Of Mice and Men

I get by with a little help from my ummm ... friends

I get by with a little help from my ummm … friends

I keep waiting for this to change me, for the tectonic plates in my soul to suddenly move around and reconstitute themselves, for the rough edges I’ve spent four decades trying to sand away _ my obnoxiousness, my impetuousness and my self-centeredness among others _ to just disappear on their own now simply because I have the qualifier “cancer patient” at the end of my name.

Only they haven’t. Five months after being told I have Waldenstrom’s Macroglobulinemia _ an incurable but highly treatable form of lymphoma _  the clarity about What It All Means I expected to come along with the diagnosis remains elusive. I’m healthy (more on that later) but I’m no closer to figuring things out now than I was the second my oncologist walked into my hospital room back in March, handed me his card and made me, _ how do I put this politely _ freak the (deleted) out.

I thought cancer would give me a sense of purpose, that it would galvanize me in the way it seems to do for so many others. I thought somehow my condition would spur me to volunteer for the Red Cross or the Central Blood Bank since I can no longer donate the one thing that I absolutely need to survive.

I talked about reaching out to find other patients who have what I have to quell the momentary panic that sprints through my mind whenever my inner monologue begins a sentence with the phrase “if this treatment doesn’t work.” I talked about making this blog a regular thing in the hopes it would be therapeutic.

I talked. And talked. And talked. So far I’ve done little more than spend most of the spring and summer obsessing over my weight, my hemoglobin level and my place in the world.

I have somehow turned cancer into a vanity project. The only things missing are a Kardashian, an Instagram account and a well-positioned selfie (relax, not this time America).

When I bring this up to friends or family, I get an uncomfortable laugh in return. They tell me not to be so hard on myself. They tell me to relax and try to enjoy how incredibly lucky I am. They remind me to focus on the way my body is responding and the amazing support system I have in place.

And they’re right (note: they usually are but please don’t tell them I said so) but for some reason that voice in my head, the one that relentlessly reminds me of all the (extremely superficial) things I don’t have in my life _ and all the things I’m not doing with it _ will not shut the (again, deleted) up.

Until today. It’s time. Hell, it’s past time.  Way, way, way past time.

I turned 40 a few weeks ago and realized I’ve wasted most of the first four decades of my life constantly measuring myself against the vision in my head of what I SHOULD be.

And while ambition can be a virtue, too much of it can be maddening. All the anxiety. All the angst. All the hell I gave my parents for buying me Toughskins instead of Levis when I was a kid, no matter that they were saving for my college fund _ a plan that allowed me to be one of the fortunate few who graduated from school debt free. It’s a gift I’ve never properly thanked them for.

It’s time to let it go. To be honest, I was hoping my cancer would do the work for me the way it helped me lose the 30 pounds I’d gained in the last five years. As if somehow the fight that’s been raging in my bone marrow for far too long would also alter the neurons in my brain to permanently change the default setting from “self-absorbed egomaniac” to “grown up.”

It hasn’t, at least not yet.

Don’t get me wrong, this disease is equal parts humbling and harrowing. For the first time in my life, I have truly felt defective (as opposed to the usual normal socially awkward and self aware stuff), like the way your car operates when it’s sipping on ‘E’ as traffic whizzes by.

While my treatment is mild by most cancer standards _ one shot of chemo every 3/4 days and one IV treatment of a drug called Rituxan (made with a combination of mouse and human proteins) during each three-week cycle _ that doesn’t mean it has been smooth.

During my first  Rituxan infusion it felt like there was an earthquake under my chair. One problem: I was the one shaking, not the ground. It was terrifying. I had involuntarily lost control of my body as the Rituxan _ a mix of mice and human proteins that basically serve as a beacon for my white blood cells to get into my cancer-infested marrow and start kicking ass. The nurses pulled the curtain so I wouldn’t freak out the other patients. A shot of Demerol and my breathing slowed. The rigors eased.

And the lessons began.

