Everything was oiled, moist and smeared in blood so that a vast range of reds provided contrast and depth.  A great deal of activity was crammed into the vision, peoples from new lands, past times and the future on a road to somewhere going about their business with little regard to me, surviving, dying, arguing, walking from one horizon to another.  I saw the ground was a swamp of perished humans their buttocks rolling into the landscape making history and a road for the mass of living humans making their way through life.  I opened my eyes shocked at what I was witnessing.  I felt emotionally raw and overwhelmed by the range and breadth of human experience. I felt disengaged with the oily morass of humanity and frightened by its suffering.  I lay my eyes back behind my lids, allowed my right hand to touch the place where my heart beats  and from within a voice, "just be grateful" and I was so deeply grateful for being part of it.

I started to understand my re-engagement with life and all its living things, lump-free, would be through the eyes of those I meet and love with gratitude, knowing each and everyone has their story just as I felt my own so emotionally.  First and foremost was my partner, Jo who I knew had been present burning the midnight oil, waiting for my return from the fields of blood.

As the night started to give way to dawn I closed my eyes once again and saw a wide river of viscous, silted fluid flowing over a small dam draining a vast tract of flooded land.  The peaceful flow of the floodwater soothed my heart and I slept for a while until day break.

The Grand Final-Saturday 1st October

In the morning the hospital routine started around my bed and with them came another bout of pain. The routine involves getting blood tests, cleaning the room , cleaning the patient, giving medication, delivering breakfast, offering tea, morning papers, the noise of people waking, new people arriving, cleaners orderlies and with the stress came the pain. Every movement created a pump action throb that yelled.  I entreated myself to find a new attitude, one where panic would not roost.  With that entreaty came a long flash in my peripheral vision, sharp and welcome for I knew it was relief. Another 10 mills of analgesic. Analgesic from the Greek;  an ('without') and algos ('pain').

The surgeon turned up with his son in his Saturday best and explained the wound was bleeding on the inside. A bleeder;  he would be back later that day to go in again, undo his dressing, snip away the stitches and find the place of the bleed and the source of my pain.

Jo, my partner stayed with me all day and into the night. We watched Geelong beat Collingwood, a fair win and an honorable loss.  I nodded my way through the four quarters pressing the green button whenever it would let me. We tried to read to each other, we hung out, she stayed with me as my attention span reduced to seconds and when it was time to be wheeled up to the operating theatre, not so gay this time, she stood vigil in room 216 until my return.

The morphine makes you dry but you can't drink or eat because the risk of food returning to the bronchial tube during surgery is life threatening.  Moments before being taken up that now sombre rd she kissed me on my parched lips with life giving passion.  In my darkest hour she moistened my spirit with a life giving nectar and I went in thinking "it's good to be alive".

Pain-Friday 30th September

In a haze I woke on Friday morning and tried a few stretches in my hospital bed. Like a train the pain arrived, grinding mercilessly pushing at my boundaries and taking me into new territory.  "From one to ten how would you rate the pain ?" asked the nursing staff.  Trying to be nice, not wanting to offend, it was of the scale.  One is provided with a machine that duly pumps a millilitre of morphine into the bloodstream once the glowing green button is pressed at the bedside.  The machine allows a mill of morphine every 5 minutes and it couldn't keep up. My thigh had expanded so that the skin was tight as a drum. I was given an intravenous injection and the pain hung in the background persistent but not shrieking in my ear.  Now I was simply exhausted.  The surgeon, I was told would see me in the morning.

Excision-Thursday 29th September

When the surgeon gazed into my thigh and visualised where his scalpel would trace a line toward the Lump he made a few marks on the leg and signed the canvas with an initial.

The arrow marks the spot.

The same morning I has asked the anesthetist if she could take some photographs of the occasion as the surgeon had said he would be too busy. She took the camera I provided and said, "are you sure? "

I was gaily wheeled up the two floors to the operating theatre. A place with big windows and views of the Dandenongs. A place inhabited by strong intense people who say little and look into you with great intimacy.  "Are you allergic to anything ? "  I am asked in many different ways. I get a white hat indicating I do not (that I know of). A red hat would indicate I do.  We joked about hats as I was wheeled into the the surgeons office. A place with music playing and various people getting equipment ready. The anesthetist played with my wrist and that was the last I knew of anything until I found myself in the Room 216 downstairs that afternoon.

