I reached a milestone today; I'm officially an old fart. Today, you see, is my 50th birthday.

I almost didn't make it this far. Just fourteen months ago I was diagnosed with stage IV esophageal cancer. Seems I had a large tumor located at the junction of my esophagus & stomach that had been making swallowing difficult for several months. But, I'm getting ahead of myself...

After I moved from Maine to Ohio in 1998, I thought life had thrown me all of the curves it was going to. Then I met the young lady who would shortly become my second wife & all sorts of other curve balls began flying at my head. First, her teenage nephew was shot & killed by his younger brother. Then her grandmother died. Then her father had to have heart surgery; he passed a little over a year later of a massive coronary infarction. Then her sister, who had been battling breast cancer for 8 years, had a recurrence. She went 6 months after the recurrence. Then her husband was diagnosed with Hodgkins; he no sooner was cured than my wife's mom died unexpectedly while on vacation with her companion in Florida. All of this happened between the time we met in July of '98 & April of 2005.

In May of '05 I began to notice that swallowing was getting increasingly uncomfortable. By June it was serious enough that I sought a doctor's advice. He set me up with an upper G-I test that showed nothing unusual, then referred me to a gastroenterologist. But, he wasn't able to get me an appointment until October. I couldn't wait that long; so I made a couple of calls and got an appt. for August. He noted my symptoms, set me up for an endoscopy the next week, and fast-tracked the biopsy. I was diagnosed on August 19th, the worst telephone call I ever received.

From that point, though, things moved quickly. I met with a surgeon the next week, who set me up for my first surgery the middle of Sept. A diagnostic procedure was done to confirm results from the endoscopy, a mediport was installed just below my left collarbone, and a feeding tube was inserted in my small intestine.

After my release from the hospital, I met with an oncologist for the first time. The diagnosis was confirmed, and I was set up to begin chemotherapy as part of a clinical trial involving two drugs that were known cancer fighters, but whose effect on my specific cancer were yet to be determined. Two cycles of chemo later, the tumor was reduced enough to allow a second surgery, this one set for December 19th.

I was opened up again as scheduled, but the cancer was found to have spread to a couple of lymph nodes, and was too close to one of my gastric arteries to be operable. I was closed up again, a second feeding was tube inserted in my stomach, and I was sent home Dec. 24th. Merry Christmas.

I met with the oncologist again just before the new year. More chemotherapy was scheduled, along with five weeks of high-dose radiation therapy. The chemo drugs were stronger this time; and the radiation sapped most of my strength and killed my appetite. By February, I was barely eating at all, taking most of my nourishment through the feeding tube; and it was all I could do to pull myself off the living room couch. I began using a cane for support. Therapy ended at the end of February and I was given the choice between a third surgery or more chemo. I waffled for two weeks before deciding I really didn't want to be cut open again; then the oncologist told me what drugs would be put into my body for the next six months. I changed my mind and opted for the surgery. It was scheduled for April 28th.

On April 26th, about five in the morning, my wife woke me up by slapping me in the face and screaming at me. I had passed out across the bed on my way back from the bathroom. She called 911, and a team of four paramedics were in our bedroom in minutes. My blood pressure was shockingly low, my heart rate shockingly high, and my body temperature had, at one point, dropped below 90. I was in bad shape. When asked if I wanted to go to the hospital, I said "yes," and I was on my way. Halfway there, I began vomiting blood. By the end of that day, I had been stabilized, but only after receiving 40 units of blood product. That's about three times the body's total blood supply. My surgery was rolled back a week while I recovered from the slap fight I'd just won with the Grim Reaper.

See my next post for the rest of this story...