Her name is Ruth. I didn’t ask but if I had to, I’d guess she was in her early 60s. We’d chatted in the waiting room that day, mostly about the magical qualities of Eat N’ Park smiley face cookies. She wore a pink bandana over her head. She was in for another round of chemo chemo (not the chemo-lite that I’m on).  Her hair was gone. Her voice was hoarse. Her smile was permanent. She’d been diagnosed with breast cancer and brain cancer in 2012. The doctors gave her 10 months. Here it was, more than 18 months later and she was still at it. She could no longer drive (which irritated her) and had to be escorted to therapy by one of her kids (which annoyed her even more).

A few minutes after the earthquake stopped, she walked over, the bag with the life-extending poison still dripping its way into her left arm.

“You doing OK?” she asked.

My response was ummmm, inelegant.

“God damn it Ruth, why are you checking on me? I’m the youngest person in here,” I said.

(And the dumbest, by the way.)

Here I was in a moment of true vulnerability worried about how I looked to the rest of the world. What. An. Idiot.

I laughingly apologized to Ruth before she left. A little while later, my wife Ellie and I struck up a conversation with Margaret, who sat across the room from us enduring her own chemo drip. Six years ago she beat back ovarian cancer. Now it had taken the fight elsewhere. We joked about how getting sick the greatest Jenny Craig diet ever. She lamented the fact she couldn’t ride her tractor even though her grass desperately needed cutting. She told me to “be strong.”

I wondered whether the fortitude that she and Ruth have in abundance would be there for me if I ever really needed it.

Silly me. I shouldn’t have worried. See, I got lucky. I married my strength.

World's greatest everything

World’s greatest everything

Her is Eleanor, which is Greek for “shining light.” For more than a decade she has been one of the few constants in a life I have built with an unintentional sense of impermanence.

We met May, 23 2001 and married four years later. It says something about her _ and about me _ that it was her idea to have our anniversary (June 11 if you wanna send gifts) inscribed on the inside of our wedding bands.

She is the one person in the world not related to me by blood whose belief in my inherent (if sometimes misguided) goodness is unwavering.  And trust me, I have done everything in my power to make her waver.

I say sometimes that living with me isn’t easy. It’s meant to come off as a self-deprecating joke. In most ways it’s not.

I’m moody, self-involved and most days unable to think of much that doesn’t involve what’s directly in front of my face at the moment. She is the Michael Jordan of planning: meticulous, thoughtful and relentless. She is equal parts mother, wife, friend, drill sergeant, teacher and muse.

Oh, and she’s tough as hell. The 13 years we’ve been together haven’t always been good. The overwhelming blame lies with me. I spent the first 20 years of my adult life trying to right all the “wrongs” I felt I’d endured growing up. I became obsessed with what other people thought of me. Am I funny enough? Am I talented enough? Popular enough? Smart enough?  The list is neverending.

And she’s sat there patiently as the days bled into weeks bled into months bled into a life together. She reassures me when I doubt. She picks me up when I’m too damn lazy to do it myself, though over the last three years she’s made sure I do my share of the heavy lifting too.

That demand _ which is really what she’s deserved all along _ is probably what makes our marriage stronger now than it has ever been.

There aren’t words (and trust me, I’ve looked) that can adequately describe how thankful I am that she’s too damn stubborn to bail. During those bumpy early days after the diagnosis, she let me crack all the dumb morbid jokes I wanted. These days she occasionally brings work to the treatment center on the days I receive Rituxan to make sure I’m not lonely or scared or bored or some combination of the three.

She doesn’t do it because I have cancer or because I’m the father of our two children. She does it because she believes in our marriage, our partnership and the unending possibility of what’s to come. And she does it because (and I like to think this is my influence on her) she’s too arrogant to think this thing is going to get the better of us. We have worked too hard. Too. Damn. Hard.

I will never be able to repay her for her kindness and grace. Ever. And I pray God doesn’t ask me to try.

See, here’s the thing: all the stuff that drives me crazy about myself she came to terms with that crap long ago. She has never really asked me to change beyond being committed to the idea that I can change if I feel like it. If I do and it makes me a better person/husband/father? Fantastic. If not? Hey, she’s stuck around this long. No sense bailing now.

There’s another inscription in our wedding bands beside our anniversary (note to gift-givers, we could use some new knives!) — INO.

