More surgical comics!

So I believe that this masterpiece was created not too long after I started the first. Probably sometime shortly after my major surgical operation. You know there's really nothing to do in a hospital except sleep for many a day (which I did, in fact, do).

Finally. And here's some pleasant news

So I finally got the word from my kind team of docs at the Burzynski Clinic today. They had the final word from my MRI that I got two days ago as well as the PET scan that I got yesterday (a word of note: the PET scan is equivalent to forty x-rays. Docs don't usually relate this info to their woefully uninformed patients either.) The MRI showed little to nothing in terms of new growth. There were a few questionable spots but things are pointing to post-surgical changes rather than any new growth. Then I got a PET scan to check the metabolic activity of the cells. That too looked like any possible growth in the questionable areas was post-surgical change. So things are looking on the up right now.

As great as this sounds, it doesn't in any way mean that I'm in regression yet. I know the tumor's in there. After the word I got from my last pathology report, this is fantastic news, but not quite so good for my treatment plan, though. Because I'm still not showing 5mm of growth, I remain unqualified to do any of the rigorous antineoplaston lifestyle right now, but I can still do the targeted gene therapy. So that's what I'm putting my money on-literally. I got the first drug today, and I'll be adding them in over the next few days. Then I'll be heading back to Atlanta late next week. I don't know what'll happen after that, but I'll post it as I think of it...

(I've) grown tired of all this cancer mess

It's been a little over ten months that I've been dealing with this load of cancer crap. Ten months down; ten months to waste. Well...if that isn't a terribly negative thought, then I'm forbidden from accessing such a thing.

Actually contrary to what I said in the last paragraph, I'm doing much better than I was. After being fairly slumped over for the past few weeks, I think things are looking better than the last few weeks. Sometimes I get bogged down into negative trains of thought such as the infamous statement above, but I'm slowly regaining my will to keep my head held high. Hopefully, I'll be keeping things on this note for a bit.

An additional blog for an exhausting day

This was it. I thought that today would be one of those early to rise, early to bed type of days, but alas 'tis not the case. Why would it not be? (Wow, thanks for your heightened personal opinion of this writing.) Today was going to be a bit much from the start: an 8am phone call with an expensive researcher immediately followed by a trip unawares to the local Burzynski clinic. It turned into a full day, though. I didn't get back into my room until 10pm. Now I know you busy folks out there may be pontificating, "That's not so bad, I do that most days." I know I used to be one of you. Oh and I took 10mg of Melatonin the night before. That'll keep you asleep all day.

Anyway, not to be totally vindicating myself (although I don't want to come off as a total wuss either), today was an interesting albeit somewhat disheartening day. So what's the deal then? I essentially have two options here. The first option is targeted gene therapy. It's essentially a treatment plan involving my own blood and several cancer biomarkers.

The treatment goes like this: My blood is taken (Yet again. I don't think I even feel it anymore), and it's tested for several markers that determine the specific oncogenes (those little cancer-promoting rapscallions) that my particular tumor expresses. Then if I do have a tendency for over expressed oncogenes, they'll scientifically formulate a proper list of ever-efficacious drugs for me to take that would ideally kill off any remaining tumor cells. I take some pills, and I may have to go get a shot each week. Oh and this is the easy way.

If I don't over express any oncogenes, then I'd need to do things the hard way. I'll need to turn to the Antineoplaston lifestyle. This is no simple drug, it is a lifestyle (albeit one that could save my life). Let me explain it to you. First, I'll have to have a catheter inserted into my sub-clavicle (for those of unexposed to bone speak, it's your collar bone). Then I'll be essentially taught how to be my own nurse. There will be a small 4lb. pump that will require a constant 24 hour connection. Connected to this pump will be two bags in a convenient little case that holds my synthetic pee residue. (Really. It's derived from human urine. Don't worry, it doesn't smell like it anymore...much.) These are two large liter-sized bottles. I'll go through three of those in six of my four-hour episodes. On top of this, I'll have to learn how to spike my own bottles to avoid pumping air into a major artery of mine, sanitize my catheter every time I reconnect the tubing, clean it out every three to five days, and draw my own blood via catheter every two days. This will be analyzed and faxed to Burzysnki to be interpreted by his hi octane staff of Houston docs. Oh and on top of all that, this will be a process that could take up to a year. Yay!

Surgical comics!

I started drawing this comic shortly before my last surgery amidst intensive foot traffic at 30th street station.

I think I finally finished it a couple nights later. Sadly, that whole time is rather elusive for me to think back on. I don't know if it was the fault of the anesthetics or what, but I feel like I'm having someone else's memories. Very bizarre. Only lately do I even feel remotely normal again. Sometimes I think I forget how strange this whole brain surgery operation makes me feel. I just want it to fall away from memory behind me. The quicker the better.

A word about this conundrum

Hi guys. I'm doing well, I promise. Though none of you would probably know it right now. I've been feeling rather self-absorbed of late and have had absolutely no mind to really hang with anyone. That being said, I do miss seeing and hearing from all of you, but I'm simply rather content to focus on myself right now. That's all.

This whole brain cancer scenario just doesn't seem to carry the hope of life-exercisation like I'd hoped, so I'm a bit on the depressed side right now. It's not that I'm horribly depressed just a bit bummed out. Hopefully this whole train of thought will fade into the distance in the next couple of weeks.

I've kind of been stuck in between which way to take things of late. Go with one more alt method, or stick with the no-cure hospital approach? It's a tough decision to make, but I'm supposed to make it soon. Really I should have already made my decision. Everything has to happen so fast in this game, and I'm not very good at thinking and acting quickly. Oh well. No time like the present, eh?

TIme for the stapels to come out, finally...

Well it's been a little over two weeks since the surgery. (Though I don't feel like I can hardly even recognize that it's been a week since then. I actually feel like this whole ordeal has happened to someone else, and I don't know why or how it happened to them. I feel fairly removed from it all oddly enough.) Anyway, so here I am with a train track style of staples going on around my head. Of course, I'm certainly ready to have them out. It seems like this round of razors on the head would be undesirable (which of course, they are), but this time it seems like the staple line is less within my perception than it was before. It doesn't seem to really bother me quite as much as it did before.

