tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81461855559850831322024-03-13T10:53:30.758-04:00Where I Am In All of This...<br><br>My intention is to share my experience as honestly as I know how.<br><br>My commitment is to transform our current cultural conversation about cancer from one of fear and dread to one that empowers those of us who have cancer, as well as our friends & loved ones.
<br><br>
I had cancer. Cancer didn't have me.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.comBlogger559125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-11017367397916767752021-02-10T23:31:00.005-05:002021-02-10T23:31:36.274-05:00All Seems To Be Well<p>On Friday, just 48-hrs after I admitted myself into the Emergency Department of the hospital, I was discharged with no need surgery. The obstruction was cleared in the time I was in the hospital. The physical recovery has been consistent and happening steadily. The greatest difficulty has been the emotional recovery. It really set me back, being in the hospital and preparing myself for the possibility of emergency surgery. On Friday evening, a friend in my pod came over to see how I was doing. It was when she walked in the door that all the emotion came pouring in -all the memories of past surgeries and what was required of me to get through it. Wow! It was a lot. I feel like I am just now finding my way out of the emotional weight of it all.</p><p>What really turned me around was the recording of Episode 30 of my podcast. I spoke with an incredible and inspiring kindred-spirit and survivor of Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. The time we spent together unfolding all she has been through was the elixir I was seeking. I feel like I'm just about back on my feet. </p>Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-63300808590434485132021-02-04T14:58:00.001-05:002021-02-04T14:58:29.121-05:00Bowel Obstruction: After All These Years<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnOeID-jKtgJjqVmT2nFT_qba1MPFG7OWnyo-4HVgQIYS-NAafzB3Y1Gm9mIIpkEmDJZmUEHg2l1U86XRaMt2aPfMzYV5lKrRl9Mow7C3ZRDgH1mQAatoykrVt4CMK8zMdV4gCq3q1Rk4/s3088/IMG_0566.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnOeID-jKtgJjqVmT2nFT_qba1MPFG7OWnyo-4HVgQIYS-NAafzB3Y1Gm9mIIpkEmDJZmUEHg2l1U86XRaMt2aPfMzYV5lKrRl9Mow7C3ZRDgH1mQAatoykrVt4CMK8zMdV4gCq3q1Rk4/s320/IMG_0566.jpg" /></a></p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My intention was to release Episode Seven of Season Two of <a href="https://www.bertscholl.com/but-seriously-podcast.html" target="_blank">But Seriously: The Cancer Podcast</a> on Friday February 5th. However, early Wednesday morning I checked myself into the Emergency Department and was diagnosed with a small bowel obstruction due to an adhesion.</span></p><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m feeling much better and the need for surgery is becoming less likely.</div><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The colorectal resection I had in 2008 and/or the liver resection I had in 2011 are likely the reason for the adhesions in my abdomen. Apparently adhesions can show up years after a surgery and are not restricted to just the surgical area. </div><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m hoping to be home in time to watch Super Bowl LV</div>Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-68028398348182109682021-01-04T14:04:00.001-05:002021-01-04T14:04:17.865-05:00Nine Years Cancer-Free<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK10U6-dIme1-U1Ihe0_E3PkoCeK8n7m9vfJ5H90axuEiIHJ14NwAYZhzZMzKkzEwK9OOX2GIY5BNhFheypti1y8zFutDXLMfhPaXOPKh0_tBbNMvjhWtem1V11dR-DP92sP1h2sD1b2U/s2048/IMG-0172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK10U6-dIme1-U1Ihe0_E3PkoCeK8n7m9vfJ5H90axuEiIHJ14NwAYZhzZMzKkzEwK9OOX2GIY5BNhFheypti1y8zFutDXLMfhPaXOPKh0_tBbNMvjhWtem1V11dR-DP92sP1h2sD1b2U/s320/IMG-0172.JPG" /></a></div><p></p><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">This week I received results for my annual CT scan as well as my colonoscopy. CT all clear & colonoscopy all clear minus one polyp, so instead of having a colonoscopy every three years, I’ll go back to every year or two. I requested every year. I prefer to be vigilant.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="caret-color: rgb(5, 5, 5); color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Don’t be surprised with a cancer diagnosis like I was.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">If you’re 45 or older, make sure you’ve had a colonoscopy. <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="oajrlxb2 g5ia77u1 qu0x051f esr5mh6w e9989ue4 r7d6kgcz rq0escxv nhd2j8a9 nc684nl6 p7hjln8o kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x jb3vyjys rz4wbd8a qt6c0cv9 a8nywdso i1ao9s8h esuyzwwr f1sip0of lzcic4wl q66pz984 gpro0wi8 b1v8xokw" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/nineyearscancerfree?__eep__=6&__cft__[0]=AZVveGGnbeaSajmLoeaKFl6NJHZl-tRcVI1eFNk7DfV7PtfDtsvaqx2cNaUqsNDuDsLnHDzx_CAoEy3VVGdyUH2Dqkqt0Q3hiPga8RhRWtX4gm3XuGzTJRi-w8V3eNgy3_8&__tn__=*NK-R" role="link" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: var(--accent); cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">#NineYearsCancerFree</a></span></div></div>Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-43164292909785499592020-10-26T12:39:00.002-04:002020-10-26T12:39:26.961-04:00But Seriously: The Cancer Podcast<div style="margin-left: 40px;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jKfm_2N_3hrkhEUPmyNC0nX0RlK24tLfq_rhQSlRtNvX8n86swu_dElkhxQQbw7xhZMJOE6XJn_9pYLTZhSWCkcYyEWVcNO6naDCDef0t_ng406g1TenwtTurq6ot7YuNdspCPhwz5w/s2048/ButSeriouslyTCP_cover-art_final+copy.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jKfm_2N_3hrkhEUPmyNC0nX0RlK24tLfq_rhQSlRtNvX8n86swu_dElkhxQQbw7xhZMJOE6XJn_9pYLTZhSWCkcYyEWVcNO6naDCDef0t_ng406g1TenwtTurq6ot7YuNdspCPhwz5w/w320-h320/ButSeriouslyTCP_cover-art_final+copy.png" width="320" /></a></div>Many of you know I’m a two-time cancer survivor. </div></span></div><div class="gmail_quote"><div dir="ltr" style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div style="margin-left: 40px;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">Crazy, right?!?</div><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /></div></span></span><div style="border-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="color: black;">Well, one year ago, I made a commitment to create </span>a podcast that provided the world an insider’s perspective into some of the most intimate details of the journey of a cancer survivor. And I'm thrilled to let you know I am now the host of <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.bertscholl.com/but-seriously-podcast.html&source=gmail&ust=1603809245839000&usg=AFQjCNHKptVsfPTsETTUxMY5Wd-Km4QWqQ" href="https://www.bertscholl.com/but-seriously-podcast.html" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">But Seriously: The Cancer Podcast</a>.