Avid readers have enjoyed (or endured) my many journeys around North America by RV, car, and rail. Then, beginning in 2019, they travelled with me on a different journey. In August of that year, I received a diagnosis of tongue cancer by phone while driving 65 mph in a 32,000 lb motorhome pulling a 4,000 lb Jeep on an Interstate where there was no place to pull over for 10 miles. That trip was cut short so I could have the tumor removed as soon as possible.
The first surgery was botched due to inadequate margins, and the cancer returned 4 months later. On the same day that the world shut down due to Covid, in March 2020, I spent 8 hours in surgery. They removed the right half of my tongue, replaced it with a flap of tissue from my arm, and took an artery from my arm to connect the dots. I was in the hospital for 8 days and then had 45 days of radiation. Five years later they kicked me out of the cancer clinic at OHSU. “As far as we’re concerned, Ken, you’re cured.” Hugs all around.
Some may wonder why I have freely shared intimate details surrounding my cancer journeys. Typically, it seems, people hide their diagnosis, and are reluctant for even friends to know. I share what I am going through so that if a reader reluctantly becomes another cancer buddy of mine, it might help knowing what I have gone through, and how I got through it.
And so I am sharing this: a couple of days ago a biopsy revealed that cancer has returned for a third time. The little devils are persistent. It is in the same general area as before, but on my mandible rather than my tongue.
I am now going through the process of scheduling CT Scans, PetScans, and preparing for surgery and recovery. I have put in a call to my insurance agent to make sure all is in order. As a retired estate and trust lawyer, my estate planning documents should be in good order, but it won’t hurt to give them another review. I bought a book a few months ago: “In Case You Get Hit By A Bus – How to Organize Your Life Now for When You’re Not Around Later.” Time to pull that off the shelf and read it too.
Now that I am almost three-quarters of a century old, it seems time to do a Physician’s Order for Life Saving Treatment (POLST), which is how Washington state handles Do Not Resuscitate orders. I recently read of ER nurses saying that when they reach 75, they are going to tattoo “DO NOT RESUSCITATE” on their chests. They’ve seen and felt what happens to elderly ribcages during CPR. They’ve also seen the quality of life that returns following even a successful CPR.
All very maudlin, I know. But I am not sad, or angry. I just have a job to do. I need to prepare and anticipate. And I need to enjoy every day to the hilt, especially now while I can still enjoy eating and drinking. And depending on the schedule for scans and surgery, maybe even another road trip.
