The One About His Hair

All that doctor talk about losing my hair in the first two weeks of chemo? Fake news!

But, 11/27 was day 15, and 2020 thinks stuff like this is hilarious. My head itched in the morning, and as I grabbed some hair, it slid out of my head into my hand. Tried it again in various cranial places. Same story.

I showered, used a ridiculous amount of hairspray, then told the family what was up. I asked the boys if they wanted to help cut my hair.

Eli (8): Nah, it's fine, it's fine. But when you're done, can I put whip cream on top and pretend you're a pie?

Cohen (13): I'm in! I'll be your barber.

Jensen (10): Eww. Blech.

Looks like my barber knocked it out of the park. Eli keeps rubbing my head. And Jensen won't look at me yet...change can be hard for that one.

Did you know that it hurts to lose your hair to chemo? I had no idea. Liz vaguely remembers the pain, but she had so much pain from that first round of chemo way back when that it didn't register as very important at the time.

So I can't sleep tonight. When I lie on the pillow, the very short hairs get stuck, each one screaming as it loses its grip on my scalp. Looks like I'll be using the shaving cream and razor next.

At least it'll look like whip cream on top. You're welcome, Eli.

Broccoli For Breakfast

It's day 11 after Chemo 1, and I've learned that sometimes you just eat what sounds good. Tuna, ginger ale, crackers...even broccoli for breakfast.

Thanks to so many who sent encouragement, texts, meals, and generous gifts (including this awesome shirt from a long-time work friend and amazing person). We are so grateful for you all.

This past week was tough for our home. Liz had her regular chemo treatment, which brings her extreme exhaustion and bone aches for 2 days afterwards. Unsurprisingly, she powered through and kept things as normal for our boys as possible this week. But man, this stinks.

My fatigue has been surprising. I've nodded off mid-sentence and woken up 3 hours later. The bone aches, metal taste, tingly tongue, and bouts of nausea were expected. It hasn't been fun, but I assumed that it would be much worse.

The good news on Thursday was that my blood work shows normal white blood cell counts. If those drop then I can be at high risk of infection (and it could still happen this week, or next cycle, who knows). But for now, it's something to be grateful for.

Aaron Chemo 1 Is Done

9.5 hours. 8am-5:30pm. 17 medications since last night, including one fruit-punch-colored injection that they lovingly called "The Red Devil."

But it all went as well as it could have gone. No immediate bad reactions to the drugs. All according to plan. And the plan is to hit this whole cancer thing...hard.

Liz wasn't allowed to come inside due to Covid restrictions. It took 45 minutes of pilates-like fun to get my new port to work right, and then I had a candor-filled discussion with the PA about drug options and insurance coverage. We parted ways as friends.

As I walked back to the treatment room, the oncologist saw me down the hall, then immediately glided toward me, wagging his finger in the air as he came closer. He patted me on the shoulder and talk-yelled, "Today is the first day of the end of this cancer. Let's do this!"

I appreciate the sincere encouragement.

Echocardiogram tomorrow on the heart, just to set a baseline to check against in the future. Then blood work and doctor visit next week to check labs and WBCs (white blood cell count). I'll probably feel pretty terrible between treatment days 3-15 (Happy Thanksgiving!), but we'll see what happens.

Hair loss will be almost certain before Chemo 2.

We have friends who went through a couple of terrible Lymphoma treatment cycles. He's miraculously doing well, and we bought neon green Superman logo t-shirts a few years ago to show our support for his treatment journey.

Look what Liz surprised me with this morning.

We fight on!

     

Aaron's Treatment Plan

The surgical biopsy was Thursday, 11/5. I learned that Lyrica + anesthesia = me singing sweet versions of Kryptonite and You Raise Me Up on the operating table. I told a hilarious joke too, or at least that's what they said: two atoms walked down the road...something something lost an electron...are you sure...I'm positive...

I don't remember any of it. But it's good to be popular in the OR.

The surgeon tried to excise one lymph node on my left upper chest, but he realized it was a muscle mass (HULK SMASH!). So he went in the right side of my neck instead to grab what he needed. Surgery took 1.5 hours, and I've had some unfortunate nerve issues as side effects, but what can you do.