<br /></span></div><div style="border-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"> <br /><span style="color: black;">Naturally, it's an ideal podcast for cancer survivors to listen to but it's also perfect for family, friends and loved ones of those who have ever navigated a cancer diagnosis. The But Seriously podcast provides a fly-on-the-wall, insider's view into the intimate details of a cancer survivor's diagnosis and post-treatment experience, both of which are less frequently shared with friends and loved ones yet can affect a cancer survivor for years if not for the rest of their life. Few adults can say they're not "One Degree Away from Cancer" and the But Seriously podcast is where we all can create </span>connection<span style="color: black;"> and discover eye-opening insights around our thoughts and beliefs about cancer.</span></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><div dir="auto" style="border-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: black;"><br /></div></span><div style="border-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="color: black;">Com</span>e be inspired by the struggles that have been overcome and the barriers that have been graciously accepted. We are all in this together and the more connection we create, the more navigable our journeys become.<br /><br />Currently this podcast is available on Spotify Podcasts, Apple Podcasts, Google Podcasts, and Podbean Podcasts. Please share this podcast with your family and friends, your co-workers and clients. And thank you so much! I had no idea it would take so much work yet be so deeply fulfilling.<br /><br />All the best to you!</span></div><div style="border-color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"><br /><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div style="border-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: black;"><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.bertscholl.com/but-seriously-podcast.html&source=gmail&ust=1603809245839000&usg=AFQjCNHKptVsfPTsETTUxMY5Wd-Km4QWqQ" href="https://www.bertscholl.com/but-seriously-podcast.html" style="color: #1155cc; font-family: georgia, serif;" target="_blank">But Seriously: The Cancer Podcast</a></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-7736575817832750292019-01-13T00:45:00.000-05:002019-01-15T21:44:47.729-05:00Another Clear Scan - Still in Remission<div dir="auto">
On December 12th I was in Manhattan at Memorial Sloan Kettering
Cancer Center for my annual CT scan and blood work. The scan came back
negative so today I remain <b>CANCER-FREE</b>. Seven years with no detectable sign of cancer which means two years officially in remission. Amen!</div>
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After
my scan and blood work, I had some time to kill so the results could be determined. I went to a great coffee shop called Ground Central and had a
delicious cup then went for lunch in Grand Central Station of all
places. I had a craving for a little something from the Lower Level
Dining Concourse and it was quicker to go to Grand Central than to trek
across town to the next closest location. Once I was well fed, I started my walk back
to the clinic. As I began to near the block on which the clinic is located, I
started to wonder what the scan results would be. I imagined how I
would respond if the scan came back positive. I ran through the
conversation I’d be having with my doc about where in my body the mets
were discovered. Immediately I thought of the boys and the significant
possibility of my death and no longer being in their lives. Tears began
to well up in my eyes. It hurt. I wasn’t arguing with the idea of death.
Ok. Actually, I was. I’m not up for it right now. It means so much to
have living parents in our lives and I if I had any say, I’d say I want
that for the boys. My father passed when I was thirty-three, fifteen years
ago, and I still wish we’d had more time together as adults. Yes, I am blessed to have had the time we had, and I wish we had more. And I want the boys to have the same.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So
as I imagined the conversation with my doc about how the cancer
treatment would go. I also wondered how difficult the treatment might be
and how much I’d be able to work. Those thoughts were there for both
diagnoses. How much will I be able to work? Will I be able to be a part
of the boys lives or will I be too sick from treatment to have what it
takes? And I imagined the many hours of tears blended with the many
hours of gratitude for nearly forty-nine years of living.</div>
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</div>
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Then I saw my
doc and she told me my scan and blood work were clear.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I
texted my family, and some friends who knew I was seeing my doc, to say
I’m in the clear. Daniela responded and shared her joy with me and asked
how I felt. I didn’t have to look far as I began to cry, so happy to
have more time to live.</div>
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I’m
one of those folks who keeps death close to my heart or perhaps at the
forefront of my mind. Or both...? It’s one of the ways I remind myself
tomorrow is promised to no one. My body somehow endured the surgeries
and treatments that went with two pretty substantial cancer diagnoses.
How am I still here? I have no idea. Lucky I guess. I keep these thoughts close. They serve me well.</div>
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As
a child, the saying “Live like today is your last” used to mean getting
crazy. Doing everything I’d never done before and always wanted to do.
Today it means making sure people know I love them. As I walked out the
clinic and rounded the corner where I was walking and crying just hours
before, I saw a group of happy folks soliciting people. They were
smiling and working hard to engage passersby, so I looked one in the eye
and I said, “What do ya got?” She spoke to me about children dying all
around the world from hunger, diarrhea, and other issues that are easily
resolved here in the USA. She pushed hard for a $33/mo commitment.
Then her co-worker chimed in. I told them I would love to and simply
can’t afford it. She pushed again. I acknowledged her for her relentless
stand for these children, told her I love her and went on my way. The
awareness of death always seems to keep love present in my mind.</div>
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On my way home on the bus, my mind was foggy and my mouth tasted odd from the prednisone and Benadryl I take
to hold off further bad reactions to the contrast used to enhance the CT
imaging. My body hurt from the effects of the contrast. My body hurt from my lack of sleep I got the previous night from the prednisone as well as the anticipation of the scan. (I'm going to find out if there are any less intrusive alternatives to prednisone).
