Bill's Blog
billwixey.com
Bill's Blog
Haiti
It was a strange Thursday. I got up at 6am to do a story at the Canadian border about a drill authorities were conducting on a potential health threat at the border during the Olympics. It's a two hour drive to Blaine, and another two hours back to Seattle. I got back to the station, wrote my story, and got ready to head home. Just then, our assignment manager Cheri Mossburg walked up to my desk and asked, very matter-of-factly, "Hey Wix. You wanna go to Haiti? Like, right now?"
I did have time to head home and pack quickly. I knew that we were going to fly to Port au Prince, the heavily damaged Haitian capital with the Air Force on a C-17 but I really had no idea what I was in for, and needed to be prepared for anything. I stopped by the store and bought some beef jerky, trail mix and water. I packed a sleeping bag and a change of clothes into a duffel bag and rushed back to the station to report for duty.
My photographer Matt Scholz, Cheri, and I arrived at McChord AFB at 10pm. The mission was to load some huge hauling machines onto the C17, transport the machines to Haiti, where the Airmen of the 62nd Aerial Port Squadron would unload the equipment, and then go to work helping transport foood, water and medical supplies onto trucks to get it out to the people who so desperately need it after the 7.0 magnitude earthquake that decimated the country. That C-17 would then be loaded up with evacuees and brought back to the US.
We ended up taking off about 3:30am. It was a 7 hour flight to Port au Prince. I tried to sleep on the steel floor of the C-17, but it's tough to do. It's uncomfortable, cold, and loud. Ther C-17 is an engineering marvel, capable of caryying 550,000 pounds of cargo and landing in less than 2500 feet. It's designed for landings in hostile territory and quick loading and unloading of personnel and equipment. It's not designed for luxurious slumber. I probably slept two hours. We arrived in Port au Prince at 12:30pm.
The moment we landed, the airmen of the 62nd launched into action. These men volunteered for this mission, working 20-hour days in the searing heat, to help the people of Haiti. It's a true humanitarian mission.
We weren't able to look out the windows on approach, because there aren't any windows to look out of. Once the cargo doors opened, the bright sunshine, heat and humidity was a shock to the system. I surveyed the airfield and saw dozens of airplanes, helicopters, jeeps, and trucks buzzing and darting every which way. It was chaos. There are so many people trying to help, but the logistics of getting hundreds of millions of dollars worth of aid into this dinky little airstrip, unloading it, and getting it to the people is challenging.
The airport was heavily damaged. It was eerie walking through parts of the airport that were abandoned. The walls were cracked. Sunlight streamed in through gaping holes. The place continues to fall apart. It will have to be torn down and rebuilt.
The lines at the airport are long. The state department told me that the only people that are given clearance to evacuate on cargo planes are people with valid US passports, visas, or guardians of children with passports or visas. One of the busiest industries in Haiti at the moment is fake documentation. People are desperate to get out, and those documents are being checked carefully at the airport and the border. We only spent a few hours on the ground in Haiti. The Cargo jet was loaded with evacuees, many of whom told me that it took them many days to round up their documentation just so they could get out.
The stories that those evacuees shared with me are seared into my memory. One young man told me that he was visiting family from New York when the neighborhood around him suddenly, and violently, disintigrated around him. "I watched kids my age die in a quick second", he said. "It was just terror. Terror." He told me that he lost an aunt and many friends in the earthquake. He wanted to stay and try to recover the bodies, but they are buried so deeply that he says that there was no hope of that for some time. Another woman fought back tears as she told me how she watched children die in front of her, and injured people, helpless and immobile, starve to death in the streets. A nurse who went down to help right after the quake came back scarred from her experience. "We had to amputate limbs to save people, but there's not enough sterilizer, so the wounds get infected, and we have to cut again. We did the best we can, but there's only so much we can do. It's horrible to see these people live like animals."
The recovery in Haiti will take many years, if not decades. It is a country that has been so thoroughly destroyed that no real infrastructure
exists any longer. It was a desperately poor country to begin with. More than half of the people of Haiti lived on less than a dollar a day before the earthquake, and now they have nothing. There's little prospect of earning a living there. They need help badly right now. After the emergency relief ends 6 months or a year from now, the need will not end. The truth is, as callous as it sounds, is that Haiti is essentially a clean slate right now: politically, structurally and economically. There is a great opportunity to rebuild that country the right way, and help the survivors build a new, strong, proud nation.
On February 28th, "A Hootenanny for Haiti" will bring together Pearl Jam's Mike McCready, Guns and Roses' Duff McKagan, and a slew of great Seattle musicians for an amazing night of music at the Showbox at the Market. I will speak briefly about what I've learned about the situation there. All of the proceeds will go to benefit relief efforts in Haiti. I hope to see you there.
I did have time to head home and pack quickly. I knew that we were going to fly to Port au Prince, the heavily damaged Haitian capital with the Air Force on a C-17 but I really had no idea what I was in for, and needed to be prepared for anything. I stopped by the store and bought some beef jerky, trail mix and water. I packed a sleeping bag and a change of clothes into a duffel bag and rushed back to the station to report for duty.
