Thursday: March 15, 2012

I'm having a better day. Really.

Like the thorough reporter I profess to be, I finally researched smoking and lung cancer to prepare for an interview later in the day with Dr. Toby Cosgrove, president and CEO of the Cleveland Clinic.

I knew he would be an ideal interview subject for the documentary. Dr. Cosgrove is an outspoken critic of this country's tobacco policy and politics. He banned smoking on the sprawling Clinic campus years ago and, using a carrot-and-stick policy with health insurance premiums, has essentially forbidden Clinic employees from smoking.

Dr. Cosgrove is a thoracic surgeon with more than 22,000 procedures to his credit. But he claims he has saved more lives with his anti-smoking efforts than he ever did in the operating room. The interview went well. The good doctor was engaging and direct and Lynn thought we'd gotten some good stuff.

But my research, unfortunately, meant I collected bad stuff – information that I didn't want to know. Among the detritus of scary shit, I found a footnoted reference that served as a bullet to the brain.
The footnote said that the survival rate at five years for a tumor in one lung that has spread to a nearby lymph node – that's me – is 14 percent.

The specificity overwhelmed me. Until then, I had gotten vague and conflicting answers about the likelihood I would live another five years. I'd been told by the oncologist, Dr. Verma, right off the bat it was 15 percent. But my doctors had been upbeat and seemed confident that I could and maybe would be an outlier. Dr. Greskovich seemed certain it was as high as 28 percent.

(As the kids say, LOL. Here I am, trying to take comfort as to whether I essentially have a 1 in 4 chance of living five years or 1 in 8. Okay. One in four does sound better.)

Thursday is my day to see Dr. Greskovich after radiation. I told him about the footnote and broke down in tears. My resolve is weakening. I feel like crap physically and mentally. Dr. Greskovich has only seen the strong, optimistic Mark, not the broken man sitting before him.

I told him that I had asked my general physician to provide a referral for psychiatric counseling. Dr. Greskovich thought it a good idea. Many cancer patients, he said,  need help.

He dismissed the 14 percent figure I had read. He insisted that the latest studies show the survival rate for my brand of cancer is 25-30 percent. He conceded there were no known studies to predict outcomes for someone with small cell and non-small cell lung cancer.

And he could not erase from memory the neat type that leaped off the page at me.

Dr, Greskovich emphasized that it's important to remain positive and active as possible. That's what I'm trying to do today.

With my energy levels up a bit, I decided to make a full day of it: lunch with McIntyre, a much-delayed visit with my father at the nursing home and a trip to the grocery store to gather ingredients for chicken paprikash, a dish I had never made before. If there was anything left in the tank, maybe a couple hours of poker at a friend's house.

I had not seen my father in awhile. The nursing home had been on lockdown because of a nasty intestinal virus that had infected many of the residents. I knew I should take any chances given how badly compromised my immune system is thanks to chemotherapy. But the siege had been lifted and I felt it safe to finally return.

It was to be an important visit because my father now knows I have cancer, something we originally vowed not to tell him. Age has significantly dulled Dad's mind. It's often hard for him to form sentences. Ask him what he ate for lunch 15 minutes earlier and it's likely he won't remember. But he has been observant enough to be confused and more than a little concerned about various changes in my life.

He wondered at first why I had been stopping by the nursing home at all hours of the day when I should have been at work. I told him I had been working from home.

My freshly shaved head threw him for a loop. I said it's easier to take care of.

Returning to church confounded him. I shrugged it off as "something I needed to do."

I told him partial truths, which I now realize are nothing more than gussied-up lies.

My sister Kay and I decided it was time to 'fess up, but that she would do the telling. I was afraid I could not control my emotions. I did not want him to see his baby boy an emotional wreck. I feared it would have broken his heart.

Kay said he didn't quite understand everything she told him. Kay also said I would be okay. And I will.

My visit with Dad went well. Knowing that he knows, I dismissed my cancer as a minor inconvenience (another lie) and said no more. I'm guessing he did not buy my story completely, but did not press for details.

I pushed him around the nursing home for awhile. We made a stop in the pool room, which was part of the original mansion onto which the nursing home was built.

Dad and his brother, Dana, were accomplished pool shots. Uncle Dana quit playing in early 90s when someone finally beat him at the senior citizens center.

I set up some easy shots that Dad could make from his wheelchair. I loved the intensity he brought to this small exercise, the care and concentration he applied to each shot.

I pushed him back to his room and told him I needed to get going. He gave me a long hug and told me how much fun he had. Our time together affirmed that, for both of us, there are no small moments. In these uncertain times, every second counts.