And I imagine my body hurt from my mind’s wondering if I was going to be
signing up for more surgery and whichever therapies would be
recommended. It’s how it goes. I took the day that followed slow and easy. No work, just rest. Plus I visited a wonderful little aquarium store after my appointment and picked up three really great little
creatures called Kuhli Loaches to add to our little aquarium community
at home. It was quite an exhausting day and it was a good day.</div>
Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-13776473433982001512017-03-02T01:31:00.001-05:002017-03-02T21:52:22.534-05:00This Could Be the Last TimeShortly after my December appointment with my oncologist, I received a
call from Memorial Sloan Kettering to schedule the removal of the hepatic artery pump I've been carrying around for the last five years.
I thanked them for the call and said I hadn't made up my mind yet. I
kept having two thoughts. Logic kept telling me I should keep the pump
in for another five years 'just in case.' My heart kept saying 'it's
time to have it removed and move on' and I'd cringe as I imagined myself
going to the local oncologist every eight-weeks to have the pumped
refilled (for routine maintenance). This image is really what had me
realize it's time to have it removed.<br />
<br />
I'm incredibly fortunate,
perhaps just damn lucky that I'm not only alive but actually in
remission. And to return to the oncologist every eight-weeks for an
indefinite future of pump maintenance would keep my mind in a constant
cancer mindset. It's really not a logical explanation for why I'm doing
it but it is the truth. I mean, my oncologist did recommend it which
obviously is very encouraging, but there's also a part of me that wants
very much to return to the world that so many of you live in - a world
that doesn't include regular caner-prevention maintenance. A world where
I no longer get pats on the back and words of affirmation for still
being cancer-free and alive. I actually can't really remember what it's
even like but it sounds a little more peaceful - a little more free than
how I feel right now. And if my doctor didn't think it was a good idea,
she wouldn't recommend it. It was just up to me to take the leap.<br />
<br />
Now
I can't leave out that my son, who is now ten years old, began to cry
when I initially told him my doc recommended I have the pump removed.
His first response was, "But what if you get cancer again?" I gave him a
hug then he sat on my lap and we talked for a bit about why Dr. Kemeny
recommended I have it removed, that there are downsides to keeping it in
place (infection, blood vessels growing around the pump, which may have
already started, to name a few). He began to understand and the next
day I checked in with him and he thought it was a good idea to have it
removed. I honestly wouldn't have scheduled the procedure without his
understanding. I needed to know that it made sense to him. Not that long
long ago he said, "Papa, it's a miracle that you're still alive." He
understands the magnitude of a cancer diagnosis. I needed us both to be
on the same page.<br />
<br />
So a few weeks ago I met with Mike
Di'Angelica, the surgeon who resected my liver and installed the pump
back in 2011. We discussed the ins and outs of the procedure and when I
brought up the fact that the pump can't be reinstalled once it's
removed, he told me that in my specific case it's pretty likely he could
install a second one if he had to. THAT stopped me in my tracks. After
all that thought and reflection, all the preparation it took to get me
here, I find out he can install another one if he had to?? He said I was
a special case for him because all he had to do was cut off part of my
liver and - boom - all done. Most of his patients got to him because
they've been told they have inoperable tumors and he has to determine
what can be removed and what can't. So, yeah, heaven forbid I have a
recurrence in my liver, he can probably install another pump. To tell
you the truth, it felt great to learn about this <i>after</i> I decided to go ahead with it because I went into it fully decided with no attachments and no 'what ifs.'<br />
<br />
It's
an out-patient procedure so I need a driver at the end of the day so I
invited my friend Sparx to join me and he agreed to. Sparx accompanied
me to NY back in 2011 when I went in for the liver surgery and pump
installation. I thought it would be nice to have him complete the
victory lap with me.<br />
<br />
It's funny. This afternoon, I
almost couldn't work. All at once the emotion hit me and all I wanted to
do was be outside on this beautiful day. I was thinking about the fact
that it's been ten years since it all started. Ten. Years. I had so much
emotion moving through me and I really needed to work, so I did what
felt right. I closed off my part of the shop, put <i>Back in Black </i>in
the CD player, and cranked it. There's something about that album for
my generation. It goes right to core. Then I went for a walk while I ate
my lunch. What a beautiful day it was. <br />
<br />
So this
Friday could be the last time I have a surgical procedure for this
ordeal that began a decade ago almost to the day. It was March of 2007
that I was diagnosed for the first time. And this <i>could</i> be it.<i> </i>All day I've had a Rolling Stones tune in my head<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Well this could be the last time</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>This could be the last time</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Maybe the last time</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I don't know</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The
only exception is that I was mostly hearing that Grateful Dead sing it
today. This really could be the last time. That would be something.</div>
Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-8055764431743436972016-12-14T21:57:00.003-05:002016-12-15T23:52:03.682-05:00FINALLY IN REMISSIONAfter nine and a half years I am finally FINALLY IN REMISSION [fill in the blank with your favorite celebratory profanity. Yes Mom that includes you as well, if you like because this is a big deal. Plus I won't tell anybody]. Right up until I heard the news, I didn't know how I'd feel. It wasn't until I told my mom that I was clear how I would respond. I'm overjoyed and starting to sink into relief, wondering what life without all these appointments will be like.<br />
<br />