I guess it's kind of weird, but I guess I'm just thinking about other things more than the surgery right now. It's kind of a moot point, I guess. Surgery or not, I should be moving on from things right now. I guess my whole problem with this thing is that the craziness of the surgery should ideally be gone by now, but it's not. Surgery's just another way for me to get into the same boat that I should've originally gotten into. The only problem is that I didn't ever get into that boat, so now I feel like I'm sort of stuck here getting pointless surgeries that just keep putting me right back where I was a few months ago.

Certainly though, the most important thing is that I am OK right now. Until the point when my health begins to fade, I will always have that to have utmost thanks for. Hopefully, I can keep that terrible day on the horizon as long as possible. Until then, I'll always have tomorrow to look forward to for a possible cure for this terrible illness.

A week and some change after the fact

I think it's been a week now? Hasn't it? Well regardless, it's has been a very different experience for me this whole time around. Maybe it's the whole, "two brain surgeries in 6 months" ordeal, but i feel totally different right now. For the first week after surgery, I LITERALLY didn't do anything. I think I woke up occasionally, moved around a little, then passed back out. Wasn't very fun. Nor did it really engender any important meanings into my life at the time. Now for the last few days, I've been up more, although not a whole lot, and just kind of meandering a bit. Thankfully, I 've been eating more since that whole episode was a bit uncomfortable to watch, but I think it's over now. Now I just have to get back to working out, living like a usual person, and learning how to kick some cancer butt.

I started taking Melatonin the other night. Wow. It really hits you hard, too. I haven't had this low energy for some time now, but it's really supposed to be useful in some form or other, so I don't really have a choice about whether or not to take it. Here goes to days on extremely high doses of low wakefulness.

So as of right now, I'm looking into doing a treatment camp at Upitt for a year or so then also maybe Germany/Mexico, too. I'm not sure which one's will actually turn out, though. The only thing that may work for me is the standard chemo/radiation which I'm not one for at the moment, but we all saw what just happened, so I can't really go on to NOT do anything right now. I gotta keep hitting it hard with everything I've got right now.

And so, for all of you lovely folks out there, I will keep up with you. I just need a few more days to get life back into some kind of recognizable role here. Of course, I appreciate all your care as well. Talk soon.

Update

Hi All, a friend of Dave's here. 

I just got to talk to Dave for the first time since his surgery! He asked that I post something here to let everyone know that the surgery went very, very well. He has been extremely tired since, so he doesn't quite have the energy to post anything yet, but he will soon. 

He says he is very appreciative of everyone's thoughts and prayers... and he will be in touch soon.

Yay, Dave! We love you!

Ok, so now I have to wait two more days

Well, so I got a call from my doc this morning and he requested that my surgery be postponed until Friday. He said that he wanted to ensure that he could have his A team at hand for the surgery. Now there seem to be a few different ways that I can interpret such news:

Perspective A:
This surgery is so much more dangerous than the average brain surgery that the surgeon fully requires his top staff to feel utmost comfort with it. Other brain surgeries can get by with the B and C tams, but mine of course, only works with the A team.

Perspective B:
This was really an elaborate ploy devised to get me to move my surgery date to make room for a more time-sensitive case. Now this isn't so bad. Certainly, if I desperately needed surgery, I'd hope that someone would give up their slot for me.

Perspective C (the most likely interpretation):
Dr. Quinones really dislikes operating without his top staff on hand. Maybe someone's sick that day...I don't know what that means for anyone else having surgery on Wednesday, but I think it's probably the best for me.

Anyway, this was all an elaborate way to tell you that I'll be having surgery on Friday rather than Wednesday. Thank you all for your heartfelt messages and please keep me in your thoughts. I'll see you soon...

The worst week ever...

This has been the worst week on record, I do believe. There have been so many of my worst weeks ever, but I do think that this one clearly takes the cake.

First, I lost my little kitten, Don Caballero, aka Mr. Man, aka Manny. That's the adorable little rascal above. So sad. He apparently was born with a virus that destroys white blood cells. At the time that I took him into the emergency room, he was convulsing and barely breathing. He didn't stand a chance. He was a cute little guy though. At least I got to be there when they put him down. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it.

THEN the next morning as I was on my way to get some bloodwork done in Jersey, I managed to total my car. That's right, no more than 24 hours after my kitten dies, my car goes, too! I wish I had a picture of it, the poor guy was pretty mangled in the front.

So let's see, where am I in all of this? Brain tumor in December, dead kitten and totaled car in July. I hope this isn't going to be the trend that the rest of this year follows. If so, you may want to keep your distance from me when you see me out lest you spontaneously burst into flames.

The beast is back and what I plan to do about it

This is my personified conception of the rogue rascal running around in my brain causing God knows what kind of havoc wreaking destruction on all. He's a mischievous little rapscallion with no good on his mutated mind and malevolent shenanigans up his sleeves. Oh and I officially hate him.

So unfortunately today's the day that I solidified the date for my next brain surgery confrontation. Next Wednesday, August 5 is D-day part II: the return of the scalpel. I'll be getting this, the next in the series of my lobotomies, at Johns-Hopkins Bayview. For a hospital, it's pretty nice i guess...for a hospital. Wish me luck, send me happy thoughts, pray for me, dance around a fire or whatever you do in lieu of physically efficacious actions, but do it for me. I'd also really appreciate anyone's phone calls or happy-themed emails as well. This can get rather lonely.

By the way, I hate hospitals. I don't like being confined to cold hard beds, I guess. Being confined to a cold, hard bed isn't exactly my idea of a hot date, and the feeling of waking up after being throughly gassed and knocked out cold for five hours is just about the worst thing I can think of. So really, It'd be great to hear from you guys during all this.

Well, here I go...

The return of Goliath

I really didn't want to hear the words, "Well it looks like it's back," nor did I want to hear, "Roughly about 40%." Crude words. I can think of some other crude words that I'd like to retort with, though I won't be posting them here. It's true, he's back. The struggle must continue. The diet didn't work as I'd hoped. My neurosurgeon is recommending another surgery, to remove as much as possible, followed by the standard of care—radiation and chemo. Not good alright.

It looks like I may just have to change my game plan—or at least the smoldering remains of what once was.