My photographer Matt Scholz, Cheri, and I arrived at McChord AFB at 10pm. The mission was to load some huge hauling machines onto the C17, transport the machines to Haiti, where the Airmen of the 62nd Aerial Port Squadron would unload the equipment, and then go to work helping transport foood, water and medical supplies onto trucks to get it out to the people who so desperately need it after the 7.0 magnitude earthquake that decimated the country. That C-17 would then be loaded up with evacuees and brought back to the US.
We ended up taking off about 3:30am. It was a 7 hour flight to Port au Prince. I tried to sleep on the steel floor of the C-17, but it's tough to do. It's uncomfortable, cold, and loud. Ther C-17 is an engineering marvel, capable of caryying 550,000 pounds of cargo and landing in less than 2500 feet. It's designed for landings in hostile territory and quick loading and unloading of personnel and equipment. It's not designed for luxurious slumber. I probably slept two hours. We arrived in Port au Prince at 12:30pm.
The moment we landed, the airmen of the 62nd launched into action. These men volunteered for this mission, working 20-hour days in the searing heat, to help the people of Haiti. It's a true humanitarian mission.
We weren't able to look out the windows on approach, because there aren't any windows to look out of. Once the cargo doors opened, the bright sunshine, heat and humidity was a shock to the system. I surveyed the airfield and saw dozens of airplanes, helicopters, jeeps, and trucks buzzing and darting every which way. It was chaos. There are so many people trying to help, but the logistics of getting hundreds of millions of dollars worth of aid into this dinky little airstrip, unloading it, and getting it to the people is challenging.
The airport was heavily damaged. It was eerie walking through parts of the airport that were abandoned. The walls were cracked. Sunlight streamed in through gaping holes. The place continues to fall apart. It will have to be torn down and rebuilt.
The lines at the airport are long. The state department told me that the only people that are given clearance to evacuate on cargo planes are people with valid US passports, visas, or guardians of children with passports or visas. One of the busiest industries in Haiti at the moment is fake documentation. People are desperate to get out, and those documents are being checked carefully at the airport and the border. We only spent a few hours on the ground in Haiti. The Cargo jet was loaded with evacuees, many of whom told me that it took them many days to round up their documentation just so they could get out.
The stories that those evacuees shared with me are seared into my memory. One young man told me that he was visiting family from New York when the neighborhood around him suddenly, and violently, disintigrated around him. "I watched kids my age die in a quick second", he said. "It was just terror. Terror." He told me that he lost an aunt and many friends in the earthquake. He wanted to stay and try to recover the bodies, but they are buried so deeply that he says that there was no hope of that for some time. Another woman fought back tears as she told me how she watched children die in front of her, and injured people, helpless and immobile, starve to death in the streets. A nurse who went down to help right after the quake came back scarred from her experience. "We had to amputate limbs to save people, but there's not enough sterilizer, so the wounds get infected, and we have to cut again. We did the best we can, but there's only so much we can do. It's horrible to see these people live like animals."
The recovery in Haiti will take many years, if not decades. It is a country that has been so thoroughly destroyed that no real infrastructure
exists any longer. It was a desperately poor country to begin with. More than half of the people of Haiti lived on less than a dollar a day before the earthquake, and now they have nothing. There's little prospect of earning a living there. They need help badly right now. After the emergency relief ends 6 months or a year from now, the need will not end. The truth is, as callous as it sounds, is that Haiti is essentially a clean slate right now: politically, structurally and economically. There is a great opportunity to rebuild that country the right way, and help the survivors build a new, strong, proud nation.
On February 28th, "A Hootenanny for Haiti" will bring together Pearl Jam's Mike McCready, Guns and Roses' Duff McKagan, and a slew of great Seattle musicians for an amazing night of music at the Showbox at the Market. I will speak briefly about what I've learned about the situation there. All of the proceeds will go to benefit relief efforts in Haiti. I hope to see you there.
It's Been A While...And Here's Why.
I haven't written on my blog in three months. I don't know why exactly. I have thought about sitting down and writing about a number of topics dozens of different times. But I never did. I promised some brilliant revelations. I might have a had a few along the way, but I don't know if they are really that brilliant.
The truth is, I needed a break to figure out who I am again. I am not the same person who was diagnosed with cancer 8 months ago. It was incredibly disconcerting to deal with the knowledge that my body, which I had trained to run marathons and compete athletically, had suddenly, and inexplicably, rebelled against me. It was difficult to suddenly realize that mortality isn't some far-off concept for me; I am actually going to die, and may have just gotten a glimpse at what my killer looks like.
After going through a season in which I waged a private health battle in a VERY public way, I turned my back on it for a while. During treatment, I was able to focus on fighting the enemy. I was single-minded in my desire. The adrenaline was pumping. Since the camera was rolling, and folks were actually reading my thoughts here (many of whom took those thoughts to heart using words like "inspiring" to describe it), I felt an obligation to keep feeding the monster I had created. Once treatment ended, and I destroyed that radiation mask, things changed.