I'm on the bus right now headed back to Ithaca as I type this. I opened Spotify to put on some tunes while I found my way through how I would express the thoughts I have going on in my head and I couldn't think of what I wanted to listen to. I really wanted to listen to <i>something</i> but nothing came to mind. Like nothing. It was really weird. I just stared at the screen and then I thought of Men at Work <i>Business As Usual </i>and thought "What?! This is what I want to celebrate remission with?!?" So I thought about that.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I was eleven years old when <i>Business as Usual </i>was released. I played that cassette in my Walkman until it was too warped to tolerate, while I delivered my morning papers.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I only like dreaming all the day long</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Where no one is screaming </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Be good be good </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Be good be good be good </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Be good be good be good</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Be good Johnny</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
What kind neighbors I had. I took forever to get my papers delivered. Pulling around a two wheel basket loaded with papers because I took on a second paper route, making patterns in the snow with the wheels by turning the cart around in different directions, almost never meeting the required 6:15 AM deadline. What I am talking about "almost." More like never. Hahahaha! Perhaps the album speaks to me because back around that time I still had a little innocence remaining, before a rather abrupt crash course into the realities of the world. For me the early 80's were a time when I still believed anything was possible. It was incredible. And every once in a while, the music of the 80's will bring me back there.<br />
<br />
So yeah, after nine and a half years (nine years and nine months actually) I am in remission. Dr. Kemeny immediately said I can have my, <a href="http://bertscholl.blogspot.com/2012/05/change-in-perspective.html" target="_blank">Hepatic Artery Pump aka the Kemeny Pump</a> removed. When the pump is removed, it can never be installed again, so there's a risk. I asked what the odds of recurrence are and she said something along the lines of very, very low. Highly unlikely. And she immediately followed it with a story about a patient of hers who had a recurrence in his liver five years after his pumped was removed. She laughed as she told me because it was so absurd that it even happened. I essentialy have as much chance of a a cancer diagnosis as you do. And Americans have a one in four chance of being diagnosed with cancer. What's different for me is that if I have the pump removed and then I have a recurrence and it's in my liver, I won't have the option of the Kemeny Pump, the most direct way to attack liver tumors.<br />
<br />
Before I met with her, I was talking to guy who went a year without recurrence and now he's back for treatment for a few inoperable tumors. Talking to him was easy because he's clear that any time he has now, one year or twenty years, it's all bonus. Because it is. I suppose any time on earth for anyone is bonus time, but you just tend to be aware of it more frequently when you've been faced with the high probability of death. What wasn't easy a little later in the day was sitting just feet away from a few folks sitting together trying not to cry, barely able to take their eyes off the floor, let alone look at each other. You can always tell when a family is at Memorial Sloan Kettering for the first time. Most of us looked like that. Awestruck, heart-broken and terrified. When I made eye contact with two of the three who were even willing to look up from the floor, they quickly looked away. I made myself available to talk with them because I wanted them to know the suffering can go away or be greatly reduced but it was clear they just didn't have it in them. I get it. It's really hard for most folks to talk with people when they're anxoiusly awaiting the doctor's prognosis. God bless em.<br />
<br />
So, for a few years now I've been chewing on whether our not to remove the pump once I'm in remission. Naturally I want this thing out of my body. And my highest priority is the two kids in my life I want to be around for and I don't like the idea of reducing those odds. I could also wrap myself in bubble wrap every time I go outside or simply never leave the house. I told her I'd think about it, but at the moment my loudest thought is to remove it and move on. To walk away from the pump maintenance that's required of me every eight weeks. It's a lot to think about and I'm in no rush. I've just been told it's highly likely that I <i>won't</i> be dying of cancer anytime soon.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-66799792140976302692016-01-17T21:30:00.003-05:002016-01-18T08:03:37.731-05:00The News I've Been Anicipating<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYu299qtXrI2aUgkOsEf-8PZIdt3o2W6iFg2U_11_Uz_OHgTAQKGDjiTtafIxtEys6T_j3CmzgwnDsP0TTp3wS9wkV-XoXhMDuitsInp7JTyS7VVKSyEGMzd097_pgKs62SOid0H5fEQ/s1600/Light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel-stckxchng.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYu299qtXrI2aUgkOsEf-8PZIdt3o2W6iFg2U_11_Uz_OHgTAQKGDjiTtafIxtEys6T_j3CmzgwnDsP0TTp3wS9wkV-XoXhMDuitsInp7JTyS7VVKSyEGMzd097_pgKs62SOid0H5fEQ/s320/Light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel-stckxchng.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
On Wednesday I received the good news I have been anticipating since
September. The indeterminable spots the radiologist claimed to have seen
on my CT scan on one of my lungs in September were nowhere to be found
this time round. So I have put aside any concerns about a recurrence in
my lungs [huge sigh of relief] and can say I am officially four years
cancer-free. In addition, Dr. Kemeny said I am done with quarterly scans
and said she would see me again in six months. I told her I was so
happy I could hug her. She looked at her staff and said, "He said he
could hug us," then as she walked past me smiling, she rubbed the top of
my forearm with her fingers. When it comes to Dr. Kemeny, that was a
hug.<br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, only five minutes after hearing the good news, my mind
started in, wondering what possible risks there are in waiting six
months until my next scan. A few minutes later I was laughing at myself.
