Happy Birthday Dad... May Your Chemo be Strong and your Hands Blister-Free

Today is my dad's birthday, and boy am I happy he's here.


It's his third birthday since being diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer the first time, and the fact that he's still here and going strong is a miracle.


The other day, at a soccer field on the top of the Laguna Hills, my nephews were looking for a goalie.


Boldly, my dad volunteered. He is literally half the man he used to be, and he made the large soccer net look even bigger.

No, that's not a pole in the center. That's my dad.

My sister warned the boys - one 12 and one 10 years old - to take it easy on my dad. But it's hard to rein it in when you're a young kid and your whole life has been soccer.

My younger nephew, Josh, started slow, but as Grandpa blocked shot after shot, he increased the power. Finally, he wound up and sent a zinger that he was sure would go in.

My dad reflected it. 

Josh stared at him, mouth agape. Then, with a hand on his hip, he said, "Grandpa, are you sure you have cancer?"

Last Saturday night, my dad's pediatric practice - which he started from the ground up -held a retirement party for my dad. We were a little worried the scene would turn emotional. Thankfully, my dad placated our fears by donning a superman t-shirt and a visor complete with a full head of gray hair sticking out.

He bought the ensemble at Venice Beach.

My dad at his retirement party. Never was known for his fashion sense.

He said Pediatricians don't retire. They simply morph into their superhero alter-egos permanently. 


Recently I watched him conquer a full week with six grandkids, neverending games of beach smash ball and topsy-turvy rides at Disneyland. Knowing how the chemo ravages both his innards and outards with equal ferocity, I couldn't help but think he's already a superhero. 


Happy Birthday Dad. Here's to many more. 

Here's to Kneeing Cancer in the Groin

Hey y'all.

So, I'm a little late to post today, because I've been waiting on some news about my dad... and the news is good!

My parents flew down to Houston to MD Anderson for his first CT scans since his diagnosis- to see if the chemo had any effect on the tumors in his lungs.

The scans showed that the largest tumor had shrunk by half. The other smaller tumors had shrunk as well, some appearing only as little shadows. (side note: the words "had shrunk" never sound right. Never ever.)

The doctor's computer crashed several times as they were comparing the results, and he said, "I think the computer isn't accustomed to such positive results. We don't normally get those."

He speaks the truth.

We are ecstatic. I have finally emerged from the fetal position I first assumed on Monday. We are blessed. 

Of course we know we are not out of the woods. The woods are infinite in cases of pancreatic cancer. But, as Martha Stewart would say, holy crap, Batman, this is a good thing!

I will leave you all with a picture of my dad's grandkids at his clinic. They all went together to get their immunization shots. I don't know why I found it so cute. Maybe it's because they looked so happy even though they knew what was coming. 

Here's to all of us looking that happy in the face of pain!

Love to you all.

Bro

Prepare to be Walloped by a 2x4 made of Sunshine, whether it's cancer or publishing

Thanks y'all for voting in our Barry Manilow cover band naming contest.

And the winner is:

THE BARELY MANILOWS

Stay tuned for our debut...

On to the post.

Every time we take my dad to visit a new doctor, we listen patiently to the spiel. We are quiet as he or she reiterates what a formidable foe cancer is. And then my mom opens her mouth, and I think to myself, I hope this doctor knows what he's in for. He's about to be whacked up the side of the head with a buttload of optimism. 

She will take whatever abysmal numbers they throw at her, and twist them around to suit her outlook.

Odds are 100:1 against us? "Fabulous," she says. "That means one person, somewhere out there, is beating the odds. Why not Dad?"

This attitude infiltrates every aspect of his treatment.

Yes, the chemotherapy causes my dad's hands and feet to swell and blister. Some serious ouch. 

His hands, twice their usual size

 But how my mom sees it is, "If it's doing that to your hands, imagine what it's doing to the tumors! This is so good."

Every break from chemo means my dad's hands will shed their outer skin, revealing the super-sensitive skin below.

Mom: "Isn't that new pink skin underneath gorgeous? It's like baby skin!"

She says this as she tirelessly and delicately massages his hands and feet. She knows how much it hurts.

As for the fact that he could only survive Disneyland in a wheelchair? 

Mom: "It's only temporary, and can you believe we get to use the wheelchair line? This is so good!"

Sometimes I get the sense that her optimism scares people. We hear whispers of "Doesn't she get what's going on? Is she unclear of the concept of Pancreatic Cancer?"

 I can tell you, without a doubt, she's totally clear on the concept. She just expects the best, and plans accordingly. And I've seen her expectations defy science, and fly in the face of those pesky numbers known as "The Odds".

For instance, my dad's chemo regimen knocks out his white blood cells, the things that fight infection. If his white count is below 1.5 he can't get a full dose. At 1, he might not even get any, because the danger of infection is too great.

