Cancer Flashbacks With Paul Reed Smith

I am well aware that it has been a while since I last posted on here.  I do have a reason.  Trying to type with a toddler in the house means most of your writing looks like this "aklsjoun   saiolkjdfslak  klafjl;a".  And even if he were not "helping" me on the keyboard, it is hard to concentrate on writing when you have a two foot tall individual that moves just shy of the speed of light, that you are yelling things at like "get your fingers out of the dogs' eyes", "no, the remote control doesn't belong in the toilet", "we can't blow bubbles outside right now, it's 14' outside, and dark", "get your fingers out of the dogs' eyes", "where did you find that, get it out of your mouth", "get your fingers out of the dogs' eyes", "no, the table lamp is not a toy", and "get your fingers out of the dogs' eyes".  (In case you were wondering, learning the parts of the face was a very challenging time for our dogs' vision.  Maybe we will have to find them a "seeing eye person".)

So, because of the delay, I am writing about an incident that happened in June.  I think we have all been in a situation where a sound, or picture, or smell has brought you back to something in your past.  For instance, every time I smell VapoRub, I think back to that time as a little child that my great grandmother rubbed it into an open wound.  It still brings tears to my eyes.  Well, for the most part I feel I am over this cancer stuff.  Sure, I still have a few more years of CTscans, X-rays, blood tests, and all of the other monitoring.  I am not exactly sure how many years, because asking an oncologist how much longer you need to see him, is similar to asking your parents on a road trip "are we there yet?".  I think the answer has always been "4 or 5 more years" (for the oncologist visits, not the road trip...it just seemed like it took 4 or 5 years sometimes).  Other than the endless doctors' appointments, I really don't have much to do with cancer.  Oh there is still the solemn tone from friends you don't see very often asking "How are you doing?"  But for the most part, I am living my life.

I love playing guitar.  I play like I play golf, I don't play particularly well, but I don't take it too seriously and I enjoy doing it.  When I had my surgery, I was restricted in what I could lift.  Luckily, just before I was diagnosed, I had found some cheap used Paul Reed Smith guitars.  They were the lightest guitars I owned, and were pretty much the only ones I could lift and play for a long time.  They were the one thing that was able to get my mind off how bad things were for an hour or so at a time.  When I finished my chemo, my family all pitched in and bought me a nice Paul Reed Smith for Christmas.  The guitar means a lot to me for so many reasons.  First I just like the guitar!  But it symbolized closing the door on cancer.  It meant a lot for my family to pitch in and get me something like that.  And it was something I spent a lot of time with during my "chemo brain" months.  So, a coincidental introduction to PRS guitars, ending up having a pretty significant impact on that period of my life.

Which brings me to what happened in June.  Every year, Sweetwater Music has what basically amounts to "musician porn" at their campus in Fort Wayne, Indiana.  Literally hundreds of manufacturers are there showing off all their new toys, letting you play with them, and they bring in dozens of endorsed artists (some more famous than others) to trick you into thinking that if you just had that equipment, you could make all those amazing sounds too!  Well, Paul Reed Smith was on hand.  Not just the company, Paul Reed Smith the actual person.  In my past, I worked for a record company, regularly hanging out backstage and on tour buses of multi-platinum and even diamond selling artists (diamond is ten million copies).  I was never nervous or star struck hanging out with rock stars, but being the geek I am, I was excited to see a guy that designs guitars.  

One good thing is, I was right at home with my fellow geeks, because there was a full auditorium of us waiting to see him (although, I was one of the few that showed up an hour early to stand in line, and made it to the front row).  I watched his presentation in awe when he talked about all the technical things that make his company's guitars sound so good.  I had heard he was good about doing "meet and greets" with his fans, and throughout waiting in line, and his presentation, and...waiting in line again to meet him, I ran through my head exactly what I was going to say.  I was going to tell him, how his products got me through some dark times.  Thank him profusely.  And maybe talk to him about the technical nuances of a quality guitar (not that I know what I am talking about, but I can fake it).  