The Lump where it has been living

The muscle where it lies with the cavity filled by wadding.

The excised lump with a margin of healthy tissue to ensure everything is removed.

The cavity left behind. 

The drain which would stay in for the next few days to allow for excess fluids to flow away from the wound.

The Arrival-Wednesday 29 September

The day I turned up at the Epworth, did the paperwork and bedded down in my room with a view over Fitzroy  Gardens to the west. The place where I would be confined and cared for by the nursing staff for the next 10 days.  The next day, in the morning the surgeon would visit, I was prepared for surgery and wheeled up a couple of floors to the surgeons theatre, a place of intense physical and mental activity.

Belong

It's the title of a dance piece I saw recently by Bangarra Dance Theatre.
It's only now, as I get closer to the time when The Lump is to be removed that I sense the need to 'belong' is so fundamentally deep that I can hardly function in anything other than, the tribe I know.


Longing. To Be-long, not short of anything least of all love.
Knowing that I am that with them, gives me form and strength.
No surprise that exile is the harshest of punishments.
Hard to understand why splits are ubiquitous.
Being alone with the longing.


They tell you the statistical risk of something going wrong,
You hear about the super bugs that crawl the walls in hospitals,
You are made to understand what will happen,
The size and selection of of  muscle groups to be removed,
The blood I will need from, 'God bless them' other people.


Maybe it's because, 'going under the knife' marks a reference among the birthdays and public holidays.
The inner preparation is not the same as ironing a shirt and making lunch.
This is one date where I belong and those who do too, gather.
What is more important than family, in any language or culture?
What is more important than the sound and confident strumming of hearts?


I'm going to ask the surgeon to take photographs and I guess I will want to place them in this space.
Not something for the sqeamish I suspect. 
I was asleep on the couch recently and woke gazing at my pulse in the crook of my arm throbbing gently as it does all the time.  It's that it pumps day and night and in all those times when I have no awareness of its work that I am grateful for its routine determination.  And it is in me, with me, I am it and it is me and yet I see it as a pump serving me but I am the pump, I am the backbeat I cannot loose.  

Chemical Bros

When the healing stops and the wound is healed a new set of chemicals flush through the body.  The healing process is notable because it feels like being inside a blanket or wanting to be, wrapped up and tired, resting, warm and without any drive to get up, go out, make out or even ride the bike.  Apart from the pain, healing is a gentle, nurturing time. I found it doesn't help or feel right to be doing too much.  I have a very busy job and staying with work was a combination of stressful, and enervating.  At its best, healing is a good time to give thanks and be at peace.

I felt clearly the contrast between healing and healed.  After a time the cells damaged by radiation healed and a new flush of chemicals began to flow.  As I mount by bike once again for the commute to work I can feel the thigh re grouping, making new connections.  Gradually over the last few days I have felt the awesome joy of being alive in Melbourne in the Spring rain and the traffic.   This new energetic force is easily capable of being busy. What ever the chemistry of wellness, its certainly different to healing.  When I laugh out loud, love large, dance or ride my bike the mix of chemicals in the lubricants that keep the thing pumping is not the same as the healing body. What an awesome cocktail of responsive chemicals.

I look now toward the the healing associated with the void created by removal of the 'Lump'.  The unzipping of my thigh will take some time to zip up.

Now it Hurts

It has been over a week since the radiation treatments stopped. I thought it would settle down and I would start to heal but it has got worse.  For some reason I cannot fathom, the rear of my thigh and behind the lump I am really sore.  Not a little sore, a lot. I cannot properly sit on my left bum cheek  and an angry blue red mottling has risen from within.  I am guessing it is something to do with the flesh inside my thigh healing.  The advice was to take it easy and I don't think I have taken it as easy as I should have.

Today I had a Thallium scan which tracks a small dose of a radioactive isotope injected into my arm.  It shows up cold spots where blood may not be flowing and might therefore be a new tumor.
After that I had a CT scan over my torso as a Myxoid Lycosarcoma, if it is going to get started anywhere else, it's the lungs.  I had something to eat and felt really tired at the hospital cafe. I waited a couple of hours and returned to have the Thallium tracked again as it had a good chance to distribute throughout my body.  Another spell reading magazines and in for the MRI.  That noisy claustrophobic machine took ages and I felt uncomfortable maintaining a stillness within its tunnel.  But the photographs it took are good.

