Patrick, United States
Riding the Bull Named Cancer
By Patrick J. Glover
-Chapter 1 : Diagnosis, faith reflections, bull rider metaphor, call to men, building the team.
-Chapter 2 : Preseason preparation, PET scan, billing frustrations, anniversary, wasted worry, mask familiarity, faith.
-Chapter 3 : Week 1 chemo/radiation, urine humor, week breakdown, financial stress, family support.
-Chapter 4 : Weeks 2–4, Top Gun mantra, IV frustrations, dry mouth, insomnia, food adjustments, Korean nurse gift rock.
-Chapter 5 : Weeks 5–6, Einstein’s insanity, Titanic uncertainty, Marianna’s love note, recovery weeks, Mason the dog, cancer‑free verdict, epilogue.
Chapter 1: Drafting the Team and Facing Fear
September 18, 2023. Lyndhurst, New Jersey. I was feeling determined. It was time to map out my first game plan. Like drafting a fantasy football team, only this time it was a fantasy cancer team to win the Cancerbowl 2023.
I joked about not wanting to pick “an Aaron Rodgers as my oncologist” — sorry Jet fans, had to go there. But beneath the humor was a serious resolve: build the right team of doctors to bring me to victory.
The world is full of illnesses because our bodies are imperfect. Nevertheless, the spirit inside us is protected, and the desire and passion we show toward life strengthens the soul.
So what is there to be afraid of when faced with a challenge? Losing. Embarrassment. Ego. Rejection. But what if death is the consequence? Is fear then allowed?
My answer was faith. If I’ve spent my life believing that God gave His only Son so that believers may pass into the kingdom of heaven, why fear death when eternal utopia awaits?
So weep for me, because I have now found the entrance into eternal paradise? No — rejoice. Happiness comes from giving more than receiving. The emptiness we feel when loved ones pass should be filled with joy in remembrance. We are all children of God, and someday we will give our ultimate sacrifice of separation from the mortal world to enter eternal heaven. That’s when we put on our “best Jesus suit” as a reminder to others that heaven awaits those who believe.
Don’t forget: we all have an open and paid‑for reservation thanks to one man. Cancer really brings the evangelist out of me, LOL.
Bottom line:
• Life is short.
• Our world is stressful.
• Our bodies are imperfect.
• But our will to survive lives on through those we help and cherish.
“I can do all this through Him who gives me strength.” — Philippians 4
The Bull Rider’s Creed
I thought of JB Mauney, the PBR great who faced Bushwacker nine times and failed. On the tenth try, he chose Bushwacker again — the meanest, baddest bull in the pen — and rode him to victory.
A bull rider in the chute doesn’t dwell on injury or death. He steadies his focus and invites the bull to buck as hard as possible. Vulnerable and exposed, the rider must be laser sharp, replacing fear with determination for eight seconds.
JB rode Bushwacker. My bull’s name is Cancer.
The Diagnosis
Attention men 50 and older: DO NOT HESITATE. Get a physical today.
Cancer ties to death in the mind, but early detection is key. My cancer was in my tonsil, caught early thanks to regular doctor visits. Ironically, my vigilance came from monitoring antibodies after not getting the COVID vaccine. “DISCLAIMER: I am not an antivaccer.” But those checkups may have saved my life.
From sore throat to infection to weeks of antibiotics, the diagnosis finally came: YOU HAVE CANCER. With family history, it wasn’t a shock. But I refused the “Not me” mindset.
I challenged others: ride the bull named CLEAN by getting checkups. If clear, celebrate. If not, face the bull named Cancer with determination. Pain is inevitable, but pain is weakness leaving the body. Ring the bell after eight seconds, and celebrate.
Building the Team
Two weeks into the journey, I met both my radiologist and my chemotherapy oncologist, praising their teams. I got dental clearance and guards made to shield my teeth from radiation, then endured tooth extraction, root canals, and fillings to prepare for D‑Day October 9th — the start of seven weeks of treatment.
