Kate Nerone

As Real As It Gets

Good friend, Kate Nerone, sent me this link to a video from The Moth, a show about storytellers that is sometimes featured on NPR. It is the most raw, honest, heart-rending cancer rant I have ever heard. The honest stories that come from people who are hurting and afraid because cancer has come to visit them in their lives are chilling, if properly told. And oh, is this one properly told!

Be prepared for a couple of things. Be prepared to shed some tears. Be prepared to hug the sick and the healthy members of your family. Be prepared to be thankful that you have friends, like Kate, who share content like this with you, even though it might be too real, too soon, too raw, too powerful. What it did for me, was to help me reclaim some strength, to feel my humanness, to get ready for the very difficult week that lies ahead at Duke, in another tiny room with the woman I love and a PICC line that will be flowing with poison and misery.

I just spoke with my Duke doctor who says the lab work that I’m on the way to town to get will likely clear the way for me to return for the second half of round one of HD-IL2 to start on Monday. We’re ready to continue the fight. Thanks, Kate, for girding me for battle.

Settled in at Duke University Hospital

We’re settled into our VERY tiny room on the 9th floor at Duke University Hospital. They have taken blood, toured us around the unit and counseled with us about the therapy we’re about to begin and what we can expect. Jill has gone out to buy us a small fan, as the temperature in the room in quite uncomfortably warm. I’ve been told that I’ll likely experience chills and shakes after the first dose of meds just after 8 p.m. Can’t say that I’m looking forward to getting cool that way, though.

I’m having a good time watching the sock monkey event that is being spearheaded by Kate Nerone. Killer, the sock monkey given to me by Kate is lounging on my hospital bed right now. We’re waiting for them to come and take me down to the 3rd floor to place the PICC line that will go from my left antecubital vein into my heart. The PICC line is used during this therapy to mainline drugs into my body.

I’m planning to blog my through this therapy, so there may be a bunch of short posts coming along. Some may be written by Jill, if I can’t get to my computer or am too far out of it to type. As she left here, she asked my nurse, Annette, for suggestions to local clubs. She said she was going out clubbing in Durham. You can’t keep a great girl down!

I’m a little anxious and have made sure that I have Ativan available if I should need it. I don’t want to have another situation like we had at Emory when I had my kidney surgery when I was asking for Ativan and they wouldn’t give it to me because the doctor hadn’t ordered it. We’re good to go with the Ativan and soon Jill will be back with a small fan to move some air in here.

Thanks for coming along this journey with me. I’m working hard to be one of the seven percenters that will be cured by HD-IL2.

My Sock Monkey is Fierce!

I got the phone call we were looking for yesterday from Dr. Pippas. He has managed to work with Dr. Dan George at Duke University Hospital to get our consultation appointment moved up a full two weeks! The new appointment time is 1:30 p.m. on Wednesday, January 11.

I have filled out all my new patient forms online (how nice to have them digital!) and have submitted them to the doctor’s office. The scheduling person, Stephanie, wasn’t able to answer all my questions about what might happen while we’re there. Will there be blood work? Will there be scans? Will I take a treadmill stress test? I don’t know the answers to these questions, so I will be packing Xanax, just in case they decide to slide me into a tube, either feet- or face-first.

Getting this appointment moved up is HUGE for me. I have been a basket case, although a calm one. The way my mind works is that once I have made it up regarding a particular course of action, I simply cannot sit around and wait for things to happen. I want to go NOW. The tone of my phone calls to Dr. Pippas’ office has been, frankly, more intense as I have made them. I think I have been somewhat of a pest, but we have a small business to run and the possibility of the first vacation we’ve taken in a long, long time scheduled, too. We need to keep the business running and we want to be able to take this Caribbean vacation with two couples of our best friends.

I am thinking, “If we could get this ball rolling, we can do the therapy, I’ll have time to get over it and we can still make the Water Island trip.” That really wasn’t practical, given the time some of this stuff takes. So, with the great gift of an earlier consultation appointment with Dr. George, we’ll be able to learn all we need to know about whether I’ll qualify for the treatment, what we have to do to prepare for it, get out the April magazine and still make our trip. Then, if Duke’s scheduling will permit, we’ll start the treatment as shortly after March 5 as we can.