The problem with be one of the first ones in the auditorium for the presentation, is that means you are going to be one of the last ones out to stand in line for the meet and greet.  The whole time in line, I ran over my little monologue in my head.  Over and over again, as the line grew smaller and I moved closer and closer to this guy who really has no idea that his guitar helped me with my cancer fight (although his company does regular donate to cancer charities).  Then the big moment, I am standing before THE Paul Reed Smith...and I feel like I am at the oncologist's office for the first time, all the emotion came flooding back from that day.  I felt the fear, felt overwhelmed, I felt like I was going to burst into tears...but I WAS NOT going to do that...no matter what!

So, I stood before Paul Reed Smith, handed him part of my guitar to sign.  And was afraid if I said anything I would have an emotional outburst.  So, in an effort to hold back this flood of emotions, I stood there looking like I was probably about to punch him.  He asked me if I would like the autograph personalized and my big speech that I had practiced over and over again, was now reduced to one word, "Tom".  Yes, all that I had planned on saying, all that I wanted to thank him for was boiled down to me barely uttering my own name through clenched teeth.  He politely signed my piece for me and I briskly walked out of there, trying not to break into an all out sprint as I headed to my car, hoping if I went fast enough I could outrun this emotional avalanche.  But I was also hoping if I couldn't keep it together, I would be far enough away that no one would see me.

Now, let me just say one thing in my defense.  The surgery I had to help prevent a different kind of cancer, has caused me to be a hypoglycemic.  And sometimes when people have low blood sugar, they tend to get more intense emotions.  And, because I am a big geek, I got so busy looking at musician porn, and standing in line an hour early, and sitting through a presentation, and standing in line again, that I went about 14 hours without eating (not a smart thing for a hypoglycemic to do).  So I will blame part of this incident on that, so as not to appear to be such a wuss.

So, I didn't get to thank Paul Reed Smith.  And to be honest, I don't know what he would have thought about it if I did.  It's not like he found the lump, or performed the surgery, or administered the chemo, but he was still important to my recovery, even if that isn't why he got in the guitar business.  But this incident says a lot about us cancer survivors.  You never know what is going to help us get through a hard time.  It could be a book, a phone call, visits from a friend, or a cheap used guitar.  And it is hard to feel "done" with cancer when you are still going to doctors' appointments every few months.  They tell you it's over with, but in the very next breath, tell you to come back in November.  And just like any other major event in your life, you never know what trigger will bring you back a memory or a feeling, that you may or may not want to experience again.  At least, I got to meet him.  I got something signed to me personally.  And I got something to eat so something like that didn't happen again.

Back To Normal Levels After Testicular Cancer

One of the things many people worry about as they undergo treatment for testicular cancer is how will this affect them afterwards?  Well, I finally received my answer.

One thing I was worried about was testosterone levels.  One of my nurse friends said it would be good to have lower testosterone levels because it would decrease my future cancer risks.  However, commercials are constantly pointing out how my becoming a fat, lazy slob as I get older has nothing to do with me being a fat lazy slob, but low testosterone (that they would be able to fix).  Feeling like I was in a "damned if I do..." position I asked my urologist about it.  I was told that high testosterone doesn't increase the chance of prostate cancer, but it makes it grow faster if you do get it.  And low testosterone may make you more inclined to be a fat, lazy slob, but it doesn't really cause any health problems on its own (being a fat, lazy slob does though).  Worried that my levels would be half, he told me how most duplicated organs aren't working 100%  all the time anyway.  That is why people with one lung or kidney can still function, because the remaining one turns it up a little.  After going through a bunch more explanation in doctor talk which I kinda blanked out on, we decided to test my testosterone and the results came back that I was at normal levels.  So, I have to blame being a fat, lazy slob on something else...like the lack of global warming in my area making it too cold to go outside.

Recently, my wife went to her "female doctor" and somehow came home with an appointment for me!  I get enough doctors' appointments scheduled on my own without having to do someone else's homework too.  Anyway, I was told to go back to the Jerkatorium (official doctor lingo for a sperm bank) and see what my levels were, just in case we ever want to have another kid, which I am told we aren't having, but do this just in case we change our minds one day, which isn't up to me anyway, and it is always a woman's prerogative to change her mind so I should just keep my mouth shut...or something like that.  I will spare you the details of the inner workings of the Jerkatorium, because I have previously written about that.  But what I did find disturbing this time was the addition to the "library" of DVD "aids".  While carefully pushing them around trying my best not to actually touch anything in there, (because after all I know what people do in that room because I was about to do it) I noticed most of the DVD cases were empty.  I wish I could immediately decontaminate everything I am wearing as soon as I leave that room, so it certainly would never cross my mind that I should grab a integral part of the functioning of this room and bring it home with me.  Ewww!  Anyway, we will just fast forward to the results.  That came back saying I was normal too!  Not normal for a testicular cancer survivor, but normal for a normal person...assuming normal people go into a room, look at dirty magazines, leave their business on the counter, and occasionally steal DVDs.

