Columbus and the Valley

Hope Is In the House

 

We said goodbye to John Robertson Kinnett at First Presbyterian Church this morning. That beautiful room was filled by a great collection of people and I particularly enjoyed seeing Claire Kinnett Tate, Bright Kinnett Wright, Frazer Kinnett, Jean Kinnett Oliver, John Robertson (“Bob”) Kinnett, III, and Josephine (“Jodie”) Kinnett Klumpenhower and their cadre of young people, all with that very strong family resemblance. My memories of the Kinnett family were when the six siblings were small children. My father worked for many years at Kinnett Dairies and because of the Kinnett’s emphasis on family, I got some priceless time with my father during many hot summers in rural Georgia. My daddy drove ice cream trucks and milk trucks through the sun blanched region around Columbus.

He would nudge me out of a deep sleep in the early morning, well before the sun and we’d go to breakfast. The smell of coffee and bacon, a cold glass of Kinnett Dairies milk and hours and miles in an open-sided dairy truck, weaving a trail in and out of shady gravel parking lots, and under the boughs of giant oaks. Dad would read the order sheet, and we’d spring out of the truck and into the frosty cloud of supercooled air coming through from a place every boy should get the chance to explore.

He taught me how to pull the orders, stack them on the hand truck and then came the best part. I got to watch him interact with all kinds of people. Large and small grocery store owners and proprietors, convenience stores clerks, school cafeteria workers, restauranteurs and every kind of curb and vegetable market clerk and he never met a stranger. He didn’t know any of their names, but he could and did tell me stories about them. Then, we’d roll back into the dairy in the afternoon and go up the stairs and into the business office, where my left handed dad would absolutely smoke a manual calculator and hand-draw big gothic looking letters and numbers as he checked up for the route. He always took great pride in his job at the dairy and I am thankful for the strong influence John Kinnett had on my family’s sense of family.

This morning, my mom, Ann, met me at the Columbus and the Valley offices and we walked to the church. After the visitation, we walked on north and west from the church to Uptown Vietnam Cuisine where I successfully connected someone I love to something I love. The wonton soup there has coaxed my taste buds into full flower and it was fun watching mom enjoy the dish so much while being frustrated by how best to deliver it to her mouth. You know from the way that soup smells that it is hardwired to hit the ahh center of your brain. Everyone has their own style of eating it. I like to watch people who have obviously spent their entire lives using chopsticks. Mom and I had a nice day together and it is pretty special being as old I am and being able to share a meal and several hours with the person who brought you into the world almost 65 years ago.

My surgical wounds are healing, the antibiotic is returning health to my gut and reports from my latest scans and lab work are encouraging. My kidney function is high, the holes in my spine that kidney cancer had devoured are being replaced by recalcified bone and I appear to be on a trajectory to be able to have surgical/radiological intervention to stabilize my spine and be returned at some point to more robust health.

I’ve been used to hearing bad news for the whole of my recent history — Eight. And. A. Half. Years. Interspersed in these months there are pockets where, despite your physical limitations, you get delicious slices of the summer peach of the cancer timeline. No drugs. Diminished side effects. The total eclipsing of your newest, clothes horse, food-centered normal over the hot, angry ogre of chronic disease, just at that moment when you can take off the protective glasses and bask in the golden glow of a 360-degree sunset. I feel total, open-armed thankfulness for this day and a warmth radiating from my bones that only hope can ignite. Fear is cold, but easily driven out when hope is in the house.

 

Untethered, But Not Unhinged

This post is a stream of consciousness update. Please excuse the lack of my usual attention to the conventions of acceptable language and grammar. I’m banging this one out. Dr. Pippas walked into our exam room this afternoon at about a quarter ’til 6 and we got down to business. I think today was our longest clinical conversation of the entire 8 years of our doctor patient relationship. This brilliant, good man has never disappointed me. He called us late last night with the sole purpose of giving us a night of good rest in advance of our meeting today. He knew a word from him and the better-than-we-thought-it-would-be news about my latest wrasslin’ match with kidney cancer.

We talked for over 40 minutes, not rushed, open to our questions about what we’re dealing with, what courses of action we could see coming, how to beat it again. His usual greeting, a pitch-ascending, “Michael” then he tips his head back, engaging his bifocals to get a sharp look into my eyes. He gets right in there, knowing the eyes are the window to one’s soul. I answered back, “Andrew,” and thanked him for being the kind of physician who calls a worried patient after a brutal day at the office seeing no telling how many other worried people.

I know we’re special to him, too. We have overcome seemingly insurmountable odds together, to date avoiding life-altering, permanent physical debilitation. I’ve had multiple surgeries (left kidney radical nephrectomy, lymph nodes, corpectomy of L2 spinal vertebra, laminectomy (8 weeks later) from L2-L5, thyroidectomy, knee scope, 32 grays of radiation beams and countless hundreds of needle sticks, claustrophobic rides in giant metal tubes, gallons of barium, bucketsful of pharmaceuticals. Yep. I knew early that my job was to stay alive until something that can cure me comes along. Already there are many more drugs than were available in mid-May, 2009. We have choices, based on my case.

