billwixey.com

Always hip to the latest trends, I went out and caught cancer.

Just like the Survivor winner, and the kid who fled the country while undergoing chemo, I have cancer. Hodgkin's Lymphoma. I have started chemotherapy treatments.

It's been couple of weeks since I learned about it, but it still seems strange writing it. I'm still having trouble believing it. 

I've always imagined the most harrowing scene would be to go to the doctor's office, and having that doctor look me in the eye and tell me, calmly and firmly, that I have cancer. I've always wondered, what would go through your mind in that instant? How do you process that information? How do you just carry on with life?

Well, I can tell you. After having some large lymph nodes removed the previous Friday, that was me, in the doctor's office, being told that I have The Big C.  The Doctor who sniffed it out is named Dr. Roger Zundel of the Bellevue Ear, Nose and Throat clinic. After examining the remnants of Friday's surgery-a seven-inch scar across my sternum--he told me that the good news is that he believed that he had gotten a large enough sample for the pathologists to get a good biopsy and probably wouldn't need more.

"The bad news," he said, looking me squarely in the eye, "is that the lymph nodes that I removed didn't look very good. I am pretty sure that it is some form of cancer."

As went on to explain how he removed two bunches of lymph nodes from my lower neck and sternum area, I felt my body temperature rise. It was classic flop sweat. I have the same reaction when I'm on the air, and I'm blowing it. When I'm on the air, typically, I can rectify the situation, and that flop sweat dissipates. There wasn't anything I could do to rectify this situation. I just sat there, dumbfounded, a bit loopy on pain meds, wallowing in flop sweat.

I don't remember much about that visit. It would be two days, he said, until the pathology tests would tell us more about what type of cancer I had. Stunned, I drove home. I found Catherine downstairs working on the computer and told her what the doctor said. Catherine, as usual, was totally cool, calm and in control. I'm sure she asked me a few questions that I didn't know that answer to, and then she had to rush off to pick up the kids.

I first noticed my lymph nodes were swollen early this year, probably in February. I had an upper respiratory cold for much of the winter, as did many people I knew. I figured it was likely related to that, although I never had swollen lymph nodes in my lower neck, near my sternum. But there were two of them, very noticeable. I went to a few general practitioners. One said it was inflammation. The other said it could be inflammation, or cancer. She wanted to refer me to a gastrointerologist, thinking it could be a sign of prostate cancer. I refused, saying I wanted to go see an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist. That's how I was referred to Dr. Zundel. He then sent me in for blood work, a chest X-Ray, and an aspiration biopsy, where they just shoot a needle in the node, and then check it out under a microscope. The doctor who performed the aspiration is well-respected, and I must say, pretty speedy. He had me in and out of Overlake Hospital in 15 minutes, saying he was "95 percent sure it was nothing", but that I should keep an eye on it, and if it gets bigger, I should come back.

It got bigger. And bigger. Soon I was noticing bumps all along the left side of my clavicle. I went back in to see Dr. Zundel, who performed an excision, where he removed about ten lymph nodes, which he said were all bunched together and swollen. It was kind of like pruning some discolored, unripe grapes.

The same night I learned that I had cancer, but still not sure what kind, or how far it had spread, Catherine and I went to a comedy show. We had tickets to Flight of the Concords for months, and were really looking forward to it. We went with another couple and since since we were in shock, and didn't really know what was happening yet, we weren't comfortable talking about the situation, so we never brought it up with them. I'm sure they thought there was something wrong with us, but that's kind of the beauty of being a little strange to begin with: people will give you benefit of the doubt. I tried to laugh and enjoy the show, but my mind was somewhere else.

I went back to work on Tuesday and Wednesday, which helped keep my mind off of things, but I couldn't escape the "I have cancer" thought for long. I stressed out. I became easily frustrated. I would think of my kids and suddenly break down and cry. One night, I was praying with my son Will before bed, and started crying uncontrollably.

Will: Are you crying?
Me: Yeah (wiping away tears)
Will: Why?
Me: (Long Pause) Daddy is sick, and the doctor doesn't know what's wrong with me. 

I rode for three days on that emotional rollercoaster until I got a phone call on Wednesday afternoon at work. The tests were in. I frantically called back just before 5pm, and I finally talked to Dr. Zundel on the way out the door. He said the preliminary diagnosis is Hodgkin's Lymphoma, which actually gave me some relief. First, the enemy was identified. I know who I'm fighting. Second, huge advances have been made just in the past 10-15 years in treating Hodgkin's Lymphoma. Doctor Zundel told me that if it's caught early (Stage 1 or 2), there's a 95 percent cure rate. Not just treatment. Cure.

I remembered that Mario Lemieux (one of my favorite hockey players) had Hodgkin's Lymphoma during the '93 season, and was back on the ice several months later. The doctor told me that more tests would needed to be done, but if we caught it early, I should be back on the ice with the Legends of Lunch Hockey in a few months too.

The next test I had to get is called a PET C-T. It's a full body scan. I had to go on an all-protein, no-sugar diet 24 hours before the test, and then right before I had to drink a bunch of this awful radiated sugar drink, so the sugars would go where the cancer is, and it would light up on the scan.  I had to sit perfectly still for 25 minutes in that tube, my bladder overflowing with antifreeze. I don't think I've ever needed to pee worse in my entire life.

The test results came back quickly. It's Stage 2(A) Classical Hodgkin's Lymphoma. The cancer is on the left side of my neck and sternum, and some of it has crept down into my chest. We caught it early. I start chemotherapy on May 25th, the first of a 12-week  regimen, followed by radiation. 

"Now that the doctors know why you're sick,  you can get better, right Dad?" Will asked today.
"Yep. I can", I replied. 
"At least you don't have the swine flu", Will said.