Mondays: seven hours of hydration infusions plus Cisplatin, then radiation. Tuesday through Friday: daily 15‑minute radiation. A special mask molded to my face locked me down for pinpoint accuracy. “Mask, mouth piece, give me a glove and flank strap and away we go, lol.”
Insurance delays pushed my PET scan; I felt it should have been done earlier, but I was grateful my team moved forward rather than waiting a month.
At John Theurer Hospital in Hackensack, I sat among 50–100 cancer patients waiting for bloodwork, humbled and guilty for having a real shot at beating my cancer. I prayed for others with more aggressive disease, recognizing that some never make it out of the bucking chutes.
Chapter-2
Preseason Preparation, PET Scan, and Billing Fury
Week three of my preseason cancer preparation was behind me, and I hoped my treatment would move this fast once it started. All the necessary tests were done, and the important equipment was ready for D‑Day, October 9th.
First came the making of my radiation mask. It was pretty intense having this device molded to my head, knowing it would strap me in for pinpoint treatment. “OK Mr. Glover, this might feel strange at first as we shape it,” said my radiology tech Bobby. This guy was awesome, smart as a whip, and boy was I glad I had him. Not only did he make me a damn cool mask, he helped teach the PET scan technicians how to set the adjustments for positioning the laser beam of radiation. “No, no lower; that’s not a neck, that’s an eyeball!” LOL, just fooling, but he was an asset to show them.
The following day was my PET scan. This was the first time during my adventure that I was a little nervous. Not knowing what was going to light up and show cancer had me thinking about every pain I ever had in my body. “Hmm, I wonder if that pain I got two months ago and couldn’t explain on my side was the beginning of kidney cancer? Damn, I lost my grandfather to brain cancer, I wonder if I have a tumor in there? Oh crap, did this thing spread to my prostate?” It was 24 hours of thinking.
Nevertheless, it all went as planned and I learned two things:
1. I have tonsil cancer.
2. My brain is remarkable.
My wife says remarkable means “No cancer found.” I think she’s just jealous they finally proved what I always knew!
I got a kick out of being radioactive for four hours. They came in with a steel box and a steel syringe and injected this thing called a tracer in me. I love how they told me, “YOU will be just fine Mr. Glover, just stay away from your wife and don’t go to the same bathroom, lol.” If I sang the Imagine Dragons song “Radioactive” one more time, Mare would have stabbed me.
Now, as everyone knows who has gone through chemo, hydration is king. Mare bought me this really cool jug that has a pop‑up straw and is marked for 64 oz of fluid. Each ounce has a little blurb to keep you motivated. Nevertheless, I got a lot of exercise going back and forth to the john thanks to it. It came in handy since I had to do a 24‑hour straight urinalysis and pee in a gas can for testing. I’m not exaggerating — they handed me a mini gas canister and told me I couldn’t pee anywhere else for 24 hours. Like the old commercial: “Fill it to the rim with the good taste of…”
If there was one disappointment during the week, it was the dreadful billing. Sensitive topic, but it has so many different roads for so many people. I’ll say this: IT’S GREED. The system is set up not only to heal you but also so that GREED can flourish.
I’m lucky to have good insurance from my job, and nevertheless I’m still getting smacked around financially. I can’t begin to think how someone without insurance goes through this ordeal and fights cancer. People say staying positive is half the battle — tell that to those who have no way to pay and lose everything just to stay alive. Seriously, my chemo medication Cisplatin costs $45 a bag, but the infusion along with administration fees cost over $7,000. It’s written in plain English on my bill!
The poison to keep me alive: dirt cheap. To stick it in my arm and flush me out: priceless.
Before you say it’s the cost of paying the nurses and oncologist, think again. Those are hospital service fees. Each has their own billing department, and this is not on the chemotherapy tab.
That is just wrong and very un‑American. I understand it’s a business and capitalism is the foundation of how we grow and succeed, but the ridiculous price gouging is disgraceful. The best is the hospital has a bank attached to it so it can offer you a no‑credit‑check loan to pay off your treatment so you can live and spend the rest of your life paying it back. Mare said she felt like she was buying a car. Sorry, but that’s pure bullshit — fitting since I’m riding a bull named Cancer!