After my dad's break from his first round of chemo, he knew he was still weak, and he was sure his numbers hadn't recovered enough. On the drive to the hospital, my mom repeated, "You're getting infused today. Get ready."

They tested his blood, and it was at 1.0. Borderline. They agreed to give him 80% infusion. Because this was only the beginning of his second round, the doctors thought there was no way his counts would recover for his next treatment, as he would have no break.

The next week, they made the drive to the hospital, and my dad was sure he wouldn't get the infusion. My mom said, "Get ready. You're getting infused."

My mom called me for support, and I was all, "Oh yeah, I'm with you. He's totally getting infused." But inside I was thinking, "There's no way he's getting infused."

They get to the hospital, draw his blood, and wait. The numbers come back. 1.9. 

There's no explanation. Those numbers didn't make sense. He got the full infusion.

And after Disneyland and Palm Springs, the sheer energy of the trip - and the fact that each infusion should have an exponentially detrimental effect on his white count - should've led to even worse numbers.  Plus, he was pretty sure he had a low-grade fever that morning.

They drive to the hospital. My mom says, "Get ready. You're getting infused."

His counts come back. 4.8. What the what?

How does this relate to publishing? You can probably guess, but I'm going to explain it anyway. 

Every person who's been published defied the odds. Every. Single. One.

And along the way, I bet every single author knew someone out there was saying, "Are you crazy? Don't you understand the odds?"

I'm sure most of you have heard me say this, but I found my first agent after a contest with my sister-in-law, titled "Who can get to 100 agent rejections first?" 

Let me tell you, I hit 100 rejections first. In your face! Boo-yah!

And with every rejection, my mom and I would get together and say, "That's one rejection closer to success!"

When my first book didn't sell, and I had to part ways with my first agent, my mom was all, "Glad we got that one out of the way. Now off to find a better fit!"

Even though I sometimes forget it, my mom reminds me there is a power to positive thinking. Believing something will happen in the face of incredible odds. 

I don't know the science behind that power. I don't have any proof. Would my dad's counts have the same acrobatic skills if my mom did not literally bleed sunshine and rainbows? Maybe.

Or maybe I'd be writing a different blog post. I don't know. I never finished The Secret. 

But I can tell you, my approach during the whole query/rejection stage helped me survive the long and arduous journey.  Survival turned out to be key. I could've easily given up after rejection number 99.

And my dad was supposed to be dead two years ago.

Here's to expecting miracles, when reason tells you not to.

Yesterday, I went over to my parents' house for our weekly Sunday lunch. I checked out my dad's hands, as I always do. 

I turned them over in my own hands, ran my fingers gently over the blisters and said, "If the chemo is doing this to your hands, think about what it's doing to the tumors!"

My mom said, "Hey! You're beginning to sound like me! Or maybe I'm beginning to sound like you."

No mom, I'm beginning to sound like you. And I hope it never changes.

Are you in the middle of querying? Or any other struggle? Feel free to siphon off some of my mom's unwavering, unreasonable, emphatic optimism. She can enthusiasm your butt off. Only she'll do it more eloquently.

LK Madigan, and the Question of Why

A brief timeout from regular programming: 


If you are tuned in to the YA twitter scene at all, you may have heard that the YA world lost an author a couple of days ago. She was 47 years old.


The YA writer community is uniquely small. I didn't know LK Madigan (Lisa Wolfson) personally, but I know her books, Flash Burnout and the Mermaid's Chair. And I know her dear friends. My heart is aching for them right now.  


And I know her disease. Last month, Lisa announced on her blog her diagnosis of Pancreatic Cancer, the same disease my dad is fighting right now. 


The question everyone seems to ask, and never get an answer to, is, why? 


Why her? Why my dad? Why so young? 


Does everything really happen for a reason? Are we supposed to learn some greater lesson? 


I can't think like that. I can't believe there is some higher being up in the sky, ruthlessly moving us around the earth as if we were pawns in some chess game, strategizing the fallout of each decision, waiting for the moment of checkmate. Will we be the Checkmator, or the checkmated? It's a toss-up. I can't think that we are dominoes, set up only to take a fall, in the hopes that with our bruises we will "learn lessons".


I don't believe those brave warriors who share space with my family in the infusion room week after week are there because someone flipped a coin, pronounced a verdict and sentenced them in the name of gaining wisdom. 


No. If there is a God (and I believe there is), I prefer to think he is watching over us as perils of this world take their course. 


And when we fight the things that threaten our mortality, he fights with us.


And when we lose, he feels that loss.


And when we cry, he cries for us. 


There is no Why.


I don't write this post as someone who was in Lisa's circle of friends, or someone who could presume to speak for any of them. 


