<h2>Battling cancer ... <br>and staying upbeat about it</h2>

I'm at work, and probably shouldn't be trying to sneak in this post, but ... given the subject matter, and the the fact that it's fresh on the brain (no jokes solicited), I thought I'd do it anyway.

A work colleague, Carl Sygiel (pictured), has been undergoing treatment for prostate cancer for about a year now. He did the prostate removal surgery, went through a battery of chemotherapy and now is in the final stretch of a seven-week radiation treatment. Even though tests and image screens indicated his cancer had barely entered nodes and spread marginally outside the prostate, his doctors recommended the maximum treatment to avoid taking any chances.

Carl has held up remarkably well; he lost what little hair he had (he's mostly bald) during chemo, but that little bit is coming back now, and the only real "change" is that he's gained weight. Odd thing about that, too, is that his doctors don't want his weight to fluctuate during the radiation treatment. So Carl, who was pretty active in the years before he began tackling the prostate cancer (he's participated in several bike tours in recent years, including at least three or four annual 72-mile America's Most Beautiful Bike Ride in Lake Tahoe, Nev., to benefit the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society). I'm sure Carl is not too thrilled about the weight gain thing, but he realizes it's a small price to pay to ensure he bounces back from this.

The reason I'm posting this is that Carl, who turned 60 last December, has taken an unusual step through all this: keeping friends and family informed with periodic -- and upbeat -- notes about his treatment and progress. His latest arrived today, and it was such a fun read, I thought I'd share it with any of you who might be interested. The accompanying picture is a bit dated; it's probably eight years old.

Here's Carl's update today:

Greetings all:

We are nearly two months into 2010, we've buried the Colts, the snow has buried us, the Olympics are in full swing, Tiger Woods has confessed his sins, and I hope by now everyone has decided how they are pronouncing the new year. Do you say two-thousand ten, or do you say twenty-ten? I don't know that it qualifies as the burning question of the day, but I guess some people do get worked up over things like that. But once again, I digress.

Whatever year this is, it has ushered in the final phase of my three-pronged prostate cancer treatment. I began radiation treatments in mid-January and am cruising down the home stretch. The schedule called for 37 treatments, and I've done 27 so far. It's every day, Monday through Friday, with weekends off for good behavior. The first few weeks, the treatment times were all over the map, but now I've settled in at 8 a.m. It means getting up early, but at least it doesn't interrupt my workday.

I had no idea how all this worked, but I've since learned, and actually, it's pretty fascinating stuff. Radiation beams are like powerful x-rays and they kill cancer cells. Unfortunately, they can also damage good stuff that gets in the way. Things like kidneys and colons and bladders and other, uh.... kinda important organs in the area. Radiation used to be doled out in sort of a one-size-fits all approach. The latest technology is called IMRT or intensity-modulated radiation therapy. The rays are delivered in varying doses and shapes from different directions by this enormous piece of equipment called a linear accelerator or more formally, something that looks like a giant water faucet.

In my case, the faucet head turns around counterclockwise and zaps me from seven different positions. There are 71 zappings each day. Trust me, I've counted them: 13-14-3-7-14-12-8. I've even gone so far as to play those numbers in the lottery. Hey, winning that would be one of those side effects everyone could like.

The rays come through tiny different shaped openings formed by small, lead Venetian-blind-like shades. Imagine putting a stencil on a paper and then scribbling over the top with a pencil. You lift the stencil and the shape is left on the paper below. It could be a circle, or a box or maybe even the state of Oklahoma. The rays race through like Danica Patrick and then crash into the area being treated --- come to think of it, also like Danica Patrick. Most of the radiation is absorbed, some is diffused, which is why all the techs scurry out behind a door that's about 8 feet thick.

The New York Times recently ran a frightening story on what can happen if radiation treatments go awry. Once the oncologist maps out a plan, the machine is programmed and pretty much runs on its own. The therapist is supposed to keep an eye on everything on their own computer screen and as long they aren't asleep at the wheel or sexting somebody, it all runs like clockwork. I brought the article in, however, just to keep everybody on their toes.

Remember the tattoos I wrote about? I've got 'em now. Three specks, one on each hip and a third in the groin. Laser beams come from the ceiling and the walls, hit the tattoos and line you up precisely on the table. I've been told not to lose weight or gain weight during the seven week process because it will throw off the dimensions. Like they don't want you eating a whole pizza before your treatment because your stomach will be bigger and closer to the machine, and they will have to adjust the table. Seriously.

They say radiation is supposed to make you tired and make your skin red. I've experienced a little of both, but for the most part, it's been pretty tolerable. The whole daily process takes about 25 minutes. I've done the math and at the end of the 37 days, I will have been zapped 2,627 times. If I've been glowing with excitement lately, you know why. I meet with the doctor every Wednesday, and when you go to the same place 37 times, you get to know the techs, the nurses, even the women in the office. I brought 'em all doughnuts for Valentine's Day, figuring they didn't have to worry if their stomachs got bigger.

Meanwhile, I'm still making monthly trips to Methodist Hospital for a Lupron shot and a Zometa infusion. That will eventually space out to every three months with a target date to finish of 11/11/11, about a year and a half from now. And of course, there are the daily pills (Casodex, Avodart, calcum, etc). I take about seven a day. It really is a long process, but they run blood tests every month and so far each time, the numbers are good: negligible PSA, good white and red blood cell counts, and whatever else they stick you for.

It's amazing how fast time flies. It's been just about a year since I first went to the doctor and got the news that started this ball rolling. I've been asked hundreds of times by friends, "So how are you feeling?" The answer is "Great," and to be honest, it's a question I never get tired of answering.

carl