With the usual one week on and two weeks off and one week back on scenario, by mid-May I should be cancer free, ready to hug my family and friends, golf, fish, kayak and continue to look for ways to embarrass my children. If I make it through to the healthy conclusion of HDIL-2 that I envision attaining, my next point of focus will be to urge the appropriate parties to produce us a grandchild.

None of our sons are married. Some are more seriously dating than others. We’d appreciate them getting things done in the right order and all that – but damn it, I want a grandchild!

When the HDIL-2 purges me of cancer, I also intend to write about other things in the blog than kidney cancer. There is so much more than I can write about! My head is completely stuffed with some useful things to impart and also some useless drivel that only weird people would want to read. Since I have quite a few weird readers, they’ll be happy with those writings, I’m sure.

Jill and I are reading now, trying to prepare for the HDIL-2 treatment. We won’t know which of the awful potential side effects will bother me. But we have to assume they all will, and be ready with the proper clothing, shoes, lotions, diversions and drugs to counteract them.

One of my favorite tree-hugger, animals-are-people-too people, Callie Sprague, has convinced me to use visualization so that my mind will condition my body to find and kill these cancer cells. What I may not have said about this particular cancer and the HDIL-2 therapy is interesting. The very toxic drip that they’ll mainline into my heart every 6 hours doesn’t kill cancer. It is designed to ramp up your immune system and allow it to literally rise up and kill the cancer cells, no matter where they are in your body.

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you know that Kate Nerone gave me a sock monkey after reading one of my posts in which I referred to this lovable sock-skinned creature. Until that monkey ripped the face off that woman in Stamford, Conn., I would have never considered a monkey as my preferred mascot in an ass-whipping competition. Something with a more fierce reputation, like a honey badger, would surely be a better talisman for my upcoming battle.

Thanks to Kate, I have a sock monkey in hand. Last time I checked my office, there was not a honey badger in sight, so I will be taking my sock monkey with me for all the HDIL-2 treatments. The monkey’s name is Robert Charles (R.C.) Killer. He’s a seasoned killer, so tortured by renal cells as a baby monkey that he’s developed a lethal hatred for them. A lifetime of bullying by renal cells has hardened him into a single-minded killer. Killing RCC is his only past-time. Uninhibited by hobbies, he has devoted his entire life to killing RC cells within my body.

Sock monkeys mate for life. The bonding begins as they’re packed for shipping to their new mate. As Kate boxed Killer to send him on his way, the brief stretch of darkness and the incessant jarring as the package made its way to me only served to make him a more lethal killing machine. There is nothing more deadly than a pissed off sock monkey!

When Killer arrived on my desk, I could feel the pent up energy that lay under that packing tape and cardboard. As I ripped the packing material, I had the sense that whatever was inside was doing its job to get out. I could feel the strength of the limbs and claws scratching their way out in order to release the creature into my arms.

Killer has been patiently waiting for me to utilize his particular brand of killing skills. He has perched on a piece of furniture in my office with a cocky look that says to visitors, “Yes, I know I look cute, but I can rip your face off in an instant and show no remorse! Go ahead, try me.” Honestly, I feel much more secure in my office just knowing that Killer is standing guard.

He was excited to know that I have a real mission for him that will utilize his considerable skills for something more than guarding a magazine publisher’s office. The typical visitor to my office is a fairly non-threatening person. They’re generally not scary, except for the occasional redheaded public relations person who comes by from time to time. Killer is beside himself with just the right amount of swagger and professional pride at the knowledge that he’s about to go up against his most dangerous opponent yet. Renal cell cancer is deadly, unpredictable and sneaky, but Killer has been trained for this day.

JIll, Killer and I are ready to go to Duke to hear Dr. George’s plan for our future in this next phase of our battle with kidney cancer. Some people will likely make fun of me for carrying Killer. They just better hope I don’t turn him loose on them.

What Killer, what did you say? “Kidney cancer is my bitch!” Well alrighty then. Let’s go to Duke!

All Saints Story Buoys Cancer-Fighting Spirit

Let me tell you a story.