The millions I see being tossed around in our country, only to see the faces of humans trying to figure out how to pay while clinging to treatment to survive, is disturbing and makes me angry. I promise, when this cancer ride is over, I’ll come back to this topic publicly.
Anniversary and Wasted Worry
My week ended and I continued to speak about my cancer publicly at work and to all who wanted to listen. It’s important that more information is spread about this disease and the effects of cancer. HPV needs to become a household word, like smallpox, mumps, and measles.
This week was an off week, then we rock and roll for the season opener October 9th. Bull riders need to stay on eight seconds; I need eight weeks. Each week is a second for me, and I’m ready to kick ass or get my ass kicked. Either way, I’m staying on.
My saving grace this week was celebrating my 25th year of marriage without hurdles. Marianna has been my best friend and soulmate through so much these past 25 years. Since we went to Italy on our honeymoon, she wanted to go somewhere I wanted to go for our 25th. I said Washington, D.C. because I love history. “I know, Washington really?” But my plan was to get down on my knee again in the White House and reaffirm my vows. That got scrapped thanks to cancer, so off to Hoboken we went. Back to our little church, St. Francis, where we got married, to rewalk the steps again — no rice this time. Truly, I’m thankful to have her by my side during these times. It takes my mind off worrying about her, and I believe it’s vice versa. True soulmates.
Dropping the Worry
Week 4 was in the rearview mirror as I headed into the big ride Monday — first chemo and radiation. Finally!
This week I got a reprieve from doctors and worked on getting things done before chemo and radiation started running through my veins. I reflected on how I got here and where I’m headed. With the amount of well wishes and prayers I’ve received, I should be able to walk on water. It’s humbling to have so many people care about your well‑being and support your family.
Over the years, I heard about the emotional swings cancer survivors went through. It became clear I had to be missing something. Since diagnosis, I never took the position to worry. I laughed about it rather than being depressed. Not making fun of cancer — each person’s battle is different — but I realized how pathetic it was to let worry run my life.
I worried so much, going back to my twenties, I foolishly evaluated everything as cancer‑related. Go out in the sun? Cancer. Use that cream or eat that food? Cancer. Have a cigar? Oh boy, cancer! What a huge waste of my life.
One of my favorite sayings is: “You can pour syrup on shit, but it won’t make them pancakes.” My fear was the shit, and those theories were the syrup.
So now, after all that worrying, here I am, ready to take a seven‑week ass‑kicking ride on cancer, and I’m actually relieved. I even asked my wife, “Do you think I’m not taking this seriously enough?” The rock has been lifted off my back. The face of cancer is exposed.
This battle is 50% physical and 50% mental. I’m confident in my team to conquer the physical, and I’ve aligned my chakras for the mental roller coaster. Chemo is hard on the kidneys — do I worry about what could happen, or do I focus on massive hydration to clean them out? Will I be in so much pain I can’t eat, or do I learn about feeding tubes so if needed it’s just a process?
If only I’d been this strong younger, I could have conquered the fear that gripped me half my life.
Friends shared experiences with head and neck cancer. The most hated part was the radiation mask. For some, it was the worst part of treatment. Yet I found the setup comfortable. Why? Familiarity. The pillow behind my head, the mouth guard, the mask snapped in place — it brought me back to years inside a football helmet.
That’s it. I found a way to turn scary things into safe spaces.
I realized my connection wasn’t to bull riding itself, but to the bull rider’s faith in God before he gets on. Fear always plays a factor. The ability to control fear comes from faith. Trust
Chapter 3: Week One – Urine, Wrinkles, and the First Buck
October 9th, 2023. My first round of chemotherapy and radiation. A real barn burner of a day.
If I had to sum up chemo in one word, that word would be Urine. OMG, I wound up contributing over 5000 ml of pee into the Hackensack sewer system that day. The nurses were thrilled — flushing out the system is crucial. I got into a routine of consuming nothing less than 120 oz of water a day to wash out the toxins.
