Never Cover a Totem Pole with a Green Stocking

I realize this is another one of those compound blog titles. They usually result from a combination of at least two things. First, an overloaded brain, which I find is a frequent experience for me due to the limited capacity of the one I have. (I’ve tried changing my mind now and then, but the other one doesn’t work any better.) And second, the inability to be decisive about the main point of the blog post. So I just stuff in a combination of everything. Then try to sort it out later.

By the way, if you’re just looking for a brief update on my health, here it is: “I’m better than yesterday and not as well as tomorrow.” If you want more, read on. I dare you to.

It kind of reminds me of that last bite of the hot dog or overloaded taco or ice cream cone that's melting. You’ve probably experienced this, even if you don’t want to admit it. You’re standing at the hot dog/taco/ice cream stand and you’re down to the almost-last bite. You know it’s too big to fit in one mouthful. Almost. But then, maybe not. If you have to spread it out over two mouthfuls then the last one will be bun only, tortilla only or cone only. Not good. You must have ingredients mixed with the bun/tortilla/cone!

But it’s going to be messy. So you give a quick glance around to make sure no one’s looking. (You don’t want that picture to show up on Facebook.) Then you just stuff it all in. Mustard, ketchup, relish, salsa, taco stuff or ice cream, dripping down to your chin. I guess it really was too big to fit in one mouthful, but it’s too late now. Besides, what are you going to do? Spit it out? Okay, focus! Just deal with it and say sorry later to anyone that saw you.

All that action is a bit like what’s been happening to me over the past several weeks since I last posted an update. Stuff it all in (or take it out in my case), do what the doctors tell me to, figure it out later and say sorry to my wife again for putting her to so much trouble. (She says she still loves me, even though I’m sixty-four!)

After several weeks of antibiotics I’m finally over the kidney infection. I’m grateful for that because it was a painful experience. I commented to a friend one day that “Cancer can kill me but this stuff hurts!” But it’s history now, hopefully not to be relived.

Then there’s the PET scan on May 28^th that had been scheduled a long time ago. A simple, painless experience that took place while I napped inside the whirling wheels. All at taxpayers’ expense. (I love our health care system!) The results of the PET scan were not so easy to take, however. They showed two suspicious looking “lesions” in the calf area of my left leg, above the location of the original melanoma that was excised on January 5^th. (Did you catch that? A calf that showed up in a PET scan. Amazing! Who would ever have thought it possible?)

An ultrasound a few days later confirmed the existence of the two spots. This news was really disheartening. We thought it had all been located and then removed in the two radical surgeries I’d gone through. Yet now, there’s more? Where did they come from? And why?

But the official PET scan report that we got from the surgeon, Dr. Granger, lifted my spirits a little bit. These are not new malignant melanomas that had grown up. They are (or were, because they’re gone now—probably in some lab or incinerator) what’s known as “in transit disease.”

What happened, in layman’s terms, was that the original melanoma had spread into the lymphatic system (mine, that is, if we must get personal) and had moved some part of itself up to the lymph nodes. We knew that already and that’s why the lymph nodes in the left groin area were excised on February 26^th. But what we didn’t know earlier was that on its trip up the leg it dropped off some baggage. (Fortunately this baggage story missed being part of all the news we’re hearing these days about being charged for traveling with baggage on airlines. This load was free. Thanks a lot.)

The two pieces of malignant “baggage” that were dropped off were so small that apparently they  went undetected on the first PET scan, but had now lodged themselves in the system and had grown to about 5 mm each. So they had to go. Real soon.

So that’s what took place a couple days ago, on June 23^rd. “Just a simple procedure,” Dr. Granger had assured me. (Comforting, if for no other reason than he had referred to the previous two surgeries as “radical.”) “Local anesthetic with sedation, he said.” I was liking the sedation part. “One or two little incisions. Remove them with some margin [i.e. bigger divot] and stitches to close them up.”

I was in and out of the hospital in one day. As usual I enjoyed the interaction with the doctors and nursing staff. In the OR, the anesthetist asked me if it was okay to let the student nurse insert the IV. (What was I going to say? I was laying on the altar, only partially covered by the hospital gown, with a dozen or so people standing around me, needles, scalpels and other tools in hand.) “Sure,” I said sheepishly, “I was a student once. But note that when I was a student I wasn’t hurting people.” She tried to get the IV in. Twice. Then the doctor took over. I hope the student gets a better grade than I felt like giving her.

The best part of this whole adventure was that Dr. Granger assured me it would not affect my golf game. Little did he know on that count. Over the past couple weeks I had just begun to feel a little closer to normal, in that I had played a few rounds of golf. And best of all, the last three of them walking the course, as I’m normally accustomed to doing. For a guy that feels like he’s been sitting on his butt for the past seven months since this adventure started, and with rigor mortis now beginning to set in, being able to walk the five miles of the golf course felt good. But this “simple procedure” this week has set me back again.

But not for long. I’m determined to follow my doctor’s orders. As part of my diet I’m going to be playing golf—he told me to live on greens as much as possible. That’s okay with me. But I’ve also resolved (one of my “New Leg Resolutions” that I wrote about in a previous blog) to keep things in moderation. Therefore I will only play golf on days ending in “Y.” One must strive for balance, you know.

Oh, and about the blog title? About covering the totem pole with a green stocking? Well, my friend Bruce, himself a veteran of surgeries, and who bears the scars to show for them, observed that my leg was probably beginning to look like a totem pole now, what with all the carving going on.

The shame of it all is that I have to keep it covered with my green compression stocking. I’ve considered painting little signs on the stocking pointing out the work of the artists/surgeons—Dr. Nguyen down at the bottom with the carving that looks like a shark bite, and Dr. Granger in the other areas with carvings that look like what the shark may have left behind or spat out.

Don’t get me wrong. Dr. Granger has done a marvelous job of keeping me alive, and I sincerely appreciate all that he’s done for me (and I’ve told him so many times). But in this situation I do understand that beauty exists in the eye of the beholder. I stand in front of the mirror and think, “What a mess!” He looks at my healing wounds and says, very sincerely, “Oh nice! They’re looking great. That’s some of the best I’ve seen.” Wow! Really?

So maybe the end of this roller coaster ride is in sight for me. No chemotherapy or radiation in sight. Just regular checkups with the cancer dermatologist. Another PET scan in six months or so to make sure there’s no more lost baggage from the travels of the original melanoma. That’s all. Simple procedures. Just like that last bite, I’ll just stuff it all in and deal with it later.

Life goes on, and for that I’m very grateful. God has been good to me. Peace and grace have abounded throughout the storm. I am upheld by the encouragement and prayers of many friends and family. And I have a renewed perspective on life with a more profound appreciation for each new sunrise. I echo those words of King David, “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places. Surely I have a delightful inheritance.” 

Until next time…

Selah