Friday, April 13, 2012

Once More into the Breach

Oh crap, sitting in front of a computer on a Friday, and still reeling from the news two hours ago.

The biopsy results came back, he has moderately aggressive prostate cancer, and they need to start treatment immediately.


Project proposals, conference calls, budgets, it all seems a bit meaningless when that news hits.  Just at 1:30, I was thinking, "Man, the keys on this keyboard are getting sticky.  Maybe I need to order another one, that'll help me keep working."  A first-world problem if there ever was one.

Then you get The Phone Call.  It's someone you love, someone you grew up with.  The brief, selfish part of you says, "Glad it's not me." then you feel horribly guilty for thinking that, and then you feel even more stupid when you realize that it could be you any day.

Gleason Score.  What the hell is a Gleason Score?  Is a 7 good or bad?  Why are there two numbers, 3 and 4?

Pop up Wikipedia, look up 'Gleason' and then you see Gleason Grading System.  Surely that's the same thing, right?  A quick scan, I see the word 'prostate' and start to read.  Pictures, 3+4 is better than 4+3, anytime there is a 5 the prognosis isn't good.  Well, less aggressive and not a bad prognosis is a small favor I guess, but the word aggressive is there all right.  Probable treatments include radioactive beads and targeted radiation. My mind pictures gamma radiation blasting electrons away from complex protein molecules...

Radiation is an excellent cell killer, but not a very good carcinogen.


Memories of health physics talks in conferences that seem rather unimportant at the moment.  I hope those gamma rays take the right ones out.

Screw this, I'm getting some coffee.  I realize my eyes are watering only when someone else comes into the coffee room. I bypass the small talk and leave quickly even though she's senior because this isn't her problem, and I don't feel like sharing right now.

This isn't his first time, colon cancer in 2002-2003, he made it fine although the chemo was a bitch.  Then the aortic stint, now this. The Evil Me thinks 'I am Iron Man', and the guilt comes back.  We've always dealt with things this way though, Dark funny thought, Dark sad thought. Repeat.

Haven't made it to Alaska yet, and our vacation is already planned.  Enter more guilt, probably have to go in the winter.  That'll be fun, and dark.

Dark funny, dark sad.  Probably a bit of both coming soon to a warped mind near you.