I made a decision on June 9, 2009 to write our way through this. Last time I tried to measure my writing output, I was north of 300,000 words. I tried to tell the story the way it went down. From December 5, 2010: “Back From the Snake Pit.”

I wanted to leave electronic breadcrumbs for the ones coming behind me. Kidney Cancer is a tough diagnosis. Faith in God, trust in your medical team, support from your friends, understanding creditors, a rock-solid marriage, children who tested us as parents, but who are always present, and loving, and engaged in our familyness. Those four sons possess characteristics that indicate our every prayer for them to be smart, kind men has been granted. What a blessing it has been to have spent relatively few hours of our lifetime as parents worrying that one of them had gone off the rails and were going down a bad road. Today I realized with complete clarity how much more difficult these last 8 years would have been if one or more of them had gone bad.

“Make good choices.”

My spine is being attacked by an aggressive, fast-growing renal cell carcinoma metastasis in my L1 vertebra. The screw that Dr. Michael Gorum put there on August 19, 2011 during spinal fusion surgery is now embedded in this new tumor. Regardless of what procedure/medication is used to kill the tumor, I will imminently require another spine surgery with longer hardware that can bridge up into my thoracic vertebrae in search of solid bone that will hold a screw. We haven’t met with Dr. Gorum yet, so this is our and Dr. Pippas’ discussion about what will be needed. The tumor has broken through the outer lining of the vertebra and my spine is dangerously unstable at the moment. No horseback riding he says. Don’t fall he says. Some quick decisions need to be made and we need them to be the right decisions. No pressure.

Tomorrow I’ll send several packets of information to several kidney cancer specialists for an independent review and some remarks on how they’d recommend we proceed. Thank you Dena Battle and KCCure. At this moment, I’m not sure where treatment will take place. If we can do it here, we’ll be at Midtown Medical and the John B. Amos Cancer Center. If we need to travel anywhere but outer space, we’ll be traveling. We’ll be praying for the right people to be placed in our path. At this moment, more so than at any other crossroads of my medical life, we will be in a state of complete faith, untethered, but not unhinged. Enveloped in God’s arms with an army behind us.

We’ll see Dr. P in 10 days. The plan will be in place by then. We left Andy’s office today encouraged by his soothing words, his sincere grief for our plight and his heartfelt hope, conveyed in looks, hugs and purposeful touch. I love him for what he has done for me and for our family. I still have both of my parents and I hate cancer for flipping our lives upside down. Jill’s mom, Betty Owens has had to live with losing a son, and because we have sons, I can imagine the emotions that our parents are living with. This isn’t the way it should ever be. It hurts too much. I want to live so that my when my parents leave this world, they will leave it without ever having known what losing a son feels like.

I want this post to speak to Ann and John: Thank you for giving me everything I needed to make it to today. You have given Eric and me a good name, a joyful home, the gift of your strong marriage and spiritual, financial and emotional support in good times and bad times. There will more good times. I’m sure of it.

Jill is by my side. Always. When she grabs my hand will her thumb or mine be on the outside?

Let’s go write our next chapter.

Thanks for the Birthday Wishes!

We slept in, I got to see Star Wars, I found out that our cat, Gracie, CAN get off the roof of our house all by herself (we rescued her with a ladder yesterday) and I got to have three meals with my beautiful wife. All that was great! In addition to all of that greatness, I have had an incredible walk back through my 63 years — or at least the ones I can remember. I have spent a great deal of time this afternoon reading over 700 emails, Facebook posts, text messages. What a trip!

As I read each birthday wish, I conjured up that person’s face, remembered how I know them and I tried to savor the memory of the significance they’ve played in my life. Among them were people I’ve known since first grade at Britt David Elementary, the first girl I ever seriously kissed, friends from my old neighborhood, people with whom I’ve worked, neighbors in Huntsville, Ala. and Wichita, Kan., a doctor who saved my life, another doctor who is helping keep me alive and all four of my fantastic sons. I’ve been sung to by my sweet parents and dear friends Marquette and Rick McKnight and Laurel and Fred Blackwell. It was a very, very special birthday and I want to thank everyone who stopped for a moment in their day to take the time to make my day enjoyable beyond belief.

 

What’s a Former Republican Going to Do?

I have never missed a chance to vote. Ever. From the moment I was eligible to participate in the electoral process, I have been fascinated with how it works. My brother and I were reared in a conservative home. Our hardworking parents provided us with everything we needed and as much of what we wanted as any other child we knew. We went to church every time the doors were opened and there was no alcohol in our house, except for that time we got caught smuggling a keg of Budweiser in to wet the whistles of a few friends that we invited over to a party Eric and I threw. We found out mom and dad were coming home early from their trip and we did a pretty damn good job of cleaning everything up. We put the barely touched keg under the house and had fairly well policed up the inside.

Eric mistakenly left the plastic keg top (Budweiser 16 gallons) in his pants and mom discovered it in the wash.

Lucy, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do! 