I sense at the periphery of all this, the process is changing me.  Being in a hospital all day and having visited several times in the last few weeks, one get a sense of people suffering, getting old and the system looking after all of us.  God help those in chaotic places like Libya.   The process is leading me to a discussion on aging. What is it like, how does it feel? What is the change in words?  We all experience it but  is it the same for each of us? Does one become weaker and deeper or do layers fall of and slowly we become the essence of our life.  Certainly the physical body shows up its weak points.

In the following days, this will be the theme to my experience.  As a hint, I like it. Feels like a release from daily distractions.

Peace

Jubilee Park

With a pervasive sense of jubilation I embarked upon my life without being hit in the leg every day.  So happy I decided this was the weekend to try out my new shoes.   Recently purchased and and never worn outside of the shop I had put them away in anticipation of that special day.  On this day the weather was fine and suitable for a first gentle outing. Once on I found them very soft, very strong and immediately understood they would classify as my, 'new dancing shoes'. 


I recently resolved that HollyWood movies are horribly compromised works of art and since spring is upon us in Melbourne Australia where the live music scene is fertile, accessible and everywhere, dancing is the rational persons next quick-step. 


I stepped out into the beat, such as it was, feeling like a dick being the only soul on the floor but with years of experience I knew they would follow and they did.  With joy and energy the space between the drinkers and the musicians was a tidal melody, flooding and ebbing as the beat rose and fell. 

After a few well placed drinks and a sleep I woke to my body clock and found messages on the mobile reminding me to take my eldest to his preliminary final footy match at Jubilee Park.
Basking in the sun in the grandstand and recovering I expected a quiet morning but those lads stood up, never lost their composure and won the game on fitness, grit and confidence.  God love them, I was jubilant.  

A Blogger Blogs

And I haven't been.
Eight days ago I saw the end of this.
Like an explorer falling a sleep in a snow storm the fatigue started to get me.
My teeth hurt, I was falling asleep in the train, then I found a thriller.
I was taken in my sleepy couch potato slouch when  in the first quarter of the 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo'  by Steig Larsson, one of the two protagonists, Salander,  sets out the boundaries of her personal and professional relationship with her employer Armansky,  who is in awe, confused and attracted to her.


The book is behind me now and I have one, yes one-only radiation treatment to go.  No more strappers, no more aching thigh.  The late afternoon crash, the 10%-flue that has chased me through the days will be history.  Like last Saturday, I can recover my vitality.


I'm looking forward to a Thallium and CT scan on the 29th August, then an appointment with the surgeon on the 31st.  I'm eager to know when the Potato is to be removed.  I want to finish Paul Kelly's omnibus of stories titled, How to Make Gravy. I'm grateful to the song writers, the poets and followers who have watched me through this process.  I am in general, really really grateful.  Thank you.


Now is the time to let the light shine on my poem from the past,

Who are you in your long white beard,
"Come to beard me",
Come to tell me my romance is dead?
Trotted in have you with your fine white lance,
What in God's name do you hope to do with that?
Don't you know my fine feathered friend,
I have died by your lance a hundred times and still I rise to the occasion.
So put your lance away and raise your spirits high,
Because your only true language is that of love.
Communicate my friend.
What planet are you from?
What have you to say to this old skeleton?
What gifts have you to share with your host?
What respect will you show to the path that you have found,
And will you investigate it's source?
Will you see beyond your dreams?
Will you dare to come near me?
Will you risk your flesh melting from your dreamy bones?
Come to me my child, tell me about your new found love.
Tell me you have found some hope in the beauty of women.
Tell me where your dreams want to take you.
Let me remind you that you travel the same dusty track,
That my bare feet have seared and sealed with pain.
Place your bets my son,
You only have your mind to save you,
Whereas my sex is part of the course.
I do not promote myself.
My death is laced into your dreams.
I am part of your illusion,
The bit you forgot on waking.
I am the water in your whiskey,
I can dilute your spirit.
I stink of sex,
I glow with spirit,
I will not be forgotten.
So give, give me what you hold in your heart.
Do not fear, that which is true will not burn in my company.
Show me your kind words,
Save my soul if you can, but do not deny me,
Some day you will have to face me.
You may be able to kill me,
But you may have already,
And still I stink of the stench of death,
And still I nourish the degenerate Earth.
Put your hands toward my rich soul,
Get me under your fingernails,
For if you don't I shall never again come near you and you shall always wonder,
And what wistful thoughts shall bear seeds of suspicion and doubt.
So do it now if you dare.
Do me the honor of taking me on.
I can but only die...  