It stands for It’s Never Over, a nod to the 2.5 years we were apart early in our relationship before she moved to Florida  but one that seems even more fitting today. Our marriage _ like our battle with my disease _ is an evolutionary process. Surrendering on either front is not an option. For her. For me. For our family.

Thank God.

The fight goes on. Gratefully.

Feel free to play us out Etta. 

-30-

The Invisible Man

Me and Dad

I didn’t call him enough. I can see that now. That’s on me.

Instead, I ran, just like I always did. I took the path of least resistance with my father because, well, that’s just the way Tom Graves wanted it. In the 59 years he walked the earth, in particular the 35 he spent with me in his life, you could count the number of times things didn’t go his way on two hands. Maybe one.

So when he diagnosed with stage 3 esophageal cancer in the fall of 2009 I did what he wanted. I let it go. Treated it as just another thing on his plate, like the property flipping business he started in retirement. A chore he would take care of on his own terms, thanks for not asking.

So I didn’t. He began chemotherapy in September, 2009 and I made exactly zero change to our routine. I think during his first four months of treatment we might have talked twice.  And when we did, it wasn’t about cancer. What questions I did manage to squeak out (note: my father remains the toughest interview of my life) were met with a simple “Oh, dad’s fine” and the unmistakable subtext that trying to work on a followup was completely unnecessary.

Being 600 miles away in Kentucky and preoccupied with a job and an infant son, I was only too happy to go along. I could hear the frustration in my sister’s voice when she talked about her inability to communicate with him and I wanted no part of it. Better to pretend that everything is fine rather than deal with the messy emotions that come with true honesty.

It’ll be fine, I convinced myself. This will be just another one of those things that he handles alone, like the three heart attacks he suffered between his mid-40s and early 50s. The ones he basically walked off like a bad cold.

He was so fiercely private about his health I literally had to invent an excuse to come home when he underwent surgery in January, 2010 for what he kept referring to as a “blockage” in his intestine. When I surprised him in the hospital, I lied and told him I was in town because a high school friend was having a bachelor party. Seeing him laid up in bed, his body dulled yellow by chemo and nausea forcing him to spit up into a wastebasket every few minutes was jarring. The 6-foot-6, 235-pound in his prime monolith I remembered couldn’t have weighed 170 pounds.

And still, the charade continued. I hung out with him before he went into surgery. We talked about my upcoming Olympic assignment. We talked about Colin, his grandson. We talked about the Redskins (because we always talked about the Redskins). We kept it light.

The day I flew back to Kentucky, I stopped by the hospital to chat. He appeared exhausted but OK. I wasn’t sure if it was going to be the last time I saw him alive, but it kind of felt like it was. It was pleasant but my most vivid memory was how I basically tried to get him to tell me he was proud of me. I needed to hear it. He obliged (kind of) but it wasn’t quite the heartwarming “movie” moment that I’d fantasized about. It felt forced (by me, not by him). I hugged him and left, already preoccupied with thoughts of the Vancouver Olympics.

Barely a month later, he was gone. It wasn’t the cancer technically. His heart, weary of the fight, gave out. I spoke to him a couple of days before that last heart attack. He was back in the hospital and high on pain medication. He thought I was his girlfriend when I initially called. I think the entire conversation lasted 97 seconds. Enough time for one last “I love you” from both of us. While I was able to get home and be in the room when they turned the life support machines off, there was little doubt he was already gone.

Four years later, I still don’t know what to make of his death and how it impacted my life. It’s funny. I miss him more now than I did two years ago. Maybe it took cancer (in some small way) to find the common ground that we failed to reach as adults.

My cancer is different (thank God). I’m not going to die. Not even close. While the first cycle of treatment was a little bumpy (I’ll blog about that later) I’m amazed at my body’s ability to handle constant bombardment of medicine, whether it’s Velcade or the Rituxin that is treating the cancer or the fistful of pills I take daily to ward off the side effects. The early numbers are encouraging. And while I may be in treatment longer than anticipated, my resolve _ thanks in large part to the support of my wife Ellie _ has only strengthened.