So the moral of the story is, don't steal from the Jerkatorium because you DO know where that stuff has been....NOOO, that's not the moral of the story!  The moral is, not only is testicular cancer a very survivable cancer, but you can regain your normal life back.  You won't be half a man.  You can still have normal levels of testosterone and swimmers, and even if your tests results don't come back normal, you can easily fix the testosterone levels, and if you froze your swimmers like I did before surgery, you can still have children or use it for disgusting pranks to put on YouTube and none of your friends will ever eat or drink anything at your house again.

And there are even some positives of being part of the One Nut Club!  I will close with this Top 10 List:

Top 10 Benefits of Only Having One Testicle

10  You only have to manscape half as much (if you are a manscaper).
9  When you test your levels, you health insurance company is actually paying for you to look at porn!
8  You have more room in your underwear.
7  Not as much to get sweaty down there.
6  People are afraid to use the phrase "Don't go off half cocked" around you.
5  When it is really cold out you can say "I am freezing my ball off!"
4  When your toddler is flailing around like a twerking jellyfish, your chances of getting hit in the nuts just dropped by 50% (anecdotal evidence).
3  Your self exams are done in half the time.  Don't forget to do them!
2  You can make the comment "I would give my right (or left) nut for ______"  then you could offer to go get it from the surgeon.
1  When you wear Speedos you only have to worry about stuff slipping out on one side. 

When Are You Done With Cancer?

As I write this I am about two and a half years out of my cancer diagnosis and treatment.  Aside from a little skin cancer scare (which turned out was nothing) one could say I have been done with cancer.  However, that is not exactly how it works in the cancer game.

There are so many questions as to when you are officially no longer a cancer patient.  Was it the surgery?  The chemo?  When you quit going to an oncologist?  Or when you finally pay off all your medical bills? (In which case I will never be done.)  In many ways I no longer feel like a cancer patient, but at the same time, at the beginning of every month I look at my calendar and see what doctors appointments I have this round.  It is hard to feel "well" or "cured" when you are sitting in a waiting room all of the time.  I mean who needs a People magazine subscription when you can read it for free every month while you wait for the nurse to call your name?  The good news is the frequency of the appointments slowly grows further and further apart.  I think I am down to CT scans once a year now (so I only have to drink a half gallon of nasty tasting water a year).

The funny thing is, because of the doctors' good reports you feel like your not well.  Because of the type of work I do, I tend to run into people that I haven't seen for months or even a year and they always ask how I am doing  With the frequency of doctors appointments my answer is usually,"Well, I was just at the doctor and they said I was fine."  That is the Catch 22 of being in monitoring, you have to see an "ist" each month (oncologist, urologist, gastroenterologist, etc.) but at least they say you are doing good each time.  You don't feel like you can say "Oh, the cancer thing is over." because you are still seeing an oncologist, but at the same time you don't feel like a real cancer patient because you are not having to go through any treatment.

On one hand, it is nice to have the peace of mind every month that you are safe for four more weeks.  On the other hand things get so routine, you wonder why you are paying more and more for something you could probably do yourself at this point.  Heck, I am in and out of my urologist's office so fast, I could probably just drive by his office slowly with my scrotum hanging out the car window and toss out my co-pay.  

I think the biggest part of not feeling "over" cancer is the mental aspect of it.  Every bump, twitch, even feeling tired when you don't think you should makes you wonder if just maybe it's something bigger.  And not even your thoughts are safe.  My one-year-old had been going through a phase where he wants me to hug me, or have me hold him, or just lean against me.  Most people would just understand it is the clingy phase that all toddlers go through, but my mind wondered if he wasn't sensing something, that maybe I wouldn't be around much longer and he needed to get his quality time in while I was still alive.