During my cancer journey, since May 25, 2009, there have been so many people who have done or said just the right thing at the right time to buoy my fighting spirit. One of those things happened a few days ago. I have waited to share this incredible story until it played out. It fully played out during our All Saints Feast Sunday at St. Matthews in-the-Pines Episcopal Church in Seale, Ala.

If you’re familiar with the Episcopal Church calendar, All Saints Day was November 1. We celebrated the day in a very interesting way this past Sunday. The Rev. Donna Gafford, our priest, challenged us all to come to church on Sunday and bring a story about our favorite saint. This saint could be a real saint, or it could be a favorite relative, a pet or a teacher from our past.

I am kind of a church curmudgeon in that I really don’t like to participate in church. I don’t want to do any kind of interpretive dance (Several years ago that happened at our church once. I’m not kidding.) I don’t like to try to stump the priest. (That has happened, too.) I want to go, hear a great sermon, sing some soul-stirring songs, pass the peace and go home. So, I had decided not to participate in the saint discussion.

Jill felt that I was being unreasonable and that I should reconsider my curmudgeonly stance. As you know, I’m still recovering from two back surgeries and food poisoning. Sunday, two weeks ago was the first time in many weeks that I had been to church. So, I was feeling disconnected and really didn’t want to do the saint thing.

Late in the day this past Friday, Jill handed me a package. I was involved in a payroll situation, so I dropped it on my desk without looking at who might have sent it. After I finished my task, I picked up the package and noticed that it was from an old friend, Kate Nerone. We worked together many years ago at Aflac and I have always had great respect for Kate’s sense of humor, her writing ability — and her legs.

Several years ago, Kate joined me for dinner at the old La Grotta restaurant in the basement of a condominium complex on Peachtree in Atlanta. There is a new version of the restaurant in the Holiday Inn Ravinia on the north end of the city. I like the old world feel of the old place, the mustachioed wait staff who speak very little English and their penchant for strong-arming diners into choosing Italian bottled mineral water over Atlanta tap water.

I had arrived early and was sipping on a drink when Kate strutted in, decked out in a low-cut black minidress, ridiculously high heels and fishnet stockings. She stopped the show that night. She has a habit of stopping shows when she walks into a room. I’ll just say that we got snappy, grade-A service that night. It was quite a lovely evening and it was fun to watch Florio trip over himself to serve us.

I ripped open the package. It contained a box, which I tossed onto my desk, and several sheets of paper. I read the sheets in order, because that is just the way I roll. The first sheet was a note from Kate. The other sheets were an Easter meditation she had written a few years ago for her former sister-in-law Amy Nerone, who puts together the meditations each year for the Chattahoochee Valley Episcopal Ministries, an outreach arm of the local Episcopal parishes.

She also included a riveting poem, which her friend Hope Winsborough shared with her. Here’s where the story gets really interesting: Kate mentioned that there was a box in the package. It contained, she said, a St. Michael medal, which her husband carried as a paratrooper in Baghdad, Iraq. She said that it had protected him and that now she wanted me to have it. The medal was being repurposed to protect me from cancer.

By the way, St. Michael is the patron saint of paratroopers, firemen, policemen, drunkards and fools. You all know I don’t wear a uniform or a badge, but I’m glad I made the cut! Jill walked into my office and said, “What did Kate send you?” I held up the medal, which was then and now attached to my car key. She got that wry smile and said, “Well, there’s your saint!”

Fast forward to Sunday. I walked into church with the poem in hand and the St. Michael medal in pocket. When Donna described how we were going to substitute the saint discussions for the sermon, I asked if I could go first. Selfishly, I knew my story was going to blow everyone else out of the water and I wanted the shock and awe effect of a great story to kick off the festivities.

The time came and I went up to the lecturn and delivered my story. I read Kate’s favorite poem and I told our parish about why I was the new owner of the medal. Needless to say, the story killed! The fact that this wonderful story dropped into my lap just over 24 hours from the time I needed it is just so cool.

The icing on the cake was that Karen Rankin’s favorite saint was me! She delivered a tearful thank you to me for being an important part of their life here in Seale. This service that I was dead set against participating in, turned out to be an amazing love fest with sweet sentiments, great food and fellowship under the pines in our little church. This is exactly why I love our church. It is casual, warm and friendly. I leave there each week feeling great and uplifted and during the summer, I get to wear shorts. How cool is that?