I didn't have to feed the monster anymore. I lost the focus that I had while in the midst of the fight. My purpose suddenly wasn't clear. It was obvious to me that the process had changed me, but I couldn't decifer exactly how. It was like I had just walked into my warm house, after trudging miles through a violent storm, and realized that it's not my house. It was disorienting. So I retreated. I stopped writing, and for a time, I just stopped participating in life. I "checked out". Catherine allowed me to have "bad days" during treatment, in which I would just lay on the couch and let the world pass me by. After treatment, and a clean bill of health, she hasn't been quite so forgiving. It's not that I'm skirting responsibility. It's not laziness. That's not it. I have, however, built up a sort of resentment toward responsibility. Sometimes, it's just easier to curl up in a cocoon, and pretend it's not there.
I just won the battle for my life. Nothing else seems quite as important. I tried to explain to Catherine that "something" is going on with me right now. I can't quite explain it. It's led to some arguments. My son Will said, "You guys never argued until just a few weeks ago." It's true. We never argued in front of the kids, and we've never argued quite as angrily as we have. My love and respect for her has never wavered. She was my rock, my coach, and my trainer during treatment. She wants me to be more "present". I understand her frustration. I'm frustrated with myself, too. I have wondered, "Am I depressed?" I might be. I recently read a quarter of patients suffer depression after treatment, and it's very possible that's what's happening to me.
I made a conscious decision a few weeks ago, that I need to refocus my energy in another direction. I'm trying to snap out of it. So, I have poured myself into work. I have taken on some huge projects, including a series of stories on the upcoming Vancouver Olympics. I just returned from a brief trip to Haiti. I dedicated some long hours to the trip. The stories I filed, detailing the horrific situation there following the earthquake, launched a new passion in me. It has been good for my soul to focus on trying to raise awareness and get help for others once again (My Haiti trip will be a topic for a future blog post). I've been working hard. And so, far, it's good.
I spoke at the 2010 Hutch Awards luncheon today at Safeco Field. It was quite an honor to be asked to speak at the event, which supports the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center. White Sox outfielder Mark Teahen was honored for his great work on and off the field. Former Major Leaguer Dave Dravecky, who lost his pitching arm to cancer, was the keynote speaker.
During my speech, I talked about the shock of the initial diagnosis, and how I dealt with treatment. I didn't tell them that I am still working through the mental part of it. In talking with other cancer survivors there, I learned that what I'm experiencing is pretty normal. Several of them told me that it took them years to understand what cancer really did to them mentally and emotionally. It really is a curse, and a blessing at the same time. I definitely feel that way. I'm just barely beginning to grasp what all of it means.
It's a work in progress.
The truth is, I needed a break to figure out who I am again. I am not the same person who was diagnosed with cancer 8 months ago. It was incredibly disconcerting to deal with the knowledge that my body, which I had trained to run marathons and compete athletically, had suddenly, and inexplicably, rebelled against me. It was difficult to suddenly realize that mortality isn't some far-off concept for me; I am actually going to die, and may have just gotten a glimpse at what my killer looks like.
After going through a season in which I waged a private health battle in a VERY public way, I turned my back on it for a while. During treatment, I was able to focus on fighting the enemy. I was single-minded in my desire. The adrenaline was pumping. Since the camera was rolling, and folks were actually reading my thoughts here (many of whom took those thoughts to heart using words like "inspiring" to describe it), I felt an obligation to keep feeding the monster I had created. Once treatment ended, and I destroyed that radiation mask, things changed.
I didn't have to feed the monster anymore. I lost the focus that I had while in the midst of the fight. My purpose suddenly wasn't clear. It was obvious to me that the process had changed me, but I couldn't decifer exactly how. It was like I had just walked into my warm house, after trudging miles through a violent storm, and realized that it's not my house. It was disorienting. So I retreated. I stopped writing, and for a time, I just stopped participating in life. I "checked out". Catherine allowed me to have "bad days" during treatment, in which I would just lay on the couch and let the world pass me by. After treatment, and a clean bill of health, she hasn't been quite so forgiving. It's not that I'm skirting responsibility. It's not laziness. That's not it. I have, however, built up a sort of resentment toward responsibility. Sometimes, it's just easier to curl up in a cocoon, and pretend it's not there.
I just won the battle for my life. Nothing else seems quite as important. I tried to explain to Catherine that "something" is going on with me right now. I can't quite explain it. It's led to some arguments. My son Will said, "You guys never argued until just a few weeks ago." It's true. We never argued in front of the kids, and we've never argued quite as angrily as we have. My love and respect for her has never wavered. She was my rock, my coach, and my trainer during treatment. She wants me to be more "present". I understand her frustration. I'm frustrated with myself, too. I have wondered, "Am I depressed?" I might be. I recently read a quarter of patients suffer depression after treatment, and it's very possible that's what's happening to me.