Even happy dreams aren't safe.  I know two people that have flatlined on operating tables and come back to life.  They both tell of people that have died greeting them at the end of the tunnel and telling them that it's not their time yet to go back to earth.  I have had some friends die and some family members die, but only one person in my life has died that I saw everyday, and would spend an hour just talking to everyday about whatever.  Well, that person was in my dream the other night.  He welcomed me into Heaven, showed me around, and we picked up on conversations we started before he died.  I woke up feeling so good knowing that if I died, this person would be the one that brought me through the tunnel and took me to see my other friends and family that have already passed.  But that good feeling quickly turned to dread, as I wondered why I was dreaming about dying and does my body know something that it hasn't shared with my brain yet.  Maybe part of my brain does know and it is just not sharing the information with the rest of my brain the same way it does when I ask it where I put the car keys.

The biggest joy I have in life is watching my son play, which we weren't even sure we were going to be able to have when all this started.  Even while sitting there just watching him run around like a drunk kamikaze gymnast, I worry about recurrence and not being around to watch him grow up.  Or not being around and maybe his only memory of me will be me yelling at him to quit splashing in the dogs' water dish (which to be fair is something I do approximately 1500 times everyday).

So am I done with cancer?  The doctors say "yes" but then tell me to schedule an appointment to come back and make sure it's still "yes".  Physically, outside of underwear not fitting quite the way it used to, I feel like I am done with cancer.  Mentally, the chemo fog has cleared up, but there is always that cancer cloud hanging over me, just like a summertime meteorologist's permanent "30% chance of storms".  The ironic thing is the more my son shines the more I worried I get about that cancer cloud.  But until then I will enjoy every second I get to spend with my son, even the hours on end I spend pulling him out of the dog dish, and hopefully live long enough to teach him how to check for testicular cancer on himself one day.

What's So Super About The Superbowl Or Ultimate About The UFC?

As the Superbowl draws near, I started to think more about sports.  I have never really been that into sports.  The only sports I would watch were sumo wrestling (which is very rarely on television here in the the U.S.) and I have switched from watching boxing to Ultimate Fighting Championship/Mixed Martial Arts fighting.  Recently I have found myself not even being that interested in watching UFC.  What does this have to do with cancer?  I will explain.
When I worked in the music business, it was not enough to just be able to write good songs and play an instrument well.  Whenever we submitted an artist to our superiors, the first question we were asked was "What's their story?".  That is why you may know that Jewel was homeless and lived out of her car while she was a struggling musician, or that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil at the Crossroads, or that Justin Bieber was found on YouTube, or that every boy band ever created is a complete fabrication and they all suck.  The point is, there has been a long history in the entertainment business of selling story along with the product.  If someone overcomes something, or has an interesting back story, for some reason we are more likely to buy their products.
Unfortunately, in the entertainment business today someone can NOT be famous unless they have tragic beginnings, no matter how non-tragic those beginnings actually are.  In the past, when I wanted to watch two consenting men or women beat on each other for large amounts of money, I could watch the fights on Strikeforce MMA and they would show the fighters walk out, beat on each other, talk to a commentator about beating on each other, thank God for allowing them to beat on one another, and then the next fighters would come out.  Now the UFC is pretty much the only one left in the fight game, and their style is much different.  You can't just watch a fight, you have to learn about the struggles in their life before you can watch them beat someone.  Because everyone has to have a story, whether one actually exists or not, some stories are as tragic as "Although the Damien 'the Orphan Slayer' Diablo has been on a roll lately, in the beginning life was not so easy.  While all of his friends were riding around on Razor Scooters, all he had were his older brother's hand-me-down Rollerblades.  At night while other kids were on their Playstations, he was stuck playing those games you buy at Dollar General, that run on a 9-volt battery and plug into the back of the television, and only play nine games, most of them just color versions of Pong..."  In other words, many times the "tragic stories" are still better than the life you lived growing up.  So now, a fight that may last all of 45 seconds, has a 20 minute featurette preceding it.  The result of hearing the "tragic stories" on how the fighter wanted a new Camaro for their sixteenth birthday, but only got a used Trans Am,  just make me resent both fighters and I root for them both to lose.
The stories make me think about what really matters.  I have said on here before that my cancer fight was easy compared to what many have to go through.  The fact of the matter is, if you are the one going through the cancer battle, then the fight is huge to you.  I had some rough patches in my chemo, but if needed, I would not hesitate to go through it again.  When I see the "Titantic Struggle" referring to a fight that at most last fifteen minutes, I think how I would have preferred to have gone through a fifteen minute pommelling than weeks of chemo side effects.
As fighters and football players are praised as great warriors or heroes on the field, I ask myself what they have accomplished.  My fight was easy.  Although I was very worried about the cancer spreading and I still worry about the cancer recurring, I was never that worried about my cancer killing me (since we caught it soon enough).  But some others in my support group were in much worse shape.  One has had stage 3 prostate cancer longer than most NFL players' careers.  There was a guy who had to have a hole cut in his skull so they could install a bag that would deliver his chemo directly to the tumor in his brain, all while trying to reassure his two young sons that everything would be fine.  I saw the fear in one breast cancer survivor's eyes as her two biggest supporters in the group succumbed to the very same disease.  There was the guy who's rare skin cancer camped out in his lungs and at best the doctors could only slow down the growth of the tumors.  Those people are fighters.  Those people have "stories".
All sports, even the ones in which the object is to completely obliterate the person standing in front of you, have someone standing next to the competitors to make sure no one gets hurt too badly.  Cancer patients don't have that.  They don't have someone with a rule book to make sure no long term injury occurs.  Unlike televised sports, in the cancer game, there is a real possibility that the player may die.
I am not saying that sports are stupid or don't need to exist, just that they need to be put into perspective.  Tell me the guy had to eat generic Ramen noodles in college.  Tell me that the guy had a deadbeat dad.  Praise the guy for being able to catch a ball well, or being able to take a kick to the face and still be able to punch the other guy.  But don't talk about a "fight to the death" and "struggling to stay alive", in fact us testicular cancer survivors don't even like the phrase "dead ball".  I wish the sportscasters would realize that it is just a game which outcome really doesn't mean a damn thing in the big scheme of things.  We have many people in this world that really are in the "fight of their lives" and that is who I am rooting for.

