We're back crushing the tumour with the darn humour once again -- welcome to Cancer No. 5

Writing this blog has always therapeutic for me. Unfortunately, we've needed that kind of outlet a few times.

Cancer is back. Fifth time since the original diagnosis 2010. Chemo started last Monday and I've felt felt worse. I've also felt better.

Been diagnosed with multiple myeloma. Tumours in multiple spots. In the process, we've switched from our longtime oncologist Dr. Kerry Savage to Dr. Christopher Venner, who's a multiple myeloma specialist. 

Dr. Savage diagnosed the original solitary plasmacytoma cancer 15-plus years ago and had been our point person since Cancer No. 2 and the stem cell transplant that followed in February 2017. Feel very connected to her -- she emailed at Christmas time even. It's early days with Dr. Venner, but he seems very sharp and we like him and his team.

The initial plan was to try to get into a Car T-Cell trial, but Dr. Venner made it clear that it was a lengthy process and my body may not hold up to get us to the finish line. I started getting pain in my ribs three weeks ago, and did as I was told, calling the nurse hotline to get it on the books with Venner and Co. 

The pain went away after a couple of days, but it came back two weeks ago, and I called once again. They called me into B.C. Cancer the next day, and was told "You don't look comfortable...we're done chasing the trial...we're not doing this to you...we're starting chemo next week." We likely weren't going to hear about the trial for another six weeks at least.  

There was no messing around. I fully expected to be put on an exam team and get the once over, but they didn't bother. I appreciated that. Felt trusted and heard.

They're already talking about how they'll handle Cancer No. 6 and how the T-Cell will be more advanced by then and remains an option. That's a positive feeling.

The protocol comes with a fist full of steroids once a week. That's the worst part. Makes me feel bloated, and the last time it had my skin feeling greasy. I'm in full on dread about the steroids already. 

The steroids also make you hyper and since Monday's appointment was 4:15 p.m. I slept about two hours that night. I've been worse -- there was a night in 2017 that I think I slept 27 minutes. I got a bag of chips and watched Wrestlemania X on the WWE network. My 12-year-old inner self was elated.

My plan for now is to try to work through this -- sports editor Paul Chapman has been awesome, saying if writing and reporting is a positive we'll find a way -- and Tuesday marked the announcement of Jim Robson's death. I'm such a massive Jim Robson fanboy that I was going to fight to do that one. I was lucky to get calls back and massive anecdotes from Don Taylor, John Shorthouse, Brendan Batchelor, Dave Randorf and Greg Douglas, and somehow I got it written in time for print deadline.

By the end of the day, I was so exhausted that I had trouble talking. My throat wasn't sore. I just out of juice.

It's pills every day, a shot in the stomach every Monday. We'll see what tomorrow brings with our second shot.

Stay tuned.

Radiation whammies putting hurt on hammies but cancer treatments moving nicely outside of that

 

Is it normal to want to chew your own hamstrings off after radiation sessions to blast away a tumour on your L-1 vertebrae? Asking for a friend, mind you.

I kid. Largely. We're four sessions into our set of 10 designed do away with the cancer that's taken refuge in my back. The first three days featured about a two-hour stretch afterwards where it did feel like hamstrings were seizing up. I took some Advil before today's treatment and we're doing better with that.

I decline comment on the number of Advil I took. Yes, even to you mother. 

I spoke with a radiation techie who felt that the pain was tied to swelling in my lower back from the radiation. He said to monitor it, and report it of course if it began to get worse. It seem to set off any major alarm bells for him. 

Other than that, we're muddling along nicely. Sessions take about eight minutes from start to finish. It's about the same as when we had by the end of our 20-session turn for the original tumour in the T-2 in  2010.

The top photo is the current master blaster. The second photo is the version that dealt with the tumour 13 years ago. 

You get a on table and this new machine circles around you. Does the full lap.  I'm not sure if it takes a break on my lap for lunch. Stop that. That's mean.

The first machine brought you up on a table and just blasted away from one position, if I remember correctly.

I worked the first three days of this little episode but my plan is to take a few days off and rest up.We'll see what happens next. The newspaper has been understanding, as always. 

I felt well enough today to have lunch with Vancouver Canucks ratio play-by-play broadcaster Brendan Batchelor. (This shameless name drop brought to you by me being friends with Bif Naked.)

We get the weekend off from treatment and Monday, too, since B.C. Cancer counts that as its holiday for staff. I see a radiologist next week as well as getting blasted, so we'll have some more info then.

We do have a PET scan booked for January already. The hope has been that the 10-radiation sessions will be done with this bout with cancer. It took us six months in hospital and eight operations to get through Round 1 in 2010-11, and a stem cell transplant to get through Round 2 in 2017, so two-plus weeks seems mighty simple, if that's what it winds up being.

I'll check in again here next week.

Phasers get set on Friday and then we start Crushing sometime after that

I promised renowned Canadian recording artist and my close personal friend Bif Naked that I was going to cut back on my shameless name dropping in Crush The Tumour With Humour this time around. 

Really. Promised. I'm working on it.

Anyways, I had to call Don Taylor -- he of Sports Page fame and the much ballyhooed Donnie and Dhali show weekdays on CHEK 6 -- about something work related. He didn't pick up and I had to leave a message. And -- Don being Don -- he called back promptly.

Ewen: Hello. Thanks for tracking me down. How are you?

Taylor: I'm great Steve. And you?

Ewen: I'm great, too.

Taylor: I read your blog. You want to try that answer again? 

Yes, the cancer is back, which is why CTTWH has come out of the bullpen and gotten                                                                                                . Third time for both.

After going through eight surgeries, six months in hospital and learning to walk again the first time and a stem cell transplant the second time things sound much simpler for this episode. The tumour is in the L-1 vertebrae, We met with the radiologist on Monday and she believes that 10 sessions split over 10 straight week days should do away with culprit.

I have a scan Friday at B.C. Cancer where they'll aim the phasers and set everything up and then it'll be another few days while the scheduling department gets me on their list before they start blasting away.

The radiation caused problems back in Round 1, because it took out the T-2 vertebrae as well as the tumour and led to a full back collapse. The explanation this time around is that there's much more of the L-1 intact because they've caught things so early.

I'm going to see what Bif Naked thinks.

Stay tuned.

