Live blogging from the pit of my stomach

PREGAME

ANNOUNCER 1: We're coming to you LIVE from the living room, where Josh and Cindy are going through their final preparations before what could be the biggest appointment of their lives.


ANNOUNCER 2: But you wouldn't know it.


ANNOUNCER 1: No you would not. We're getting unconfirmed reports that they're preparing for this monumental event by watching....wait for it....The Real Housewives of New Jersey.


ANNOUNCER 2: Talk about a couple of cool customers.


ANNOUNCER 1: Or a couple of people in the throes of denial.


ANNOUNCER 2: [chuckles]


ANNOUNCER 1: [chuckles]


ANNOUNCER 2: Let's throw it down to our sideline reporter who's standing by with Cindy now.


SIDELINE REPORTER: [points microphone at Cindy] Quite a scene here in the living room. Cindy, tell us how you're feeling.


CINDY: F*&K YOU I HAVEN'T HAD MY COFFEE YET!


SIDELINE REPORTER: Let's get a word with Josh. How are you dealing with the pressure of today's appointment?


JOSH: We're just trying to take it one day at a time. We've worked so hard to get to this moment and now we just have to OH MY GOD HOW CAN THERESA POSSIBLY WEAR THOSE SHOES TO GO CAMPING? ARE YOU SERIOUS? WHAT IN THE HELL HAPPENED TO THE BRAVO NETWORK???


SIDELINE REPORTER: Let's go back upstairs. Guys?


ANNOUNCER 1: Wow, those two really love television.


ANNOUNCER 2: It's pathetic. And awesome.


ANNOUNCER 1: So that's all from here. Soon, the burning questions will all be answered--Is this cancer treatable? How much does it cost to park at the Dana Farber? Can Theresa walk on the beach in stilettos? Stay tuned for the postgame show!

POSTGAME

I guess this makes it official:

Cindy and I have just emerged from the information tornado that is a meeting with an oncologist. It's hard to know where to begin. Here are the main things we learned:

• At the moment, it appears that my cancer is all one mass that's at the point where my esophagus meets my stomach (a place I call "Dorito-ville").
• One mass: good. More than one mass: bad
• A PET scan tomorrow will hopefully confirm the one-mass theory. A PET scan will NOT explain why my cat is so fat, however. That's a whole other kind of PET scan, apparently.
• If the scan confirms what we hope it confirms, I will immediately embark on an agressive course of radiation treatment.
• When/if the radiation reduces the size of the tumor, the next step will be to surgically remove it and everything it's currently attached to.
• What stage cancer do I have? Three or four. More specificity will have to wait for the moment.

If I had to pick the one thing I learned today that trumps all others, however, it's this: The fact that I've chronically overeaten for 40 years is the only thing keeping me from being on a feeding tube right now. 

In other words, Burger King saved my life and Weight Watchers can suck it.

We talked a little about five-year survivability rates for this type of cancer. Let's leave it at this: the number he gave me would have terrified me a month ago, before all of this started. Today it seemed like a gift. It's all about perspective, I guess.

That's the update for now. Thanks, as always, for the kind thoughts and support.

In Hell's waiting room

CAT scan day has come and gone. Waiting for the follow-up phone call was the worst seven hours of our lives. Here's the bottom line:


-The biopsy has confirmed that I have malignant cancer in both my stomach and my esophagus.


-The CAT scan did NOT find any proof of the cancer having spread to either the liver or the lungs.


-The CAT scan did show indications of inflamed lymph nodes, which could be a problem. 


-The GI doctor feels that, if I'm able to have surgery, it will likely involve the removal of my spleen as well. But I've never even used my spleen, so I'm fine with that.


I have now been handed off to an oncologist, who I see for the first time on Monday. He'll be the one to answer the nagging questions, such as "What stage cancer is it?" and "Is surgery still an option?" and "Where's the Oxycontin vending machine?"


All-in-all I'd rate the CAT scan news as a solid B+. Had the scan found evidence that the cancer had spread to the liver or lungs, it probably would have ruled out surgery and I would have no chance of a full recovery. Further scans could show that the cancer has, in fact, spread to the liver and lungs but, for now, I haven't been voted off the island just yet.