Big lumps and small ones and metaphorical lumps.

I saw a new Indian radiologist last Friday. The last was Chinese.
He told me the Ray is only really strong enough to kill microscopic lumps.
When the surgeon takes out the big lump it might be a 'dead potato', as he put it, but it could still have living cells.  The purpose of radiation is to kill the small lumps. Surgery takes out the big one.  The pathologist, after determining the condition of the potato burns it in a fury at the back of the hospital from whence it shall not return for it is a lump not suited to this world.  From the ashes it might be told a bird rises in earnest to create a new conflagration.  Perhaps a fire in the human heart ?


It would be honest to say my daily experience is getting somewhat lumpy. Like traversing rocky ground. I had forgotten I was told I might feel 5% of flue-like symptoms.  Except for early in the day, till around 11.00-am the thought of a couch with blanket or as the day wears on, a bed with doona are very attractive.  Maybe its the last throes of winter, or perhaps I'm not as young as I was or is it the Potatoe or the linear accelerator or General Wear?  That last ubiquitous media lump is starting to shit me.  He is the political bully, the professional who has been in the job so long power has corrupted him absolutely.  His character is formed by generations of human conflict and egotistical savagery.  I see him on the television, the newspapers, on bill boards, in the street.  He, who sometimes goes as a she, has nothing good to offer.  And now it seems I feel his presence more not less.  His name is General Ennui Wear and his only qualification for the position is that he has been around for a long time. I am worn out by his presence, so shitted upon that I barely know the difference.  Those who have not been around for so long seem under the delusion his position is glorious.  I wonder where  in the world I can escape his stink?


I wonder too, does he have children, who is his spouse, what has he produced?  In that I sense hope.  It is a thing of beauty that emerges from the tribal myopia just as humanity finds a beach on Mars. 

Geez?

The muscle in my thigh is starting to show signs of being zapped.
Its sore especially when I put a load on it, like cycling.
In the morning I feel strong and get up out of the saddle and power into work but in the afternoon I crash.  I haven't cycled to my afternoon appointments as it would sap too much energy so the ride is restricted to mornings. I take the train with my bike in the afternoon.


I nod off with fatigue. Can hardly read a magazine.  I get a second wind and a strange attraction to an alcoholic beverage. A couple of beers is a treat.  A white wine keeps me off the Shiraz. You know its a mild addiction.  Life would seem so plain without the evening sip.  Why is that so?  And is it the call of the Tumor? Like a beautiful Mermaid calling me to my destruction.  


There is no denying the scale of the cancer industry. It is a life and death operation. I see people daily in various stages of recovery.  I read other blogs of people going through the challenge of breast removal, chemotherapy and palliative care.  The choices we make are significant. From little things other things grow. So my decision to drink a glass of wine or not takes on different proportions. This moment seems significant.  I feel different. Less tolerant,  less sentimental, less attached.  This part of my life looms.  How do I navigate the second part of my life.  How do I find peace within?  My mind has an answer to that  question.  I have made a habit which I pray I keep to sit quietly with that question and allow my heart an opportunity to respond.


Peace

There I was Ducks...

Stretched out on the table chatting about movies, action movies, Transformers, Captain America, the Avenger series, Hannah whatever,  whilst the Strappers darlings are tenderly flopping and rolling my Crown Jewels away from the death rays all seeing eye.  


Mr Minty, might as well call him that as I haven't a clue of his name, nice fella,  Clark Gable moustache, very sharp looks; I bet he drives a sport hatch with great stereo and bags of power. He loves a bit of action (I bet he does), thought Transformers 3 was great cos the last hour was all action. I'd love it too sweetie I mean I love a bit action too, don't you know?  I thought Mr Minty might have lingered tenderly a nano second longer than Ms Asia.  I sensed his eyes caress me sweetly, soft and reassuring whereas Ms Asia gave me a light tap on the knob to make sure the strapping wasn't going to explode with enthusiasm at the wrong moment.  And again after the session to make sure it was still there.  I mean Ducks they see it every day, you'd get a little fond of it after a while, I mean I would. I'd look forward to an eyeful in an otherwise dreary day on the Gantry.  I mean how would you be rolling one old clacker after another over for a better look at his prostrate!