The process itself was simple: hook up the IV, inject drugs into the line, sit and wait seven hours as the drip flowed through my veins. Funny enough, when the chemo first went in, thirty seconds later it felt like I was eating Pop Rocks candy for about a minute.
I turned that seven‑hour session into a book club. I brought three books I’d been meaning to read and knocked out three chapters in each. More reading than I’d done in a year. Progress.
Radiation was interesting. Day one, strapped to the table, zapped with laser beams while locked in a medieval‑like mask. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but overall it was a non‑issue physically. I found those fifteen minutes therapeutic. Since I had no choice, I used the time to decompress my mind. Machine goes in, machine goes out, roller coaster sounds for two minutes, then you’re free.
Treatment is cumulative, so pain will come later. For now, it was a Zen moment. I applied Cerave ointment aggressively to my neck to prevent cracking or drying. Hydration and ointment are key factors in pain management. Doctors gave me nausea meds, which I took as prescribed. Appetite stayed solid.
I heard it fifty times that week: “Wait until week three and four, that’s when all hell breaks loose.” Thanks for the encouragement.
One radiation tech, twenty years on the job, told me those who keep hydrated and follow the process tend to have the least side effects.
Here’s my week one snapshot:
• Monday: Chemo/rad day, tiring but big appetite.
• Tuesday: Normal, little nausea, so‑so food.
• Wednesday: Tired, blah, low food desire, little nausea.
• Thursday: Tired, bathroom #2 all day, night hunger, very little nausea.
• Friday: Lost taste, felt good, hungry and active.
• Saturday: Normal hunger, tired only after activity.
• Sunday: Week two begins as week one started.
Overall score: solid 6/10.
Psychologically, I was still center mass on this bull named Cancer. Coming out of the chute, the bull bucked twice: once with cloudiness and nausea midweek, and once with the financial pressure of co‑pays. “Hello Mr. Glover, welcome to Radiation. Now give me your damn co‑pay!”
It’s obvious there’s a profit machine churning out bill after bill while you’re fighting disease. Just like funeral costs — they get you when the chips are down. Overwhelming, even with good insurance. My heart bleeds for those without. I fight corporate greed for a living, so this makes me angry. But that’s a fight for after my battle.
What I rejoiced in was the overwhelming love and support from family and friends. The positive energy kept me strong every day. We love you all.
One down, six more weeks to go. I passed the first second out of the eight I need to ride this bull to victory. Pain is temporary. Victory is forever.
- Week Two – Don’t Think, Just Do
Week two of my tonsil cancer HPV p16 treatment closed with a quote from Top Gun: Maverick: “Don’t think, just do.” Best advice when facing frustration.
Monday the 16th, I woke ready for my second chemo. Pumped and laser‑focused. Labs were perfect. But frustration struck.
An older nurse with a heavy accent, transferred from ER due to a neck injury, on probation, struggled with IVs. Five swollen, failed attempts left both hands looking like Swiss cheese. She suggested sticking the neck. “GTFOH!” Another nurse fixed it with one stick. Requests went unanswered. I refused to let it break my mood. “It could be worse.”
Dry mouth hell followed. Gargles with warm water, baking soda, salt. Every Biotene product in the arsenal. I rewatched Top Gun: Maverick and noticed Iceman’s throat cancer storyline. Cruel coincidence. Silver lining: Val Kilmer is cancer‑free after twelve years.
Milestones: radiation double digits — ten sessions done. Turned 52 on October 19th. Family made it special.
Week two score: strong 7/10. Breakdown:
• Monday: Long chemo/rad day.
• Tuesday: Slightly tired, dry mouth.
• Wednesday: Can’t sleep, tired, slight nausea.
• Thursday: Very tired, bad dry mouth.
• Friday: Alert, rested, hungry, dry mouth.
• Saturday: Up early, hungry, dry mouth. - •Sunday: Reset.