The point of all this is that I’ve voted Republican since I had a vote. Although I’ve always considered the candidate and not so much the party, I just leaned further to the right almost all the time. Because of the business we’re in, it probably isn’t a smart thing for me to be outspoken about my political beliefs. Let’s face it, we need every single advertiser and reader we can get, so why would I purposefully alienate the Democrats among our readership? Among our friends. So, for almost all of my adult life, I think most people felt like I was more right than left. I never really gave them any feedback to confirm that, because I just haven’t talked much about politics.

Then I grew up. I got cancer. We have a business to run and protect. Our sons grew up. And, my country has gone to shit.

My political compass is spinning and there doesn’t appear to be a True North anymore. As I evaluate my political position, I couldn’t be farther from Republican politics. I believe in smaller government, a woman’s right to choose what she does with her own body, states’ rights, marijuana legalization and a strong, but not oppressive military. I also believe we, as a country, must do everything we can do for the weakest among us. People need health insurance. Everyone should have the opportunity to get a great education. Those are the things I know and believe in.

What I can’t abide is the game of politics. If you follow my Facebook, you know that I have plugged myself into my first political debate. I have recently spent the day in Montgomery, Alabama at the State House in a room full of political types in nice suits, strutting around whispering to each other in little caucuses, to the exclusion of everyone else. I attended a “public meeting” of the Alabama Senate Judiciary committee where Senate Bill 326 was to be “discussed.” I got there early, so that I could get a good seat and so that I could maybe get the chance to speak and tell my story about why I wanted them to legalize medical cannabis in Alabama. Look at my last blog post. I have a hell of a story to tell. I know how to read and spell the word SUFFER. I was the second name on the list, which meant I should have been afforded the opportunity to speak in front of that gathering of about 150 people and a handful of legislators. At the last moment, the lists were swept up and we were told that the meeting had been changed and that no one would be allowed to speak except the members of the Senate Judiciary Committee.

What I found out later is that some of the members of the committee who were not sitting around the table were actually in the back of the room. They had decided not to vote, based on some kind of a deal that had been made that would allow the bill (SB326) to be given a favorable status and allowed to move on to the Rules Committee. Talk about watching the sausage being made!

I have since attended a peaceful rally in Vestavia, Ala., where I voiced my concerns over Sen. Jabo Waggoner’s insistence that he wouldn’t let that bill reach the senate floor for discussion because “he” didn’t think Alabama was ready to discuss the subject. If “he” had lived through the hell I’ve just been through, I think “he” might be singing a different tune. Cannabis is good medicine, but that isn’t what I came here to talk about.

I can’t vote for any of the announced Republican candidates for president. I couldn’t possibly vote for Hillary Clinton. I’m in a real political quandary. Then I saw an interview with Bernie Sanders. He’s a democratic socialist, whatever that is. But what I sense in him is that he is as upset about the current direction of our land as I am. And…he seems to say whatever is on his mind, without regard for whom it might upset. He fully speaks his mind. He might be the only truly transparent person in this race. I like that. I want that.

Now before any of you start challenging me about this, I don’t know a single other thing about Bernie Sanders. I will be doing research, listening and watching to see how this all unfolds. This election will be a big one for me.

 

Pin Cushion – Part B

With the agony of itching a mere distant memory (I lied, despite all the terrific home remedies — and I diligently tried them all — the itching is not only a distant memory, but is so close I can still scratch it!) we’re steeling up to be the “B” side of a human pin cushion at Duke University Hospital’s high-dose interleukin 2 program. We’ll be leaving again on Sunday morning, if my lab report is clean enough for me to be readmitted for treatment. It was late going up to Dr. Morse’s office and I haven’t been able to confirm with him my creatinine level and whether or not we’re a go for this Monday or the following Monday.

I was able to drop by the office for a few minutes today after I went in for lab work at JBACC. Man, it was good to see my office mates and we got the great pleasure to see former tenants of ours, College Resources Center’s dynamic trio Genie Mize, Hope Phillips and Jean Flowers, who stopped by to bring us a bodacious bag o’ goodies for the trip. I love those three women and we miss them so much. It was serendipitous that we got to meet Genie and get back together with Hope and Jean for the too-short time we had while they were in our building. It felt good to have my whole harem back together again. It is hard to get in a word as the only “male member” of the group. Our building at 10th and 3rd has been affectionately been called One Penis Place (OPP) over the years. Now with videographer, Danny Beard, on hand, my gender numbers have grown by 100%.

An update: the gout is on the way out, I’ve almost completely peeled off the entire top layer of my skin, I’ve pretty much lost the water weight I packed on last week during treatment, Andy Pippas and his entire staff are still THE BOMB, the John B. Amos Cancer Center is an absolute healthcare jewel, we appreciate the readers of this blog and we’re ready for the second part of round number one. I’ve got a giant bag of my dad’s peanut brittle, which we’ll be using to try to bribe our way into one of the larger corner rooms at Duke on the 9100 floor.

We’ll blog from NC to keep everyone up-to-date with our efforts to get this cancer gone.