After a few days of waiting and healing, we finally got the biopsy results.

I have Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma (DLBCL), which is a kind of Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma (NHL). It hurts to hear it, but it is the same kind that the doctor thought it was initially, so there were no surprises. It's Stage IIA, which means it's in a couple of places (mainly my neck and behind my sternum), but it hasn't spread to other areas of the body. I've also had no symptoms, so the doctor is optimistic at a great response to treatment.

Here's this week's plan:

• Tue 11/10 - "Teaching" - talk through treatment, medications, side effects, therapies, etc. with the nurses.
• Wed 11/11 - Early morning outpatient surgery to place a port (under the skin, tapped into the vein so chemo flows freely...Liz and I will be port buddies!). I'll prepare some new tunes for the OR.
• Thu 11/12 - Chemotherapy starts at 8am. Then one treatment day, every 3 weeks, for 6 treatments.
• Fri 11/13 - Echocardiogram of the heart to get a good baseline for future comparison.

I'll likely feel sick a few days after each treatment, then 10-14 days after each treatment my white blood cell counts will drop, so we must avoid infections. (Please wear a mask for your cancer friends!) That's also when I might start losing my hair. Plus...Liz has her regularly scheduled chemo treatment on Tue 11/17 (maintenance infusions, forever...because they work!). That takes her out for 2-3 days. 

Ever plan chemo for two parents at once? Not cool.

This will be quite a ride.

The treatment plan will take us through mid-March: through Thanksgiving, my birthday, Christmas, New Year's, our oldest son's birthday, almost up to Liz's and our middle child's birthdays...

2020 is the gift that keeps on giving.

We're getting ready the best we can. But for today: we will play hooky from school, setup a theater in the living room, watch a movie and have popcorn in the middle of the day, go on a hike, jump on the trampoline, have an Xbox party, and throw the football around. The harsh realities start tomorrow.

Today, we enjoy life.

Message From Liz:

First and foremost, thank you thank you for all of your thoughts, prayers and well wishes for Aaron and our family. In a previous post from years ago, we referred to one of my cancer hiccups as a "life-altering speed bump." Well, if that was a speed bump, then this is a randomly placed curve in the road with a sharp decline and stop sign at the bottom. I constantly feel like I am a waiter balancing the plates of cancer, cancer, cooking, cleaning, laundry, homeschool, kid appointments/activities, and overall life happiness. Whew! Somehow, we all make it to the end of the meal each day to start again the next day. 

 

Many of you near and far have asked what you can do to help us balance the plates during this time. Our doctors have warned us to be extremely careful because Covid and cancer don't mix well, so traditional meal trains or dinners being dropped off isn't going to be an option at this time. With all that being said, for those that would like to help gift cards to Instacart, Target, Amazon, Chick-fil-A, Sonic, Chipotle, Costco, Grubhub, Whole Foods, Trader Joes, and house cleaners would be best for groceries, restaurants, and other household needs.

For those asking what they can do for our kiddos: special gift cards to Target, Amazon, Chick-fil-A, and Sonic just for them would be a treat. Or care packages and letters tailored to them would be amazing. Please feel free to message me on Facebook or Instagram for specific needs or ideas. 

Again, we are so grateful for all of you that have expressed your concern for us. We feel your love and are thankful to have you in our lives. 

  

The Best Year Yet

The anesthesiologist commanded me to drink a non-red Gatorade by 4am. Pre-surgery anti nausea recovery something something. So naturally I only slept from midnight to 2am.

Now sleep is again hard to come by after my lemon-lime gluttony. Maybe because my face feels naked after shaving off Coronabeard in preparation for today's biopsical event. So I'm listening to the minutes tick by until it is time to leave.

Liz will drop me off at the hospital at 5:30am to prep for the 7:30am surgical biopsy. She can't stay with me...our state now has its highest numbers of COVID hospitalizations yet, and no visitors are allowed into the surgery waiting area as a precaution to prevent further spread.

Good health policy. Bad social reality.