I made a conscious decision a few weeks ago, that I need to refocus my energy in another direction. I'm trying to snap out of it. So, I have poured myself into work. I have taken on some huge projects, including a series of stories on the upcoming Vancouver Olympics. I just returned from a brief trip to Haiti. I dedicated some long hours to the trip. The stories I filed, detailing the horrific situation there following the earthquake, launched a new passion in me. It has been good for my soul to focus on trying to raise awareness and get help for others once again (My Haiti trip will be a topic for a future blog post). I've been working hard. And so, far, it's good.
I spoke at the 2010 Hutch Awards luncheon today at Safeco Field. It was quite an honor to be asked to speak at the event, which supports the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center. White Sox outfielder Mark Teahen was honored for his great work on and off the field. Former Major Leaguer Dave Dravecky, who lost his pitching arm to cancer, was the keynote speaker.
During my speech, I talked about the shock of the initial diagnosis, and how I dealt with treatment. I didn't tell them that I am still working through the mental part of it. In talking with other cancer survivors there, I learned that what I'm experiencing is pretty normal. Several of them told me that it took them years to understand what cancer really did to them mentally and emotionally. It really is a curse, and a blessing at the same time. I definitely feel that way. I'm just barely beginning to grasp what all of it means.
It's a work in progress.
Man of the Year
It's been a few weeks since I updated my blog. I just needed a little time to get back to my life. I am working full-time once again, and am feeling much better. But I needed to tell you about what has just gone down. It's too juicy to pass up. Check this out:
I got a phone call last night from our assignment desk. It was one of the editors, Angela. She said, "Yeah...I was just watching Evening Magazine, and you won the Man of the Year?"
I was more than a little surprised. Several weeks ago, I learned that I had been nominated for Man of the Year in the Best of Western Washington poll on KING5.com and Evening Magazine. I didn't ask for it, but I figured if I am going to be in the race, I might as well make a decent showing. So I sheepishly sent out a few requests for my friends to vote. As has been the case ever since I went public with my cancer diagnosis, the response was overwhelming. Hundreds of people flooded that site and clicked on my name for the Western Washington Man of the Year. When the results were announced last night, my name was on the top of the list. Bill Gates, last year's Man of the Year, finished fourth.
Once again, I am deeply honored and humbled.
I really don't know what to say about this other than I believe that all of this has happened for a reason. I believe that God gave me cancer to change my perspective on life (which has changed profoundly), but also to share that perspective with others. I have used my gifts as a writer and storyteller to reveal what cancer treatment is really like, and how I dealt with it. I had a feeling going in that simply shedding some light on that process would be valuable and helpful to others, and from the response I've received, it certainly has been, but it's a lot more than that. I have taken on an enormous responsibility. I have become a sounding board for cancer patients, family members and survivors from all over the world. Every day, I am approached by people--most of whom I have never met personally--who share with me some of their most intimate and painful secrets about dealing with disease. I am able to offer some encouragement, some comfort, and sometimes maybe a little bit of wisdom. Even though I had no idea that this would be part of the gig, I relish this responsibility, and take my new role very seriously.
I know a lot of folks have lost interest in my blog since I no longer whine about chemo, joke about losing my hair, and decry the side effects of radiation. The station has removed the "Bill's Journey" page from the website. But the "Journey" is far from over. I look forward to sharing some interesting insights that have come about during this process. I have a whole new outlook on life. It's pretty cool. I can't wait to discuss this stuff with you.
Stay tuned.
I got a phone call last night from our assignment desk. It was one of the editors, Angela. She said, "Yeah...I was just watching Evening Magazine, and you won the Man of the Year?"
I was more than a little surprised. Several weeks ago, I learned that I had been nominated for Man of the Year in the Best of Western Washington poll on KING5.com and Evening Magazine. I didn't ask for it, but I figured if I am going to be in the race, I might as well make a decent showing. So I sheepishly sent out a few requests for my friends to vote. As has been the case ever since I went public with my cancer diagnosis, the response was overwhelming. Hundreds of people flooded that site and clicked on my name for the Western Washington Man of the Year. When the results were announced last night, my name was on the top of the list. Bill Gates, last year's Man of the Year, finished fourth.
Once again, I am deeply honored and humbled.
I really don't know what to say about this other than I believe that all of this has happened for a reason. I believe that God gave me cancer to change my perspective on life (which has changed profoundly), but also to share that perspective with others. I have used my gifts as a writer and storyteller to reveal what cancer treatment is really like, and how I dealt with it. I had a feeling going in that simply shedding some light on that process would be valuable and helpful to others, and from the response I've received, it certainly has been, but it's a lot more than that. I have taken on an enormous responsibility. I have become a sounding board for cancer patients, family members and survivors from all over the world. Every day, I am approached by people--most of whom I have never met personally--who share with me some of their most intimate and painful secrets about dealing with disease. I am able to offer some encouragement, some comfort, and sometimes maybe a little bit of wisdom. Even though I had no idea that this would be part of the gig, I relish this responsibility, and take my new role very seriously.
I know a lot of folks have lost interest in my blog since I no longer whine about chemo, joke about losing my hair, and decry the side effects of radiation. The station has removed the "Bill's Journey" page from the website. But the "Journey" is far from over. I look forward to sharing some interesting insights that have come about during this process. I have a whole new outlook on life. It's pretty cool. I can't wait to discuss this stuff with you.