We're back Crushing for a third time, thanks to another tumour in my back

I was certain we'd come back waxing away on this blog one day. I was hoping that it wouldn't be this damn soon.

I have cancer. Again. We're Crushing The Tumour With Humour (CTTWH) for a third time, following previous Crushings in 2010 and 2017. Carol-Ann and I got word that my blood work was off over the summer. I had a Petscan on Sept. 28, and confirmation came from our hematologist Dr. Kerry Savage last Monday about a tumour on my L-1 vertebrate.

There's a radiation consult on Monday and we've been told to expect multiple zapping sessions designed to blast the thing to smithereens. 

I'm in no pain. I was in unfathomable, indescribable pain the first two times. Prognosis seems good here. Dr. Savage says that there's been tremendous strides made in chemotherapy in my type of cancer -- I don't display in a typical fashion, so right now I believe I'm being classified as a third occurrence of a Solitary Plasmacytoma although there were times that the smart people we leaning toward tagging all this as a Multiple Myeloma -- but the thought is that the radiation will work, give me a few clean years and we can use the chemo somewhere down the line.

I had radiation in 2010. It blasted out the tumour that had infiltrated my T-2. It also demolished what was left of my T-2 and caused my back to collapse, leading to a bunch of surgeries and hospital.

Yeah, that's crossed my mind here. We'll try to get more answers Monday.

The second tumour was in the left leg, just above my knee. It led to a stem cell transplant in July 2017. 

For now. I'll just roam around our house, belting out lines from The Firm's 1985 hit Radioactive. 

Got to concentrate
Don't be distractive
Turn me on tonight

DA DA DA DA DA

'Cause I'm radioactive
Radioactive

Radioactive

Radioactive

I know. I know. People of a certain vintage will suggest I should go with Imagine Dragon's 2012 Radioactive, but have you seen the video? A bunch of puppets, Lou Diamond Phillips and Alexandra Daddario from The Rock's Baywatch movie? No thanks. That's too much. 

This is my blog after stem cell transplant on Wednesday. Any questions?

This is the container my stem cells were delivered in.

This is the bathing area for my stem cells.

This is the nurse taking said stem cells from carrying container and placing them in bathing area.

This is the stem cells getting a bath.

This is Bill Wilms and Brendan Batchelor doing play-by-play on the whole procedure. (OK. Joking. That's the guys from an old Giants game at the Pacific Coliseum.)

I feel gross.

I feel blah. I feel bloated. 

I had my stem cell transplant yesterday to combat my second cancer occurrence and I'd love to tell you that I feel like a brand new guy and I'm super positive but I'm back on the steroids and they simply don't agree with me. I'm a cranky twit right now. And apparently I'm writing really, really, really long sentences.

And I do realize that there are a lot of people a lot worse off than me right now. I'm not saying I'm right. I'm just trying to be honest.

I'm carrying five or six pounds of extra water weight already, and I've got three more days of this. Part of my bitchiness is that I lost 100 pounds in 2013-14, in large part because I knew that the cancer was coming back after the solitary plasmacytoma that showed up in my spine in 2010 and led to eight operations and six months in hospital. 

The B.C. Cancer people were blunt about a recurrence, and I knew I needed to better prepared.  I just don't like the idea of getting larger again. I was already up probably 15 pounds from where I want to be, but that probably shouldn't be too surprising since I've been largely inactive since the diagnosis of a tumour in my left leg in February and the fourth months of chemo that prepped me for the stem cell stuff this week.  

Luckily for me, a fantasy baseball pool buddy's wife has went through a similar procedure before and said she put on something like 15 pounds in the early stages of recovering from stem cell but dropped it quickly. I'm trying to stick to that.

I had a Hickman Line inserted in my chest on Friday. Thirty-minute procedure, local anesthetic. Wikipedia describes the Hickman as a "central venous catheter most often used for the administration of chemotherapy or other medications as well as for the withdrawal of blood for analysis."

It has three prongs dangling off it, so they draw out blood and add medication at the same time. It's more a hassle than painful right now, but I realize that all the poking and prodding would mess up my veins. And, to be blunt, my chest modelling days ended long ago.

They used Hickman for the major chemo blast on Tuesday that wiped out my immune system, and for the stem cell transplant yesterday. There was extensive prep with drugs to counterattack side effects yesterday, but the actual transplant took about 25 minutes. On one hand it was anticlimactic. On the other, a doctor and a nurse were by the bed the whole time, just in case there were issues. And they monitored me for two hours afterward.

The plan is to do the whole thing as an out patient, and they've told us that over 70 per cent of their patients manage to do that. They find the patient morale is better and they're less susceptible to infection, which is the major concern. (Lot of sick people in hospital that you can catch stuff from apparently.)
They did a stem cell harvesting a couple of weeks ago. I laid in bed for six hours, a big massive needle in my left arm and a smaller needle my right. They tell you beforehand that you should avoid moving your left arm. The needle is so big that I could not move my left arm. They take out blood, have a machine that collects some stem cells, and then put some blood back in. (I know. That's a terribly basic report. But I blanked out when I couldn't move my left arm. Sorry.)
For the record, the stem cell people have been amazing. The office staff have gone out of their way to make sure all the appointments fit with other parts of my schedule, and the nurses have been absolutely superb at making sure we understand exactly what's going on before it starts going on. We've been so lucky since being first diagnosed in 2010. I know you see a lot of bad stories in the newspapers (damn media) about hospital care, but our experience has been first rate throughout. 

And Carol-Ann has been Carol-Ann, which is to say she's captaining our little team perfectly. No surprise. I know. She props me up and sends me out into the world every day, feeling like we've got this handled. She's the best. She's buffed up the house, with help from the likes of our good friend Susie. It's never looked better. And Carol-Ann has Googled and read and researched and there's a long list of can do's and can't do's and I'm going to abide by them all since I know what's good for me.

We've been told a couple of times that I shouldn't start feeling really crappy until the weekend. We've been told it's like having the flu or a general malaise. Worse case? Your mouth gets infected and swollen and you have trouble eating. I have a mouth wash that I'm swigging twice a day now to try to fight that off. There's also a good chance that I might need a blood transfusion or two. We drive in to VGH every other day for the next three weeks to a month to get tested.

Hopefully that's it. And hopefully I'm not a cranky moron the next time I blog.

Cancer sucks. Steroids suck. Newspapering sucks. At least I married well.