Yet sitting in a chair for hours on end (my Rituxin days are a good 7-8 hours long, as are the days when I receive blood transfusions) gives you time to think. I can’t shake the idea of what treatment must have been like for my father.

The thing that has frustrated me the most since this thing has started is the knowledge that I can’t predict on a given day how I’m going to feel. I’ve called out of assignments on my way to them because I’ve been hit with a sudden fever or weakness. I can’t imagine how difficult and painful ceding that power from his mind to his body must have been for dad, who never met a situation he couldn’t find a way to immediately take control of. I imagine it was infuriating and agonizing. I’ll never know, though. I never called to ask. I happily took ‘no’ for an answer.

I shouldn’t have.  I wasn’t a kid when he went through this. I was 35. I was a husband and a father. I was a professional with a career. Yet the balance of power in our relationship never evolved. In many ways I was still the 10-year-old who famously told him once that I didn’t have to do my homework anymore because I was  a big kid. He responded by grounding me.

I fully understand that some of this is on him. That he kept nearly everyone, from his parents to his brothers and sisters to his children, at arm’s length. And because he had a force of will unmatched by anyone perhaps on the planet, we didn’t fight it. We should have. I should have.

The guilt of failing to do that ebbs and flows. I don’t feel it quite as acutely as I did in the immediate aftermath of his passing. Instead, I just miss him. I would have liked to see him as grandfather. He saw his grandson Colin once. He never met my 2-year-old daughter Catherine. I bet she would have owned him. The thought of it makes me laugh.

One of the blessings (if you can call it that) of this illness is that it has forced me to empathize with him. The differences and distance that had us reach out from neutral corners most of the time has disappeared. I feel closer to him in a way. I was wide awake at 4 a.m. last week (thanks steroids!) when I envisioned him walking into the bedroom. He filled the frame (he always did). I didn’t hallucinate but the image was so clear that I started to cry. For years during young adulthood he was on the periphery of my life. Now that I finally have the courage to want him to be a part of the nucleus, he’s gone.

Colin asked Ellie this morning who my dad was. She politely responded “Grandpa Tom” and the name didn’t register in Colin’s ears. Part of that’s on me. I haven’t talked about my dad enough, perhaps because I never talked TO him enough.

Yet Colin needs to know about his grandfather, even if I’m still learning. He needs to know that the reason I do what I do for a living isn’t because it’s cool or because I think I’m good at it. I do this because sports was the one thing my father and I could talk about.

He took me to my first football game when I was 8, the 1982 NFC championship between the Redskins and the Cowboys. Three decades later I can still hear the crowd at RFK chant “We Want Dallas.” The Redskins won. My father was joyful. I was hooked.

I have no idea how my relationship with Colin will evolve over the next 30 years. I want us to be friends when he’s my age. (Hell, I want to be alive when he’s my age). I hope we’re close. I know one thing’s for certain. I won’t raise him to take no for an answer from me. I won’t let him be satisfied if I try to keep him at arm’s length. If that’s the lesson I take from my father’s death, so be it.

Thanks Pop. Sorry I didn’t call enough. For both of us. It won’t happen again.

Dad was a big Motown/R&B guy. I’ll let Marvin show you out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ph0aELhsQoc

Will

 

The Best Medicine

The 2nd best medicine around. But nowhere near the top.

The 2nd best medicine around. But nowhere near the top.

The messages keep flooding in, one after another. On Twitter. On Facebook. On my phone. In my email. Close friends. Random acquaintances. Total strangers.

All expressing their support. Or offering prayers. Or wanting to know what they could do to help. Or all three.

To be honest, overwhelming doesn’t come close to describing the response to last week’s blog about my cancer diagnosis. I’m not really sure what I was going for, really, other than the pressing need to get it off my chest.

Subtlety has never been my thing, I mean I’m the same guy who proposed to his wife in a column nearly 10 years ago.

Amazingly, Ellie said yes that Saturday morning in June 2004, even though she later admitted she didn’t actually read it at the time. Instead she stared at the page and waited the appropriate 90 seconds while I fumbled with the ring and tried not to vomit.

In a way, maybe last week’s post was like that. Except I kind of knew what was coming when Ellie opened the box. I did not when I hit send on “Patient No. 840379159.”

