# A Ton of Bricks (1 Viewer)



## ClosetWriter (Oct 17, 2011)

What weighs more a ton of bricks, or a ton of feathers? Seems like a pretty easy question doesn’t it?

Last Thursday I went to the University of Michigan Cancer Center for my six-week follow-up appointment. I finished two-months of radiation on September 1[SUP]st[/SUP], and was due back to have a blood test. I arrived oblivious to the moment. I had become a robot in dealing with my prostate cancer. I was told to do this, or do that, and I did. I was told to go here, or go there, and I went. All of this had become routine for me; it is what my life had become. 

It had been nearly a year since I first met with my oncologist. At that time I asked him, straight forward, “What are my chances of surviving?” He responded, “You have a 2 percent chance of not surviving.” I know – kind of a backward way of telling me I have a 98 percent chance of surviving. I went numb for a second.

During the twelve-months that followed I learned to not expect a conclusion anytime soon. Each step of the way I hoped to hear, “it is going great; you are cured.” That never came. Not because there wasn’t hope, or optimism, but because that is just how a battle with cancer works. You have to accept that it is a marathon – not a sprint. That was tough to do, but I did.

When I walked into the waiting room I was very comfortable; I knew the routine. I checked in, and sat down to fill out the normal paperwork before I could be seen by the doctor. I finished quickly because everything was going well, and I had no problems to report. They called me back, and led me to an open examination room where I sat down. I started to read a magazine since I assumed I would have to wait a bit for the doctor.

The doctor walked in. I knew he was a big fan of the University’s football team, as was I, so I said, “Go Blue.” He smiled, and said, “Yeah they are doing well aren’t they?” He had always been a “Tell it like it is guy,” so I probably shouldn’t have been shocked when he told me that the results of my blood test were not good. He informed me that it appears that even after going through radiation that my PSA (Prostate Specific Antigen) had doubled from .2 to .4. He added, “This means that we are no longer treating you in terms of curing the cancer; we must now treat you for a chronic disease in hopes to slow it down.

It is funny how a person’s brain can work during moments like this. For some reason, as soon as he finished talking, I compared what he just said to something I recalled hearing while watching a news report about sailors who were missing from a boating mishap on Lake Huron. One of the officials said, “We are no longer treating this situation as a search and rescue – it is now a recovery operation.” 

I became confused. I wasn’t sure how I should feel, or what I should think. I asked him, “What does this mean in terms of my survival?” He stated, while looking me straight in the eyes, “Fifty-percent of men your age, who have the same form of cancer you do, can live up to ten-years; the other fifty-percent, who knows.” I thanked him, and shook his hand after he made an appointment for me to see another doctor in December.

During the next three-hours, while driving home, my mind was going from one thing to the next. How am I going to get through this? What will be my state-of-mind? Will I have to deal with pain as my time winds down? How is my wife going to make it after I am gone? Will she lose the house we built with our own hands? Who will take care of her? Will she move, and leave everything we worked for behind? How will my kids handle this? Will people avoid me because they don’t know what to say or how to act around me? Will I become an introvert and close everyone out? I stopped cold on that one.

It will be two-years ago this December that my father died, at the age of 73, from cancer. During the last few weeks of his life he became distant. He didn’t mean to, but he had so much on his mind that he had a hard time living the life that remained in front of him. I often wondered how tormenting that must have been. I just realized I would soon find out.

This weekend my brother and his wife came to visit. They stayed overnight since they live three hours away. I fought hard to be upbeat and enjoy the time with them, and for the most part I was able to do it. A couple of times I caught myself staring into the bathroom mirror fighting back tears, but I was able to get a hold of my emotions. We had a good time together, and it helped to distract me from the torment.
It is hard to keep positive when the last thing on your mind when you fall asleep and the first think you think of when you wake up is “I’m going to die.”

