When Cancer Returns
I was diagnosed with pharyngeal (head and neck) cancer in November of 2005.
What started out as a swollen gland turned into a life-changing ordeal.
I was scared at first and had a lot of questions. The first challenges that I had to prepare for were the radiation and chemotherapy treatment. A feeding tube and port were installed in my stomach and chest. The feeding tube was necessary because the radiation would be directed at my throat and cause damage to my saliva glands and make it difficult to swallow. The port was used to administer multiple chemotherapy treatments. I was told to gain as much weight as I could prior to starting treatment. What a curse — to be told to eat ice cream, malts and all the other foods that you tried to avoid. I consumed with little thought as to what it was doing to my waistline.
I started my radiation and chemotherapy in December of 2005. I tolerated both pretty well at first. The radiation eventually made my throat sore and caused my salivary glands to stop secreting. Such a small thing, but once it occurred, I had a hard time eating solid foods. I was able to eat some soups, oatmeal and drink about a gallon of Gatorade a day.
By the time January rolled around I was down to taking formula through my feeding tube and drinking Gatorade. I started treatment at 210 pounds; by February of 2006 I was at 170 to 175 pounds. Those who know anything about cancer and are its victims know that diet is key to helping fight the disease.
My treatment continued through March and April. By the beginning of April, I also started going to therapy for my swallowing. My taste buds were long gone with my saliva. So any and all foods tasted like cardboard or metal. Nothing appealed to me for consumption, and my throat had to become re-accustomed to eating solid food.
Pam, at the Balancing and Mobility Center in Grand Island, showed great patience and persistence in getting me to try to use electric shock treatment to retrain my lethargic throat and its swallowing mechanisms. While there, I not only started eating some solid foods again, I even gained hints of taste. We will not mention any instances experienced there that have to do with an overdose of shock treatment. This is a joke between Pam and me.
In May of 2006, I was scheduled for my CAT scan to see if the treatment was doing any good. What a mixed bag of emotions this brought on. How will I take it if it isn’t working? What will I do different if it is?
The hardest thing I ever had to do was to tell my three children that their Dad had cancer. Would there be more news like that, or would it be a sigh of relief?
The tests came back and I was able to relax; the doctors said that the treatment had worked and what had been found was no longer there. I would have to come back every six months for two years and get scanned for follow-up.
My follow up scan was in October of 2006. The news was not what I expected or wanted. The cancer was back, and this time it was in my lungs. Even with my limited medical knowledge, I knew this was not a good thing. I had to go to Omaha for a biopsy of my lung. I liken this experience to having two horses kick you in the chest and then you trying to breathe.
In November of 2006 I went through a new round of chemotherapy, and in December my oldest daughter was married. I managed to keep my hair all the way until January of 2007. Actually I did not lose my hair until after the wedding. There are those who will say I did not have much to lose anyway, but my question is, “Did I lose the hair because of the chemo or the wedding?”
My chemotherapy treatments continued until May 2007, when I had another scan done. The tests revealed that this particular treatment was no longer effective.
So now what? Dr. Copur offered me a clinical trial. So, I am still undergoing chemotherapy and continue to keep my chin up.
I don’t know where or how my story will end. But I do know I could never have made it this far without the encouragement of family and friends. My family first and foremost has helped me to keep a positive outlook and to never give up.
Friends: You do not realize how many you have until something like this happens to you. The hardest thing for me to do at first and even now is to let people do things for me. But this is necessary for those who want to help. It makes them feel good about themselves when they do something for someone else, and that is important to all of us.
A friend came to me a few months after I was diagnosed and said, “I would have come to see you sooner, but I did not know what to say.”
What do you say to someone who has cancer? Well for me, you should just be you. Say the same things you said to me the day before I had cancer. Talk about your family, kids, sporting events, and politics — even the weather. I want to hear about the same things I did before I was diagnosed. And if you have questions about the cancer ask them. I do not mind talking about it. (Although my wife might differ with me on this one).
Virtually all of my medical treatment was done at Saint Francis Medical Center, Cancer Treatment Center. I would like to publicly thank all the doctors, nurses and clinical staff at the oncology unit. The treatment I received from them has been nothing but the best, most professional and truly caring treatment. I don’t know how they do what they do day in and day out. Bless you all.
Medicine, positive outlook, friends and family, you need all these — and faith. My faith is the last, but certainly not the least of the ingredients to putting up a good fight. We all have a path to take. Some get to go downhill and others are on the uphill path, but God has a path for each of us and how we chose to handle that path is up to us.
I choose to go uphill.
UPDATE MARCH 1, 2009:
Mick had pharyngeal (head and neck) cancer, facing it with courage and helping those uncomfortable with the subject to talk about cancer.
Mick Schneider died on June 23, 2008.
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