I'm on the juice. And it's not going well. In conjunction with my chemo treatment designed to evict a tumour from the left leg, I'm on a heavy dose of Dexamethasone, which the good people at Wikipedia describe as a a type of corticosteroid medication that has anti-inflammatory and immunosuppressant effects. I'll be on it for four-day stretches over the course of this little journey, and I've been told it's a hefty load of drugs. My chemo nurse looked at my dosage and said, "Oh...that's a lot." The pharmacist at the B.C. Cancer Agency warned my wife that I may not sleep a single wink when I first started taking it at dinner time on Chemo Day 1 on Tuesday. I did get four or five hours that night. Good for me. It makes me edgy. It makes me cranky. I had a phone conversation with former Province columnist Cookie Gilchrist this week where I believe I set a land-speed record for cuss words. I'm not usually so foul mouthed. I don't like it. I'm trying to slow my mind down and take a breath before talking, in a bid to keep from embarrassing myself and especially Carol-Ann. I was on a heavy course of steroids during that first cancer occurrence with the tumour in my back in 2010-11, and I was similar, much to my chagrin. It got better when I could start to get in the swimming pool and wearing out some of the ornery energy. Right now, I have 24 staples in my left leg from the stabilizing rod they implanted in a surgery two Wednesdays ago, and I see the surgeon on Tuesday in hopes of getting them out. That should help. I hope. Carol-Ann probably hopes even more. She continues to captain our little Crush team with grace and courage. I punted well past my coverage. I know it. I do feel better than I felt in 2010-11, when I was hospitalized for six months. I need to keep that in mind. I'm actually trying to work a little. It's helpful to the newspaper at this stage. Bluntly, it's mostly me being selfish, trying to give my mind something else to think about. With chemo, infection is a major concern, so I'm trying to stay out of public places for all but short stretches, so I'm doing stuff over the phone. It's hard. Stupid hard. I wanted to cover the high school girls basketball provincials last week. I didn't get out of the hospital until Friday and I wasn't nearly mobile enough to go to Saturday's finale. I've thought about going to the boys basketball provincials this week but I don't know if that's a good plan for me health wise. I feel rotten about it, though. With the way things are going in the newspaper business, we've hardly been able to give the two tournaments any coverage. In case you missed it, the parent company to the Province and Sun announced Friday that they wanted to lay off 54 people from the Vancouver products, including 29 from the editorial department. It's crazy. I'm still not emotionally over Jim Jamieson and Gord McIntyre being transferred out of sports to news a few years ago. Jim's retired now. He took a buyout. We lost another 20-plus people in the past few months to buyouts, including sports editor Jonathan McDonald, soccer reporter Marc Weber and high school/university reporter Howard Tsumura. Howard hired me at the NOW Newspaper in 1989. He loves newspapers more than anyone I've ever met. He was my first mentor. I helped Marc get hired. He was at our wedding. He took me to a radiation session back in 2010, he snuck into pre-op for one of eight operations during that first hospital stay. I talked to J-Mac often three or four times a day when he was my boss. Those guys love the business. The fact that they think it's time to try to something else kills me. It's so depressing. I'm still smitten with newspapers. I want to stay. I want to fight. I loved the Province and Sun as a kid. I ate them up. I grew up reading Tony Gallagher and Jim Taylor and Archie McDonald and Iain MacIntyre. (Shameless cheap shot at I-Mac, a current colleague who is only a few years older than I am.) I want to stay and fight for those guys. We've brought in some top-shelf young guys in the past few years, like Nick Eagland and Dan Fumano and Patrick Johnston. I want to stay and fight for them. I want to retire as a Province/Sun guy. That's my goal right now. I need to be realistic, though. I need another 20 years. The business may not last. I need to at least be open to other options. At the plus side, I'm not dwelling COMPLETELY on cancer. The next chemo is Tuesday. We'll see how that goes. My understanding is we've got three or four months of chemo, and then likely a stem cell transplant.

Yes, that's a rod in my leg and, yes, I'm also happy to see you

Just got home from VGH. Being told that the Wednesday surgery to implant a rod in my left leg went well.
The care we received, once again, was amazing. The give-a-damn of the medical community in the Lower Mainland continues to astonish both Carol-Ann and I.
Surgery scares me more than anything. Yes, even more than cancer. I don't hide it at all, but our surgeon -- Dr. Peter O'Brien -- and our anesthesiologist -- Dr. Jacqueline Trudeau -- went out of their way to try to calm me down. Dr. Trudeau suggested a spinal (yes, Scott Rintoul...you can call me Spinal Tap for the time being) instead of the full pull and I found things a little less daunting.
We see our oncologist -- Dr. Kerry Savage -- on Monday to go over what's next on the docket, but I believe right now that we'll spend about 10 days healing, get the staples out of the leg and then have one radiation session before starting chemo/stem cell transplants/infusions.
The rod -- technically a "gama spike" -- was brought into play with fears that the treatment to knock the tumour out of my left leg would have left it susceptible to breaking.
My one concern remains that the rod in my leg is stainless steel, while the six rods in my back from our eight surgeries in 2010-11 are titanium. Will the other multiple hardware patients out there mock me because of various metals in my body? It just doesn't feel fashionable or trendy.