So where does that leave me? What do I do? Where do I go? Honestly, I’d really like to take a road trip. Ah, the great American road trip—it’s one of my favorite things ever. I can see my hair blowing in the wind, my charred skin—burnt by the sun—on one arm dangling out the door, windows dropped, music blaring but only the shrillest vocal bellows and tinniest cymbal crashes can break through the deafening roar of the wind storming through the windows. Nowhere to be, and nothing in particular to do—that’s what I’d like to be doing right now. Not this. I’m tired of dealing with this nonsense. I want off this ride; it’s lost its appeal, if it ever had one. Now I just want to go, to run, to hide, to find a place untouched by human hands and intentions. I want to be alone, yet I want my loved ones with me, but no more of this. No more doctors or physicians assistants, no more radiation or drugs, just sunlight and trees and a gentle uplifting breeze. I know it’s a no place—a utopia—but it’s where I’d like to be ideally. My vision of heaven, if you will.

Here's to indecipherable medical jargon

Well thanks to some indecipherable medical terminology, I find myself back in the proverbial hot seat. Dr. Re, my kind-hearted neurologist, hasn't been able to say whether my MRI shows any new growth or not--something about around the edges of the resection cavity. He said it could be "insert technical mumbo jumbo here" or it could possibly be necrosis, but he wasn't fully able to say, "no sir there's no tumor."

So he sent the Radiologist's notes up to John's-Hopkins, and hopefully, they'll be calling me back in a few days with their own thoughts on the matter. They'll probably want to see the original scans which I'm fully prepared to send them. Most important though, is that I keep myself from freaking out this whole time.

You see, hospitals operate in two worlds. First is the urgent world of medicine where everything should happen smoothly, flawlessly and painlessly. Everything also happens exactly one day in the past in this world. So as soon as a Doc orders something he/she comes to find out that it did in fact already happen yesterday. The second world is the REAL world where things get lost, people get pissy because they were up all night arguing with their boyfriends or wives, scheduling errors occur more frequently than should be permitted and so on. Necessary events and procedures occur exactly two weeks after they should. So when the Doc says, "You should've had that scan yesterday," it actually happens two weeks from yesterday.

Since the real world tends to rule the roost in hospital land, I'm actually probably going to have to wait about two weeks before I even hear anything from these folks. Well, I guess it's time for some of those mental conditioning exercises all those religious leaders have been going on and on about over the last several millenia...

Just a smidgen of good news

Well I'm still waiting to hear back from my Neurologist down in Marietta, but I'm hoping that the scans will come up clean. Psst. You wanna know a secret? I have the CD with the scans on it, but I'm too afraid to look at it. Besides it only works on Windows machines. Who uses one of those infernal virus-sucking contraptions anymore anyway? (HA!)

But the real good news is that, after speaking with an Oncologist up at Mayo, I've come to learn that I'm not the only young bearer of a brain tumor to forego chemo and radiation and move on straight to expectant care. (Which is so called because Doctors are 'expecting' the tumor's arrival back in my body, so they test with MRI's rather frequently. Nice.) He said that he had a hand full of patients that were, like me, young, and diagnosed with a completely resected grade III tumor, and get this, they were doing just fine! Apparently, I'm not the only one who fears that Twelve cycles of chemo and a continued dousing of barely sub-fatal doses of radiation may not be the best route for a body desiring to continue with life.

Anyway, it was a HUGE relief to see those words coming from a renowned Oncologist at the top of his game. Before I felt like the only idiot stupid enough to disobey Doctor's orders; now I realize that there're a few of us out there. Knowing that a group of like-minded folks is out there makes me feel like I can beat this thing, and if there's a group of people out there that can beat this, then I know I certainly can too.

Two days and counting...

Here I am back in Philly. Sometimes it feels like I'm dreaming a dream about my doppelganger living my life in an alternate universe. It's kind of surreal but kind of really real at the same time.

So I'm settling in, but this time I feel like I have a goal, a very real goal--to keep myself grounded and focused. I guess I never really had that before. Always striving for the next thing, stressing over this then that, I never really gave myself much leeway in the pursuit of peace. I had to succeed, had to strive harder. I just knew that I could handle anything that I threw at myself. In some ways I did. In other ways, I failed miserably.

Now here I am, back in the City of Brotherly Love, but with a mission of health and wholeness. Unlike the fractured, jagged and ultimately unfullfilling life I once led, I now have to chart a new and different course...

Awww...my first follow up MRI

Well the time has come to test my wits, bite the bullet and see what's been going on for the last few months in this noggin of mine. I have my first MRI since the day after my surgery coming up next Wednesday. I'm won't say that I'm not afraid; sometimes I think I feel twinges of a headache or a little dizziness and I think to myself, "Oh that's it, it's growing. Everything I've done so far has failed." This is what I have to live with for the rest of my life. Not a fun prospect but one that I'll have to figure out how to deal with nonetheless.

Anyway, as long as this next MRI comes out clean (and we all hope it will), I'll be heading back to Philly for the Summer and the remainder of my lease. I don't know what'll be happening after that. Things seem to be constantly changing, and I can't seem to make up my mind about anything. Oh well, there'll be plenty of time for that. Keep your fingers crossed/pray for me/keep me in your thoughts on Wednesday...

The headlights of the mac truck in front of me...

In continuation of the previous rant that I was aimlessly meandering up to, I've been thinking of just leaving this whole brain tumor mess as it stands for now. I'll probably head back to Philly to finish out my lease through the next few months and then figure things out from there. I may head back toward the Atlanta area or I may just move outside the city for a year until I feel like things are truly wrapped up. I don't know, though. I can't seem to commit to anything right now, and I certainly can't seem to make up my mind about anything; that would require knowing what I want in the future, and I cannot seem to see anything clearly on other side of this foggy mess right now.

It would seem like my ideas for my life and future plans have to either take a backseat vacation or take an interminable interlude in a back-alley dumpster. I can't necessarily plan on living a long life like I did before. Now I know there are those of you out there saying, "Oh for shame, that's such a depressing thought." Let me explain, though. What I actually mean is that I can't put things off until the ever indistinct 'one day' of my future--there may simply be no time for that anymore. Things that I've always wanted to do--such as living in a simple cabin far removed from the dregs of society and taking a road-trip out west--need to be actualized in my present situation. I have to start taking action now if I'm ever going to get to see and do some of the things that I've been putting off since I was a young lad.