How could I? I consider myself a tough guy to know. For all my chattiness, I keep people at arm’s length even while I spend most of my professional life doing a pretty solid Arnold Horshack impression hoping to sate an ego that sometimes gets the best of me.

So when the notes started coming in _ and really, they haven’t stopped _ I wasn’t sure what to do (and I’m still not). For someone who loves attention, I’m terrible at handling it when I get it.

What’s the proper way to thank people to making time to reach out no matter how long it’s been since we’ve spoken? To honor their compassion for thinking of you during one of the most difficult moments of your life? To repay the gift of those _ from family members to old friends to folks who’ve never laid eyes on me _ who have promised to donate blood or make a charitable donation of some sort, a truly life-saving gift for whoever receives it?

I have no clue. I guess I’ll just keep writing. I’ve asked people in the last week what should come next and their answers mostly fell in the “talk about whatever you want” camp. Funny, I’m not sure what that is anymore. Maybe because for once it’s not just about me.

Am I “Cancer Guy?” Am I “Blood Donation Guy?” Am I “That dude that got sick and is turning this into a career springboard Guy” (kidding about that last one, well, probably).

I can tell you in the last 10 days the catharsis that came with disclosing my diagnosis and the high from the half-gallon of blood I received from random donors has faded.

Reality has set in. I’m a cancer patient in practice now, not just in theory.

Each morning starts with a handful of pills, drugs for my drugs. Every 3-4 days I receive a small chemo injection into my abdomen that over the next 3 months will turn my gut into the world’s ugliest checkerboard thanks to the bruising that comes when your depleted platelets need scads of reinforcements to deal with the incessant barrage of needles.

Next Monday I go in for my first dose of IV immunotherapy, a mixture that includes mice DNA and probably more than a bit of my sanity.

And yet, I know I’m lucky. That part hasn’t changed. While prepping for treatment on Monday, I sat down next to another patient who will turn 90 this summer but easily looked 20 years younger. The oldest of eight kids (and the only daughter) she is now the matriarch of a massive family to which she remains the linchpin. She smiled while the nurse tucked the IV into the port on her chest and settled in to read a book while the bag slowly dripped the life-saving poison (because really, that’s what we’re talking when we’re talking about chemo) into her veins.

There was no drama. She didn’t look to the heavens wondering what it all means, when this battle will end. She read quietly and went about her day. It wasn’t heroic (except for the part where of course it was). She wasn’t trying to send a message. She was just doing what she had to because, well _ that’s what millions do every day, really _ when they’re faced with this monster.

And it is a monster.

Even while I bound up the steps after my kids, even as I brag I’m too damn arrogant to let this thing get to me, even as I refuse to park in the designated “cancer patient” spots at the treatment center, I’m well aware of what my family and I face.

It’s menace is evident every time I get to the top of the steps in my house and wait to see if my pulse will start pounding inside my temples again. It’s there every time I get my blood tested, where my mood on a given day will depend entirely on my hemoglobin level at the moment. It’s there when I toss back a handful of pills and hope the steroids I’m on (and really, to be fair, they’re fantastic) will also make me so edgy I accidentally snap at my kids. It’s there in the research Ellie and I have done on Waldenstrom’s Macroglobulinemia, which constantly reminds us there is no cure, at least not yet.

And it’s intimidating and terrifying and at the same time, it’s no big deal. I wrote last week that “Cancer will not have me.” Know what else cancer doesn’t have?

You.

I do. Thank God.

Sorry cancer, you asked for it. Right Eric B. & Rakim ?

— 30 —

Patient No. 840379159

Sadly, this wristband did not get me into the club

Sadly, this wristband did not get me into the club

Here’s what happens when they tell you that you have cancer. You don’t hear the rest of the sentence. Or the one after that. Or the one after that. Or anything else for the next hour really. The moment the word escapes the doctor’s mouth, everything they say starts sounding like the teacher in Charlie Brown. “You have cancer womp womp waaah waah …”

So before we get too deep into this, I guess I’ll start by telling you: I have cancer.

Womp. Womp. Waaah. Waah.

It’s OK. Take a second if you need it. Trust me, I needed more than one.