Cancer's back, but it better not get comfortable because it's getting evicted

I have a surgery some time this week to put a pin in my left leg. Hopefully it doesn't clash with the rods in my back.
The cancer is back. Multiple myeloma. I had been in remission for six years, but when I was diagnosed with a solitary plasmacytoma in 2010 we were told that there was a good chance that it would return. We received recurrence rates of anywhere between 30 and 70 per cent then.
Carol-Ann and I both understood the possibilities.
This week's surgery (likely Wednesday) is to stabilize the leg, with worries that treatment (chemo and infusion and stem cell) will leave it susceptible to breaking if something isn't done. Chemo, right now, is slated to start March 7.
It will be my ninth surgery, following eight on my back in 2010-11 after radiation led to the collapse of my t-2 vertebrae. I have six rods and a bunch of other shrapnel. We did six months in hospital, including about two and half months at G.F. Strong,  a rehab hospital where they started teaching me to walk again.
Crazy.
This is why we trained after getting healthy from the first cancer. This is why we got a trainer, Derek Baker. This is why we have dropped 100 pounds. We wanted to be ready to fight again.
The prognosis is good. Dr. Kerry Savage has said that, being in remission for six years, makes her think that whatever she throws at this cancer will send it packing.
It's still rotten. I'm angry and I'm terrified and I'm confused. I feel bad for Carol-Ann.
Dr. Savage has been great. We found out on Monday. I had my first of surely several meltdowns on Wednesday, wondering far too much if I was in jeopardy of losing the leg altogether. I sent her an email. She got right back to me. She was decisive, saying that it wasn't happening, that it wasn't that kind of situation.
I buy what she's selling. She diagnosed the original cancer in 2010, and she was blunt and to the point then, and she's been that this time, too.
This is a good place to be sick. That's what part of what I'm rallying Everyone we've dealt in the medical profession has been a rock star. The give-a-damn of these people is astounding. They're angels.
They seem to have picked this up early. I had elevated protein markers in blood work in August and December. That led to an appointment with Dr. Savage.
My knee had been bothering since October, but I had been toying with the idea of running a 5K. I had been training in the pool largely. I had been playing a little ball hockey.
The knee morphed into the quad in the past few weeks, after my initial appointment with Dr. Savage. We tried massage therapy and physio. The physio diagnosed it as a strained quad.
No such luck.
Stay tuned. Looks like we'll have reason to update this blog more frequently.

Ride To Conquer prompts conversations about cancer, making it well worth all the work

Cancer creates unique conversations, and that's even with the fact I've been disease-free for over four years.
I was hanging out at one of our slopitch league games a few weeks back. A guy from one of the other teams called me over towards their dugout. Don't know him super well, but I've always thought he was good people.
It was just the two of us, standing there, looking over their pile of snacks on the bench. You've heard of beer leagues? We're a beer-and-candy league.
"I've been meaning to tell you this for awhile now," he said, "but thanks for not dying.
"A lot of people die with what happened to you."
First thought: Hallmark probably doesn't have a card for that.
Second thought: Good on him for starting the conversation.
To steal a premise from my buddy Bob Mercer: cancer is one of the scariest things in the world, but it might be THE scariest word in the world.
It is a major reason why I'm taking a second crack at the Ride To Conquer Cancer, the, two-day, 220-KM bike trip from Cloverdale to just outside Seattle that occurs on Aug. 29-30. It forces dialogue. It gets me talking about being diagnosed with a Solitary Plasmacytoma in my T-2 vertebrae back in October, 2010, and about having 20 radiation sessions and about undergoing eight surgeries after my back collapsed and about spending six months in hospital learning to walk again with six rods and a bunch of screws and other shrapnel holding things together.
The Ride to Conquer is the bravest thing I've ever done. It's the runaway leader. It's the farthest thing from my comfort zone.
I don't WANT to bike to Seattle. My bike especially doesn't want me to bike to Seattle. (Former junior hockey player turned ALS advocate Don McCusker offered to donate money to my bike seat.)
I WANT to eat pizza and sit on the couch and watch the WWE channel.
I NEED to do the Ride. I need to start those conversations. I need people to know if you're going to get sick and it's cancer in particular, B.C. is the place for it to happen.
The medical attention we received from beginning to end was next level. It was like my own all-star team. The system is messy. It's bogged down by red tape. The give-a-damn of the worker bees in it, though, is amazing and frankly quite inspirational.
This is why we do this. But it hasn't been simple.
I had lost so much balance from the operations and the hospital stay that my wife Carol-Ann and I weren't even sure if I could ride a bike at all when we bought one in the preparations to take part in last year's event.
We could sell it, I thought. It would have to go at a severely reduced price from all the scratches that I'm bound to get from crashing, I rationalized, but we could sell this.
Carol-Ann was well aware that the whole process scared me out of my freaking mind and if I had an out, like I was having trouble riding and had not bought a bike, I was going to bail on the whole process. 
I still remember my first trip around the block. Carol-Ann demanded that she come with me, walking alongside. I balked. I won out. Barely.
Our Ride team coaxed and cajoled me into doing about 150 kilometres of the event last year. This winter, I connected with a trainer, a guy named Derek Baker. With his help, we've dropped a few pounds, and I hope to have less trouble peddling my way across the border and beyond this time.
If you're interested, we're having a fundraiser for the Ride tomorrow night at the Earls on Fir Street in Vancouver. For more info on that, check out our Facebook site. 
For more on the Ride and my own personal donation page, check out here.

Look who's Crushing the Tumour With Humour again, and taking yet another crack at the Ride To Conquer Cancer

Anybody asks me how I'm doing these days, my automatic response is, "I'm outstanding."
I'd like to tell you that it's because I'm so well adjusted after four-plus years of being cancer free. I'd like to say that I'm so enlightened because I'm mobile and active despite having six rods and a bunch of bolts and screws holding my back together from a Solitary plasmacytoma tumour attacking my T-2 vertebrae.
Sorry. I'm not nearly that noble.
I go with "I'm outstanding," as my default because there were two or three people in a row about a year ago who asked how I was doing and you could see the fear in their faces when I told them I was "crappy." I can't recall what the issues that were bothering me actually were. It could have been work or the house being messy, or, quite likely, the lame-ass performance of my Terry McKaig League fantasy baseball team.
Didn't matter. They went straight away to the cancer being back. You could see the panic. I felt horrible for them. I couldn't back track quickly enough.
A buddy of mine, Bob Mercer, says that cancer is one of the scariest things in the world to endure but the word itself -- CANCER -- may in fact by the scariest connection of letters ever.
That is why I'm going back for another crack at the Ride To Conquer Cancer. It's a 200-kilometre ride, from Cloverdale to Seattle, that goes the weekend of Aug. 29-30. If you're interested in donating, my personal page can be found here. I'm working on updating it.
We'll be having a fundraiser in the coming couple of months. Look for updates. I'll probably be begging lots of you for auction items.
I don't want to talk about cancer. I don't want to think about what happened. But I don't want to avoid it. I don't want people to panic about the very idea of cancer.
For some messed up reason, ever since I was a little kid I worried about dying on the operating table from some crazy complication during a rather routine procedure.
I had eight surgeries. Eight. Eight times I tried to say goodbye to my wife. I was scared out of my mind. I had a whole speech worked out. I didn't worry about her without me, I'd say. Carol-Ann is the toughest person I've ever met. I'd tell her that. I'd tell her, too, that I would just miss her, that I had so many things I wanted to go see with her and do with her.
She would smile and hold my hand and the proceed to tell me why I was going to be OK. Our surgeon, Dr. Robert Lee, was such a pro and so invested, she would say, and, by the end, he understood every inch of my system. So did his crew, Carol-Ann would explain.
By the end of her speech, I was psyched up. It happened every time. I was ready. I was going to my Super Bowl. My chin would be sticking out, all proud and defiant. In my head, I called it my "Jay Leno moment." (Apologies to Mr. Leno, who I am certain is a devoted reader of blogs about dudes with cancer.)
The nurses would be wheeling me out of the room and I would be telling Carol-Ann, "I will fight for you, I will fight you," again and again and again.
It's stupid. It's crazy. We did that dance eight freaking times. And you know what? We survived it, to the point that I am able to put my fat ass on a bike and pedal for a bunch of hours over two days. (Oh, mercy, it will not be pretty.)
I'm one of the lucky ones. I'm aiming to prove it again.