A consultation with my next step toward the exit door

Well I met with Dr. Voloschin, the Emory Neuro Oncologist, for the first time yesterday. After a brief introduction to his PA and nurse (which consisted of the one hundred twenty-seventh neuro-functionality test that I've been administered since Goliath popped up). They were both really humane, which has been an extremely rare trait to encounter on this little journey, but the PA was the nicest one of all (I secretly wish that she was the doctor instead of Dr. Voloschin, but don't tell him that). As I've noted before in this little blog, these consultations typically scare the crap out of me, but I think as the weeks and months progress, I'm getting better prepared to handle them. I wasn't nearly as anxious this time, and I wasn't riddled with fear and general anguish afterward either. That's progress, right?

So the doc's prognosis is that since the most recent scientific medical data that we have is based entirely on stage IV tumors, he can't, in all good judgement, really recommend whether I should do the chemo or not. So basically, it's up to me to make that decision. Now I know this is a nail-biting cliffhanger at this point, so I'll just tell you that I have absolutely no desire to do chemo right now. That doesn't mean that I'll never have to do it though. So I'm left with this little peep of a voice in the back of my head quietly murmuring to me that I may one day regret avoiding the chemo, but I just don't like the looks of it right now. I'd really like to be able to return to some semblance of a normal life in the near future. Maybe that's not an advisable way to go about this, but I feel like I've literally ate, drank and slept this thing since the end of December and, dammit, I'd really like to have a life again. Maybe that's too much to ask, but I'm growing tired of being stuck in limbo in suburban Atlanta. Yet I know I have to make the best of a situation that I didn't ask for or deserve in the first place, so maybe I need to pay more attention to that rather than focusing on all the negative aspects of my situation.

Now my only problem is deciding when to start the radiation which, surprise surprise, I'm not too happy about. Any form of radiation carries with it the cumbersome weight of late effects (i.e. permanent changes in the brain as a result of dangerously high levels of radiation demolishing perfectly healthy cells). These can come about anywhere from months to years after the radiation ends. There's no way to know when and the degree to which it will happen to me, but some degree of it will happen nonetheless. Needless to say, I'm not looking forward to this joyful process. My only other option, then, is to do nothing at the moment and wait and see what happens (not advisable albeit strangely appealing) or to find other clinical trials that i may not be aware of. So I'm opting for the clinical trial investigations. It may turn up nothing, but if so, then I always have my beatific radiation bed kept warm for me by the hospital (that and the dangerously high amount of radiation regularly emanating from it).

Top 10 Psuedo-Horror Flicks of the '80s

So I've been spending my days of late thinking hard about what the most memorable (somewhat scary but usually just plain silly) '80s pseudo-horror films are. I'm quite happy with this list at the moment. If you have any comments, suggestions, or uncalled for criticisms of me on a personal level, then please, leave me a stabbing remark.

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1) Gremlins (1984)
I always wanted a little Mogwai of my own (sans Gremlin potential, of course). I always thought that whole no-water-after-midnight bit sided towards the absurd as well. I mean how could you not give those cuddly little creatures a reprieve from their thirst. Oh my god! I just blew my own mind.

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2) The Blob (1988)
A classic of it's genre, I think the original was from the 50's, but the 80's remake successfully captures all the fantastic stereotypes of the decade that we all grew up loving and hating. You know, besides the flashy fashion and high-strung hairdos, I do miss shoes that require pumping. What a great idea.

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3) Evil Dead 2: Dead Till Dawn (1987)
This cinematic masterpiece solidified a love of silly horror movies for me. I've never had the patience or the stomach for serious ones, but when the director and actors aren't taking their own film seriously, hilarity ensues.

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4) The Lost Boys (1987)
What are the two greatest things ever to occur in the history of existence? Kiefer Sutherland and vampires. Need I say anymore?

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5) The Fog (1980)
This one's actually successful at being a little bit scary. Creepy fog and expired pirates from the past. I'm in.

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6) *Batteries Not Included (1987)
What if all your coolest toys suddenly came to life?

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7) An American Werewolf in London (1981)
This is actually a really good film. Two American tourists travel through the UK and one gets bitten by a werewolf in a desolate part of Scotland and goes on to terrorize the residents of the Isles. Film making genius!

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8) Critters (1986)
This movie scared the crap out of me as a kid. I don't think I ever actually finished it, but it's from the 80's and the cheese-factor is through the roof. All I remember is some guy having a critter burrowing out of his stomach. Yeck! Hmmm...maybe I should watch it again.

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9) The 'Burbs (1989)
Tom Hanks discovers that his odd reclusive neighbors are actually murdering people in the night. Like most influential 80's films, it stars one of the Corys.

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10) They Live! (1988)
Three words: Rowdy Roddy Piper. This has to be the worst film of all time. It contains like 20 minutes of story line and one hour long fight scene. It does include a washed up wrestling star and poorly (i.e. cheaply i.e. NOT at all) disguised aliens, though.

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A new direction for this (seemingly) old hag

Ok. So I must admit, this blog is getting a bit boring. To remedy this, I've decided to spice things up a bit with some of the hilarious top 10 lists that my friend Rachel and I have been steadily devising over the past couple of weeks (besides, the cancer bit's all washed up, isn't it?). She's really good at coming up with adjuvant details (so you end up with 30 items on your not-so-brief top 10 list), but that just makes it all the more fun.

Just to keep this blog a bit more on the entertaining (rather than terribly taxing) side, I've decided to sprinkle some of these in. Otherwise, I may just have to bore myself to sleep or become morbidly morose, and no one wants that now do they? I've already got one on deck, so keep your eyes glued to your computer screens (don't really. I hear that there's a good chance they--like everything else in our world--can cause, guess what, CANCER. Yay!)

A day trip to my old stomping grounds twice removed

Today my friend Jenna and I road-tripped (a loose use of the term actually) out to one of our old favorite places. A park not too far from Athens, the home of our Alma Mater, but far enough to make me feel truly out in the boonies, away from it all. Known for possessing the longest covered bridge in all of the great state of Georgia, Watson Mill State Park has it all (I also use this term loosely). It does contain the ruins of an old mill, though, which, if you're a fan of ruins at all (and who wouldn't be), are borderline super fantastic.

There's also a dilapidated old driving bridge that spans one of the many small tributaries to the great Broad River. Time has stripped it down to its most enduring parts: support beams. Spanning the creek roughly 40 feet above the ground, I spent many an hour up there battling my life's (seemingly) insurmountable confrontations and challenging myself to overcome my fear of the (im)possible. (Really, all I got was a healthy dose of vertigo and a bit of a scare.)