Stay tuned.
Chemotherapy: Dracula's Castle
This was the third story of the series, and was probably the most difficult to complete. Getting chemo is not much fun, and going back to the office and logging the tape of having chemo is even less fun. It was like reliving the experience again.
The number one question that I received about having chemo was, "What does it feel like?" And truly, it doesn't feel like much of anything when you are getting an infusion. Sometimes, there's a slight burning in the vein, but that's about it. As I have mentioned before, most nurses recommend a port-a-cath for infusions and blood draws, which saves your veins. If I had it to do over again, I probably would do that. Hopefully, I will never have to do it over again. I had six chemotherapy sessions over 12 weeks. That's plenty for me in this lifetime.
The number one question that I received about having chemo was, "What does it feel like?" And truly, it doesn't feel like much of anything when you are getting an infusion. Sometimes, there's a slight burning in the vein, but that's about it. As I have mentioned before, most nurses recommend a port-a-cath for infusions and blood draws, which saves your veins. If I had it to do over again, I probably would do that. Hopefully, I will never have to do it over again. I had six chemotherapy sessions over 12 weeks. That's plenty for me in this lifetime.
Back to the Beginning: "I Have Cancer"
It's been a strange journey. No question. I was diagnosed with Hodgkin's Lymphoma in May. I underwent my first chemotherapy treatment just a few days after diagnosis. I had to have a pretty interesting conversation with my bosses at Q13 FOX News about my diagnosis and explain to them what it would mean for my work status for the next several months. I have to say, KCPQ has been fantastic about everything. They have been very understanding and have allowed me to work at my own pace during treatment. I have worked through my entire treatment, though, even anchoring the news during some of the darkest days of chemotherapy.
I started writing about my cancer diagnosis on this blog on the day I was diagnosed. It was very raw and very unnerving, but writing about my situation helped me immensely. It helped me wade through my emotions and voice some of my concerns and frustrations. I also hoped that it would be a place where friends and family members could come for updates so I wouldn't have to repeat the same story over and over (but I don't really mind doing that anyway). It has turned out to be much more than that. Once I blogged about my cancer, it was picked up by The Seattle P-I and was then circulated to other publications literally all over the world. Whether I liked it or not, I was going VERY public with my cancer.
After the media caught a hold of it, my bosses and I decided I should go ahead and discuss my situation on the news. This is the Q13 FOX News broadcast from May 28, 2009. The night I announced to Western Washington that I had cancer for the first time. This is the first of 16 stories that I have done on my journey through cancer. I am going to post them all here on my blog, in order, over the next several days, and share with you a little background on each step along the way.
Afterburn
Long before I started radiation, I was warned about the side effects: hair loss, sore throat, skin burns, fatigue. They told me that these side effects would linger, and perhaps become even more prevalent for a few weeks after I finished treatment. Radiation has a residual effect on the body. The more you endure, the stronger the side effects, and the longer they will last.
I had 18 treatments. My final dose was last Thursday. Nearly a week later, I am feeling the effects more strongly than ever. My skin is red and burned in the areas that were treated, which includes my neck, chest and left armpit. The back of my neck has started to peel. My armpit is very burned and sore. I apply a lotion specially made for radiation patients called RadiaGard several times a day to the affected areas.
My throat is feeling better. Not quite so sore. My voice has turned gravelly. I have always wanted one of those great, deep, resonant, booming broadcasting voices, and now, I almost have one. My lungs are pretty trashed, though. I have tried to continue running and exercise, but it is getting increasingly difficult. I don't feel like I can get enough air into my lungs. Doc says not to push it, so I don't. I stop and walk when I get short of breath.
These issues will subside in time. Others will not. I have permanently lost the hair under my left armpit. That is really not a big loss. I will look a little funny when I raise both arms at the beach, with one hairy pit, and one hairless one, but who cares? Who really wants to think about it? Okay, moving on.
I have also permanently lost hair on the back of my neck. So, when I get really scared from now on, there will be no hair on the back of my neck to stand up. But seriously, the loss of hair extends to my hairline, so I will have a little bald patch there. Doc says I can grow my hair a little longer back there and it won't be noticeable. I have also permanently lost hair on the left side of my throat, all the way up to my chin. I'll never be able to grow a full beard. But I never really wanted to anyway. Again, not a big loss. Meantime, the rest of my facial hair is growing in freakishly thick. I have to shave my cheeks now. And my cheekbones! My eyebrows have quickly grown big and bushy. Can you say manscaping? I need a full facial wax.
My hair continues to fill in a strange mix of blonde, gray, and brown (I call it taupe). Some people pay big money to get frosted tips like the ones I have acquired. All I had to do is get my DNA scrambled a bit.
Saturday night I reconnected with a lot of old friends at the Skoochie's Resurrection party, which was held inside the building that once housed Skoochie's, a somewhat infamous underage dance club that shut down in 1986. I spent more time there than I care to admit in the mid-80's, and formed some of my fondest friendships during that time. It was a surreal experience to be inside that building once again, dancing to the music of our youth, with all of those fantastic people that I have so much affection for.