As soon as I get news about the clear scan and the need for fewer scans
each year, my mind starts right in at the first opportunity to knock me
down. The mind is unbelievable. Or perhaps a better word: predictable.<br />
<br />
I'm thrilled right now. In nine months, if I am still cancer-free, I
will have reached the five year mark and be considered in remission. My
<a href="http://bertscholl.blogspot.com/2012/02/psyched-for-chemo.html" target="_blank">hepatic pump</a> and port can then be removed, although
since the hepatic pump can never be reinstalled again, part of me isn't
in a hurry to get rid of it. It's an odd catch 22. And I'm not going to
give it a lot of thought for now. Right now I'm feeling incredibly
grateful to not have a recurrence in my lungs not to mention anywhere
else in my body. Wednesday was a good day.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-75882137696875975732015-10-02T19:32:00.001-04:002015-10-02T19:32:17.029-04:00Return to StillnessI feel peaceful again. I don't feel anxious or scared about the possibility of recurrence as I did on <a href="http://bertscholl.blogspot.com/2015/09/not-bad-news-little-less-than-good-news.html" target="_blank">September 23rd</a>.<br />
<br />
Just days prior to my meeting with Dr. Kemeny, I had finished a silent retreat with Zen Buddhist teacher Adyashanti. And fortunately it was not completely silent and I was able to have a short conversation with him about my fears of recurrence or more specifically, my fears of a recurrence of the combined debilitating circumstances I found myself struggling through from 2010-2012. In essence what I came away from the conversation with was an awareness of what's available out of "letting the feelings in." And how not letting them in, is in fact to resist them. And so it was two days following my conversation with the doctor that I remembered to let the feelings in. Initially I found myself repeatedly letting them in. Over and over, each time my mind recreated the fear. Yet by the end of the day I felt peaceful. Wednesday evening, worrying about money the fear returned, though not nearly as powerfully as it had upon hearing Dr. Kemeny's concerns about my scan. And eventually the fear dissipated.<br />
<br />
Right now I'm clear I have nothing to fear because there is no sign of cancer in my body. And should another wave of fear roll in, I know what to do with it. It really is all self-generated. I find that quite comforting.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-87058785711197934172015-09-23T23:43:00.002-04:002016-05-24T21:58:48.960-04:00Not bad news. A little less than good news.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8vfxCWDQ3zPBCqBnbMlEIC5JWiTc0pOJVWpdK6bciazWgBIhyphenhyphenezBfQmPDYMrs7Qq4f27umAFGi-jF312zoNs98NbAilca6J8OkOMJ9Mv-FyzMNehMbGy4U84ETJyHazU4WxV8uUbDlU/s1600/Sunset-Splash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8vfxCWDQ3zPBCqBnbMlEIC5JWiTc0pOJVWpdK6bciazWgBIhyphenhyphenezBfQmPDYMrs7Qq4f27umAFGi-jF312zoNs98NbAilca6J8OkOMJ9Mv-FyzMNehMbGy4U84ETJyHazU4WxV8uUbDlU/s320/Sunset-Splash.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Today was another oncology appointment - a routine four-month scan and
blood work. Dr. Kemeny came into the exam room and said, "Everything is
fine." I responded by reminding her that come October 28th, I will be
four years cancer-free. She said, "After four years we only do scans
every six months. However..." and she began flipping through the
radiologists CT report... "they're reporting a small indeterminable
nodule on one of the lobes of one of your lungs, which I couldn't see
when I looked at the scan. And I've been looking for it. So I don't want
to go to six-month scans with you yet. I want to see you in four months
and be sure this is nothing, ok?" I said ok and we said we'd see one
another in four months. I walked out to the waiting room with that far too familiar feeling of floating out of the oncologists office that shows up whenever the doc gives me reason to wonder if I'm going to be okay, and I found
myself in the waiting room walking aimlessly. I suddenly had the
thought, "The road goes on forever and the party never ends." It's odd
what pops into the mind randomly when contemplating the possibility of fighting for ones life again. I also noticed at the same time, my mind trying to think of ways to not spend the next four months
anxiously waiting for my next scan. We all know where trying to not think of an elephant will get you. So at the moment, what's so, is that my scan was
clear of any signs of cancer. And I'll deal with the wondering as it
comes. And it usually comes in waves.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Early on after my first
diagnosis was treated and no longer detectable, I asked my doc why they
generally stop the CT scans after five years; why they don't keep
scanning and looking for disease just in case. He said at that point, it can turn into a witch hunt. And if you scan anybody's body enough times,
you're eventually going to find something that appears odd. So
perhaps something just appeared odd. The cancer markers in my body are
currently very low, below normal in fact. However, I had low cancer markers the first time I was
diagnosed. But the second time, the count was
above normal. So who knows. Right now I'm cancer-free. I'm not going to
get hung up in the world of what if. And as I said, I'll deal with the waves as they come.</span>Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-338042560284420012014-10-16T14:53:00.000-04:002016-12-15T13:28:52.551-05:00Routine CT Scan & Unexpected MRI Brain Scan Negative - ALL CLEAR <div class="" id=":ok" style="overflow: hidden;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKK72j3e3BJyW6GTZHHwswvnbzWTR7ZqCFTCodT-8ore_gpIoQ-okayawg3gqgCipfutCBdScbA1RUAsY0heaqTQZSmLyGWyn7Orag9VaYBCUxqSaVnFcAh8N-Uz20Yqal3datE-D_Rk/s1600/photo-18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuKK72j3e3BJyW6GTZHHwswvnbzWTR7ZqCFTCodT-8ore_gpIoQ-okayawg3gqgCipfutCBdScbA1RUAsY0heaqTQZSmLyGWyn7Orag9VaYBCUxqSaVnFcAh8N-Uz20Yqal3datE-D_Rk/s1600/photo-18.jpg" width="239" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">View from dressing room of the CT dept</span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><span class="">I
was literally just about to click PUBLISH when I got a call from Dr
Kemeny's office that the MRI brain scan came back negative. That plus my
CT scan coming back negative, come October 28th, I will be three years
cancer-free. Sweet.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><span class="">°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°° </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"><span class="">What I was about to post... [huge sigh of relief]</span></span></span></span></div>
<div dir="auto">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">Yesterday was my routine CT Scan. It came back negative as did my blood work. </span></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">All clear, now I'm just waiting for my MRI brain scan results.
Yeah... Reports of consistent headaches generally result in brain scans for
recent former cancer patients.</span></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">My
doc told me the CT Scan and blood work were negative which would have
normally put a smile on my face. Coming up on three years cancer-free,
which I wasn't able to do the last time, is usually looked at as progress. But the
headaches. She asked me about them. A few times a week I feel
pressure on the left side of my skull. Same place same feeling. I feel
it right now actually. It's the same place where I feel the start of the
migraines I occasionally get. I figured the feeling was just that. Well
my doc views those
things a little differently. She looked at me and said, "Maybe we should
do a MRI of the brain because sometimes there's..." Her pause was heavy
as her eyes locked in on mine. She didn't want to say the words. I immediately felt the need to relieve
her of the silence. Relieve us both. A statement like that is a heavy
one. Her pause was painful,
knowing she didn't want to utter the words. And I didn't want to hear
them. So I finished her sentence
with "Yeah. Sometimes there's..." I squinched the left side of my
face with a little tilt to the head. No need to finish that sentence. Dr. Kemeny's not one to
express a great deal of emotion. She's a machine and incredibly
dedicated to her patients and to her work. One patient to the next. She does one thing: she
leads the battle against cancer with her patients. She doesn't stop to
express much emotion. I don't fault her for that. It works for me.
But
the silence of her unfinished sentence with her eyes locking in on mine.
There's emotion in that. Behind her pause there is a
deep well of emotion. </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">And discomfort with it at as well. She preferred to not have to speak the
words.
I was in agreement. Let's not open the flood gates if we don't need to.