Living in Philly: Past Reality, Present Dream

Today we played Bocci Ball in South Philly. It's a great little game who's closest relative is probably sitting in a chair (in terms of energy expending physical activities). Really. If you can stand up in lengthy tiresome five minute intervals (sometimes even less), then you possess the uncanny potential for Bocci greatness. That's why the Philadelphia Bocci Ball courts are always crowded with aging Italian men (if anyone's even there at all). That's all they've got left in this world, so let them have it alright?

Anyway, my roommate Dan, my neighbor Candace and I went to the nearest sizable park and set up shop (unfortunately, we came to the sad conclusion that the set we were, in fact, holding in our very hands was a croquet set albeit one trained in the fine art of deceptive Bocci set-ery. Neither were the balls weighty enough, nor were they appropriately colored. The nerve of some people drives me straight off the cliffs of insanity sometimes. How could they deceive me so carelessly as if they weren't smashing my ever-beating heart against the wall. It's all lies, I tell ya.

It's been good to see all my old friends (again, with the use of the word "old"). Unfortunately, I didn't even get a chance to see them all. There were broad swaths of them that I simply didn't have the time to see. (If I didn't get to see you, I apologize again and again. There were simply too many people that I hadn't seen in close to four months. They had to sustain the warming radiance of my shining personality first. I'll hang with you guys next time I'm up there though) They're all so caring and awesome. Where would I be without them? Probably in the worst place in the known universe--a South Philadelphia gutter (Adam, sound familiar?). Clogged with trash, used needles and other unmentionables (use your imagination), that's where I'd be stuck for the duration. Caring friends certainly do make hard life experiences much easier on the ol' ticker.

Update: Life on the Road and Other Tormenting Tales of Travel

Good lord do I hate doctor consultations. I mean really; there's only so much up and down, heart beating in my throat, shaking hands and general roller coaster-like activity that one meek person can handle. Here's a thought: maybe I'll just give up now. I mean (statistically speaking), I'm fighting an indefatigable enemy. The doctor told me today that there is a one-hundred percent chance that this relentless foe will make a comeback. No matter how much chemotherapy and radiation we douse him in. No matter how many blunted scalpels we throw at him; Goliath will return. It's just a matter of time. Three years, seven years, ten years (maybe), but he'll be back.

So what are the months of my life spent in cancerous isolation all for then? The intricate scientific complexity of chemotherapy and radiation are really more like hulking blunt objects that doctors, behaving much like ancient cavemen or as the participants in a fancy Biblical stoning, can blindly and rashly hurl against my head and body. Some people live and some people don't: that's what happens when blunt objects are hurled at human bodies with reckless abandon. It all comes down to what the body can handle. If it so happens that we can handle the damage inflicted by hefty pointed objects, then we heal and eventually recuperate. If not, then we return to the dust of the earth.

Chance. That's all we're left with. Like a game of roulette, probability rules the day, and the meaning of my life boils down, in a precise and quantifiable manner of course, to numerical relationships. Everything is a number. A statistic in someone else's study (and that's if you're lucky): that's the inherent scientific value of a human life. Well I don't buy it. Neither is my life so easily quantified, stripped of its subjective meaning only to be lost to the ages. Time is the only agent with the power to strip my life of it's meaning. No fragile mortal coil possesses this ability: to draw meaning, as blood is drawn from an artery, from my life.

I will only breathe free in the air of my fire.

Happy Birthday Me!

Well, I've made it this far. Twenty-eight years and all I've got to show for it is this silly little blog. March 31, 1981 12:07 AM: my exact moment of birth. The witching hour, what an eerie moment to pick to be born. You'd think I'd be more discreet than that. It's no wonder I have this latent dark side brooding within me. Being born at such a late hour is to blame, right?

In case you can't tell, these pictures are from my birthday party. My mom's parents and my cousins all came to celebrate the inauguration of my twenty-eighth year. We had boat-loads of kid-friendly fun which mainly consisted of running in circles and waving our hands in the ear like crazed little Macauley Culkens (guess the movie), watching Spongebob and eating far too much cheescake and soy ice cream (c'est tellement delicieux). Of course, it was so good to see my grandparents (By some miracle of nature at twenty-eight, i still have both sets of them. Go figure). Of course, they put both trick candles and sparklers on my cheesecake. I was so confused and intimidated by all that tricky illumination. I didn't know whether to douse the cake in my half-full glass of water or run away screaming. Those candles were determined not to go out without a fight. In the end, the cadre of cousins, nephews and my niece took care of it with blowing galore (and even some spitting). Those candles didn't know what hit 'em.


I just heard coyotes howling in my backyard. Maybe they were trying to mimic the police sirens that were echoing through the night air, or maybe they just thought they were other coyote howls. They sound just like you think they would. I imagined the typical image of the coyote howling on the cliff silloutted by the larger-than-life moon. It's pretty cool that my parents live in a place that has coyotes. It just makes it that much more exotic.

Rummaging Through My Forgotten Past

You'll never believe what I've found stored for the past geological age in the drawers of my desk, lurking in the deep shadows of my past (hmmm, that sounds much darker than I really meant it to). On it's own, these pictures are in no way threatening, sinister or deceptive (unless you interpret them likewise. This would place the fault squarely on your shoulders reflecting in no way upon my most innocent of intentions.) They do make for great fodder for those of you out there considering kidnapping/ransom or blackmail in the near future (although the fact that these pictures are already available to anyone with an internet connection does somewhat foil these plans--somewhat). Don't let it deter you though, keep that chin up champ.

This is Mittens. Mittens was one of my best friends back in 1989 (from whence this picture came). We had all kinds of fun together, too. (I get the feeling that he was generally ignored at the home of my neighbors. Now that I think about it, their dog was kind of the devil, too; I don't think they were very good with pets.) I was 8 years old at the time, plaid was OBVIOUSLY all the rage, as were my Nike kicks, and green was (and remains to this day) my favorite color. When my neighbors moved away, I heard that Mittens ran away from their new house. I never heard what happened in the end, but I always secretly wished that he missed me and was trying to find his way back here. I never saw Mittens again. That made me sad.

This is Friskers. We got him from our music teacher when I was in elementary school. If I remember correctly, he adopted us shortly after the Mittens years. Friskers LOVED it when my mom would get home from the grocery store. The pile of empty grocery bags was like a cavernous kitty maze; pure fun. It was like the cat version of a great party, only there were no other people, just lots of plastic bags. Ok so maybe that was a bad comparison. Friskers met his end one day rather suddenly, but I'd rather not dwell on that. He was a loving and eccentric cat (aren't they all?), and he certainly loved lying in closed-in spaces.