Constant Coughing or First Word?

Let me start this off by saying, I am not trying to be one of those people that has a health complaint every time you are around them.  No, I just have a health complaint that I would like to keep to myself, but unfortunately affects everyone around me.

See, about a month ago we traveled down to Florida.  It was sunny and hot everyday, most days getting into the 90's.  And as things usually go in that kind of weather, I caught a cold.  OK, I can tell that you are confused, here is what happened.  One night we went out to eat, and whatever it was did not agree with me, so I was up until the wee hours of the morning dealing with that night's dinner.  And as anyone with a baby knows, you certainly are not going to be able to catch up on your sleep in the morning, because the baby doesn't care how late you stayed up, he just knows he is hungry/wet.  The next night, I was looking forward to some restful slumber when the weather radio went off stating a tornado was in the area.  In the area of the country I spend most of my time in, I would have turned on the TV for a detailed report and if need be, pulled out the futon in the basement and dragged everyone downstairs until the danger was over.  Unfortunately, most homes on the Florida coast do not have basement and if they do they are called indoor pools.  My wife, being very supportive, decided not even waking up to the loud alarm next to her head would be the best course of action.  Not wanting to push everyone into a closet (the only interior room in the house we were staying at) I decided to check out the situation and move everyone in the safe spot only if the situation warranted. What I found out is that in Florida, where several sports teams are named after weather, they apparently don't have anyone at the TV stations that actually knows anything about weather in the middle of the night.  After only being able to find a tiny square of a weather map in the corner of the TV that amounted to about four pixels, I decided to just stay up until the Tornado Warning expired to make sure we were safe.  That left me up until the wee hours of the morning once again.  The next few days were spent preparing to come back home and driving the eighteen hours to get back home, which after it was all said and done, left me very run down, and with a strange tickle in my throat.

So, a few days after getting back from our pre-summer Florida trip I was in full nose dripping, wet coughing, hell.  I was kind enough to share this illness with my wife, who never seems to appreciate the gift of sickness.  Within a few days, my cold had disappeared except for a little headache that would not let up.  My wife wanted quicker relief and went to see our family doctor, who told her that she had developed a sinus infection.  Upon hearing this, I was a little worried that my "headache" was really a raging sinus infection like my wife's.  I called the doctor and told her I was feeling fully recovered except for the headache and she prescribed some antibiotics to clear things up.  Pretty soon the headache was gone...and an annoying, constant, irritating cough developed.  Not like the one before where random pieces of lung seem to be flying out of your trachea, this is just a cough that sounds  like the cough people do when they aren't really sick, but they are calling in sick to work, except this cough is real and relentless.

