The past two weeks have been quite a fortnight here on the Hollander ranch. Not in a “my sister won a Pulitzer Prize” or even “I gained 5 pounds” positive sort of way. Not that at all.Thanks for reading Seven Weeks to Live! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
If you ever get bored being a medical doctor, Buzz, I suspect you might be capable of creating one of those "great American novels" which I somehow never get around to putting quill pen to paper.
This essay displays your love of our language, and your skillful use of the hundreds of thousands word in our language toolbox.
All the best to you and your family, Buzz, and I look forward to reading more of your missives.
Hey Buzz, I've been greedily reading your essays for a few months now and completed my rounds of chemo/radiation for Stage I tonsil cancer 6 weeks ago. It has been extremely valuable to be going through this "with" a couple of other people such as yourself. I'm really sorry to hear you've hit yet another challenge in the long line that we go through in this process.
The main reason I'm writing is to mention the speech therapist member of my oncology team. Do you have one? I've been meeting with her once per week since the second week of treatment and will continue for another eight weeks or so. She does a half-hour head and neck massage aimed at getting ahead of the lymphedema (no point in losing my double chin with the cancer weight loss only to gain a waddle worthy of the third Thursday in November!) and maintaining head, neck, jaw, and tongue flexibility and range of motion. At her direction, I do exercises every day at home while my oatmeal cools with all kind of neck contortions, exaggerated mouth movements (scream, blow out the candle, exaggerated smile, repeat repeat repeat) and of course the "bye bye lymphedema" exercise. Our heads and necks have been through hell with the radiation. Every muscle is contracting, even wincing out of fear and metaphorical if not literal self-preservation. We gotta work 'em, stretch 'em, love 'em back into fighting shape.
I'm sure you're aware of all this, I just can't remember reading about it in your other essays on this topic.
Oh, you are making me jealous! The cost of doing fly-in care is lacking continuity in the care team after treatment is over. I finally see speech/swallow therapy this week as I fly back to Seattle to meet my team. I probably earned a few lashes for not motivating to seek this sort of care out on my home island, but it can be hard to find. I suspect I will get marching orders to do so this week!
I was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer about 18 months ago and, after 12 rounds of chemo and 3 major surgeries, I’m now NED (aka “in remission”).
While I am incredibly grateful to be NED, there is no denying that I felt more sensitive to the sweetness of life and closer to God when i was still going through treatment. And I literally have had that exact same reference in my head to A Good Man is Hard to Find: Do I need to be in danger of being shot in the head every moment of my life in order to maintain the awesome sensitivity to the miracle of my life? I hope not.
Good luck in getting some relief from your pain. As for the scanxiety, for we cancer survivors though, I don’t know if that ever goes away.
I absolutely love that I am not the only person in these circumstances to have that crazy reference pop into my head! I suppose that says more about Flannery O’Connor than us, though :)
If you ever get bored being a medical doctor, Buzz, I suspect you might be capable of creating one of those "great American novels" which I somehow never get around to putting quill pen to paper.
This essay displays your love of our language, and your skillful use of the hundreds of thousands word in our language toolbox.
All the best to you and your family, Buzz, and I look forward to reading more of your missives.
❤️
Hey Buzz, I've been greedily reading your essays for a few months now and completed my rounds of chemo/radiation for Stage I tonsil cancer 6 weeks ago. It has been extremely valuable to be going through this "with" a couple of other people such as yourself. I'm really sorry to hear you've hit yet another challenge in the long line that we go through in this process.
The main reason I'm writing is to mention the speech therapist member of my oncology team. Do you have one? I've been meeting with her once per week since the second week of treatment and will continue for another eight weeks or so. She does a half-hour head and neck massage aimed at getting ahead of the lymphedema (no point in losing my double chin with the cancer weight loss only to gain a waddle worthy of the third Thursday in November!) and maintaining head, neck, jaw, and tongue flexibility and range of motion. At her direction, I do exercises every day at home while my oatmeal cools with all kind of neck contortions, exaggerated mouth movements (scream, blow out the candle, exaggerated smile, repeat repeat repeat) and of course the "bye bye lymphedema" exercise. Our heads and necks have been through hell with the radiation. Every muscle is contracting, even wincing out of fear and metaphorical if not literal self-preservation. We gotta work 'em, stretch 'em, love 'em back into fighting shape.
I'm sure you're aware of all this, I just can't remember reading about it in your other essays on this topic.
Oh, you are making me jealous! The cost of doing fly-in care is lacking continuity in the care team after treatment is over. I finally see speech/swallow therapy this week as I fly back to Seattle to meet my team. I probably earned a few lashes for not motivating to seek this sort of care out on my home island, but it can be hard to find. I suspect I will get marching orders to do so this week!
I was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer about 18 months ago and, after 12 rounds of chemo and 3 major surgeries, I’m now NED (aka “in remission”).
While I am incredibly grateful to be NED, there is no denying that I felt more sensitive to the sweetness of life and closer to God when i was still going through treatment. And I literally have had that exact same reference in my head to A Good Man is Hard to Find: Do I need to be in danger of being shot in the head every moment of my life in order to maintain the awesome sensitivity to the miracle of my life? I hope not.
Good luck in getting some relief from your pain. As for the scanxiety, for we cancer survivors though, I don’t know if that ever goes away.
I absolutely love that I am not the only person in these circumstances to have that crazy reference pop into my head! I suppose that says more about Flannery O’Connor than us, though :)