Thanks for all of the kind words, thoughts and prayers! Will keep you up-to-date as soon as I know more!

And so it begins...

This story starts two days ago, on the morning of Friday, July 20, 2012.


I was still groggy from the anesthesia when the doctor showed me the photograph. "It's...it's not good," he said. I could hear my wife crying but I didn't take my eyes off of the picture. What was I looking at? "That's the tumor," he said, pointing to a glob on the left side of the image, "and that's the rest of your stomach," he said, pointing to the right. I had assumed it was a picture of Cleveland.


You hear stories all the time about someone with a "golfball-sized" tumor on their brain or a "tumor the size of a grapefruit" on their liver. These are the quality, round masses of grim death that the cool people get. My tumor is the size and shape of a spilled puddle of pancake batter, and by the look on my doctor's face it will be the thing that kills me.


Twelve hours earlier, I was sitting in the right field grandstand at Fenway Park with my wife and our two kids, struggling to push the butt end of an Italian sausage down my gullet. I followed that with half an order of fried dough and a trough of sickly sweet lemonade. The discomfort in my throat was familiar, something I had felt for months every time I ate or drank. Whatever I consumed--hot, cold, liquid, solid, spicy, sweet--got trapped halfway down my gaping maw, bringing with it a brief moment of panic, followed by a slow, stubborn downward crawl to my stomach. 


As I sat there watching the Red Sox do their own slow, stubborn downward crawl (to last place), I was actually looking forward to the endoscopy I had scheduled for the following morning. I assumed it would lead to a simple solution--antacids, a pill or, in the worst case, an unpleasant liquid cure--that would allow me to resume my pursuit of even higher cholesterol without the hindrance of a narrowing esophagus.


Actually, that's not exactly the whole truth. I did not assume that the endoscopy would lead to a simple cure. I knew, I absolutely knew, that there was something profoundly wrong with me. I didn't think "cancer" or anything that specific, but I knew something about my body was in crisis. Over the course of those same few months when the throat problems started, I noticed a marked reduction in stamina. At the start of May, I tried to get back on the bicycle to ride off a portion of the pounds I had put on over the winter. The first few rides of the year are always awful but, this time, I could never get over the hump. Even ten miles became an act of torture. After a couple of weeks, I stopped trying. 


Soon I noticed that the walk from the train station to my office, a mere four blocks, was becoming a problem. What used to be one of the more pleasant parts of my day became an odyssey of flop sweat and nausea. And climbing the stairs once I got there was off the table. These days, when the elevator I never used to use releases me on to the second floor, I walk as fast as possible to the bathroom, hoping nobody sees me on the way, so that I can mop my brow with a wet paper towel until my heart rate levels off.


So, in a bizarre way, this diagnosis has given me a morsel of comfort: I'm not out of shape and lazy. I'm out of shape and lazy WITH A TUMOR. 


I should clarify something here. As I write this, I have not yet been officially diagnosed with cancer. A biopsy was taken and, within five days, it will be the final word on the matter. But the doctor, with a frankness that I genuinely appreciated, did us the courtesy of eliminating any painful false hopes and made it clear that we are dealing with a malignant tumor here.


My wife and I both independently Googled "stomach cancer" in the hours that followed. For my wife, this was a terrible mistake that led to an enormous amount of sadness. For me, at this moment, I consider it the best thing I could have done. There is no way one researches stomach cancer and comes away with even an iota of false hope. And I am strangely at peace with how the odds are stacked against me which, if I ran a casino, might read as follows:

It's not cancer. All we need to do it cut out most or all of my stomach: 100-1


It's cancer, but we caught it early and it hasn't spread. If we cut out all or most of my stomach and start chemotherapy, I have a shot: 25-1


I'm fucked: 5-2


It turns out that it was a picture of Cleveland. My stomach is fine: 10,000-1

Next step: In two days (one day after my 41st birthday), I take a CAT scan to see if whatever I have has spread.