Here is where I am today, nearly a month later and feeling pretty good, just sounding like a guy faking a cough constantly.  And the best part about it, anything extra sweet, salty, or tangy, causes it to get worse!  The past two weeks, friends have asked me to come to their places of business to help them with projects, and in return they feed all the people that helped out.  The problem is, I am afraid to eat around people, because invariably the cough gets worse, and if there is anything to get you uninvited to future gatherings, it is sounding like you have the plague around people while they are eating.  So while everyone else is socializing and having a bite, I am running off to a vending machine and nibble/coughing in a hallway somewhere.

Well, today I realized how much this is really affecting my life.  My son, being six months old, is just now trying to verbalize and mimic actions and sounds that he experiences.  While sitting with him and feeding him, I had a coughing fit, and he looked me right in the eyes while I was trying to compose myself...and coughed some fake sounding coughs.  Now coughing isn't out of the ordinary for him while he is enjoying his bottle, because in his mind, he is very hungry, and trying to shotgun five ounces of milk in one second is the best way to stop his hunger pangs.  In reality, trying to suck that much milk into his stomach that quickly leads to choking, coughing, and spitting up all over me, a lesson I have had to learn the hard way.  After his cough we just stared at each other, he with his little grin on his face, while I try to figure out if he drank to fast or was he making the same sound daddy was.  The grin he gave me was very similar to the grin he gives me while we sit there and make fart noises at each other for hours on in.  You know, that cross-between-laughter-and-accomplishment type of grin.

This is why I am frustrated, not because of the constant hacking, or having to eat my meals alone in a dark closet so people won't fear infections from me, it is the effect this may be having on my impressionable young son.  No longer do I wonder if his first word will be "mommy" or "daddy".  No longer am I worried that his first words will be one of the phrases yelled frequently at the dogs ("Daisy, quit licking your butt!") or the words he hears daddy yell when there is a stupid driver in front of him.  No, I am frustrated today because I am afraid that the noise he has been hearing most the past four weeks will be the first one he verbalizes.  And in his little memory book, I just don't know how to write down the spelling of "hok-hok-hok-heh-heh-kuuuuurrrrrrkkkk-ptah".

The Best Gift I Have Received Throws Up On Me...

When you are about to have your first child there are tons of tidbits of wisdom that people will tell you.  I gladly listened to everything people told me making mental notes along the way.  Having just made it six months with my new best friend, I feel I am becoming quite accustomed to this new life.  Some of the things people told us were about the negative aspects of having a child.  I think the big factor in this for us, is how badly we had wanted a child, how long we had been trying, and finally after the cancer/miscarriage/fertility treatments how much we went through before we were successful.

One thing we heard over and over again was how exhausted we would be.  Now, I will admit we aren't as well rested as we were six months ago.  I can't remember the last time we were able to just sleep in as long as we liked.  But I certainly wouldn't call it "exhausted".  One thing we have going for us, is our child has been an overnight sleeper since we brought him home from the hospital.  I think the shortest he ever slept overnight was maybe four hours when he was first brought home.  The other reason I don't think I am tired is I enjoy the time I get to spend with him.  Think of something you really enjoyed, like for me going to Walt Disney World, for you it might be reading my blog...if it is something you really had fun doing, you get whatever sleep you can and do it again first chance you get.

The other very cliched comment is that you will never know how much love you will have for the baby.  Waiting until forty-one to have my first child, trust me a lot of anticipation and love had built up.  I love my little guy a lot, and that love started the day my wife walked out of the bathroom with a pee-soaked stick.  What has surprised me is just how much I like being around him.  Even from the beginning when all he was doing was laying there and messing diapers, I cherished every second with him.  Now I will say this.  He seems like a very happy baby and everyone tells us he is a happy baby.  That certainly helps.  Even when changing a diaper he looks up and smiles and either grabs my arm or if I am careless enough he will grab the clean diaper and play keep away with me, which is apparently very funny when you are six months old.