Week three warnings loomed: decreased eating, increased pain. I doubled down on hydration — water, green tea, electrolytes. “Don’t think, just do. Pain is temporary, victory is forever.”
Chapter 4: Weeks Three and Four – Insomnia, Mouth Burns, and Humility
Chemo number three hit me with a curveball: magnesium levels were low, so they added it to the cocktail. The steroids left me wide‑eyed and bushy‑tailed at 4:30 AM, watching Gunsmoke reruns on Pluto until the birds woke up. By Tuesday afternoon, insomnia had me frustrated.
Radiation session number fifteen brought mouth sores and internal burns that accumulated daily. Dry mouth and loss of taste aggravated me most. I followed nausea meds by the script, with almost zero sour stomach. Hydration and positivity kept me cruising.
Food adjustments became necessary. Burgers, hard bread, chips, home fries — they shredded my sunburned mouth. I switched to protein‑rich soups, soft pasta, eggs. Mornings meant meal replacements, oatmeal, or sunny‑side eggs. Hydration was king: green tea with honey, water with electrolytes. Sixty‑four ounces minimum, often 128 combined. Green tea gave me contentment and nutrients.
Mentally, I stayed center mass. Wednesdays and Thursdays bucked hardest. Thursday night weakness shifted me to the side, mouth a sand pit. I listened to my body, slept, and returned strong Friday and Saturday. Midweek fatigue demanded pacing.
My cancer — HPV p16 — was very curable, so I refused impending doom. I even reprogrammed anger into loving my cancer. Not admiration of disease, but respect for the process and mental mastery. Just as bull riders don’t hate the bull; they love the sport and respect its danger.
Chemo became “eight hours to read books,” quality time with my wife, and a steroid‑driven appetite boost. Radiation’s daily constriction became meditation: controlled breathing, beach imagery, seagulls, waves, and a reset toward positive outlook. Blood pressure improved — for the first time in thirty years.
Week four forecast:
• Monday: Chemo day — pee, pee, pee, insomnia.
• Tuesday: Dry mouth.
• Wednesday: Tired, slight nausea, dry mouth, no appetite.
• Thursday: Exhausted, dry mouth, hungry.
• Friday: Refreshed, dry mouth, slight appetite.
• Saturday: Strong, hungry, tongue sore, dry mouth; shutdown end of day.
I spurred the bull, pissed it off, and fell asleep early Saturday. Still on: “Four seconds in, flank in hand with suicide grip — oh hell yeah, I’m not coming off!”
Chapter 5: Entitlement and Humility
Week four’s chemo day humbled me. Mid‑morning start meant late finish past 6 PM. A lab admin scolded me for no mask; I was in rare form, and the exchange didn’t go well. They had only thirty chairs and were behind; I sat waiting for hours while two‑hour patients cycled in and out. I fumed about priority and planning — “What dopey bastard planned this day?”
Then I was assigned a closed‑off corner cubicle, losing the window seats I’d enjoyed previously. Entitlement flared: “This is bullshit!” Then it flipped — everything happens for a reason. The nurse I was given, on loan from pancreatic and lung cancer, was outstanding: warm, knowledgeable, positive, and steadying. I realized I’d been dealt a royal flush. Entitlement had no place in treatment. “It could be worse.”
The nurse even made me a motivational rock in Korean with my name and a word for a positive outcome.
I was halfway — three chemo dates and fifteen radiation sessions left.
Here’s the arsenal of meds helping me through:
Dry mouth / canker / thrush / tongue pain:
• Antacid/Diphen/Lido 1.1.1 MW
• Nystatin Oral Susp 1000000 unit/ML
• MUGARD Oral mucoadhesive
• Triamcin/orabs 0.1%
Tooth protection:
• Sodium fluoride plus 1.1%
Neck protection:
• Cerave ointment at night
• Cerave moisturizing lotion by day
Nausea:
• Ondansetron 8 mg
• Prochlorperazine 10 mg
Pain/discomfort:
• Acetaminophen/COD #3 300/30 MG
Week score: five overall. Exhaustion lasted three days instead of two, but sleep remedied it. Week five loomed; the finish line was visible.