This is Jay the Stray. He just graduated from the school of cuteness (with honors). I think I was in 5th grade when I found him. Biking home from my friend Nick's house on the other side of the neighborhood, I noticed him just wandering around in the grass. As was my nature, we hung out for a bit. It must've been because I didn't shoot him with pellets that he decided to follow me home (he had 20-something pellets lodged in his skin. Let's not discuss what I'd do to the individuals responsible for such neglect). I can still remember riding down the hill to my house and glancing at him behind me just trotting along happily. Once we got home, we sat in the backyard, and I convinced my neighbor to feed him some of her dog food. Jay's currently in the running for sweetest dog ever. To this day, maybe a decade later, I still occasionally dream about him. If I ever get another dog, he'll/she'll have to be like Jay. It would only be fair.


This is the last page of a comic that I made back in 1993. Back then I was really into all things superhero, oh and ninjas, too. Anything that I could even remotely relate to Japan was just so exotic (and therefore the coolest by proxy). Being the budding 12 year-old comic book artist that I was, I fashioned characters out of regular household items--gone horribly awry! The Nail, Machine Master: these are all characters that any 12 year old boy could easily invent by rummaging through the house on a typical summer day. If you'd like to see more of the exciting adventures of Phantom X, it's too bad for you; they're limited editions, and only I have access to them. So sorry. If you play your cards right, one day I'll clue you into the story line.

Bad News from the Land of Goliath

Well that wasn't what I wanted to hear.

I just got off the phone with Raven, and apparetnly Goliath was officially dignosed as a mixed Glioma stage 3. Stages 1-2 are considered low grade and stages 3-4 are considered high grade. So Goliath (or at least a small portion of him) was a bit more aggressive than we were hoping he would be.

So that means that they're recommending Chemotherapy and Radiation, and if I'm to start this protocol, it would begin in the next two weeks roughly. If I do pursue this course of action, I don't know where I'd stay either. If I stay in Atlanta, I'm near my family, but I leave myself subject to all kinds of infections that my totally compromised immune system will have no chance to combat. I don't know if I'd be able to handle Philly in that state either. It's too early to say, I guess. I'll have to wait until after I meet with both of my new oncologists (Yay!).

Obviously, the picture's still a bit fuzzy at the moment. I sent an email to the resident Doc at Hippocrates to get the alternative perspective on my diagnoses. Hopefully, I'll hear back soon, but you never know with busy people...

And so the saga continues. I may not be battling Goliath anymore, but I guess you could kind of say I'm battling myself at this point. This isn't the news I was hoping for, and I'm really bummed out about it at the moment. I'm not looking forward to 6 weeks or 6 months of lethargy, body aches and nausea not to mention sporting the 'cancer patient' look. You know what I mean. The thin, wiry frame topped by a bald, shiny head. Like an escaped abductee from an alien probing experiment gone wrong, I'll be almost unrecognizable as a healthy human being. In fact, I'll look more like an alien. Great just great. I'm REALLY looking forward to this.

The Utter Joy of Life in Limbo

Well that was nice.

I just finished a three day stint, a hiatus in hell if you will, that unfortunately didn't involve any enjoyable extracurricular activities--just the opposite. You see when a currently-drug-dependent individual (Hey, what're you looking at me for? This is a hypothetical case.) tries to quit a drug cold turkey, basically his/her body responds by shouting (in a New York accent, of course), "Hey buddy, whachya doin' ta me 'ere?" The drug-deprived body can respond in any number of ways: sweats, chills, fevers, hot/cold flashes, pain, nausea, profuse vomiting (that's all I can think of at the moment). But mine responded with abundant swelling (every place on my body that was injured in some way swelled just enough to make me uncomfortable; really intense pain is a better descriptor). It was everywhere, too. Yesterday, I talked to one of my docs, Raven (named after the Baltimore Ravens?) on the phone. She suggested that I revert to a previous point on my drug taper schedule. Apparently, it may not just be the withdrawal; it could also be the timing. Many times, there simply hasn't been enough time for the swelling affected by the drug to reduce in size. Ooh, maybe it's both!

So now I have to wait until next Monday (March 23rd) to find out the status of Goliath. The doctor responsible for identifying the status of my tumor had to send a sample of it out for genetic testing (I wonder if I can get some of that in a jar of formaldehyde. Would that be gross?). I know it sounds scary and complicated (not to mention super hi-tech), but Raven allayed my fears as it's apparently very normal for such a rare and multi-faceted tumor (Yay! I may just make it into the history books yet). They just want to be sure of it's status before they risk their reputations on a concrete diagnosis. Sigh, I guess I can continue to wait and wait and wait...


In the mean time, my extended family came to visit me a couple of days ago (that's my grammie and me up top). Unfortunately, it was during the last few days. It was good though to see everyone after all I've been through the last few months. As we can see in example 2-A, all the kids had a good ol' time running around, break dancing, screaming, and sitting calmly on the bench (Gwen's gonna do something cool, she's just waiting for the right moment). Somehow I still have both sets of grandparents. I'm about to turn 28 years old, and I still have both sets of grandparents. I'm really super lucky; I don't know anyone else my age that still has both sets of grandparents.

The frustration of a phone call

Here's how the cycle's been going lately: stress out over a phone call, make said phone call, receive no news whatsoever, cry. I guess it's better this way, though. Today is Friday the 13th. For all I know, they could tell me that my tumor didn't in fact get removed, and that they actually took out healthy brain--just on the opposite side from where the surgery was supposed to happen. That development would be less than stellar. Ok so I'm really glad that's not the case. So I'm supposed to find out the final results on Monday, but there's just no telling what's going to be the case here. It's just such a rare tumor. I hope the delay is just from having to check so many different sections of it. That or they lost it.

a brief pause for my cute niece

Now it's time for some shameless promotion of my niece. I can't help it. I mean look how cute she is. Would you do any different? Today we went down to the swing set. She played; I photographed. What a perfect day.

Yesterday, when we got back from Baltimore (we spent almost a month cooped up in that Best of Westerns with the best of maids, Marie), this was the glorious sight before my eyes. My sister and niece spent many hours slaving over it. It feels good to be home alright...

