All results / Stories / Kenneth B. Lourie
Column: "Progression"
There’s a word – in a medical context, anyway, that you don’t hear every day. And if you’re a stage IV lung cancer survivor – like me, 35 months post-diagnosis, it’s hardly the word you ever want to hear – or see – describing the most recent CT Scan of your lungs (Mediastinum) where your malignant tumors have been in "partial stable remission" going on two-plus years now. "Progression" means growth. Growth means the relative calm under which you’ve existed for the last few years is officially over.
Column: "Diseased"
But not sickness. Not health, either, as last week’s column ended. At least that’s the way I characterize my having stage IV lung cancer. And I don’t know if I’m splitting hairs here, since I’ve never worked in a salon, although I do get my hair cut regularly; but I have been accused of speaking double-talk.
Column: Peculiar Presence
In the last few months, out of the blue, I have received electronic correspondence from each of my three oldest childhood friends (none of whom have remained adulthood friends, though all three remain of interest to me) commenting on my cancer diagnosis; each having stumbled across one of my cancer columns online, presumably after initiating a Google-type search for yours truly.
Column: “Less Fluid, Most Nodules Stable, Minimal Growth.”
Given how I feel now, three-plus years later, and considering the results of this most recent scan, the future may simply be what it is: not now, but later. At least, that’s the way I see it, subjectively speaking. (Now whether “subjectively speaking” is just a euphemism for “unrealistic” is likely a topic for a “future” column.)
Column: 'Bulky Boy'
Although this title invokes the nickname of one of my three male cats – Andrew, to be specific – he is in fact not the point of th is column.
Column: Gone But Always Remembered
As Father’s Day approaches, (written Thursday, June 18th) I am reminded of one of my father’s standard lines which characterize his positive attitude on life, for which I am eternally grateful – because I inherited it.
Stride Right
Not that I’ve felt that my attitude toward being diagnosed with stage IV (“terminal”) non-small cell lung cancer at age 54-and-one-half was ever to be considered as model behavior, but I do believe, after the initial shock wore off, eventually I assimilated its effects into my routine reasonably well. Not without a million bumps and bruises along the way, however, both physically and emotionally; nevertheless, though time has not healed all that has preceded this column, I’ve managed to find and maintain an extremely delicate balance between “joie de vivre” and “c’est la vie.”
Column: Since It Ain’t Broken...
Apparently, at least in the near term, we’re (meaning my oncologist) not going to fix it. And by fix it, I am referring to my chemotherapy infusion, which will continue to be every three weeks, as it has been for almost six years; save for a year or so when I was able to take pills at home, and on-site infusions were not necessary.
Column: The New Normal
Loosey goosey, I suppose. As much as one might prefer some predictability in their life (certainly a cancer patient would – I know I would), I may be entering a cycle of permanent unpredictability.
Column: Down and Not Out, Yet
Thankfully (so far as I know, which isn’t very far), after a five-week interval between infusions, which included two additional weeks of pre-chemotherapy lab work and an out-of-the-ordinary 24-hour urine collection (“creatinine clearance”) to boot – to more accurately measure my kidney function in hopes of meeting a 1.6 threshold – muster was finally passed, and I was subsequently infused without any further adieu.
Column: Deep Space Mind
Commentary
A few years back (OKAY, more than a few years back; I’ll blame the cancer for my time lapse), there was a spin-off from the original Star Trek: Star Trek: The Next Generation captained by Jean-Luc Picard (a.k.a. Patrick Stewart) which itself spawned two other spin-offs: Star Trek Voyager and Deep Space Nine (commanded by Avery Brooks, a.k.a. Captain Sisko).
Excuse Me
Early on during my indoctrination/assimilation into the cancer-patient world in which I now reside, I remember asking a fellow cancer patient/friend if I could use cancer as an excuse for whatever it was needed excusing (directly or indirectly related), and she said: absolutely, “blame the cancer.” Years later, after a chemotherapy infusion, I saw my oncologist walking through the Infusion Center and asked him if my thinning hair might be a result of this most recent chemotherapy drug (not all chemotherapy results in hair loss). His response was similar to what my friend had advised me in 2009. He said: “You can blame me,” (which of course, I understood to mean, cancer/the treatment of cancer) “for anything.”