All my life I have been a very determined individual. I have foolishly thought that I can do anything – no matter how impossible it seemed. I remember my father once, half-joking while talking to me about my son’s athletic ability; said, “With your determination, and my athletic ability, nothing should stop Jason (my son) from excelling in athletics. When I arrived at work this morning, I sat in my car, and thought about dad’s comment, and I became angry. I had just spent the last four days feeling sorry for myself. I was pissed. I will not let cancer do this to me. It is already going to shorten my life, and I will not let it take the time I have. I will not go around dwelling on that which I will miss. I will not use it as an excuse to be rude, or ask for sympathy. I will not let it steal from me. I will be the most upbeat cancer patient in the history of the world, and as long as I feel good (as I do right now) I am going to enjoy life.

About six-weeks ago I started to build a small building behind my house. I told my wife and friends it was for creating a spot that I could repair computers for people, and to run my small tech consulting company from. That wasn’t entirely true. The whole time I have worked on this building it has been in my thoughts that this would be the perfect spot for me to sit in my office, looking out over the marsh, and write. It is almost time for the snow to start falling, and I don’t have the roof on yet, but I will give it my best to finish it, and I will write. I have a lot of writing to do. I somehow feel now that this will be my legacy. I have a lot to say, and I will not let cancer stop me from leaving my mark.

…So – what weighs more a ton of bricks, or a ton of feathers? Obviously they both weigh the same. However, neither comes close to the weight of a ton of reality.


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## nerot (Oct 17, 2011)

ClosetWriter,

Thank you so much for sharing your experience.  You are such a gifted writer and it is important for people to hear what someone with a chronic illness goes through as they sort out their thoughts and feelings.  It can be so isolating when a person is unable to express themselves, especially at a time when they need to be heard and understood.  Sometimes it is a very lonely journey.

I look forward to reading what you have to say, knowing that it will be said well.  

As for the rest, my thoughts and prayers are with you as you make your way.


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## The Backward OX (Oct 18, 2011)

Hi, ClosetWriter.

There are many different ways of treating prostate cancer. For example, my partner’s father was cured by having an orchiectomy (sometimes spelled orchidectomy), which not many would have heard of.

Have you researched the various treatments, spoken to other doctors? People with prostate cancer really need to be proactive and not let doctors push them around. In this country we have an organisation known as The Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia which, amongst other things, keeps those interested up to speed on happenings in prostate treatments; I’m sure there’d be a similar group in the US. 

This has nothing to do with prostate cancer, but here’s a true story about differing medical opinions which can possibly be applied to situations like yours: bear with me; you may get something from it.

Last December I had a CT scan to identify the cause of a problem I was having with breathing and swallowing. A huge mass (lump) was found attached to my thyroid gland. That scan also identified some lesions in my right lung. The radiologist postulated that one or more of those pulmonary lesions may have metastasised (migrated) from the lump on my thyroid. In January I had my thyroid gland plus the attached lump removed from my throat, and subsequently the lump was diagnosed as malignant.

I then had a PET scan to determine whether the cancer had spread. Somehow, the results of that scan were not relayed to me by my surgeon, and I forgot to ask. Next, I had a dose of radioactive iodine (RAI) to kill any remaining thyroid tissue left behind in my neck after the operation. The theory was that if any of the lesions in my lung were thyroid-related, the RAI would kill them too. Then I had another type of scan to observe the results of the RAI.

That scan showed no reaction from the lesions in my lung.

So in August I had a second CT scan. This technique, of taking two CT scans, compares the size of lesions then and now, and if they remain unchanged, there’s an assumption they’re benign.

The lesions had not changed in size. Whoopee!

Then I remembered the PET scan and obtained a copy of that report direct from the imaging clinic. It said, amongst other things, that at least one of the lesions in my lung was avid, meaning it had reacted positively to the test technique used in conjunction with the scan.

Hello, hello, what’s all this then? One scan says “forget it”, the other one says “further evaluation is needed”. 

I took both reports to my GP. He agreed it was confusing and referred me to a respiratory physician, who I saw just last week. The respiratory physician came down on the side of the CT radiologist, and said the PET radiologist was possibly worrying over nothing. I’m having another CT scan in 6 months and if nothing’s changed, it all goes on the back burner.

So, there might just be something there, in my story, for you and your prostate diagnosis. Don’t necessarily take just one person’s word that your case is bad news. Check it out yourself. Google came up with over 20,000 hits for books on the subject.

Remember, doctors are only human. They all make mistakes.

Good luck.