Actually I'm looking forward to tomorrow. I wonder who it will be? Stretched out I'll be.  What will I talk about, oh I know I'll find something,  probably Art or for a bit of action I might try Tony Abbot.  Someone told me he has a cameo in Captain America.  I cannot believe it  Ducks, he couldn't act himself into a serious dialogue with anything or anybody without wrecking the scene.  I hope his budgie smugglers strangle his goolies and he starts to walk like a normal man.


There was an older lady last week and a middle aged lady not long after.  We chatted comfortably but you know if you're looking for a bit of culture its the boy Strappers who make the cut. 

Rest As Re-Creation

In the smokey toasty haze of fatigue
Under a shower of warmth,
Stretched taught on the couch,
Tucked up in bed,
Teeth aching and grumpy,
Ears ringing, head singing;
Each day the gantry beams its photons at warp speed.


Nodding off in the train,
Slipped away from a meeting,
Harried by the strain.
Reading Ludlum's hero Jason Bourne
Using rest as a weapon.
I sit long on my cushion,
Enjoying rest as recreation.

I Reflect Therefore I Am.

But first here is a picture of the lump by ultrasound.

Palpable Lump in Adam's left thigh.

Looks like Jupiter's great Red Spot. Three Earth's would fit in this atmospheric cloud.  I don't know about the 'dark matter' in my thigh.  But I could start rapping on what it might be. Could it be lifetimes of accumulated angst and pain manifest and ready to be expunged?  Oh what freedom that would bring.

Jupiter's Great Red Spot.

And now for the benefit of my dear sister who loves a picture; I finish with the Linear Particle Accelerator which although its sounds energetic, is making me feel depleted and  unfortunately, a tad grumpy.

The Linear Particle Accelerator (LINAC)

The linear accelerator uses microwave technology (similar to that used for radar) to accelerate electrons in a part of the accelerator called the "wave guide," then allows these electrons to collide with a heavy metal target. As a result of the collisions, high-energy x-rays are produced from the target. These high energy x-rays are shaped as they exit the machine to conform to the shape of the patient's tumor and the customized beam is directed to the patient's tumor. The beam comes out of a part of the accelerator called a 'gantry' which can be rotated around the patient. Radiation can be delivered to the tumor from any angle by rotating the gantry and moving the treatment couch.

www.radiologyinfo.org

I Stand Corrected.

I had this notion the machine harbored radioactivity and somehow contained a neutered version which doesn't make you glow in the dark whilst at the same time destroys the DNA of cancer cells.  Turns out I was wrong.  The xray machine creates a beam of photons generated electrically.  The beam is shaped by several series of lead panels about 70 mm high and about 5mm thick.  These direct the beam to what ever shape the radiologist requires. So its photons, not a radioactive beam of flesh melting rays.

Rode the pushbike today and yesterday. Brilliant, felt strong and fast.

Who Are You in Your Long White Beard,

I wrote an untitled  poem in April 1988 which I never really understood. It tumbled out of me and made perfect sense poetically but still I don't know what its about.  Now, with the gravity of this disease it may have found its time.  I'm not going to transcribe it here now but, as this blog takes new directions I will in time, put down its 57 lines and give it the light of day.

The strappers made a comment yesterday regarding the size of the lump, commenting that the purpose of radiotherapy is to reduce its size.  I remember the oncologist surgeon saying in passing that size was not all important but that he hoped it would reduce.  When I feel its dimensions I fancy it has changed in texture more than anything else. I sense it could be mushier. But when I probe deeper its surface may be softer but its a hard little stone.

Its tempting to objectify the Lump.  To give it qualities and insert it into the story as a character.  Its a strange Cat.  Alien.  But to so, is to give it existence and a beginning, a middle and an end. If I denied its existence, unthought its presence,  would it die?  I sense not.  I think denial could be its Shiraz.

There's a crack, a crack in everything, that's how the light get it. (Leo Cohen)

"Mediate it the fuck out"

Since I was starting to wonder about the condition of the tumor and the surrounding flesh as several days of the treatment have passed, I wanted to know if it would be OK to give my leg a workout (along with the rest of my body).  This started a discussion with my strappers who assured me it would fine to ride my bicycle and probably a good thing as, 'Oxygen effects the radiosensitivity of tumors. Hypoxia has been shown to drive malignant progression'.