This week we found out through CT and PET scans that the original assumptions are correct: lymphoma, likely stage 2A, it hasn't extended to other parts of the body below the diaphragm, and it hasn't progressed into any other body systems. No surprises, fortunately. In order to clarify the specific cancer type he treatment plan, the surgeon (who doesn't have nearly as cool of a name as Liz's biopsy surgeon did) will remove one lymph node, most likely from my neck. It's the easiest one to get to, and actually the one that I first noticed was an issue. I very much like the idea of getting rid of that trouble maker. The surgery will be quick, and once I come out of recovery after a few hours, they'll call Liz to pick me up at the front door.

We should know the pathology results early next week, then determine what the plans are for starting chemo, which will likely begin quickly. We'll keep you posted.

Thanks to everyone for your heartfelt comments, texts, calls, and emails. It means a lot to us to know that you're cheering us on.

On Election Day, our 8-year-old Eli blurted out: "I really think that 2020 is going to be the best year yet." He followed it up with, "And I can't wait until 2021!"

That's the kind of optimism I needed.

This has not been a cool year, for so many people and for so many reasons. It is super uncool what's happening right now to me, to us.

But I guess that it's time to make 2020 the best year yet!

We Fight On

Cancer has once again reared its Halloweenish head. But in a cruel twist of fate befitting the dumpster fire that is 2020, this time it's for me, Aaron.

I have lymphoma.

Total blindside: I actually feel fine.

The doctor thinks that it is a type of Large B-Cell Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. We caught it early, it's low stage (probably stage 2A), and it's most likely an aggressive type of cancer that responds very well to chemotherapy. So the prognosis is actually positive, all things considered.

More tests coming, and we will know the details and treatment plan within the next week or so.

The irony isn't lost on me, that on Tuesday 10/27 we went to one cancer center for Liz's 135th chemotherapy infusion (the kind she has every 3 weeks...forever), then we hurried to a different cancer center to meet with "my" oncologist for the first time. On the same day.

My oncologist. Surreal.

To answer some questions you haven't yet asked:

• Yes, we're sure.
• No, it's not genetic. Sometimes bad stuff just happens. And it's terrible. Like now.
• Yes, we told the kids, and this type of chaos is unfortunately not new to them. Their resiliency is shining through already.
• Yes, it is curable, and that's even more ironic. Liz will always have to think about treatments, scans, bloodwork, the next doctor's visit, and the next results. I might be able to ring the bell and be "done" with treatment. Doesn't seem fair.
• Yes, we are ok financially for now. We've thankfully had a good year, and the work continues. Liz and I own a recruiting firm (murdochmason.com), and I also started a new business with a trusted partner (vitalizetalent.com). We will be ok.
• No, we don't need anything right now. Thank you! Please be patient with us as we come up with a list of what will be helpful as treatments progress.

Special requests:

• Don't let the fear of not knowing what to say keep you away. Your love and concern will give us strength.
• If you don't know what to say or do, here are some ideas in an old blog post: How Not to Say the Wrong Thing.
• Please pray for us, and especially pray for our boys. If prayer isn't your thing, talk with someone who needs a human conversation or do an act of kindness for someone.

Are you watching the NBC show This Is Us? One scene struck us during the season opener while we  pretended like we weren't crying.

Beth explained to her husband, Randall, what she learned early in life. "It's the tragedies that define our lives. They are the fenceposts on which the rest of our lives hang. I always think about that, like, our lives are just hanging there, between these really sad fenceposts. Baby, you were born out of tragedy. Multiple tragedies. All that loss, all that sadness...and look what you hung on your fenceposts. Look what you have right in front of you, right here in this room. I mean, look what you did with all of that. Do you see it?"

Randall looked at their children and thoughtfully replied, "I see it." Beth finished with this:

"This pain is not forever. This moment in time is not forever.
Nothing is forever...except us. We fight on."

Liz and I have planted plenty of sad fenceposts. But as we look at our boys and our blessings, we realize that we have hung many happy and amazing things between the standards of sadness. We have purpose and power to fight this, and so we will.

We fight on.