She asked if I'd be willing to stay in town for a few more hours, if she
was able to
schedule an MRI for me. I told her "Of course."</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I kind of thought this might happen. Waiting in the exam room, I didn't sit and scroll through facebook
like I normally do while I wait to hear my
scan results. I knew any metastasis to the brain wouldn't show up on a CT Scan for the chest,
abdomen & pelvis. But I knew my blood work
<i>could</i> reveal something, but it didn't. So no, I did
not
peruse facebook on my phone. I paced the waiting room. But the room is
small so I could only take a few steps then turn around and do it again,
which was making me
dizzy. So I walked in a circle around the exam table. I had to move the
flimsy little metal tray on wheels and put a rolling desk chair back in
its place. Oh,
and move the sharps container out of the way as well. I needed to walk.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">So while Dr. Kemeny's staff looked for an office where I could get a last
minute MRI somewhere in the Manhattan, I walked down the hall to the lab to have my
port flushed and my Hepatic Artery Pump filled with another 8-weeks
worth of glycerol. This is routine for me - every eight weeks - same
thing until the device is removed. And that's not recommended until I'm five
years cancer-free. Remission.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Once my
port and pump were taken care of, one of Dr. Kemeny's staff gave me a
print out with a time and a place for my MRI brain scan: 77th St.
Twenty-four blocks north. Every four months at Sloan-Kettering, I have a
CT Scan and then two to three hours later I get the results. But with
this MRI brain scan, I have to wait a day or two to hear from my doc.
They expect to have an answer for me today or tomorrow - Thursday or Friday. We call the
thoughts we deal with while we wait "scanxiety." When it grabs a hold of
you, it's the worst.<br /><br />Once on the street, I hopped onto the
hospital shuttle that would get me up to 66th between 1st & 2nd
Avenues, at which point I could just hoof it the last 11 blocks. It was
only 4 o'clock and my appointment wasn't until 6. But once I got on the
shuttle, the last seats available in the back, I looked at my fellow patients and - BAM! - flooded with
thoughts, "Oh no. I might be one of you again. Oh <i>hell</i> no. I'm
one of the cancer-free guys. I just get the routine check ups. I don't
want to be on the other side again." I just kept looking at the backs of
their heads from the back of the bus. I don't want to go back.<br /><br />The
shuttle dropped me off and I headed up 2nd Avenue. I barely got past
67th Street and the anxiety was filling me up like a fountain drink
churning bubbles & ice as it fills up the cup, foaming,
getting closer and closer to the top. Is it gonna overflow? I saw this
guy glance at me and realized he was noticing my face. I must have
looked like hell, like I was dealing with something heavy. I wasn't sure
if my face was going to do one of those super short bursts of emotion, a
micro-second explosion of spit and tears or if I was just gonna start
puking in the nearest corner. My stomach was a mess and the emotion was
creeping up my body and towards my head. Then I thought, "Uh-uh." I
started breathing
again. "I'm not gonna lose my *hit." At least not right here in the
middle of the street. My friends Carol & Kristy
were talking to me the night before about Echart Tolle's <i>The Power of Now</i>.
I never read that one. But I think I get the premise. Be Here Now. I
was fearing a possible future based on my experience from the past. I
took some more deep breaths. I thought about calling one of my
friends/coaches, Kathy or Margot. One of them would quickly represence
me to what's actually <b>so</b>, as opposed to getting lost in the fear
and anxiety of the worst case scenario. I took some deeper breaths and
reminded myself there's nothing to be upset about. MRI scans are not
upsetting. They're loud and they're boring. Not much to get upset about there.
So I got my head together and I arrived at the office on</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> 77th Street. I
checked-in, then went and got some comfort food. Pizza and a Pepsi. A
fountain drink. Haha! And I watched the people. I love watching people,
especially in NY.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">When
I first arrived in the morning, I dropped off my car on 56th Street at
the
Bristol Parking Garage and started walking to the clinic, which is about
five blocks southwest on 53rd. Not even a block into the walk, I came up
upon three guys who had just unloaded a</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> large crate, stretch wrapped in white plastic wrap, off of a truck.</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">
Two of the guys were getting ready to arm wrestle on the crate of
whatever it was they were moving:
one Asian guy with some serious guns and smaller black dude with
dreadlocks who seemed to be pretty sure of himself. I stopped and
watched which added to their excitement. There was a third guy,
clearly their co-worker. He was a heavy set white dude pretty amped up
about the whole thing. He said go and
their arms were locked for just a moment but then it was over. The Asian
dude pinned him. The first round went way too fast. But the dreadlock
dude wanted to go again. Again the white dude said go and t</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">heir
arms were locked in place, almost no movement, their
faces looking like they were gonna kill somebody. So the third dude and I
stood and watched, grins on our faces. I love it. And he was antsy as
hell. Unable
to stand still while he watched these guys go at it. The muscles and
veins on this little
dreadlock dude were popping out of his skin. You could see his whole
body was in it. The Asian dude was just a
rock. This went on for probably far less time than it seemed. Their
arms barely moving. Teeth gritting. Everything. But then it ended. It
was a draw. They were working. We all burst out laughing. I gave em all a
nod and walked
away. I do love this city even if I could never live here.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 24px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">So
I finished my pizza as it began to rain, and I walked back to the
office to get my %*#$&^* brain scan. Scared? No. Pissed
off is more like it. At this point, my body can be cut up, radiated, chemoed all the
hell out. Whatever. I can take it. But my kids, they need me. Them I'm attached to.
Another deep breath. I shook it off. All I've got now is my scan. I was back a little
early, so I walked to the cul de sac and stood over the FDR Highway,
watched the cars go by and looked over the river as it slowly churned downstream. Of course with David Byrne singing in
my head</span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I don't know why I love her like I do<br />
All the changes you put me through<br />
Take my money, my cigarettes<br />
I haven't seen the worst of it yet<br />
I wanna know that you'll tell me<br />
I love to stay<br />
Take me to the river, drop me in the water<br />
Take me to the river, dip me in the water<br />
Washing me down, washing me down</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">It
started raining harder so I went in and waited. There was some concern
by the techs about whether the hoops in my ears might block part of the image or
worse, heat up during the MRI. I started laughing and
asked the tech as we walked to the changing room, if it was pretty
common for peoples ear to burst into flames during MRI scans. He laughed
and assured me that would not be the case, and in a worse case scenario,
my hoops would just get really hot. Lovely. And as they were laying me
on the table and placing my head in a contraption used to minimize
movement, a different tech placed a rubber squeeze ball hooked to a line
into my hand and said, "If your ears get hot just squeeze this and
we'll stop the machine</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">." I
calmly said, "Okay," all the while thinking, there's something about a
limp little squeeze ball that just can't convey the message, "Ahhhh! Get
me the **** outa this thing!!!" while my ears are cooking like bacon.