I'm writing it because these thoughts have been occupying my mind, and I couldn't write about anything else today, even though I tried. I had a post about bowling with Kid C all ready, but the darn thing refused to be written. Sometimes being a writer is about writing the things that demand to be written.


So, in honor of an author who I admired but didn't know, and in honor of all the books she didn't get the chance to write, let's follow Lisa's own instructions:

“The main thing is to WRITE. Some days it might be 2000 words. Some days you might tinker with two sentences until you get them just right. Both days belong in the writing life. Some days you may watch a ‘Doctor Who’ marathon or become immersed a book that is so good you can’t stop reading. Some days you may be in love or in mourning. Those days belong in the writing life, too. Live them without guilt.” (via Colleen Lindsey)

Her family has set up a trust fund for her son's college education. You can find out more about it here.

Let's hug our loved ones, pray for Lisa's family and friends, and focus on living life. Buy a book. Buy Lisa's book. Write a page. Take a breath. For me, I think a Dr. Who Marathon sounds great right about now. Who's with me?

Don't leave me hanging in the comments. I feel nervous enough putting this post out there. Tell me what all y'all are doing this weekend. And if you're new to the blog (I've gotten a bunch of new followers lately) please stop by and say hi and introduce yourself! 

Thing #1 and Thing #1: The Battle is Afoot, and How Kid C really views his Grandpa

It's time for... 

Thing #1 and Thing #1!

Thing #1


My dad started his chemo yesterday. 

My dad, my mom, and my sister. And Jerry Sloan retiring on the television.
And Mr. McDrippy Drip in my Dad's arm. 

Unfortunately, I had popped out for a diet coke when the juice actually started flowing. I was so bummed I didn't get to bellow: "Unleash Hell!"


My dad reassured me that he gave the battle cry, but I'm not sure I believe him. Nobody else in the infusion room was giving us strange looks, and strange looks are a sure sign of spontaneous battle cries.


Oh well. There's always next week. 


Did I mention that one of his chemo drugs is named "5 F-U"? Awesome. 


As a side note, we've been trying to limit our f-bomb usage. We figured people who are asking for miracles shouldn't be spouting the f-bomb right and left. But our replacement name for the tumor- the "Mother Yucker"- lacks a certain panache.    


Thing #1


We were driving in the car the other day, when Kid C says, "Hey! It's Grandpa! Is that Grandpa's store?"


We craned our necks to see what he was referring to. It was this:

I asked Kid C why he thought Colonel Sanders was Grandpa. His response: "He's got white hair... he's got glasses... he has a beard."

I guess I can see it.

So, what are y'all doing this weekend? I turned my latest revisions in yesterday, and pretty soon the book is going to copyedits. We're one step closer! In the hundred step process to getting a book published.

I'm also thinking of going to the Breathless Reads book tour at the SLC Library tomorrow at 2:00 p.m.  Five awesome YA authors in one place? Sign me up! Anyone else going?

The Fighting Spirit

My family's moved from total grief mode to total fight mode. And it looks a little like this.

That's how the French Revolution really looked. Eventually, they were all, "Instead of singing so much, we should've learned how to fire these rifle thingees."
Because as we all know, it was their obsession with theatrics that quashed the rebellion. 

Any time we're sitting around for a length of time, we can't help climbing on top of whatever object is near us- a chair, a table, the chandelier- and we wave our latest CAT scan and say something like:


"Never give up! Never surrender!"


"They may take our lungs, but they will never take... our other organs!"


We were all at the hospital yesterday because my dad was getting a port surgically implanted. (It's like a picc line, but under the skin, near the clavicle). It will be easy access for the chemo infusions.


While he was in surgery, my mom and I were in the waiting room. She was reading a book about survivors, and I was working on my revisions. (They're due tomorrow.)


About every other minute, one of us would interrupt the other (okay, it was mostly her interrupting me) to share an inspiring story of victory in the face of incredible odds. 


And then the fighting spirit really took over and every word out of our mouths sounded like a battle cry, so much so that when the nurse came to speak to us, we answered by bellowing... "NO! Our bellies cannot stand idly by drying out... we WILL have another CRANBERRY JUICE! Tell me, do you hear the people sing? They are asking for that special crunchy ice only hospitals have! Now... MAKE... IT... SO!"


No, they were not relieved when we left. Why do you ask?


My dad is home again now, recovering and hopped up on pain meds. In fact, that's the best part. To see this quiet, serious physician all loopy on Loritab. 


For example, on my latest revisions, the main goal is to delete pages. This morning, my dad asked me how many pages I'd "delinquished." 


me: "Huh?"


Him: "How many pages have you delinquished... I mean, diminished..."