At a certain point Saturday night, I was dancing to the horrific Wham Rap (It makes me cringe to think I actually knew all the words to that song at one point in my life). But at the end of the song, George Michael's closing refrain actually gave me pause. A phrase, repeated, over and over:
Enjoy what you do
Enjoy what you do
Enjoy what you do
Enjoy what you do
I turned to my dear friend and said, "That's it. They nailed it on the head!" I mean, who would have ever thought that Wham! would have distilled the secret of life so perfectly.
I was overwhelmed at times that night by the flood of memories. I was reminded of what's really important in this life. The people, and the moments. Relish them.
Enjoy what you do.
I had 18 treatments. My final dose was last Thursday. Nearly a week later, I am feeling the effects more strongly than ever. My skin is red and burned in the areas that were treated, which includes my neck, chest and left armpit. The back of my neck has started to peel. My armpit is very burned and sore. I apply a lotion specially made for radiation patients called RadiaGard several times a day to the affected areas.
My throat is feeling better. Not quite so sore. My voice has turned gravelly. I have always wanted one of those great, deep, resonant, booming broadcasting voices, and now, I almost have one. My lungs are pretty trashed, though. I have tried to continue running and exercise, but it is getting increasingly difficult. I don't feel like I can get enough air into my lungs. Doc says not to push it, so I don't. I stop and walk when I get short of breath.
These issues will subside in time. Others will not. I have permanently lost the hair under my left armpit. That is really not a big loss. I will look a little funny when I raise both arms at the beach, with one hairy pit, and one hairless one, but who cares? Who really wants to think about it? Okay, moving on.
I have also permanently lost hair on the back of my neck. So, when I get really scared from now on, there will be no hair on the back of my neck to stand up. But seriously, the loss of hair extends to my hairline, so I will have a little bald patch there. Doc says I can grow my hair a little longer back there and it won't be noticeable. I have also permanently lost hair on the left side of my throat, all the way up to my chin. I'll never be able to grow a full beard. But I never really wanted to anyway. Again, not a big loss. Meantime, the rest of my facial hair is growing in freakishly thick. I have to shave my cheeks now. And my cheekbones! My eyebrows have quickly grown big and bushy. Can you say manscaping? I need a full facial wax.
My hair continues to fill in a strange mix of blonde, gray, and brown (I call it taupe). Some people pay big money to get frosted tips like the ones I have acquired. All I had to do is get my DNA scrambled a bit.
Saturday night I reconnected with a lot of old friends at the Skoochie's Resurrection party, which was held inside the building that once housed Skoochie's, a somewhat infamous underage dance club that shut down in 1986. I spent more time there than I care to admit in the mid-80's, and formed some of my fondest friendships during that time. It was a surreal experience to be inside that building once again, dancing to the music of our youth, with all of those fantastic people that I have so much affection for.
At a certain point Saturday night, I was dancing to the horrific Wham Rap (It makes me cringe to think I actually knew all the words to that song at one point in my life). But at the end of the song, George Michael's closing refrain actually gave me pause. A phrase, repeated, over and over:
Enjoy what you do
Enjoy what you do
Enjoy what you do
Enjoy what you do
I turned to my dear friend and said, "That's it. They nailed it on the head!" I mean, who would have ever thought that Wham! would have distilled the secret of life so perfectly.
I was overwhelmed at times that night by the flood of memories. I was reminded of what's really important in this life. The people, and the moments. Relish them.
Enjoy what you do.
My Final Treatment
Before my final radiation treatment, I stopped by the supermarket bakery, to pick up some cookies for the technicians who have been meticulously going over every square inch of my body for the past month, making sure that I am getting zapped properly. They had mentioned something about a "party" for my final treatment, so I didn't want to show up empty-handed.
When I arrived at the office, one of the techs informed me that they were running late. She noticed the cookies on my lap and took them from me.
""Thank you very much", she said, and disappeared into the back. I never saw my cookies again. Wouldn't be the first time I lost my cookies at this facility, but this time it was literal.
Once the techs were ready to receive me, I received a few handshakes and congratulations on completing my treatment. After I got zapped for the final time, a round of applause, and a few more handshakes. I was beaming. And not just because I happened to be nuclear at that particular moment. As I walked out, One of the techs said, "See you later", to which I replied, "Hopefully not."
I didn't say anything about the cookies. I had another party to attend.
When you finish radiation, they give you the form-fitted plastic immobilization mask to keep. I had special plans for my mask. The first thing I did was take a baseball bat from the back of our news truck and start beating the mask repeatedly. More damage was done to the bat than the mask.
I then ran over the mask repeatedly with the truck. Over and over, I crushed the mask into the pavement, and it came out looking a little crumpled, but still operational. Not good enough. I wouldn't be satisfied until that mask was obliterated.
My photographer, Walker Anderson, who has shot all 15 of the news stories that I have done on my treatment, had a brilliant idea. He took me to Wade's Shooting Range in Bellevue, where they armed me with the artillery to do some real damage to that mask.