Technically, I have Waldenstrom macroglobulinemia, a rare form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma. It’s named after Swedish oncologist Jan G. Waldenström, who “discovered” it in 1944. Lucky guy. His name is forever associated with something that freaks people the (deleted) out. Or so I hear.

You might have lots of questions. Trust me, I have lots of questions. Of course, there’s only one that really matters whenever you get diagnosed with anything associated with the word “cancer” in it.

The good news (depending on what side of the ledger I am with you) is that it’s not going to kill me. To be honest, it’s too damn lazy, but we’ll get to that later.

Now let’s back up. Over the last six months I had noticed a significant decline in my energy level, a decline I basically attributed to an erratic work schedule, a shaky diet and the fact I have two young children who don’t believe in sleeping through the night in their own beds. Oh, and my age. I turn 40 in August, and I remember thinking “no wonder getting old sucks” as I felt my heart rate climb whenever I did anything more taxing than lift my phone to check my twitter feed.

I had tried to donate blood last spring (something I try to do semi-regularly to honor my father, who died of esophageal cancer in 2010) when the nurse told me I couldn’t because my iron level was too low. I was disappointed I couldn’t donate but hardly concerned. My eating habits consist mainly of serving as a garbage disposal for whatever my son Colin and my daughter Catherine don’t eat with the occasional bag of Combos or Twizzlers thrown in. (Sadly, this is not much of an exaggeration). I figured a little more spinach and the occasional steak and I’d be fine.

I was not fine.

The signs that things weren’t right (fatigue, a loss of appetite, shortness of breath) manifested themselves during my 3 1/2 weeks in Russia covering the Winter Olympics. Headaches, pasty skin and pretty rapid weight loss joined the party (though I wasn’t really complaining about the weight loss part). I had an excuse for each symptom, blaming them on 14-16 hour days, the horrific food and an extended case of jet lag.

It really didn’t register until my colleague Eddie Pells and I attempted to climb up to the gondola from the media center at Rosa Khutor Extreme Park on the final day of competition. The climb isn’t for the faint of heart, maybe the equivalent of 60-70 flights of stairs.

I didn’t exactly race up the mountain.

It took forever. I stopped every two flights to catch my breath, as the ego that challenged me to keep up with Eddie ceded that something was going on beyond what I like to call “fat sportswriter syndrome.”

I thought all I really needed to do was get home. That didn’t work either. I visited a primary care physician a week after I returned. He ordered me to have some tests done. Of course, I put it off even as my body kept bludgeoning me with the fact that I was in serious trouble.

I ended up giving a blood test on Monday, March 10. That night I told Ellie “they need to call me tomorrow and tell me what’s going on.”

They did. At 8:30, my doctor’s nurse ordered me to “go directly to the hospital.” Stupidly I drove my kids to daycare. The blood test had revealed my hemoglobin level was 3.5. Typically the range for someone my age is 12-14. The nurses in the ER told me it was a miracle I was even conscious.

The problem? My blood had turned to Jell-O. I was walking around with the blood-oxygen level of someone standing atop Mount Everest. My heart was working so hard because it was trying only somewhat successfully to pump sludge through my body.

Still, I wasn’t exactly prepared when I woke up in the hospital on Wednesday morning and a doctor walked in and handed me a card with UPMC Cancer Centers splashed across the front.

I believe my reaction was something to the effect of “Um, what? Dude, I’m just anemic. Stuff me full of blood and iron pills and I’ll be on my way.”

Not exactly. Three days in the hospital, seven units of EPO-enriched blood (seriously, I think Lance Armstrong can probably smell me from Austin), a bone marrow biopsy and a PET scan followed.

The 10 days between when I fell ill and was diagnosed were maddening. The wormhole of information on the Internets can lead you to some pretty dark places. (Note: the nurses say WebMD should be avoided at all costs).

I thought long and hard about my father and my brother-in-law Bill, a non-smoker who died last summer at 34 after a brief and soul-wrenching bout with lung cancer. They were physically imposing specimens (6-6, 225 for my dad, 6-3, 190 for Bill) chopped down in their prime by the cruel mixture of chemo and disease while their families could do little but watch, a scenario that plays over and over again far too often every day across the globe.