Goliath's Stats

Size: 8cm x 8cm
Ok, Goliath is at least borderline, well, gigantic. I guess that’s why I named him accordingly. That’s roughly 3.14 inches (or Pi inches, if you will)—a 3 in.x 3 in. fragment of festering flesh that was surgically coaxed out of my head into a hermetically sealed formaldehyde-free container. How did Dr. Q remove such a rare reality from my head you ask? With his superior surgical skills silly! (He said that he’d only seen one other tumor of the same variety in all his years of neurosurgical specialization.)

Weight: 3 Pounds!
A pretty weighty tumor, Goliath has left big empty shoes for my brain’s many types of fluids to fill. They say that neurological cells don’t reproduce, but I’ll show those highly accomplished and credentialed physicians the meaning of neurogenesis. Seriously though, that’s a relatively weighty tumor; it’s like my brain’s experiencing it’s own personal renaissance.

Age: probably years old
Dr. Q couldn’t say for sure (currently, nobody can know this), but he thought that due to the amount of adaptation that my brain had undergone, the tumor had probably been growing slowly in it on the scale of years rather than weeks or months. It was only the more aggressive part that had triggered the symptoms that I started experiencing around Thanksgiving.

That's all he told me for now. Wait until Thursday for my super all important release of the Goliath's official prognosis. Hopefully it'll be good news all around.

A post-op fantasy

Well today was a bit of a let down. Sadly, I didn't get the official word on my tumor, yet (muted trumpet sounds). I did get my staples out, though. I also met with Dr. Q again (He's so likeable. I just want to squeeze him). Now I'm in another hotel (Yay!) an hour outside of Durham, NC. Honestly, it's such a unique experience, this hotel that is. Seriously though, I can't wait to get home where I can actually get some much needed R&R. I'll do some biking, eat some raw food (and some regular food. If you think I'm gonna stay totally raw, then you've obviously gone completely nuts, which is actually fine with me.) Anyway, I've got until Thursday to wait for the official word now. I have to call back up there, so hopefully I can have a more official update for you then. Bye now!

Visitations and ramifications

Last night my friends Evan and Shannon came for a special visit. Well it wasn't so much special as absolutely conventional, but that's to be expected from a bunch of snarkers like them. It's too bad, though. I was a bit on the tired side when they showed up, so it totally slipped my mind to snap their photos. Drat! It's ok though, I commisioned Shannon to take a remotely developed picture of her and her beau (guess what? that's them above!). You know, it's like we've leapt into the 21st Century without even taking a step into the 20th (yes I know, that makes no sense).

It felt so good to laugh with them; I'm serious. I'm talking full-body laugh here. I guess I've just been taking things so seriously lately that I forgot my sense of humor. I mean, I thought I kept my sense of humor healthy and radiant, but I guess there's a difference between a hearty chuckle and full-body laughter. The only problem is that it makes my head feel like it's gonna split open when I laugh that heartily; a strange albeit satisfying feeling, I guess.

Record huntin' was next on the list. I didn't feel very good when I woke up this morning. I'm coming down off the Dex so every few days when I have to reduce the quantity I take, I get a bit of a headache. Nothing that an appropriately placed dose of Extra-Strength Tylenol can't take on, though. We scouted out two different hole-in-the-wall record stores. Dan and Adam loaded up on records (Adam in particular). We got lunch, coffee, saw the building from the Wire. What didn't we do? One thing's for sure, Baltimore's got nothing else for us. Well that may be a bit of a mis-statement. How about: Baltimore's got a whole lot more to offer us and we're probably not gonna get to see it. I think that sounds better, don't you?

Tomorrow morning at 8:40 is my post-op appointment with Dr. Quinones. Then Jay and Bob are coming by for their final visit, too. Having friends come visit really helps me on the road to recovery. I don't realize how much I need the interaction (though it's really tiring), but it helps me to feel like I'm a normal person again. Ok well, wish me luck tomorrow. There's no telling what my fortune will bring...

Goliath's toll

I don't know what Goliath's final toll on my life will be, but I do know that I can never go back to the way things were. This experience has been rich, to say the least, but something about referring to my brush with cancer as an 'experience' makes me feel terrible. To put it bluntly, I could have died. I could have had neurological or physical complications from the surgery or one of a million other possible conditions, but I don't. The fact that I've come out of this so similar to the way I waltzed in--as a fully feeling human being--is frankly astounding. I don't know who to thank or how, but I feel like I've just won an award for living and it guarantees me a new lease on life. The only problem is that now I have to live with a new lease every waking moment. I can't slip up and get jaded and bored like I did before; that just doesn't seem right--at all. Of course I'll have bad days where I feel next to terrible, but I can't let myself fall into the pit of darkness that I emerged from in late December. It just wouldn't be fair to myself.

So now I'm left to recover from this situation. If chemotherapy/radiation is needed then I'll have to take that step in the course of time, but as for right now, I don't need any further thought about whether or not to get surgery: it's done. I've bought myself one thing that I just wasn't sure if I had before: time. Goliath's gone, and hopefully he won't be returning, but only I can ensure that he never returns. Because if he does, there will be some serious hurdles for me to tackle. Though I feel like this experience has prepped me for those hurdles, a second bout with cancer (which some would say is inevitable for the survivor) would send me into the throes of a battle from which I may never return. It's scary, I know, but for now, I can claim a certain degree of victory over Goliath. We'll see what the doctor says on Monday (the day of my post-op appointment), but I've got my fingers crossed for a clean bill of health. Wouldn't that be fantastic?

A band visit and other sordid tales

Well today most of my band came down to visit me. The elusive fourth member, Evan, and his girlfriend, Shannon, are rumored to be planning a surprise visit on Saturday. Ha! I know what their plans are now. Anyhoo, Jay and Bob came down for the day, and we ate a delicious lunch at Ze Mean Bean Cafe. We had some pretty fantastic albeit moderately portioned meals (damn the European meal sizing differentiation, have you seen how skinny I am?) Overall, it was an intimate place with an actual European atmosphere. A great place for Happy Hour or an un-rushed meal. This is beginning to sound like a restaurant review, isn't it? Ok I'll stop, then. Oh wait, I have a pic. That's shocking, I know. Usually one person doesn't make it into the picture because they're taking it. Most of the time, that's my dad. It's unfortunate, I know, but one of the sad realities of the physics of photography.