Crushing The Hills With Humour, plus getting some Boston Pizza help, in a bid to get ready for the Ride To Conquer Cancer

It's a good day.

Three years ago this very 24-hour period I moped my way into Royal Columbian Hospital. I had been feeling gross and listless for awhile and was worried that I had diabetes or something like that. In fine guy fashion, I was going to wait it out and hope that it went away, except that I had some pains in my chest that morning, and Carol-Ann worried that I might be having a heart attack.

Wrong. On all counts. Dr. Joseph Ip said he saw some cancer warning signs. Sure enough, it was a Solitary Plasmacytoma in my T-2 vertebrae. In an effort to speed things up we'll cut to the highlights: 20 radiation sessions, six months in hospital, eight surgeries, a bunch of time trying to learn to walk again.

Today, in honour of Dr. Ip and those other fine people at Royal Columbian and what they did for me, I dropped off a bunch of cupcakes at the emergency. OK, I didn't make the cupcakes. OK, they weren't particularly fancy ones I bought, either. But even average sugary goodness is pretty darn good, and especially when it's free and the calories don't count. (That's what I've been told. Free stuff = no calories.) 

I also had a meeting today with some fine, fine people from Boston Pizza (shameless plug for my mother's employer) and worked out early details for a fundraiser for our Ride to Conquer Cancer team. It's going to be in April, at their restaurant on No. 3 Road in Richmond, and it's going to be a hoot. We're talking silent auction, we're talking appys, we're talking drink specials. I'm just spitballin' here, but we might be talking Stump Scott Rintoul With Sports Trivia. (Shameless name drop...I hope I get to Scott before he reads this.)

I expect you all to be there. Yes, even you, Arnold Sison, you cheap bastard.

We're raising money for our to-be-named team for the Ride, and I feel the need to carry the financial load, particularly with so many of these people coaching me through this. For those who don't know, the Ride raises money for various cancer research programs. It's a two-day trek to Seattle in June.

I've been training for about 12 weeks now, and doing most of my riding along the straight and narrow streets of Queensborough. My buddy Carla McAloney and her brother Jerry (my Ride Yoda, if you will), took me out on my fist REAL ride on Sunday, and, suffice to say, 20 kilometres along the flat lands of Queensborough is quite a bit different than the 20 we did to get from our humble New Westminster home to GF Strong, the Vancouver rehab hospital I spent 10 or so weeks at while I was trying to learn that walking thing.

Hills suck. I hate them. Carla did say a couple of times, "you crushed that hill, Ewen." I assume that is a good thing. I was afraid to ask.

The little trek did show me that I have to much to learn. I'm also better at things than I thought I was. I'm encouraged.

I'd love to write more about it all, but I need to get on my damn trainer and get some miles on my tires before Carla comes over again.

We're going from Crushing The Tumour to Riding To Conquer and, thankfully, I have a "rock star helmet" to protect me along the way

I'm doing the Ride To Conquer Cancer next year.
There. I said. It wasn't so scary.
Or not.
Yes, we're restarting Crush The Tumour With Humour (CTTWH) as part of my bid to continue to talk myself into doing the Ride To Conquer Cancer (RTCC), and maybe raise a couple of bucks in donations for cancer research.
I used to say that I wanted to "raise money for cancer." My good friend Fiona Rintoul, she of the very classy Flip Flop Shop (FFS) at Fourth and Burrard (shameless name drop and plug to receive discount footwear), always seemed to be around to correct me when I did that, explaining, "cancer is doing just fine. You want to raise money for cancer research."
Oh, Fiona. We're so BFFs. (Yes, I've suddenly become infatuated with abbreviations.)
Fiona did the RTCC this year pregnant. Hello? How cool is that?
It was her husband, Scott Rintoul (shameless name drop), and our buddy Carla McAloney behind this whole thing for me.
Carla hit me with the soft sell, the "You know...Scott and I were talking about it and we think you could do the ride...I mean, it would be a good story, considering the eight surgeries, the six rods in your back and all that CANCER you had."
OK. Carla never said the last part about the operations and the hardware and the CANCER. But she was totally feeling it. I know.
Then Rintoul came in. He's a closer and, to make matters worse, I'm a sucker. I would follow Rintoul into a fire. It's quite sad.
He throws down a couple of "you could totally do it," and "we could hang out and it would be great," and, even though the little voice in my head is screaming, "ARE YOU CRAZY?!?!? YOU DON'T LIKE TO DRIVE THAT FAR?", I heard myself say out loud and quite clearly, "Yeah, Scott. That's a totally good idea. Do you want me to double you on my handlebars?"
So we went to buy a bike. Carla took me to Dizzy Cycles in Kits (most shameless of all name drops, considering I need more stuff and could use a discount) and I found the staff to be quite friendly, intelligent and very well groomed.
I picked out a bike. I picked out a big boy helmet. I was excited. I told my wife, the adorable Carol-Ann, and said I wouldn't purchase anything until she saw it all.
She was keen. A few days later, we went back to Dizzy Cycles.
Took the bike up the cash register. Same with the helmet. And a helmet for her.
Went home. Went riding around the block a few times. I was pretty happy, to be honest, because I did lose enough balance from all those operations and all that hospital time that I wasn't sure I could actually get on a bike for any period.
Carla called later that day and asked how it went. I told her that the riding was decent, and I told her I was really surprised that I didn't feel geeky in the helmet.
She laughed and told me that I had the "rock star" of bike helmets.
Pardon?
"It was $275," she said.
I nearly fell and hit my head. Luckily I still had the helmet on. No way Carol-Ann would let me spend that. I yelled up to her in the kitchen, asking her the pricetag for the head gear.
"I think it was $275," she said.
Afterwards, she said that she knew I was freaked out about the whole thing, that I was way out of my comfort zone. She said she wasn't going to have me pull the plug if I didn't get the helmet I wanted.
Geez, I guess I'm really invested in this now.
I have a meeting tonight about dates and times and when the whole 2014 RTCC happens. I'll keep you up to date.
What have I gotten myself into now?