Bill and my dad were strong. I am not. Bill and my dad were stoic. I am not. Bill and my dad were grown-ups. I am not. If cancer took them, what the hell kind of a chance did I stand? I am 5-foot-10, 190 pounds of  blah. I get that it sounds like self-pity. Did I mention the part where I spent 10 days not knowing for sure what kind of cancer I had?

Though I made plenty of jokes to deflect the terror that was building within, as Ellie and I drove to my oncologist’s office _ how in the hell did I just type “my oncologist” with a straight face _ it kind of hit me. “Good Lord, I’m going to get diagnosed with cancer. Like in real life.”

On the surface, it looks bad. About 80 percent of my bone marrow is cancerous. A bunch of lymph nodes in my gut and my spleen _ which apparently is the size of a football (note, it should not be the size of a football) too. No wonder my body stopped producing blood, my good marrow is getting strangled.

And while all that sounds horrific, the truth is I am going to be fine, or as close as somebody with cancer can get. It says so right here.

Here’s what I can tell you: it’s not a tumor.

Waldenstrom’s is considered an “indolent” form of cancer. That’s a fancy word for lazy. The doctor estimates it was growing anywhere from 2-5 years before showing itself.

Of course I got the laziest form of cancer. Because well, have you met me?

The long-term survival rate is off the charts for patients my age, basically because there are so few of us (the average Waldenstrom patient is 61). The treatment, amazingly, is not chemo but targeted immunotherapy, which I will receive once every three weeks. I’ll get a shot in my stomach (fun!) every 3-4 days and pop some steroids in between.

Basically, I’ll be on enough drugs (along with the EPO) that I should be penciled in at third base for the Yankees.

The doctor says the cocktail I’ll be on is 97 percent effective. Because there is no cure (at least not yet), we can’t kill the cancer, just make it go to sleep for awhile. I’ll be tested regularly for the rest of my life to see if it’s waking up, which it will at some point.

This sounds bizarre, but I’m lucky. Very lucky. At the moment, I plan on working during treatment. I have no restrictions on my diet or what I can do. (That’s what the doc says, but I’ll point out I still can’t dunk a basketball). And hey, I get to pull the “I have cancer!” card out in mid-conversation if I get into an argument I think I’m losing.

I’m writing this because I watched my father hide his battle with cancer until it was almost too late. I’m writing this because I’m a blabber-mouth. I’m writing this because it’s going to get out anyway and I don’t want folks (particularly colleagues) to hear “Will has cancer” and have them think they can start polishing their resumes.

I’m not going anywhere. Sorry copy editors of the world.

The folks I have told in person have offered up their prayers and support. I imagine more is on the way as this gets out. And while I am thankful and grateful for them, there’s something that will be just as important to me: your blood.

Because I’m not a vampire (and more accurately, because I don’t look like Alexander Skarsgard) I can’t take it directly from your neck. That would be rude. And gross. And probably illegal.

Hopefully I won’t actually need any more transfusions, though the doc tells me I likely won’t see any real progress in my marrow until months after my initial treatment. Seriously, though, there is a blood shortage throughout the country and people in worse shape than I am are in desperate need. It really is the best drug out there.

And if they tell you your iron level is low or there is some other issue: GO GET IT CHECKED OUT FOR GOD’S SAKE.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do with this space. Like myself I consider it a work in progress. I won’t write about cancer necessarily (though I will provide the occasional update).  Maybe I’ll write about my kids. Maybe I’ll write about something I couldn’t find a place for in a story I’m working on. Maybe I’ll write about my stunningly supportive wife, who has already endured more in our 9 years of marriage than some spouses have in a lifetime. Or maybe I’ll just crack lame jokes (oh wait, that’s my twitter feed).

The gist of all this, though, that I’m going to be fine. My sister told me this whole thing is just a ploy for attention.

Think maybe next time I’ll just post a naked selfie instead. Tastefully done, of course. Then again, maybe not.

I’ve got cancer. So what? Cancer will not have me.

Take it from here Uncle L.

— 30 — (that’s fancy journalist talk for I’m done)