But then again everything seems to be funny to our six month old.  A hand full of someone else's hair is freakin' hilarious!  Rubbing bare feet on daddy's head or whiskers is also a great source of amusement.  The phrase "peas and apples"  is the greatest joke ever told, ranking right up there with "The Aristocrats".  I have no idea why "peas and apples" induces uncontrollable laughter, but I think it's pretty obvious that he has his daddy's sophisticated sense of humor.

The other side is, I am probably one of those obsessive and over-protective parents.  When you have gone through your own health scare you realize just how precious and fragile life is.  Someone told us the other day that kids aren't that fragile at all, all three of theirs rolled off the bed at one point as babies.  That led to a conversation after we left that person about how after the first roll off (or at the very least the second roll off) wouldn't you take precautions to prevent future roll offs?  This person claimed there was no harm done...but there's one we think the jury is still out on.

I may have given my son his first real electric guitar this week as well (which means I did give him his first electric guitar).  Now I know what you are thinking, "He's six months old, he can't play an electric guitar" and you are exactly right, that is why his is half the size of a normal one.  And since it is difficult for him to strum and hold down the strings, I even brought out a thing that automatically moves the strings for him, so he can just focus on the fretboard for now.  See, doesn't sound near as crazy now, does it?

What I am getting at, is this is the greatest gift I have ever been given.  We waited a long time for him and went through a lot to get him.  Even when during a diaper change he accidentally peed in his face, which literally scared the crap out of him, all I could do was clean him up and laugh.  Being spit up on twice a day, doesn't bother me, I just add the clothes to the huge pile of other garments he finds creative ways to soil.  In other words, even the bad times are some of the best times of my life, so you can imagine how great the good times are.  And hopefully by next week we will be playing our guitars together...

Cancer Scare Number 2

When I was a teenager, we lived six houses down from the community pool.  Every summer day was either spent poolside, or windowside waiting to see if the storm would dissipate so we could go to the pool.  A little bit later, I became a lifeguard at that same pool.  After doing that for a few years, I spent a summer working outside at a State Park.  And while all this was going on, I would take the occasional day job at a local farmer, or my friend's farm helping to bale hay.  What does any of this have to do with anything?  Well, I don't remember using sunscreen at all.  I am sure I did at least a few times, but I certainly don't remember it. At least I wasn't as bad as some of the girls I lifeguarded with, that used Crisco for a week.  Now you might think I am saying that just to be funny, but I am dead serious, they broke out the Crisco shortening and slathered it on, and I am sure you will be surprised by this, the next week they had sun poisoning and had to stay indoors for several days (meaning those of us who did NOT use Crisco had to pull double duty on the lifeguard chairs/sun).  As I grew older, bad habits with sunscreen certainly didn't improve.

That leads to today's topic.  It takes me about four hours to mow our lawn.  The first mow of the season, the sun didn't seem too bright or hot so I didn't think much about sunscreen...until I started burning, but by then I only had an hour of mowing left and it seemed silly to stop in the middle just to put some on, after all the damage was already done, right?  Well, over the next few days of painful and cold showers, I notice a raised  bump on my arm that didn't go away.  After having my experience with testicular cancer I determined the best course of action would be to ignore it and see if it went away.  After a month I started getting worried.  I looked up information on some medical websites that told me I had approximately 17 minutes to live before that bump completely took over my body.  Don't get me wrong there is some good health information on the internet, but a lot more horrible health information.  A search of any malady will lead you to results from  certain and impending death, to "just ignore it and lay your lifecrystal upon whatever hurts".  Somewhere in the middle lies the actual good information, and you have to figure out what that is, and if you knew what it was you wouldn't be doing a blind internet search for it to begin with.  I won't say where my advice falls on this spectrum, but it is probably near the ends.

After consistent (but correct) nagging from my wife, I decided to call my oncologist to see what dermatologist he recommended.  Have you ever heard of those restaurants that you have to wait three or four years to get a table?  Dermatologists' waiting lists are slightly longer.  Luckily, because of a cancellation (or death, I didn't want to ask) I was able to get an appointment just one more month away.  The whole time I am waiting, I am torn because although I want the bump to go away, I don't want to go to the doctor after the month wait and say, "Well, it was here and it looked really ugly, but then it got small and disappeared yesterday."  But I didn't have to worry, the bump stuck around.