This means a tumor thrives when its being starved of oxygen and diminishes when exposed.  The idea promotes the sense that tumors like everything bad for us and hate everything that good for us.  I developed a deep appreciation of Shiraz recently which came out of nowhere and is strange because it makes me bite my nails.  I picked up a brochure today at Peter Mac that suggested removing alcohol from the diet would be a good thing.  Could it be this gravitation toward Shiraz is the call of the Tumor seducing me into a condition where it can thrive.  If that is even slightly true then I will as my brother encourages, "Meditate it the fuck out".  It reminds me of a poem I once wrote and will post soon.

I have Googled Oxygenation and Radiology as the strappers advised and true enough, oxygen and radiology give cancer a hiding to nothing. The scientific literature is somewhat more verbose  but reading between the lines, Shiraz is an elixer for which my appreciation has soured.

I think its Going to get Uncomfortable

New machine today. Looks like the other.
The machine attendant (a very nice human being) asked me how it felt today. I said, "I had a sense  I could feel something inside my thigh", she asked if I was putting the sorbolene on, I said "no I was waiting for evidence of something on the skin", she said, "better to moisturise now as a preventative measure", I said, "sometimes it hurts a bit, is that what you would expect?". She said "yes"

When I left I could definitely feel a soreness in and around the lump.  I have 5 weeks to go and I'm thinking this is going to get uncomfortable.  I have been commuting on Gina the motorcycle this week so I am wondering what it will be like when I start riding the pushbike again.

I am going to have to blog something about the fact that each day my genitals get strapped away from the machines all seeing eye.  There I was chatting away trying to get my new phone to see the machine as they strapped away.  From now on the machine attendants can be known as my Strappers.

The machine attendant asked me how it felt today

What would happen if........

I asked to day what would happen if they let the xray continue with the same intensity for longer.
The nice lady told me a hole would appear in my leg as the cells collapsed.
I asked if it would be painful and she assured me it would.  She also said the machine would not let that happen. Tomorrow I am taking a photo of the machine. It's huge head manoeuvres above me.  I think it has a face, albeit upside down.

I meet other people at Peter Mac.  All with similar ailments.  Some people stand in front of the machine for 10 minutes at a different intensity.  Of course we all share our specifics. How long we have been coming for treatments, how many to go.  There are some who are receiving other treatments, chemo or what ever. People with beanies covering  bald heads.

Voldemort

Like a blackhead waiting to be squeezed from its pore, or St George's Dragon and Harry Potter's nemesis Lord Voldermort, the lump is the shadow which walks with us everywhere all the time.

Here you can see where it lives, how comfortable it sits and its present condition.  The cross is the place of the tattoo where the machine registers its lasers. The dashes indicate the area being treated.

Owning one of these drags one out of denial.  It's a manifest lump.  But its reality is with us all the time.  Everything dies.  Death stalks. It may come by surprise or accumulate incrementally, or torture  slowly.  Why and how is a mystery with us for every event of our mortal lives.  We image its presence as foreboding and painful but, is it also a blessing?  If I don't take life for granted I learn to appreciate the power and beauty of physical existence and with that experience, I know there is more.  If this blackhead is the sum of all my fears,  then sitting quietly and bathing in the knowledge there is more, is the blessing of my lump. It reminds me of the truly wonderful presence of life and the mystery.

This lump however is not painful.  The sum of my fears is my pain. For others the physical torture of their lump and/or the cure to their illness is excruciating, requiring palliative care.  I hope this engagement with the 'other' (aka 'the mystery', the 'True Source') is the place in the sun when all around is pain.  I am reminded of the words to a negro spiritual song, This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it Shine, let it Shine, let  it Shine, I'm gonna let it Shine. 

What's it like being radiated

Having already made a foam impression of both my legs the radiologist positions my legs in the foam cast and lines up the rest of my body on the table which sits beneath the head of the machine. Lasers are used to register the machine head with tattoo dots on my thigh. The x-ray beam leaves the machine head as a single point and it spreads in a narrow triangle over an area just above my knee to the crook of my groin. The width is the same as my thigh about 150mm. They can crop and aim the beam in whatever configuration they need. In my case the treated area is 4 times larger than the cancerous growth and this is to destroy microscopic cancer cells in the Tuma's locality.