Now for some more serious discussion. A member of the Hippocrates crew, Don, was rushed to the hospital due to complications from his cancer. Now he's on an oxygen machine and the doctor has given him 2-4 weeks to live. Apparently, the symptoms he's exhibiting are common for the end times. This is not good. Anyone who wants to send Don some good thoughts or prayers or whatever it is that you do, please do it. Don's a really great guy, and he's always been there for his friends. For Christ's sake, he was in the emergency room, and his concern was with how my surgery went rather than his serious condition. Now it's time for me to be there for him. Here's a pic of ol' Don with us down at Hippo. I mean it guys, please keep him in your thoughts and prayers. I'd hate to see him go.

More delightfulness in the snowy City of Charm

Yes. Today was a good day. I had some trouble last night coming down from the Dex. 16mg to 8mg requires quite a leap of faith, if you will (and I'm sure you will). It's a nasty drug, and I'd like to be off of it as soon as possible. The number of side-effects and complications that this drug causes make my head-spin (literally sometimes), so that's all I'd like right now. No more Dex, please. Oh yeah, that and my old clear way of seeing the world, and everyone's shiny happy faces. That would be very nice, thank you.

My room mate Dan and my work mate Adam came down to see me today. We went to Panera with my parents, who generously donated our lunches to us. We had a good ol' time sittin' around talkin' bout nothin'. Seriously though, they're really good guys, and we may go record store/cool museum huntin' next Monday. That would be fun.


I'm looking forward to getting back to a more traditional type of existence. That means one in which I work for my money, and I, yes I, pay my bills. Actually... I do that now, but my Dad has payed my rent for the last couple months and considering the amount of money that has been spent on this little conundrum, I'm sure that he'd like to get me back to self-sufficient as soon as possible. Not that he's in any hurry, but times aren't so good in this little country right now, are they?

So I digitally edited a pic I took of Baltimore earlier (I have nothing to do here, alright? Sitting around editing these pictures is seriously all I have in the world right now, well that and Cartoon Network). I thought that I'd leave you with that and a picture of my nasty wound, if you can stomach it. If you can't, that's just too damn bad. If you have any problems with it, you can come down to Baltimore, and we can take it outside in the snow. You wouldn't hit a guy who just had brain surgery, would you?


Pretty crazy, huh? It must've hurt like all get out, but I was nicely anesthetized the whole time. That's good. I can't handle that much pain; that and my face being peeled down. Have I grossed you out, yet?

Alas, Goliath is gone...

Unfortunately, there's some very sad news that I have to report: Goliath has been captured and resected; in other words, he's gone, forever hopefully.


I'll find out for certain what's going to happen next Tuesday when I discuss the results of the pathology report with Doctor Quinones. He truly is a miracle worker, and I'm so happy with the way things have gone. I mean really, he totally cut out Goliath and is one of the nicest men on the planet. It's exactly what I was hoping for, exactly. I don't know if things could have gone so well otherwise. I need to hold off on the praise until I can say for sure, but I'm just so pleased with the way things have gone so far.


Yep, I'm pretty happy with the way things have gone so far. I'll have more news to relate as things progress, but I just want everyone to know that my perspective on the world and my friends has been forever changed. I mean it. I seriously can't tell you what this experience has done for me. It has totally opened my eyes to the absolute compassion that people can have for one another. It brings tears to my eyes, it really does. Thank you.

The Anatomy of a Migraine and my Contact Info

You know how it all goes down. The pain that makes your eyes feel like they're getting wrenched out and squeezed at the same time. Actually, most of you probably don't. The sad fact is that most people don't know exactly what happens during a migraine. Well my friends, I'm here to tell you exactly how a migraine goes down. There are a couple of different kinds of migraines actually: some people actually get them upwards of 15-20 times a month! That thought of that much pain makes me want to vomit incessantly. Most migraines start out with these weird little visual accouterments, if you will. They're kind of like little kaleidoscopic elements that randomly appear in your visual field. They start out small and gradually widen out to take up your whole visual field. Then the horrible pain sets in. It'll last for a few hours; slowly draining the life out of you. Then it'll slowly grant you a reprieve and you can remember where your will to live went. Not a fun process, but I can say, once you've been through a migraine, what else could possibly trigger such happiness once it's done?

So surgery tomorrow, huh? That's a bit on the intimidating side. You guys all need to get on board with my physical and email addresses here in Baltimore. The physical address goes as such:

David Sommer
Best Western, Rm. 717
5925 O'Donnell St.
Baltimore, MD 21224

My email address is onceagainandagain@gmail.com. Hey! No funny stuff either. Ok well maybe just a little bit. Funny stuff makes me laugh, and laughter's good, right?

A day-trip to my old stomping grounds

Today I went to grab my car from Philly. I was only there for a brief time, but I got to see a whole bunch of my old (old? I thought they were new?!?) friends. It just so happens that I really like all those guys; maybe even more than I realized before. I’m kind of pissed off at my self, though, because I forgot to bring my camera. There were plenty of fantastic opportunities for tantalizing pictures that I missed. Unfortunately, it’s just not something that one thinks of doing when one visits home. I never really thought, “Hey, on this trip home, I should bring my camera to take lots of pictures of all that stuff that I used to take for granted.” It’s not really the kind of thing that I’d ever really consider while pondering a day-trip to Philly.

Like I said, though, it was a good trip to Philly.

My family and I didn't do too terribly much, but we did venture over to the Whole Foods (which I had honestly only been to like twice but will now probably be frequenting on a much higher scale than before due to my aforementioned raw diet.) The prepared foods there are pretty seriously awesome, it's actually probably the best Whole Foods that I've been to so far (that's not really saying much either. I'm pretty sure it's probably the fourth Whole Foods I've been to. Maybe not even the fourth: one was a Harry's.) But we hung with Dan my roomie and Kennedy a good friend of mine. It was really a good time.

This is my word-based image for the blog. I decided that it would be a good idea to sweep out underneath my tires. Yeah, there were tacks. I'm really glad I did that. My car might be stuck on I-95 getting run over by Mack trucks and pissed-off Philadelphians.

Finally, last but not least. Saturday night was the big Mardi Gras party here at the ol' Best Western. All of the 270 women that were here over the weekend had a big Mardi Gras party. So I leave you with a woman that had a minnie me replete with matching teeth. Ha! 'Nough said.