Me: smiling as he tries to search for the word "deleted". It was awesome. 


I admit, I'm loopy too. I kept telling the doctors: "When are we going to surgically implant a woman in his port?"


and then when they'd look at me questioningly, I'd say, "Isn't it customary to have a woman in every port?" And then I'd laugh maniacally and slap the doctor's shoulder. I looked like this:

Nobody ever laughed with me. But I say it's better to face these things with a loopy brain.


Anyway, tomorrow we are at the infusion center to start the chemotherapy. I can't wait for the nurse to insert the IV so that I can bellow: "On my command... UNLEASH HELL!"

The Blog Post I didn't want to Write.

My dad's cancer is back.


I hesitated to blog about this, because believe it or not, there are some aspects of my life that I prefer to keep private.


But to blog three times a week, pretending like this isn't going on, would be pointless. So rather than quitting my blog entirely, I have to blog about it. There are only so many times Sam can fill in by saying, "Brodi's attending to family business" without people getting suspicious something is wrong, or assuming I've run off with the Italian mob. 


Over three years ago, my dad was diagnosed with pancreas cancer, even though he had none of the risk factors. He was/is a young, healthy, non-smoker, non-drinker. At the time, he wasn't even eligible for Medicare.


We were told there is only one chance for cure with this disease. To cut it out. And with that, you get only one shot to cut it out. There are no do-overs.


Then, all you can do is live life, and hope it doesn't come back. We cut my dad's cancer out, and for three years, it didn't come back.


Three years is just enough time for a person to become comfortable in the idea that maybe, he will dodge this bullet. Three years is long enough for my dad to become a practicing pediatrician again. Three years is just long enough for the chance of recurrence to drop below 50%. Three years is a "miracle".


But sometimes, even miracles hit road blocks. Last week, they found some spots in his lungs. They said it would be incredibly rare if the pancreas cancer returned in the lungs first. It was normal for it to come back in the abdomen, the liver, the pancreas, the colon... but not the lungs.


Of course, my dad lives to be rare! On Wednesday, we got the news it was cancer. And not lung cancer, which would've been better news, but metastatic pancreas cancer.


They have no idea where those little pancreas cells were hiding out, and for so long, but hide they did.


I admit the news dealt a blow to me and my little family. My sister, my mom, my dad and I have always been a tight foursome. We live within 2 miles of each other. We are frequent lodgers in each others houses. We pass around the grandkids like they belong to all of us.


When my dad was first diagnosed, we joked about how close we'd become. We travelled to each doctor's appointment together. We likened ourselves to a blood clot, because we stuck together. And now we're here again. Clotting up. 


I hope you will put up with me during this time. I'm warning you now, I've already become a little crazy.


For instance: Sometimes when doctors say, "To be honest, this treatment would be for the good of science only," I want to punch these doctors.


Sometimes when acquaintances say, "Oh well, we're at that age where we lose our parents," I want to say, "You may be at that age, but I'm not." My dad lost his own mom only three years ago. My dad is at that age. I'm not.


Sometimes I envy friends who are estranged from their dads. Sometimes I'm sure life would be so much easier if we could love each other a little less.


Sometimes, I watch the news, and I'm surprised when the anchor does not mention my dad, and this strange new crack that has suddenly appeared in the earth.


Sometimes, I wonder why a total internal organ transplant is not a viable option. Sometimes I want to punch the people who tell me it's not. But then I laugh, because sometimes I love to disprove the theory that there are no stupid questions. 


Sometimes my urge for violence surprises even me.


Sometimes, I see old people, and I wonder, "What did they do that we aren't doing? Why is growing old so easy for them?"


Sometimes, I see strangers on the street, and I can't help wishing it was their dad who would have to go through this, and not mine.


Yes, I'm that angry and crazy.


But it's the crazy people who make the best fighters, and I'll tell you it doesn't come any crazier than my family. We're going to fight. 


It's rare to find an effective chemotherapy regimen for pancreas cancer. But then again, my dad lives to be rare. (see above).  We're going to shed the naysayers like dead cancer cells. We're going to fight the tumors with everything we've got, and when the cancer adapts and mutates to become resistant, we'll find something else to throw at it, even if it's the kitchen sink. I always hated my kitchen sink. I am not afraid to throw it.


And we're going to party.


Who's with me?

Erin, my dad and me at the Huntsman Cancer Institute

p.s. Thank you to all of you who have dropped me notes, texts, random plates of cookies, phone messages... I know I haven't gotten back to any of you, but please know that I appreciate your love and support. 


Sometimes, even when I think I'm okay, I go to talk to someone and that person says something nice and I start crying and then it's like five hours later and I'm still crying. I'm a little thermonuclear right now, but I want you to know the kindness is very much appreciated.