I had never fired a weapon of any kind in my life, but I received a crash course. I started with a couple of different kinds of pistols, and burned many holes into the mask, but I wasn't satisfied. They pulled out a machine gun, and I let it rip, ripping several more holes into the mask, but it was apparent that I needed something larger to really destroy it.
They pulled out a 12-gauge shotgun. A few of those blasts and the mask was toast.
I have heard from cancer survivors who have saved their masks. Some say they had theirs bronzed. I couldn't get rid of mine quickly enough. I couldn't wait to decimate the thing. Just like my cancer. And it felt good. Exacting a little symbolic revenge was exciting, exhilarating and cathartic.
I'm done with treatment, but I still have to go back in to make sure everything is okay. Doc will check me out once a month for the first six months, and then every three months after that. I may have beaten cancer, but I will always have to look over my shoulder to make sure it isn't rising from the dead, chasing me down again.
When I arrived at the office, one of the techs informed me that they were running late. She noticed the cookies on my lap and took them from me.
""Thank you very much", she said, and disappeared into the back. I never saw my cookies again. Wouldn't be the first time I lost my cookies at this facility, but this time it was literal.
Once the techs were ready to receive me, I received a few handshakes and congratulations on completing my treatment. After I got zapped for the final time, a round of applause, and a few more handshakes. I was beaming. And not just because I happened to be nuclear at that particular moment. As I walked out, One of the techs said, "See you later", to which I replied, "Hopefully not."
I didn't say anything about the cookies. I had another party to attend.
When you finish radiation, they give you the form-fitted plastic immobilization mask to keep. I had special plans for my mask. The first thing I did was take a baseball bat from the back of our news truck and start beating the mask repeatedly. More damage was done to the bat than the mask.
I then ran over the mask repeatedly with the truck. Over and over, I crushed the mask into the pavement, and it came out looking a little crumpled, but still operational. Not good enough. I wouldn't be satisfied until that mask was obliterated.
My photographer, Walker Anderson, who has shot all 15 of the news stories that I have done on my treatment, had a brilliant idea. He took me to Wade's Shooting Range in Bellevue, where they armed me with the artillery to do some real damage to that mask.
I had never fired a weapon of any kind in my life, but I received a crash course. I started with a couple of different kinds of pistols, and burned many holes into the mask, but I wasn't satisfied. They pulled out a machine gun, and I let it rip, ripping several more holes into the mask, but it was apparent that I needed something larger to really destroy it.
They pulled out a 12-gauge shotgun. A few of those blasts and the mask was toast.
I have heard from cancer survivors who have saved their masks. Some say they had theirs bronzed. I couldn't get rid of mine quickly enough. I couldn't wait to decimate the thing. Just like my cancer. And it felt good. Exacting a little symbolic revenge was exciting, exhilarating and cathartic.
I'm done with treatment, but I still have to go back in to make sure everything is okay. Doc will check me out once a month for the first six months, and then every three months after that. I may have beaten cancer, but I will always have to look over my shoulder to make sure it isn't rising from the dead, chasing me down again.
Almost Done
After four long months, today is the final day of cancer treatment. You can officially call me a survivor.
I will go in and get my last radiation treatment this afternoon. This video gives you an idea of what radiation is like.
As I get closer to the end of treatment, I've noticed a few changes. For one thing, my hair is growing back a color that's hard to define. It's not really gray. It's not really blonde. It's not really brown. I think it's taupe.
Last Saturday night, we took part in the Light the Night Walk to benefit the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Team Wixey was organized entirely through social media sites such as Twitter and Facebook. We raised over $5000 to fight cancer. A huge thanks to all of you who pledged your support. Go Team!
It's quite a scene, with all of the balloons lit up at night, as we walked around Green Lake. The red balloons are for supporters, white for survivors, and gold to remember someone who we have lost to blood cancers.
There were other balloons available as well. Gigi wanted a bug. She got a slug. She clearly wasn't thrilled.
A Touch of Grey
My hair is starting to grow back now, with a touch of gray. Actually, a little more than a touch.
The picture on the left shows the stubble starting to grow last week. Saturday, I hung out with a few ample-haired friends, John Backschies and Rick Turner, at the Washington-USC game. Backschies has shed his Husky roots, and is staunchly pro-USC now, having graduated from that institution. I still cannot respect that.
I think John may have regretted his decision after Saturday's beatdown at Husky Stadium. The Huskies knocked off #3 USC in a stunning upset. That was truly amazing, storming the field with the Husky fans. I have never received more high fives and bear hugs in my life. And I'm a Coug! Well, I cheer for the Dawgs every Saturday except one. I still love the Dawgs. I grew up travelling with the team, and went to four Rose Bowls with them. Some Cougs don't get how I can be loyal to both schools. They say it's wrong. There's nothing I can do. It's in my DNA.