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## Divus (Oct 18, 2011)

Closet writer,  - well you have certainly locked yourself away as a writer  - unless you haven't told us about what you have elsewhere written.

Regardless of the subject, this was a beautiful piece of writing.  Thank you - it made my lips quiver and my voice croak. 

As for the subject,  well we all get a one way ticket at some time and as we get older so we wonder how the bus conductor will present himself.

You have definitely still got your marbles so keep on being positive.

More writing please.

Dv


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## ClosetWriter (Oct 18, 2011)

nerot said:


> ClosetWriter,
> 
> Thank you so much for sharing your experience. You are such a gifted writer and it is important for people to hear what someone with a chronic illness goes through as they sort out their thoughts and feelings. It can be so isolating when a person is unable to express themselves, especially at a time when they need to be heard and understood. Sometimes it is a very lonely journey.
> 
> ...



Thank you for your kind words. I intend to write as often as possible, and I intend on living life. I know that I have always had a hard time talking to a person with cancer, so I decided that I need to let people know the thoughts of someone going through it.


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## ClosetWriter (Oct 18, 2011)

The Backward OX said:


> Hi, ClosetWriter.
> 
> There are many different ways of treating prostate cancer. For example, my partner’s father was cured by having an orchiectomy (sometimes spelled orchidectomy), which not many would have heard of.
> 
> ...



Thanks OX... My wife has already mentioned to me that we should look for a second opinion. I am willing to do that, but having already read everything I could find about this disease, It appears that my doctor is every bit as good as I thought he was. This doesn't mean that I am not still holding on to the possibility that the PSA level can still go down. Just like every step of the way, so far, I can only wait and see. The good thing about this type of cancer is: even though it is very deadly it is also slow to advance.


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## ClosetWriter (Oct 18, 2011)

Divus said:


> Closet writer, - well you have certainly locked yourself away as a writer - unless you haven't told us about what you have elsewhere written.
> 
> Regardless of the subject, this was a beautiful piece of writing. Thank you - it made my lips quiver and my voice croak.
> 
> ...



Thank you... I am glad I was able to touch you with my words. I always have thought of someone being a writer when they have been paid for something they have written. In those terms I am no writer. Regardless of that fact, I feel as though maybe I am supposed to write about what I am about to go through. The only thing that worries me is the thought that I will be pulled into the emotions of which I am writing, and lose precious time of positive living. Even so -- I feel it is my duty.


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## Divus (Nov 14, 2011)

Cw.   This business of dying comes to us all.   Some of us however have to face our inevitable demise a little sooner in life.      
The death itself is a matter of the light going out.         One minute you are conscious, ie thinking, reasoning, communicating, feeling and in the next minute   the clock stops.   Sound, smell, taste, touch indeed all the senses  have ended. 

In your case the doctor has given you a time scale.     It will not be exact.     A soldier on the front doesn't get such a prognostication and- he might go at any minute.


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## ClosetWriter (Nov 14, 2011)

Believe me -- I have done a lot of thinking lately about all of the possible ways there are to deal with my situation. I have come to the conclusion that there is no benefit in looking toward the end. I know that it will come; as you stated it will come for all of us. I have decided there is too much life that I need to live, and that I am not going to waste it looking at, and worrying about, the inevitable. This is what keeps me going, and it keeps me happy.


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## Cran (Nov 15, 2011)

All strength to you and your family, *ClosetWriter*. 

The message is good, and for me at least, timely. The piece itself can use some minor editing; eg, to get rid of the hyphens.


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## CFFTB (Nov 16, 2011)

Damn damn damn. You always need second & even third opinions at times like this. And at the risk of sounding cliche, your positive attitude is half the battle. Studies have proven it, & you sound like you're thinking in the right direction. 

Getting that kind of news throws the earth off its axis & your view of the universe is skewed, but you sound like you have solid determination which will help you. And thank God for family. Without them we're nothing. 

My 81 year-old uncle recently had a brain tumor operation. They got 90% of it & he'll knock the rest out with chemo, but on top of that, he's one of the most positive people I know & is a natural born warhorse. He'll fight this & he'll win. It wouldn't occur to him not to. You sound - from what I've gathered from your posts - the same way. Write on, closetwriter. Write on.