Happy anniversary: one year ago today I was discharged from GF Strong rehab centre

Happy anniversary.
One year ago today, I was discharged from G.F. Strong rehab centre, sent home with a walker, a wheelchair and, in my mind, more will than won't.
I thought about getting a tattoo to celebrate. Maybe something across the top of my back, near the spot where they found the Solitary Plasmacytoma tumour in October, 2010, and where they did most of the work on the eight surgeries that ensued. Maybe some italics stating, "Dr. Robert Lee was here," and then a rendering of our good surgeon smiling and giving a thumbs up, followed by a list of the operation dates.
Yeah, if it wasn't a Sunday, and I wasn't deeply afraid of needles and pain, I'd totally do that.
Maybe next year.
May 20, 2011 feels like a lifetime ago. I had hoped to walk out of G.F. Strong under my own power, but I wasn't ready and was exclusively on a walker.
One of my goals coming home had been to walker every day to a fruit stand up the street and around the corner.
I tried it the first time my first morning home. I got to the front yard, across the the length of our house and then up the street a few blocks before I could do no more. I cried every step. Carol-Ann cheered every step, and trying to make it all better.
That was a frequent storyline this year. I was frustrated and angry and sad a lot when I tried things for first time.  I'm still not sure to this day whether it's because I've always thought I was further along than I really was or I'm just a stubborn son of a gun.
I remember the first day physiotherapist Paula Peres came to the house. She put me through a series of tests. I was pissed off at my results in every one. Finally she said, "Get over yourself. I'm here because you need work on things. You're paying me to work with you on things. You know that you're paying me, right?"
I really wanted to be good to work with. I know that was part of it. I told her that I wanted her to know that I was a hard worker. She said, "You wouldn't have gotten this far if you weren't a hard worker."
Oh, Paula. You had me at "Get over yourself."
We quickly progressed from walker to cane to nothing at all. Freestyle, as it were. One of my first walks around the neighbourhood without a cane or a walker I told Paula, "I'm a little freaked out."
Paula said: "I've got some advice."
I was keen to hear it.
"Don't fall. It could hurt."
Oh Paula.
She really was amazing. There was something very logical about her approach. I could see how her progression was working from drill to drill and I trusted that she knew what I was capable of. She had also had a good sense when I needed a boot in the butt and a pat on the back. There was days that she'd show up and say, "Yeah, you don't have that much today. We're going to take it easy."
We don't get anywhere close to where we are at without Paula.
Paula punted me in December, saying that I didn't need acute physio anymore. I'm still going to the pool four or five times a week. I've joined a gym in New West, and I actually played my first slopitch game of the season last week. I've started jogging even, albeit a few 100 metres at time, with stints of walking in between.
I've been clear of any signs of cancer for a year, and our new surgeon, Dr. Scott Paquette, said that I have no restrictions. (Dr. Lee moved back to England. He said it wasn't my fault, but I reckon it may have something do with it. He said one time, "I'm not dreaming about your wound anymore." I told him, "You can have nice dreams about my wound. You and my wound could be frolicking in a meadow, for instance.")
"Just go ahead and live your life," Dr. Paquette said.
Thanks for that, doc. Geez. In front of Carol-Ann? I thought I was going to get a pass from moving anything heavy. I thought I was all set. No such luck.
She's fair though. She'll give me every May 20 off to celebrate.

Mumps? Seriously? Shouldn't I be exempt from that type of stuff after cancer?

First my doctor thought I had pneumonia. Just recently, she figured I had the mumps.
I had cancer. Shouldn't I be exempt from certain things now? Shouldn't I get a little, lamented card that allows me to bypass random stuff?
It's goofy.
No matter.
Sorry I haven't written in awhile. I have been doing well, working 40 hours a week, getting into a good fitness routine (the UBC thing didn't work out...a gym two blocks away from home is a better fit) and even throwing a little bit with my good friend Carla McAloney as we prep for the upcoming Headliner slopitch season. Scott Rintoul, our centre fielder, and Bif Naked, our catcher/infielder/outfielder/trash talker, would be so proud. (SHAMELESS NAME DROP TIMES TWO.)
Then my jaw swelled up two Wednesdays ago. Puffed up huge. Couldn't see my left ear looking at me straight on. Good thing my modelling career is long over.
I have to admit I was more than a little freaked, considering that we were told at the time of the Solitary Plasmacytoma diagnosis in my T-2 vertebrae in October, 2010, that there was anywhere between a 30 per cent and 70 per cent chance of recurrence. Stuff starts swelling up, cancer seems like a plausible answer.
We checked with the dentist first, though, hoping it was a tooth. It wasn't. He sent us directly to Richmond Emergency, which, of course, sent me into freaking out overdrive. Poor Carol-Ann. I wonder if she hasn't gone looking for the receipt on our marriage certification, hoping for a return policy.
At the hospital, a cheery fourth-year med student handled us at first, and then came back with a doctor.
They were wearing face shields and masks.
Good news? This doesn't present like cancer. Bad news? We think it presents like the mumps.
I'm over 40. The mumps? What next? Will my voice change again? (I'd like something with a Southern Drawl if someone somewhere is taking orders.)
Long story short (I know...too late), the mumps tests came back negative and our rock star GP, Dr. Jennifer Rogerson, reckons that I had some sort of virus acting some sort of gland. (Once she said, too, that it didn't present like cancer I stopped paying complete attention. Carol-Ann is on it. It's all good.)
The worst part, it's laid me up for the last 10 days or so. Back when she thought I might have had pneumonia (I didn't, by the way), I was still able to get my rehab work done. I was working out regularly. This thing has kicked my butt for about 10 days. I wasn't able to get my stories for the Province (shameless plug for my employer) completed, but little else. I'm just finally starting to feel like myself again. I got my first workout in over this stretch, albeit a lazy one at the pool, this morning.
Dr. Rogerson says that my immune system is only slightly compromised because of the radiation treatment and all the garbage they dumped into me during the eight back surgeries, but I really felt like I used to brush this stuff off before.
We'll see.
To quote my good friend Bif Naked (SHAMELESS NAME DROP PART DEUX), it's "always interesting."