Weeks Five and Six – Insanity, Titanic Uncertainty, and the Final Countdown
Einstein once said insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. That’s exactly how week five felt. The structure of treatment hadn’t changed, but frustration hit an all‑time high. No taste. No saliva. Brutal dry mouth with thick, ropey white saliva in the throat triggering gag reflexes. Weakness forced shutdowns mid‑day. My body said “No, no, no, MOFO” when my mind said go.
I fought back with “Mind over Matter.” Determined to stay on the eight‑second ride, I almost got bucked off, but strategy saved me. Appetite suppressed, drinking fluids became undesirable. Friday night, I went to the cancer center for IV hydration and nausea meds. “Club Cancer Treatment: Yes bartender, I’ll have a bag of IV fluid neat, and chase it with a side of nausea medication.” It worked. Saturday felt stronger, setting me up for chemo number six Monday.
Week five profile:
• Monday: Chemo day.
• Tuesday: Dry mouth, tired, sore throat.
• Wednesday: Tired, dry mouth.
• Thursday: Extremely tired, dry mouth.
• Friday: Weak, IV rehydration, dry mouth.
• Saturday: Dry mouth, tired, better strength.
Food desire tortured me. Aged Tomahawk steaks danced through my mind. I stayed focused: two more chemo sessions and eight radiation treatments left. Recovery wasn’t a walk in the park, but it was one ride at a time.
Week Six – The Titanic Question
By week six, I didn’t recognize my shadow. The end of treatment was near. The day after Thanksgiving, I would walk out of radiation for the last time, God willing, giving thanks. The “cone down period” began — reduced treatment time focused on remaining lymph nodes. Tumor treatment complete as planned. Yet mouth thrush and neck skin irritation climbed to new heights.
Physical changes: weight loss, facial hair loss, skin color changes, tired sunken eyes. Sporadic exhaustion, dizziness, low energy dimmed my spirit. Psychologically, uncertainty gnawed like being on the Titanic after the iceberg. Will I get off alive and intact?
The lack of information about “what’s next” enraged me. Social media spread negative outcomes. I loathed posts saying, “I never regained my taste back, but that’s okay because my cancer is gone.” That’s bullshit. I wanted 110% back — no participation trophies. I rejected “if.” I refused anything less than complete recovery.
I demanded thorough education — beginning to end — including little things: mask anxiety, hydration’s role in nausea, mouth guards during radiation. Too many people didn’t know essential details. I pledged my life’s journey to educate and assist others.
Week six was the toughest: the canker sore wouldn’t quit; thrush worsened; new throat pain; cake‑like mouth fluid caused coughing; neck skin radiated heat unpredictably; platelet counts were low, so chemo doses were reduced.
Week breakdown:
• Monday: Chemo/rad.
• Tuesday: Tired, mouth issues.
• Wednesday: Tired, lots of mouth mucus.
• Thursday: Extremely tired, canker sore, mouth.
• Friday: Extremely tired, dizziness, mouth.
• Saturday: Neck and mouth issues.
Pain remained a six; frustration spiked. The final countdown began: last chemo and last four radiations. On Friday, I would hear the buzzer — eight seconds complete. The judges (scans) would deliver the score in three months. Cancer, the bull, gets fifty points; my ride must score the other fifty. I felt confident, positive, dedicated — waiting in limbo for what comes next.
Marianna’s Love Note
“Today is the last day of chemotherapy, and the final countdown for radiation treatment,” Marianna wrote. “Patrick Glover, my soulmate, you have fought this demon with everything you have… You radiate positivity, resilience, and most importantly determination! This damn bull is bucking hard, don’t let him distract you… You inspire me and the kids, and everyone around you. Now go get ’em!!! #fuccancer”
Recovery – Babe Ruth and the Moon Shot
“Every strike brings me closer to the next home run,” Babe Ruth said. Week one of recovery felt like striking out repeatedly until Friday morning — “It is high, it is far, it is a moon shot!”