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## BabaYaga (Nov 17, 2011)

Hi Closet Writer, firstly, that was a really well written piece and it makes for a very inspiring read. 

It  kind of reminds me of Randy Pausch who, a couple of weeks after also  being told that his cancer had progressed, was spotted by a colleague  bopping like a mad-man to the radio in his car. I think it's what you  said about living in each moment, right now, to its fullest, regardless  of what the future may or may not hold. 

Good luck with your writing room, it sounds amazing and I'm sure we're all looking forward to the first excerpt of that novel.


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## candid petunia (Nov 17, 2011)

A beautiful write, ClosetWriter, it brought tears to my eyes. You're sending a message to everyone who reads this. I really admire how you're being positive. From what's left of life, we cannot afford to just let it slip by. It must be hard at times, but stay strong. And may God be with you.


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## ClosetWriter (Nov 17, 2011)

Thanks to everyone for their kind words. November 28th I go back to the doctor, and I am grasping on to the possibility that my PSA level will have dropped. Regardless of whether it does or not, I intend on enjoying life and laughing as much as I can. In fact, here is a top ten list that I came up with:


*Top Ten Good Things About Dying Young*

10.       Never have to worry about your mother-in-law moving in with you
 9.        Save lots of money on dental work
 8.        No need to acquire a taste for prune juice
 7.        No deep conversations about gas prices or the weather
 6.        Don’t have to deal with blue-haired women hitting on you
 5.        Don’t have to put your glasses on to see what you are eating
 4.        No old man smell
 3.        Never have to drive for five miles with my turn signal on
 2.        Don’t have to run to the store to buy milk and eggs when the weatherman says we are going to get one inch of snow tomorrow
 1.        Never have to say, “Help – I have fallen and can’t get up”  



I hope everyone can get a chuckle out of this. I smiled the whole time I was writing it.


Dave


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## candid petunia (Nov 17, 2011)

I wish you all the best.


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## CelticMist (Nov 18, 2011)

I think you wrote this beautifully and shows someone who is facing a considerable uncertainty and doing it with incredible positivity and you have clearly thought a great deal about it, you are very good writer and I think how you write can inspire people, give hope as you do it intelligently and are very articualte about what you're own experinces were. I loved it, especially the punch line message at the beginning and end, look forward to more.


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## Powderhound (Nov 21, 2011)

lovely piece of writing, love the ending.
was the "building a small building" deliberate?


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## ClosetWriter (Nov 21, 2011)

Powderhound said:


> lovely piece of writing, love the ending.
> was the "building a small building" deliberate?



A few years ago I was "forced" to take a writing class as part of the requirements for my computer information systems degree. My instructor was a former writer for the Detroit Free Press. He sent me an email, after I finished the class, and encouraged me to write. He even said, "Who knows -- maybe someday people all over the world will read what you write." I see that you are located in Hong Kong, so I guess he was correct.  

The building that I am currently trying to complete is 12 x 24. It is built into the downward slope of a hill facing a huge marsh behind my home. The back half of the building has a second floor that has a breathtaking view of the marsh (See the view here: http://www.writingforums.com/member...my-heaven-picture2519-view-my-new-office.html ). For the last few winters I have been looking out the window of my home and imagining my office being built. This fall I decided that it was time for action. I have worked hard, since the end of August, to get it closed in before winter hits. This past weekend I put the trusses, and the plywood, on the second floor. It is almost completely closed in now.

I am very proud of what I have accomplished because every single step of the process I have done alone. I am not a builder, but have never been afraid to take on a challenge; nor have I been very good at finishing things that I start, but this is something that I “will” finish. My legacy depends on it. 

you asked if Building a small building was deliberate. I guess, if your question is did I deliberately build a small building, the answer is yes, but if you are asking, did I phrase it that poorly, intentionally, then the answer is no.


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## Powderhound (Nov 21, 2011)

Hi Closetwriter
thanks for the lovely, detailed and very interesting reply, I was asking about the phrasing but I'm glad you gave me more than I was looking for. Iv'e also erected a few small buildings for myself as a complete amateur so Im with you on that. P


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