What a weekend!

You said it Steve, what a weekend! Good and bad. First we went to a twins game on saturday evening [yea, they won and we were in the fourth row]…but only after our car broke down.

So there we are- broken down in the cities and all with work, finals or little ones waiting for us the next day. It turned out semi-ok, as a few made it back to fargo to take care of business. I sure hope the car gets fixed tomorrow.

I’m pretty sure I’ll be getting my gallbladder out within the next few days (if I get my way) because it’s been hurting consistently during the day [all day] and especially when I try to get some of what the truckers call ‘shut eye’, [properly pronounced “shoot aye”]. The dull but frequent short-time INTENSE pain sure makes it tricky to get comfortable enough to catch the sandman. Anyone have his cell number? He’s a slippery fellow…

I’ve made it a personal goal to only complain when absolutely necessary, and I do find it necessary to let you know about my gallbladder. It will be about the same laparoscopic operation as my wedge resection…so I have another two weeks of the colorful sliding pain scale of post-operation to look forward to!


starting to write bits and pieces…

After years of thought and slight procrastination, I’ve decided to start writing bits and pieces of my story from my point of view. The ultimate goal would be to compile my anecdotes into one long, arduous and hopefully inspiring tale of pain, hope and persistence.

I am open to writing about anything that I’ve experienced–anything–so if you are intrigued by a certain part of my story PLEASE write me so I know where to focus my attention. If my cancer battle was the mighty Red River, I need your help to siphon it to only the pure and drinkable water as to not waste any of our time.


As the curtain draws enter stage right the blonde haired angel…

Let me set the mood with a little story:

The second recovery room was a tiny square, maybe ten feet by eight feet. As you enter and look to your immediate left a computer cart sits idle waiting for my vitals to be entered. In the far left corner two generic hospital waiting room chairs share a common arm, side by side. Moving along the back wall to the right, a monitor hangs overhead, right above my head. It beeps occasionally and every so often fills the blood pressure cuff full of air to make sure my heart is still beating. It is; no worries there. My bed has been wheeled to the back right corner, and I’m trusting enough of the sound structure of the hospital walls that the monitor won’t fall on my head.

It’s been around three hours since I finished my ‘wedge resection’ operation, or in my words, cutting that damn cancer out and officially making me cancer free again. I had a great few hours in the first recovery room, mostly because of the care given me by my own personal nurse, Linda. It really makes a difference when you have a great nurse helping you with your every need. But alas, I have left her behind and moved to the final phase of recovery in this tiny little room where I sit. I haven’t seen my wife or family yet, and I’m anxious to give Lib a giant hug & kiss and to show her my newest battle scars. I’ve developed quite an assortment of scars all shapes and sizes in my battle and rebattle with this disease known as osteosarcoma.

There is no door, the opening to my room is divided from the others with a wavy sterile curtain that leaves a gap of about 18 inches from the floor. This is just enough room for me to peek out and spy on the crocs, tennis shoes and dress shoes that scurry by as I sit patiently waiting. I now see a pair I’m familiar with, a pair that belongs to my beautiful bride, Libby. As the curtain draws enter stage right the blonde haired angel I’ve known by my bedside all too often. She has a smile on her face-why wouldn’t she, everything went off without a hitch. They removed my new cancer and didn’t have to open me up and go through my ribs! I was stoked, to say the least, that they had gotten the young regrowth before it could develop into adolescent osteosarcoma. Of course in medical terms there is no such thing as adolescent osteosarcoma, I’m just using it to portray my happiness that they got the tumor in its early stages.

Lib walked over to the bed and threw her arms around her husband. Carefully though, I did just have lung surgery. We had a quick kiss, she pulled back slightly, looked straight away in my eyes and said, “You know it’s not cancer, right?”

My head cocked to the left a tiny bit, my eyes squinted and I looked at her with my inquisitive face. Some say that face makes me look angry because my eyebrows come together in an angry “v”, but I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t anything but purely shocked. I couldn’t believe her. I finally muttered a pathetic “What, huh, what do you mean?,” and even a truly idiotic, “Are you joking?” Of course she wasn’t joking, who would joke about this? Not my wife of all people, not the one person who has to put up with this horrid cancer day in and day out with me.