When positioning my body they carefully strap my genitals away from the beam as testicles are especially sensitive to radioactive death rays. The oncology staff are very caring, communicative and sensitive. They help you feel comfortable with the hi tech equipment even though a constant stream of people with various stages of cancer are being prepared for the 'treatment'. My lump is of intermediate aggressiveness so its not a sleeper and neither is it a rabid dog.

The machine is very dexterous. Everything moves with a humm of efficient electric motors. The table goes north, south, east, west, up and down. The sound of up-tempo muzak plays from the somewhere and when the staff leave the room to escape the death ray's cumulative radioactive weaponry a door bell chimes to let you know you are alone with the machine and the lump.

I am not sure I can feel the beam in my flesh but again, I know its there. I wonder what it would be like if they let it run longer than the prescribed 15 to 20 seconds. Would my skin crawl or crackle? Would it hurt or blister. I fancy I can feel its presence but if they played a song I recognise on the invisible radio I would be distracted enough to ignore the sensation.

So far so good. Talking to the Chief radiologist today I have an idea the surgeon will want to remove a significant piece of my leg when the time comes.

Next session in two days-Monday 18th July.

PEACE

DAY 2-

Today was quick-People polite. In and out.

Attending these appointments, all the driving involved is going to need some adaptation.

I will have to take some work home. I am loosing hours and placing an additional burden on my work mates. Not insurmountable though, with a little clever organisation.

I sense an awareness of the lump as though it has been detected by something. It could be the radiation, I suppose it must be, otherwise radiation is less of a drama than visiting the dentist for a check. More tomorrow.

Saw my dear friend Cath McQuade today. She is in town for a minute to see the musicians famous for the "The Good the Bad and the Ugly" genre of music at the Recital Centre. Her daughter is an adult and a musician. Get older really has its rewards and seeing her is one of them. Cath recently returned from Buenos Aires the home of Tango where she spent a holiday for a her 50th.

So much to do and so little time.

Radiation

Today is the first of 28 sessions where I receive a prescribed number of radioactive units on the lump in my thigh. I found the lump, about the size of a golf ball on the 23rd of May when dining with friends. My brother, (an osteopath) advised an ultrasound on the 28th May and after a number of tests I was diagnosed with a Myxoid Liposarcoma (low grade, curable) on the 16 June 2011.

The remedy is prescribed at 5 and half weeks of radiotherapy every day (except weekends) followed by a break of 3 to 8 weeks to allow the flesh to recover as radiation degrades it making it unsuitable for surgery. Then surgical removal in hospital for 7 to 10 days. There will be follow up checks every 3 months for 2 years then 6 monthly checks for 3 years and finally once a year for 3 years.

My first feelings after diagnosis was subtle and hard to read although I can say I felt different. Like my number had come up. I was the one in three who find some kind of cancer. I don't know where I get that statistic but it stuck in my awareness. A dull light cloud descended and once I became aware of its presence as separate from me I changed my behavior and carried on with my regular schedule. Riding to work early in the day, visiting my sons down the road, working and socialising. Soon after I got back on the bicycle (I had been commuting on trains and trams for a couple of weeks during the tests) I found my muscles again and I had this sensation of squeezing the lump from my sinews like a pip from a grape. Popped out on the road, diminished and left to rot. It feels like a separate thing. It doesn't look right on the ultrasound or in my flesh. It's a lump and if I were to let it go as one might in other times when less was known about the tuma, it would eventually spread to another part of my body perhaps create complications and eventually I would succumb.

The question does arrive eventually asking about the meaning of the lump. What does it carry in its cells? How are they created? What negative association has manifested the lump. What psychic baggage does it carry? It has prompted me to maintain my attitude. To look inward and feel the light inside.

Ok this is the second and really its me finding my way with blogspot.

Tonight is some 5 weeks since I found my lump and today its harder and more virile than anything else I can find in my body. It feels hard and big.

In two days I start radiation treatment, or more accurately I get nuked with xrays.

The Lump 1-Finding It.

This is my first blog on having a lump in my thigh.

I want to track my emotional, physical and spiritual experience of living with a lump in my thigh.

I exercise regularly, don't smoke or drink heavily and I found a myxoid lyposarcoma in my thing one night when I was having dinner with my male friends, Don, Peter and Steve.