And Another Thing I’m “Righting” On
Not only did last week’s CT Scan indicate shrinkage, where necessary – and stability, where hoped for – it also accomplished these hoped-for goals after only two months of chemotherapy (still infused every three weeks) rather than the normal three months of chemotherapy. So depending on how the calendar/treatment schedule actually fell, I probably received two fewer infusions than usual, yet all the radiological indications – and interpretations – continue to be encouraging; after five and a half years, no less. I think I’m entitled to use the word amazing – and lucky, too.
"One Less Thing"
Forrest Gump knew when he voiced over: "Mama got the cancer and died on a Tuesday. I bought her a new hat with little flowers on it. And that’s all I have to say about that." And if you watched the movie as often as I did (it was one of my mother’s favorites), you may also recall "Mama always said you got to put the past behind you before you can move on."
Friends Forever
Since it had been more than a few months, today I summoned up the courage to Google my long-time friend and fellow stage IV lung cancer survivor, Suzanne. Suzanne and I had been years out of touch (for no real reason other than initiative and the geographic consideration that she lived in Barnstable, Ma. and I live in Burtonsville, Md.) and recently back in touch – due to our identical cancer diagnoses. I learned that she had succumbed to her disease back in October, 2013. We last had contact electronically back in the summer. She was extremely weak then, she said, too weak to talk, so e-mailing was best. In that e-mail, ultimately her last, she wrote that the most recent chemotherapy drug with which she was infused was no longer effective and that her oncologist had no other drugs left to recommend. Not that she said it in so many words, but at that point her prognosis was grim. She offered that her two boys were with her and from them she would gain great comfort. The news was very unsettling to me and I was afraid that this e-mail might be our last – and so it was.
Confused and then Infused
Since March 6, 2009, nearly five years now, save for nine months when I was taking an oral chemotherapy medication at home, every three weeks I have been infused with some sort of chemotherapy drug. In that time, I have certainly become familiar and fairly well-known to the various staff at The Infusion Center. What follows is the most recent exchange with the receptionist in Oncology, as best as I can recall it.
An Unexpected Present
Not that I minded it in the least (in fact, I appreciated it in the most), but I received my first senior discount the other day. I was fast-fooding at my local Roy Rogers restaurant when the unexpected kindness occurred. Considering that I’m not at the age yet when such discounts are typically available, I certainly did not (do not) presume that my appearance somehow reflects an age which I am not. In truth, I don’t believe it does. So even though I didn’t ask for the age-related discount, I was offered/given it nonetheless. As the cashier tallied my bill, she then spoke the price and adjusted it downward 10 percent for my surprise "senior" discount. On hearing the lower price and the reason for it, I immediately responded: "Oh, you’re giving senior discounts to people over 40?" To which she replied, while looking me directly in the eye: "No. Over 30." Laughing at her quick-thinking quip, I thanked her again for the discount and commended her on her excellent answer/customer service.
Column: Where To Begin?
I realize this admission may sound weird, but having cancer is boring. Don’t get me wrong, I’m lucky to be alive, and quite happy about it, too. But waiting for the other shoe to drop, i.e. some bad cancer news to appear (lab work, scan, advisory from my oncologist), is tiresome because it’s always so worrisome.
Column: Writing On!
It was June ’09 when I published my first column in the Connection Newspapers about being diagnosed with cancer. It was actually a column detailing the diagnostic steps I had taken during the first few months of the year attempting to identify the pain I had initially felt under my right-side rib cage in late December.
Still Curious, But Maybe Not Dying
Although one never knows, especially if that one is living in "cancerville." And by "cancerville" I mean, euphemistically speaking, anywhere where one of us diagnosed with cancer is living. Living being the operative word. Still, as my column from a few weeks ago entitled, "Dying With Curiosity" discussed, cancer patients are often besieged by their subconscious, changing fact into fiction and manipulating feelings into inevitabilities. If only there was a switch to turn off the mind games that don’t exactly mind their "man-ners" or "women-ers" for that fact, I’d flick it in a second. Cancer creates physical problems – as we all know, but I have to tell you, it’s the mental problems that can be just as deadly.