Only a matter of seconds had passed by since hearing the news I couldn’t comprehend. You see, when I was originally diagnosed I could comprehend the news-it was just quite unpleasant. This was truly the first time I was shocked by hearing a few common words from the English language. I was shocked because we’ve never gotten good news after a surgery; we’ve never gotten good news from the lab; we’ve never gotten good news from the oncologist; not from the ct scans, not from the xrays, not the bone scans. I simply do not hear good things come from the mouths of my doctors. “You will never walk again without crutches. Chemotherapy only killed a small percentage of your tumor. We’ve found a spot on your right lung that needs to be taken care of.” These are the things I hear.

After those few short seconds of my squinting, unbelieving eyes looking into the endless blue of the eyes of my wife I hope we one day pass to our children, I put my head back on the upright bed. With my chin pointing towards the all-too-bright fluorescent light and the stubble on my neck exposed for the whole world to see, I started crying. For the second time in my life, for the second time in a hospital bed with Lib by my side, the hygienic dull walls of Fairview around us, beeps and intercoms floating through our ears, I had tears of joy. These tears followed only the tears of my proposal to Lib, so distant in time but not so distant in circumstances.

It wasn’t a tumor, I’m not ‘rebattling’ cancer. I beat it the first time. These words warrant happy tears.

Now what to do about these holes they just poked in my side and the chunk of lung I’m missing…

Set the mood, check. Next, deliver the news with a drumroll: I got a call today at 11:38AM about my lab results. “Great news Steve, the results show fibrotic tissue with no sign of malignancy. It wasn’t osteosarcoma. We’ll get you back on your regular schedule and see you again in six months.”

If you read the story above, it’s now been validated and all the emotions I felt that day (and continue to feel) aren’t full of false hope. It is official. I still don’t have cancer. No cancer. None. Fighting the good fight worked, and is still working.

I’m a figther and a survivor

still recovering…

Each day eases the sore spots bit by bit. It’s the worst in the morning. I can feel each pull and flex of certain muscles and my lung.

I’m still utterly amazed at the fact that this might not be a return of my cancer, but I won’t know positively until tomorrow or tuesday, when the pathology reports come back. Lab results are the only proof-positive of what the removed tissue consisted of.

until then I wait patiently…

a thousand ‘thanks’ for the emails, phone calls, cards, thoughts and well-wishes sent my way via computers, the postal service, phones and ESP. I don’t think ESP works but thanks anyway!!


starting the recovery process

I’m pretty sore today. It hurts to cough, breathe deep, sneeze, burp or put any weight on my right side. Basically anything that involves using my lung. It feels similar to an extremely sore muscle…EXTREMELY sore muscle. I’m doing ok, and I think I’ll be back in action by monday.

I’ve uploaded the relay pictures plus a few from the surgery on wednesday. Click on the picture below to get to them. Enjoy!


It’s not cancer!

According to my post-surgical chart entry the piece removed was :
”necrotic tissue with fibrosis; no signs of malignancy”.

Nothing is official until the pathology reports come through, but the surgeon came out of the operating room and told my family he was ”99% sure it wasn’t cancer”! It’s too bad I didn’t find out for another three or four hours!

I’ll have more pictures and details when I get back to good old north dakota. prelung


good news?!

I have potentially great news, but it will have to wait until tomorrow, I had kind of a big day today. :)

can’t wait? impatient? you want a hint? ok, I’ll make it easy.
…it involves someone being 26 months cancer free and STILL counting… !!
details fast approaching


time change again!

Scratch that previous post…they called AGAIN and said my surgery is at 9:40AM. I’ll hold the middle ground and predict it will happen between 12:00AM and 11:59PM on wednesday. That way I can stop updating every time the hospital sneezes!

:.:T-minus-2 days until I’m cancer free again:.: