Cancer could be so much worse

"Are you scared?" The question came from the heart. It was as natural as breathing after nearly thirty-three years of marriage. My wife and I were out for coffee, talking about my diagnosis and how neither of us wanted  to go through this, but how now that we are we are determined to get through it positively. Just before this sincere question was asked she had suggested to me that I go back to my hometown to visit with my family before I start my radiation and chemotherapy. It's not that I didn't want to see my family - I love them and they are a source of tremendous strength and support for both of us. But I suppose it's safe to say I had a failure of imagination regarding going back to see them. It honestly just didn't occur to me as an important thing to do because I guess I'm being a little selfish right now. "Think about your dad though," she said to me. My father was an amazing man. He was not without faults, but he was humble an

GIRCRT. Those six letters. It's an abbreviation. It's not even an acronym because you can't pronounce it. But those six letters are like a seed crystal around which the rest of my cancer journey will form. Let's take a few moments to unpack this protocol code's six letters and what they mean. GI:  Pretty simple; I have a gastrointestinal cancer so the general area of cancer treatment - GI - forms the start of my protocol code. R: Rectal. Also not surprisingly, this further narrows down the area in my GI tract that is affected by cancer because my primary tumour was removed from my rectum. C: Capecitabine . That is the drug that will be used as adjuvant therapy to eliminate any micrometastases that might have formed when cancer cells (from the blood vessels in the primary tumour or the affected lymph node that was involved around my rectum) flowed into my bloodstream and out to any other part of my body. These micrometastases can form anywhere, but most of

I met both of my new specialists over the past few days. I'll get to those experiences in a moment but first I want to describe what it was like to be admitted to the provincial Cancer Agency who is providing my care. The British Columbia Cancer Agency  - under its hip new moniker BC Cancer - is responsible for cancer research and treatment for the citizens of British Columbia. One of the province-wide components of the Provincial Health services Authority (PHSA), BC Cancer operates cancer treatment centres throughout the province. This still requires a lot of cancer patients to travel to see their specialists or get their treatments, but in my case my closest cancer clinic was across town from where I live. A half-hour drive - maybe up to an hour if the traffic is bad - is the only barrier between me and my care; all services, treatments, and investigations are fully funded by the province. Well, everything except parking. Some people in this province get VERY upset that patie

Fifty years ago yesterday I made a telephone call. Phone calls were a big deal half a century ago. I lived in a home with my two sisters, my mom and my dad, one aunt, and my grandmother and grandfather. We had one phone. Just one. Seven people, with one phone. It had its own table and when it rang it was answered, always after the second ring. Getting a phone call was important. Making a call was no easy task either. In order to call someone, I had to remember seven numbers, putting my finger in the hole of a heavy metal ring and spinning it clockwise until my finger hit another heavy metal stop for each one, then letting go so the ring would spin back to its starting position. Dialling a phone number took time. It was hard work. When you made a call, the ceremony of making that call heightened the importance. So why was I making this phone call if it was so much work? And why do I remember making one phone call fifty years ago? Simple - it was my birthday and I was calling m

It's now two weeks since my life-changing surgery. I'm feeling pretty good for the most part - some minor complaints but honestly nothing that I didn't experience before  my major surgery. Life is getting back to normal. Except, of course, it isn't. There's still the pesky little matter of the pathology studies on the tissue that my surgeon removed. And a few days ago my surgeon called to talk about them. "I have your results," he said after greeting me on the phone. I felt like telling him that it was Saturday and he should be out cycling or hiking or sleeping in or whatever gave him joy on a Saturday. But he is dedicated and was already taking the time to call me so I dispensed with the life coaching and focused on my care for a few minutes. "Okay. What did it show?" I asked him. "Well, in an odd way it was the best possible result from your surgery," he started out. "There were no cancer cells found in the rectum or as