Monday through Thursday were brutal: intense exhaustion, winded by chair‑to‑bathroom walks, throat pain from dryness, esophagus pain, brutal tongue canker sore. I forced solids with little chewing and no taste, used Tylenol, magic mouthwash, thrush meds, ice — anything.
A 5.5‑hour infusion of steroids, nausea meds, hydration steadied me. Bloodwork was fine; nurses reassured this was normal recovery. Ativan knocked me out — time flew. Then the moon shot: Saturday morning, throat pain gone, swallowing normal, tongue pain manageable, mouth somewhat normal (still no saliva). I took a risk — asked Marianna for a shot of espresso. I sniffed the aroma, let it resonate, placed a drop on my tongue. I couldn’t taste much, but a slight aftertaste brought a smile. For the first time in two months, I felt normal.
Exhaustion still hit hard: vision blurs, legs heavy, standing a struggle. Sitting was fine, but movement triggered battle. It sucked, but it was normal recovery.
My biggest supporter outside my wife and kids was my dog Mason. Mason knew when I was worst, snuggled close on painful nights, stayed by my side when home alone, never demanded walks during weakness. He got me moving when needed, then helped me relax. “My dog Mason is one of a kind.”
December 4th marked my first true return to oncology for a check‑up. Week two of recovery began; exhaustion continued, but the show must go on. Pain is temporary; victory is forever.
Recovery Reflections – Roethke’s Spirit
Theodore Roethke wrote, “How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.” After tonsil cancer treatment, one ponders what follows — a second radioactive syringe for a PET scan to test what matters most.
Post‑treatment, the conscience voices swapped roles: the pessimist said things couldn’t get worse; the optimist replied, “Sure they can!”
Holiday pomp passed; winter dark set in. I took up reading — historical labor, farming, agricultural pieces, bull riding biographies, plus cancer blogs. Help groups were powerful but dangerous; the downside was letting others’ issues live in your head rent‑free.
Seven weeks into recovery, a month before the PET, I still sought answers. First check‑up with the radiologist was an eye‑opener: scope showed no visible cancer (thumbs up), but saliva might take up to two years to recover, and taste might reach 70% in 7 to 12 months — maybe. That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. No saliva and no taste drain quality of life. Sleep was fractured — three nighttime wake‑ups for water and urination, averaging three hours of straight sleep. I drank 80+ oz per day. Taste was minimal — occasional flashes; mushrooms and spinach offered the best flavor.
I’d lost about 25 pounds, fluctuating between 209–215. Eating was a necessity, not enjoyment. Over 16 months, I’d shed 100 pounds — 309 to ~210 — requiring a new wardrobe. Radiation wiped out my beard and the ability to regrow it (doctor said it should return by next winter — hopefully). Oddly, my mustache changed from light brown coarse and curly to soft gray straight hair. Lymphatic neck drainage issues needed massage work to prevent “Mr. Aloysius Snuffleupagus.” Bloodwork round three was positive; energy improved daily. Good days and bad days — best result: I was here to talk about it.
I researched HPV education — three states already mandated vaccination for sixth grade; New Jersey needed improvement. I wanted parents educated to protect sons and daughters as they enter adulthood.
Life Returns
Taste began to flicker back — “5% — something is better than nothing.” I walked again. A long holiday weekend ended with a pint and blessing. Thursday and Friday were packed with events in Passaic County — honoring the Hibernian and Irishman of the Year and my union brother Tom Kelly. Saturday in NYC, I marched in the St. Patrick’s Day Parade under the Emerald Society Telephone and Communication banner — 100 NYC blocks total. Corned beef and cabbage ended the night — I could taste the cabbage. “Shout out to the Fighting 69th distributors for outstanding Irish whiskey.”
Back to the Yankees after years lost to the grind and politics. Cancer taught me to focus on what matters — enjoying life with family. Instead of dropping hundreds on opening day, I bought the season on YES and enjoyed every game. Life was good.
Cancer‑Free
August 28, 2024