Speaking of DNA, mine has been scrambled around a bit as a result of chemotherapy. It's apparently not unusual to have your hair grow back a different color or texture after treatment. Mine is coming back a lot more gray than before. It's very soft. And it may also be curly. It's too short to tell just yet. My eyebrows are growing back in fuller as well, and have turned lighter too. Doc says sometimes hair grows back differently after treatment, but typically reverts back to its orginal color and texture eventually.
Seriously, though, I'm not worried about the hair. I'm really not. I loved being bald. I never would have known how much if I never would have lost that mane of hair. I've been thinking of the lyrics of Touch of Grey by the Grateful Dead:
Oh well, a Touch of Grey
Kinda suits you anyway
That's all I had to say
but it's all right
I will get by, I will get by, I will get by.
I will survive.
This was taken just before meeting with doc today. He says that everything is looking good. I am right on schedule with radiation and treatment. The cancer is good and dead. I'll get zapped five more times, and then I am done with treatment! I will be in remission next Thursday. I like the sound of that.
Every silver lining's got a touch of grey. I will get by. I will survive.
The picture on the left shows the stubble starting to grow last week. Saturday, I hung out with a few ample-haired friends, John Backschies and Rick Turner, at the Washington-USC game. Backschies has shed his Husky roots, and is staunchly pro-USC now, having graduated from that institution. I still cannot respect that.
I think John may have regretted his decision after Saturday's beatdown at Husky Stadium. The Huskies knocked off #3 USC in a stunning upset. That was truly amazing, storming the field with the Husky fans. I have never received more high fives and bear hugs in my life. And I'm a Coug! Well, I cheer for the Dawgs every Saturday except one. I still love the Dawgs. I grew up travelling with the team, and went to four Rose Bowls with them. Some Cougs don't get how I can be loyal to both schools. They say it's wrong. There's nothing I can do. It's in my DNA.
Speaking of DNA, mine has been scrambled around a bit as a result of chemotherapy. It's apparently not unusual to have your hair grow back a different color or texture after treatment. Mine is coming back a lot more gray than before. It's very soft. And it may also be curly. It's too short to tell just yet. My eyebrows are growing back in fuller as well, and have turned lighter too. Doc says sometimes hair grows back differently after treatment, but typically reverts back to its orginal color and texture eventually.
Seriously, though, I'm not worried about the hair. I'm really not. I loved being bald. I never would have known how much if I never would have lost that mane of hair. I've been thinking of the lyrics of Touch of Grey by the Grateful Dead:
Oh well, a Touch of Grey
Kinda suits you anyway
That's all I had to say
but it's all right
I will get by, I will get by, I will get by.
I will survive.
This was taken just before meeting with doc today. He says that everything is looking good. I am right on schedule with radiation and treatment. The cancer is good and dead. I'll get zapped five more times, and then I am done with treatment! I will be in remission next Thursday. I like the sound of that.
Every silver lining's got a touch of grey. I will get by. I will survive.
Radiation isn't Rad
I'm starting to feel the effects of the radiation now. I have undergone 10 sessions of 18. My throat is getting sore from being heated up. It hurts to swallow anything, especially what I consider "sharp foods", such as grains, wheat bread and even crunchy fruit like apples. Alcohol burns my throat, so I'm done drinking wine for a while. My esophagus is a little heated up. It feels like I have heartburn all the time. I've adopted a mostly liquid diet for the time being.
I get tired sometimes. I get a little sleepy in the late afternoon and at night, which is actually a good thing. I get pretty good sleep at night, but oddly, wake up still feeling tired. The side effects are not anywhere near as crappy as chemo, so I am able to function pretty normally, except for the fact that I have to go in for radiation every single day.
Here's a slightly better picture of me in treatment position. No dots. That big machine on top of me delivers the radiation. The beams are blocked from areas that should not be treated by a slide that is inserted in front of the machine.
Here's a good look at that funky immobilization mask. As you can see, it is bolted to the table. I have asked the techincians that if there is an earthquake or fire, that they would be kind enough to come in and release me before they flee for their lives.
Today, I had to sit in this position for over an hour as they did a whole bunch of x-rays. For the duration of my treatment they are going to focus the radiation on an even smaller field, so they had to "remap" me a little bit.
They keep telling me how good I am at sitting perfectly still. I am so proud.
I get tired sometimes. I get a little sleepy in the late afternoon and at night, which is actually a good thing. I get pretty good sleep at night, but oddly, wake up still feeling tired. The side effects are not anywhere near as crappy as chemo, so I am able to function pretty normally, except for the fact that I have to go in for radiation every single day.
Here's a slightly better picture of me in treatment position. No dots. That big machine on top of me delivers the radiation. The beams are blocked from areas that should not be treated by a slide that is inserted in front of the machine.
Here's a good look at that funky immobilization mask. As you can see, it is bolted to the table. I have asked the techincians that if there is an earthquake or fire, that they would be kind enough to come in and release me before they flee for their lives.
Today, I had to sit in this position for over an hour as they did a whole bunch of x-rays. For the duration of my treatment they are going to focus the radiation on an even smaller field, so they had to "remap" me a little bit.
They keep telling me how good I am at sitting perfectly still. I am so proud.