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There are some days that just feel perfect; unimpeachably good from the get-go.  Today was one of those days.  I got some very good news today. 

Yesterday, you might have heard, I had to reschedule my PET scan appointment because I went for a run the day before, which they say could have compromised the results.  My oncologist was dumbfounded.  He says he didn't realize you couldn't exercise the day before, so the fact they postponed the scan surprised him.  So, there's that. 

This morning, out of the blue, I received an email from the head of neural radiology at UCLA medical center (which blew me away).  He apparently had read my blog, and said that a 24-hour protein diet, and 12-hour fast seemed excessive for a PET scan.  He says his patients are only required to fast for four hours prior to the scan.  My technician says that Seattle Cancer Care Alliance has more stringent regulations for PET scans than many treatment centers.

I really think that there was another reason why I didn't have the test done yesterday.  It was a God thing.  I was so wound up about the test, I couldn't sleep the night before.  I was tired, anxious and bitter.  I wasn't in a state of mind to truly appreciate the impact of the news that I was about to receive.  Last night, I slept well, and woke up refreshed, actually looking forward to going in and relishing this major step in my treatment.     

The PET is a full body scan.  It is administered by a technician that wears a stylish geiger counter on her lapel to make sure she doesn't get fried by radiation.  As she pointed it out to me, I wondered about the mental process one must go through in order to take a job like that.  Getting exposed to high levels of radiation every day?  Hmmm.  Are you accepting applications?  I didn't ask whether she was freaked out about the radiation.  I didn't ask if anyone she knew had ever been exposed.  I didn't ask her anything.  I didn't want to be rude.  But I thought about it.  Because I'm getting all of that stuff blasted through me, up and down, from head to toe. 

Because I had to reschedule yesterday, I had a series of appointments today, starting with the PET.  I was taken into a small room, where I was joined by Catherine,  Walker Anderson, the photojournalist who has followed me every step of the way on this journey, and Cristi Loso, who is our PR liason with Seattle Cancer Care Alliance.  The moment the technician injected me with the radioactive fluid, everybody cleared the heck out of that room in a big hurry.  I was radioactive.  I kept singing the lyrics to that Power Station song: "I'm radioactive!" "I'm radioactive!"  I was told not to get too close to my kids today.  Not just because I was radioactive, but because I was also clearly insane.  I told the technician I was going to the Mariners game tonight.  She told me not to let the kids sit on my lap.  Seriously.  I'm radioactive. 


                                                                

After I was injected with that stuff, I was left alone in my little room, with my comfy reclining chair.  I was covered with a warm,
sterilized, white cotton sheet, and kind of felt like the Dalai Lama. 

                                               

I looked more like a Hare Krishna in a Snuggie.  With the Largest Microphone in the World there to record every scintillating moment. That's some good TV right there.

I sat in there for 45 minutes, catching up with folks on Twitter and Facebook.  Then, the tech peeked into the room and said "Let's go." She led me down the hall to the imaging machine, which is an impressive, large, shocking white monstrosity that looks like a prop from 2001: A Space Odyssey.  I was instructed to lay down in a hollowed-out chamber and keep perfectly still for 45 minutes.  My capsule was electronically guided in and out of an imaging tube, which took thousands of pictures of my insides from every conceivable angle.  

It was incredibly hard to sit still for my first PET scan, because my bladder was about to explode.  I was listening to Neil Diamond during that scan, and sadly, I can't listen to Neil anymore without an unrelenting urge to pee.  I decided to go with some live Grateful Dead this time, and all I can surmise is that it must have been Jerry Garcia's calming guitar stylings that soothed my savage bladder. 

After the scan, I met my radiation oncologist, Dr. Kenneth Russell, for the first time.  He explained what I'll be facing, and what to expect.  He informed me that there is an elevated chance of disease later in life as a result of this treatment.  10 or 20 years down the road, he says, there are sometimes complications as a result of radiation or chemotherapy.  "But that's 10 or 20 good years", Dr. Russell explained.  I am well aware that there are long-term issues associated with cancer treatment.  But what's the alternative?  This combination of chemo and radiation is the best treatment the best minds in medicine have been able to come up with.  But undoubtedly the most difficult discussion to have right now is about what this treatment is really doing to me.  It's killing cells.  The chemo has done it's job, by killing every dividing cell it can find, good and bad.  Now, the radiation goes in and incinerates what's left to (hopefully) make sure it doesn't grow back.  That's all I can focus on right now.  If it comes back, if my arteries harden, if I develop heart problems, I'll deal with that thing then. 

He had just received the PET scan images, and showed them to me.  Clear.  Absolutely clear.  Where my previous scan was pocked with cancerous lymph nodes, near my left shoulder, and in the center of my chest, there was nothing.  "It looks good," the doctor says.  There's a lot more testing to be done, but this initial scan showed that the cancer is gone.  Dead.  Incinerated.  Obliterated.  
My oncologist called it "a perfect report card".

After the scan, Catherine and I took the kids to the Mariners game.  It was a fantastic place to celebrate.  My dad and I spent a lot of time while I was growing up going to Mariner games.  Safeco Field is one of my favorite places in the world, and tonight was a magical night at the ballpark.  The Mariners were playing the White Sox.  Felix Hernandez was dueling Mark Buerhle on the hill, in a scoreless gem, featuring some brilliant defensive plays by the M's.  Ichiro gunned a runner down at home plate with a laser strike from right field.  Adrian Beltre made an impossible bare handed scoop on a bunt, firing to first in one motion to nail the runner.  The game stayed scoreless through nine.  They went to extra innings.  In the 10th inning, the White Sox had a runner at third when catcher Rob Johnson surprised him with a snap throw to third, catching the runner off base, nullifying Chicago's best scoring threat of the night.  

At one point in the game I was shocked to look up and see my family, and my big bald head on the Safeco Field big screen.  Tom Hutlyer made an announcent about my having completed chemo, and getting a cancer-free bill of health.  The crowd applauded.  I was stunned, and embarassed, and humbled, all at the same time.  I couldn't believe that my friends at the Mariners would do such an amazing thing for me.  It really meant a lot.  

I've heard from hundreds of people, sending me their congratulations and well-wishes.  I appreciate it more than you'll ever know.

The game lasted 14 innings, but my kids didn't.  They started melting down, and we bailed after the 12th.  Big mistake.  Ken Griffey Junior won it with a game-winning double in the bottom of the 14th, and got mobbed by his teammates.  It was one of the best ballgames I've ever seen, but we missed the end.  I've told my wife many times that you never leave a ballgame before it's over.  That was before we had kids.

It was a truly amazing, once in a lifetime day.  I feel so incredibly blessed.  I wrote a while back about the "12 Moments that Changed Your Life".   It's probably far too early to tell, but today feels like one of them. 

I've already vowed to make one change.  I'll never leave before the end of a baseball game again, I'll tell you that much.