Finally, the day arrived for the dermatologist visit...literally one day after we got back from a Florida beach vacation.  Walking into a dermatologist's office really tan feels much like walking into an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with a quarter of a bottle of Rum Jumbie (I imagine...).  When I finally get taken back to the doctor, they give you a paper blanket (which is slightly smaller than a Kleenex) and tell you to disrobe.  See, just because a patch of skin hasn't been exposed to the sun, that doesn't mean you won't still get skin cancer there.  So the doctor checks everywhere...everywhere!  In the movies, when you see the doctor walk in the room and the patient is naked, there is usually some boom chicka wow wow music playing.  The real situation has no music, and is a whole different experience (which is good because I didn't want a pizza boy walking in the scene too).  Basically, you stand there while the doctor looks over every millimeter of your body occasionally poking or tugging at things while wrinkling her nose.  The whole time you have to fight the urge to make excuses on why you have abused your skin and been too tan in some areas, or too pasty in others, or too flabby in others, and remark on how cold it is in the room.  After feeling like you are a rental car being inspected to be turned back in, the doctor starts talking again and gets out a marker.  She points out various anomalies and explains what they are, what causes them, whether you need to keep an eye one them.  It was very informative.  For instance, now I know that there are such things as "penis freckles" that guys can get as they get older...I have probably said too much.  Moving on!  The next step is the marker.  Feeling much like the guy who passed out way too early at the party, the doctor starts drawing circles and "x"s and who know what else.  After getting dressed, she said, "This one I am going to freeze off and these two I am going to take."  Happy to have my clothes back on (and not to have any penis freckles marked), I didn't really stop to think what "going to take" meant.

The freezing was nothing.  A bit of itchy, burning type feeling, but no biggie.  Then, I found out what "going to take" meant for the other two.   First, they stick a needle next to the thing they are taking to numb it up.  Then they start shaving that thing down until it is either gone, or they have a big enough sample to test (which as near as I can tell requires you to shave down to the bone).  For the one on my arm, it was a breeze.  Slight stick, a little pressure, and a band-aid.  The other was right next to my eye.  Now the local anesthesia they gave me, not only made things go numb, but it caused my eye to blink uncontrollably.  We are talking like the little light that lets you know your hard drive is running type of uncontrollably.  Then they take the razor thing  NEXT TO YOUR EYE, and after giving the medication to cause spastic twitching they say, "Now hold still..."  I have had much more painful procedures, and much longer procedures, but this was definitely the most annoying in my life.  I am told I am free to go, with one eye open and the other neither remaining open or closed, giving me all the depth perception of walking with a strobe light.  Thinking "Safety First" I thought I should probably wait it out in the lobby before I try driving with "strobe eye".  "How long does this last?", I ask.  "It will wear off in about two or three hours.", was the reply, like it was no big deal to wink at everyone within a five mile radius for the next 180 minutes.  I decided to just drive carefully home, and whatever I do, don't get out of the car.  Hungry, I just pulled into a White Castle drive-thru, because I figured at White Castle a guy winking furiously would still not be the most memorable character they will see that day.

Luckily, I had an oncologist appointment the next day.  I say "luckily" because two weeks earlier I had a CAT scan, so when I received a clean bill of health from the oncologist I knew regardless of my skin results, it hadn't reached my lymph nodes and my blood tests were fine.  At first, the skin samples didn't bother me.  But the longer it took for the results to come back, the more scanxiety set in.  In the two weeks of waiting, I used sunscreen religiously.  I used it almost as much as I checked the mailbox, email, and phone messages waiting for the results to come back.  Finally, the letter came in the mail that said "benign (non-malignant)", which made me laugh because if you don't know what the word "benign" means, will you know what "non-malignant" means?  Maybe they should say "benign (you don't have cancer)" because that is all people want to understand about that.  

So, a good scare to wake me up.  But since part of what I do for a living requires me to know about "rems" and "rads" and all that good stuff, I know that radiation (yes the sun is emitting radiation) builds up over a lifetime, I know that my careless youth means I need to be even more careful now.  If there is something good that came of out this scare, it's that I am taking my lessons learned and applying them to my six month old before the damage starts.  So what if his skin is so pale it's almost clear, one day he will thank me for it.