But what are you gonna do. Just trust them. And everything went just fine. I
thanked them and said goodnight.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I
hopped in a cab and got myself back down to the Bristol Parking Garage, picked
up my car and headed home. The ballgame was starting. It was a good
distraction...not really. But anyway, I was on my way home. I drove through the
occasional torrential downpour, and in just over four hours, I was in
Ithaca. I pulled up to the Dock. It was Reggae Night and my friends were
waiting on me. </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I needed some connection. Plus,
I had received a text while still in the city: the band rehearsed "Do
Right" and we were going to sing it. I don't think I had been at the Dock for 15 minutes
and we were on stage singing. It was perfect. The Dock was full of
people. Full of love. Saw some beautiful smiling faces in the crowd. All of us digging this great music. Great scene.
Dancing. Smiling. People coming together to be filled with joy for a
little while. I needed it. We all need it.</span></span></div>
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Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-9388608782118742232014-07-27T16:13:00.001-04:002014-07-27T16:13:43.603-04:00Following Your GutA few days ago, I received <span style="font-size: small;">the </span>comment below on my January 27, 2008 blog post entitled, <a href="http://bertscholl.blogspot.com/2008/01/had-i-followed-my-gutcontd.html" target="_blank">Had I Followed My Gut...(cont'd)</a><br />
<br />
Her name is Kelly. I asked her for permission to share her comment as an actual post on this blog and she agreed. It's so very important to be our own advocates, with no rest. When listening to our doctors, Kelly & I both went against our better judgment. And we both paid for it. Our hope is that others will learn from our mistakes, instead of repeating their version of our mistake.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<u><strike>.........................................</strike></u></div>
<br />
I ran into your site from my stats page. What you have written, mirrors
so much of how I felt. I was so angry. I had been vaginally bleeding
for months and was seeing my gynecologist for months. I had a bump that
she removed that came back showing I had HPV (Sept 2009). From various
other ailments, I am immunosuppressed so like most of the population
that "grow out of HPV" in a few years, my body couldn't. She did a
procedure that removed the lining of my uterus which should have stopped
the bleeding. It didn't. I am immunosuppressed due to Rheumatoid
Arthritis.<br />
<br />
Around that time, at 41, I was faced with a choice of a
total left knee replacement or a hysterectomy. I talked to my gyno and
asked if it was ok to put off the hysterectomy so I could do the knee
replacement. She said it would be no problem and the hysterectomy could
wait. So, in Feb. 2010, I chose to do the knee replacement first even
though I was sick of bleeding, I was more sick of walking in constant
pain. In May 2010, I had a hysterectomy. She wanted me to stay in the
hospital for two nights and I begged for just one night. She relented.
She called me the next evening around 5, she was in tears and told me I
had cervical cancer. I was dumfounded and mad at her and myself. I
knew better - I had been fighting arthritis for 15 years and knew you
have to be your own advocate when to comes to health issues. I have
never seen or spoken to her since - I have accepted the cancer after
many sleepless nights.<br />
<br />
Between the doctor not pushing me to do to the
hysterectomy first, I wasted 9 months of being treated for cancer. I am
a single parent of now 12 year old triplets and I have to live for
them. I was furious - I had to let go of the anger. I was lucky that
it was Stage 2 B and had not spread to my lymph nodes. I am in
remission now. But I have had to have numerous procedures to laser away
precancerous cells. Keep up your fight and may you stay in remission.
You will be in my prayer.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://mycervicalcancerjourney.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">LINK TO KELLY'S BLOG</span></a> Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-22568734429575392032014-06-25T16:57:00.001-04:002014-06-26T23:09:33.274-04:00Keep 'em CominToday's scan came back negative. It's now been 32-months all clear. My recurrence happened in 2011, three years after my first diagnosis. Getting to that point again will be comforting. Perhaps it will be less worrisome. Although, I've never gotten that far, so I don't know. I don't know if the underlying thoughts of worry that hum in the back of my mind will completely go away. Or get quieter. Perhaps they will. Perhaps they won't. But as of today...I'm cancer-free.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-58328354662561619752014-03-10T17:48:00.000-04:002014-03-10T17:48:01.484-04:00All ClearMy recent colonoscopy in January as well as my CT scan & bloodwork earlier this week both came back negative. Now CT scans will be every four months instead of every three. It's been almost 2 1/2 years since the lest time there was any detection of cancer in my body. So, I am almost halfway to the five year milestone. Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-82699657846609319062013-12-18T20:16:00.001-05:002013-12-18T20:16:55.567-05:00Ninth Quarter - All Clear<div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuOUw_c3pqpama9THoqSvlSRsptoiXd4pnB4mqE2M6vgJs40eVl1swxE7HDTah1rcEyjl8PYpiKiSF_99xzLiAI7JPEn3aF9wKiMj2gVMGjZIV3AfVEx6E5tm-YNtqk4WwKu7IUJk33Gk/s640/blogger-image--753241392.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuOUw_c3pqpama9THoqSvlSRsptoiXd4pnB4mqE2M6vgJs40eVl1swxE7HDTah1rcEyjl8PYpiKiSF_99xzLiAI7JPEn3aF9wKiMj2gVMGjZIV3AfVEx6E5tm-YNtqk4WwKu7IUJk33Gk/s640/blogger-image--753241392.jpg"></a></div><br></div><br></span></div><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Today's quarterly scan came back negative. It feels a bit uneventful to post the same thing I've been posting lately. And then I think about what I just wrote and start laughing. Uneventful is exactly what I hope for. No news. And it's been almost 26 months (nine quarterly scans) with no detectible sign.</span><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; "><br></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">Twenty-six months isn't really all that long, (although it's a third of my younger boys life). It seems like just the beginning, should I be so lucky. But then I think about the old timer who was standing behind me in one of the many lobbies at Sloan Kettering. I overheard him commenting to the fella who accompanied him about the three months his doctor gave him to live. A few minutes later, the three of us were on a packed elevator. As the elevator opened its doors on a different floor, the people waiting saw the few remaining spots and didn't enter. They just stood there. I looked back from the front of the elevator at the folks behind me and said, "We must be intimidating. They won't get on." And it was the old timer who was the first one to start laughing and cracking jokes with me, telling me I was the reason! He may have only three months to live, but that's just it. He's living. He probably has no idea how much he inspired me today. I'd love to sit back with him and hear some of his stories. He seems like the kind of fella who would have a few to tell. That's a hell of a place, Sloan Kettering. Shed em i ya got em. And keep living.