BTW Here's my little speech from Interesting Vancouver.
http://interestingvancouver.com/2012/02/video-steve-ewen/

This cancer rehab thing still sucks three or four days a month

This cancer rehab thing still sucks three or four days a month.
Heard you missed me. I'm back. (Hey!) Brought my shameless plugs. (Shameless plug for Hot For Teacher, one of the all-time best Van Halen songs.)
Sorry I haven't blogged in awhile. I'm feeling great a large percentage of the time. I'm more active. My energy is increasing. I'm doing more around the house to help my Carol-Ann. I'm working 40 hours a week. At times, it's hard to remember that we were diagnosed with a Solitary Plasmacytoma tumour last October, went through 20 radiation sessions and eight surgeries.
And then there are days like today. My legs feel trunks full of encyclopedias. My back is squealing. My head is in a fog. It's a combination of more activity and more work and the fact that we're still not a year out from my final two surgeries and I'm being weaned slowly off the Hydromorphone pain killer.
I'd like to say no one told me this was coming, but my rock star physio, Paula Peres, predicted right away. She said that, as much as I've improved, there were going to be days like this (days like this my physio said) and I needed come to grips with it and not worry.
It's hard. I want to get something physical in, the pool or a walk or something. But I know that if I push through I could feel worse tomorrow.
I had my last apparent session with Paula last week. She said she was pleased. I don't know where we would be without her. Her and I meshed right away, and I trusted her methods, which, to me, is a major part of the battle. And she wasn't good for just the physical stuff -- the fact that she told me these melancholy days were coming does make them a little less daunting.
Another quick note....my radiation-oncologist Dr. James Morris gave another clean bill of health last week, meaning that we're up to nine months cancer free.
It's exciting but I'll be even more upbeat when we are more free of these type of days.

It's slow going with throwing, but with cancer putting a dent in my mediocre slopitch career for a year, at least there's knowing

My rock star surgeon, Dr. Robert Lee, said that I couldn't start throwing a softball until after Christmas.

I gladly obliged. I waited for Boxing Day.

My good pal Carla McAloney came by yesterday and we threw for about 15 minutes in our front yard.

Beforehand, I was worried that my shoulder was going to fall off. I mean, they took the bottom of my trapezius muscles and folded them into the middle of my back in my eighth and final surgery. Who knew what might happened?

My shoulder held up fine. I'm not even sore today. On the flip side, though, I was disappointed at my balance. I didn't feel comfortable at all transferring my weight from my right leg to my left. Yes, it was the first time I had thrown in over a year, the first time since a bout of Solitary Plasmacytoma cancer, 20 radiation sessions and eight surgeries involving the collapse of my T-2 vertebrae.

Worried that I fall, I short-armed the ball a bunch, prompting Carla, of course, to belt out, "Nice work, T-Rex."

I know. It's just a starting point. I just thought I was farther along balance wise.

Overall, though, it was a spectacular Christmas, especially when you consider that I was tied to bed at VGH, with all sorts of tubes and contraptions connected to me, a year ago. We had a bunch of family from both sides over on Christmas Eve, I saw my folks on Christmas morning and Carol-Ann and I had dinner at her brother's on Christmas.

I even made it over to VGH after breakfast on Christmas. I picked up a couple of bags of chips, a couple of bags of cookies and assorted other junk food and dropped them off for the staff. You can't imagine Christmas in the hospital. You really can't. 

And then I walked out of there and went home. That was my present to myself.

Talking world juniors, Brendan Gallagher and that crazy Solitary Plasmacytoma cancer

I feel bad that I haven't checked in here in awhile. The good news is that it's because I'm busy. I'm working 30 hours a week. I'm getting closer and closer to my share of the household chores.  We even hosted a little shindig. (More about that later.)
Why now? It's world junior hockey tournament time and I don't think you can be a sports fan in this country legally without taking in that event with gusto. Vancouver Giants winger Brendan Gallagher has made the team, and he's a fan favourite looking for a place to happen. He's this scrappy, 5-foot-9ish guy who just might have been born minus the fear gene, considering the way he goes to the net and battles in the corner.
Let me offer up a little more about him. From what I know, he's a 19-year-old of tremendous character.
I've covered the Giants for the Province newspaper (shameless plug for my employer) since the 2004-05 season, so when I got sick last year among the first phone calls I put in were to team owner Ron Toigo, general manager Scott Bonner and coach Don Hay.
Just a few days before I got sick, Gallagher's grandfather, Matt, had lost his battle with cancer. Gallagher even started a fundraising campaign immediately afterwards. (Read about it here.)
Toigo and his son Peter were the first visitors to the hospital room for that initial stay, but Gallagher and fellow forwards James Henry and Craig Cunningham, with strength and conditioning coach Ian Gallagher (Brendan's dad) riding shotgun, were close behind.
I remember thinking how the three of them didn't have to be there, and Gallagher especially. Gallagher knew way too much about hospitals and cancer talk at that point. But they stayed and joked and told lies that a bunch of guys do and made me feel way better.
It was one of those inspiring moments I had during this whole bizarre episode.
I tracked down Gallagher when I got out that first time and went to a Giants game. I thanked him and told him that he wouldn't understand how much it met.
His answer? He shrugged and said, "Steve, it meant a lot to us that you were willing to see us."
Seriously. He's that kind of kid.
Meanwhile, I am feeling better. I haven't used Evander (The Cane) in over a month. My back is feeling a little out of sorts from time to time, like something is pulling, but I think it's a case of me getting more nerves working. There was a point in the hospital where I could feel so little in my back that one of the doctors put in a stitch or two without freezing. Or so I've been told.
The party, meanwhile, was a success by my way of thinking. Dr. Robert Lee, our rock star surgeon, showed up  and was the toast of the whole affair. He begged Carol-Ann and I to stop calling him, "Dr. Lee," but how do you not refer to the person who saved your life in something other than the highest regard?
We did manage to bust out a few "Roberts," before the night was done but then Scott Rintoul (shameless name drop) saw the good doctor for the first time and started bellowing, "Dr. Lee, Dr. Lee, Dr. Lee!!!"
It was like I set it up, but I didn't, which makes it even better.

Anniversary of first major surgery and of Christmas missed has memories flowing

Through this whole wacky cancer/back surgery/rehab thing, Carol-Ann and I have been blessed to be surrounded by people who could tell us what was coming next.

It started, of course, with Bif Naked (shameless name drop) in the first hours upon diagnosis saying, "Get ready to console people about your cancer." Sure enough, there was a bunch of "Hey...don't worry...I will be OK," right off the top. And it's rolled right through to our rock star GP, Dr. Jennifer Rogerson, telling us recently to get ready for emotions to flow back because we're hitting milestone days.

Consider that next week will mark the one-year anniversary of the first rods and screws surgery. (Ah, the first rods and screws. Life seemed so simple then.) It was right about here that I was really, really sick. I know that's hitting Carol-Ann hard, and I get a little teary when I think that we will actually get to spend Christmas at home this year. I still can't fathom that we missed Christmas, New Year's and both our birthdays last year. I feel so awful for Carol-Ann. I know it's not my fault, but it still bugs me.

She's been very cool about going a little extra hard for Christmas this year. She's the mature one, the smart with cash one, but she's not getting stressed about a few extra decorations and a little entertaining.

As well, our at-home physio, Paula Peres, has told me to be prepared for people not understanding that I'm still rehabbing. I'm starting to look "normal." I hardly use Evander (the cane) at all, and I actually think I move OK when I'm on stable terrain. Paula says that I need to appreciate that there are going to be days when I'm gutted, without an ounce of energy, and she hopes that people around me will appreciate it, too. 

For what it's worth, Tuesday's my last day with Paula. She says I no longer need acute rehab training. I start with my new trainers, Jesse Tupper and Sheila Townsend, today. I'm a little nervous - I'm a notorious people pleaser and I'd like to show that I'm worth working with. Of course, the cheque I'll write for them every week should be proof enough. I did cover Tupper and Townsend when they were playing sports in high school and at UBC, and we do have some friends in common (D-Watts, C-Watson...more shameless name dropping), so they understand what I've been through.

Want to walk more but too easily run down some days; dancer cancer/back surgery rehab

I'm frustrated.
I must have slept 14-16 hours yesterday. My body just shut down. It was bad. I couldn't even focus. I tried to watch Blue Bloods (love me some Tom Selleck, dating back to Magnum...) and had trouble keeping up with the story line.
My physio, Paul Peres, says that it's completely normal. I'm caught between rehab and real life. I'm just shy of six months out of the hospital. I'm working 30 hours a week. I'm trying to keep up with my share of the chores around here, doing dinners and laundry, so that Carol-Ann can get a break. I'm walking more and more freestyle. I've even taken to leaving Evander (The Cane) at home for jaunts to Vancouver Giants' practice and other work trips.
Paula says there are going to be days when I simply break down. Doesn't make it any easier. It still sucks.
I will be looking to change things up. Paula's down to visiting once a week and she says that she'll be all but done with me come early December. To keep things going, I'm planning on picking up a trainer -- I'm meeting Monday with Sheila Townsend and Jesse Tupper. The married couple are former UBC athletes and I covered them both. They just opened up their own gym and they know my story, so I like the connection.
Not to be a downer, but there's a chance that the cancer could come back. We've been told as high as 70 per cent chance. I need to be ready to fight if it happens again.
Things aren't all bad. I had dinner last Sunday with my first GF Strong roomie, Mike Sidhu. Mike was a good role model for me. Some people at GF do their routine classes, but little else. They lie in their beds all day. Mike was always on the go. Always doing something.
He's doing at his sister's house in Langley. He's doing pretty well, but he's still got his challenge.
That's something I get.

Sorry, Roberto, but this whole cancer/back surgery thing is your fault, too

I have an announcement about my cancer. It's Roberto Luongo's fault.
Seriously. If he's going to get all the blame for how sad sack the Vancouver Canucks have started this season, then I'm tagging him for my Solitary Plasmacytoma tumour. He's probably behind the eight back surgeries and the six months in the hospital, too.
I blame him for proliferation of singing shows on television and for the fact that I wasn't 100 per cent certain that proliferation was the right word there and I had to Google it. I blame him for Google, Twitter and Tweet and IPad and all those techie terms that I feel a little goofy everytime I say. I blame him for Kenny Loggins not having anything to do with the new Footloose.
I blame him for my yearning for Pumpkin Spice Latte. I blame him for long division. No. Scratch that. I blame him for math in general.
And, before we get too ahead of ourselves, I bet he's the guy behind Impark. It's got to be him.
I'd like to blame him for why Crush The Tumour With Humour (CTTWH) has been idle of late, but I can't, and only in part because it would give more ammo to the lunatic fringe who think the above four paragraphs makes complete sense. (The Impark one may have merit, mind you.)
I haven't been writing because I've been busy trying to get better. Still at the pool four or five mornings a week. Still walking lots "free style" -- my rock star home physio Paula Peres has me up to 1.6 kilometres, and that includes varying surfaces and inclines. It's very strange. Paula will take Evander (my cane) away and my body will tense right up. She says it's a matter of my body not understanding how hard I need to work to do things now. She has a point. When I go Evander-less around the house these days, I'm not tense at all.
(TIME OUT: You keep hearing that Luongo is terrible. Really? Keep hearing that the Canucks should trade him. Really? Team is coming off their best season ever and he was a major reason why and he's being lambasted and lampooned for a poor start. Wasn't that the lowest scoring Stanley Cup final ever? No one wants to talk about that.)
Paula's happy enough in fact she's only seeing me once a week, down from twice. That has to be a sign of progress.
I'm also working between 20 and 30 hours a week. I did my first Vancouver Giants practice "free style," on Thursday morning, and survived the ordeal.
I even went to a Canuck game with Carol-Ann and sat in the stands, rather than the press box. Lots of stairs to be scaled, lots of people to navigated around.
I'm sure I was the same way before THE CANCER, but I can't believe how little people pay attention to folks with canes and walkers and even wheel chair.  Getting cut-off and or tail gated.... it drives my poor Carol-Ann crazy.
We did have a good time at the game, for what it's worth. I would have liked it more if Roberto played, though, to be honest.