</div>Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-89061793528679951392013-09-25T20:24:00.001-04:002013-09-25T21:11:40.195-04:00Again, No Detectable Sign<div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">My scan and blood work came back negative today. As of October 28th, I will be two years with no detectable sign of cancer. It was wonderful to hear especially since I had it in my mind that it had only been one year. I don't know what I was thinking, but Dr Kemeny and I were both grinning when she looked at her notes and saw it had in fact been two years. My first thought was, "Perhaps I will be able to see my little boy grow up to be a man after all." That's what matters for those of us with kids. Not like other parents don't share such concerns. I just just have reason to remember it far more f</span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">requently.</span></div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);">In fact, it has taken a lot to stay hopeful these last couple of years. </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Yet on the way to NY today, I noticed I feel much less fear about another recurrence and I'm indeed grateful for that. </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">Getting further and further along with no detectable sign of cancer feels more and more like the end of a chapter, like I posted the last time I left New York following my quarterly scan. There was certainly more circumstances than just cancer that effected my outlook on life, but having the cancer diagnosis and treatments further and further behind me has made </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">a significant difference in how I take on what lies ahead.</span></div><div><div><br></div><div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">I'm still recovering as far as physical health goes. I still suffer if I get less than sufficient sleep more than one night in a row. A few days of that and my immune system starts to tank. Supposedly by next summer my immune system will be fully recharged. Seven-months of high dose chemo "because you're such a healthy young man" really beat the living hell out of my </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">immune system. My</span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "> docs said it would take my immune system 12-24 months to be 100% again. It feels like for me it may be on the closer side of 24 months. And if that's part of the cost to stay alive, I'll</span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "> take it. Today I'm deeply grateful to be alive and able to face whatever struggles lie ahead, with my little guy by my side.</span></div></div></div>Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-22978570208889694952013-06-12T19:08:00.001-04:002013-06-12T22:31:42.081-04:00Nineteen Months: No Detectable Sign of CancerToday's quarterly scan was negative. I have now been clear of any detectable sign of cancer for 19 months. I'm in a bus in New Jersey coming out of the tunnel, looking at the Manhattan skyline, headed back home. Another chapter compete. I feel grateful right now. And I find I no longer recognize much of this life anymore. Many of the same people and places but so much of my life has changed so drastically in so many ways. I feel much more an observer in many aspects. In other ways, such as when ego has the reins, I forget to observe and then life becomes familiar again. And all of that is in the background of a "good bill of health" for myself and my family. Amen.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-3432337418428828592013-06-03T21:41:00.003-04:002013-06-03T21:41:52.625-04:00Next Quarterly Scan June 12thWednesday June 12th is my next quarterly scan. Wow that was fast! I feel like the last time I went wasn't really all that long ago. Perhaps that's a good thing. Nothing to do in the way of preparation except not give it much thought and rock this one out just like the last one. No detectable signs since October 29, 2011.<br />
<br />
[clicking the "Like" button]Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-38224250190387725042013-03-28T00:39:00.001-04:002013-03-28T00:39:26.584-04:00Good Report From the DocDamn good meeting with Dr. Cagir, my colo-rectal surgeon on Monday March 25th. He said the inflammation observed by my oncologist on my most recent CT scan is caused by the skin currently growing around the cadaver tissue he stitched into my abdomen to correct the hernia that was present next to my stoma. As far as the bleeding goes, he believes I may need more time to heal and suggested I stop <a href="http://bertscholl.blogspot.com/2008/11/what-ostomy-is-like-for-me-lately.html" target="_blank">irrigating</a> for a month. Not my preferred way of doing things, but certainly in my best interest, so it's a no-brainer. Doctor Cagir and I had some good laughs. We always do.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-9704955370640101792013-03-21T00:10:00.001-04:002013-03-24T23:02:21.053-04:00Clear Scan & BloodI went to Sloan Kettering today for a scan and blood work. All came back negative which was QUITE a relief. I've been passing some red blood and I was a bit concerned. Dr. Kemeny said there was inflammation visible on my CT scan. Now that recurrence is off the list, I've scheduled an appointment with Dr. Cagir to determine if it's a result of changes that resulted from my most recent surgery with him.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-7739397021272737472013-01-02T18:50:00.001-05:002013-01-02T18:50:28.660-05:00Surgical Procedure Simple & CompleteThis mornings procedure was relatively simple and successful. Dr. Cagir was able to make the repairs without having to open my abdominal cavity. The likelihood of having to do so was low, but it was a possibility. As I woke up, I placed my hands on my abdomen and joyfully smiled as I felt no new incision.<br />
<br />
In addition to correcting the stoma, Dr. Cagir also placed some cadaver tissue on the herniated area of my abdomen. I have DEAD PEOPLE inside me. AAAAAHHHHHHHHH! I know I'll be waking up to thoughts of this now and again.<br />
<br />
It's a relief to have my large intestine as well as the hernia corrected. It had gotten progressively worse over the years. I really look forward to a far more comfortable future.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-42895142463020962242013-01-01T21:30:00.001-05:002013-01-01T21:30:41.039-05:00Out-Patient Procedure TimeOn Wednesday January 2nd, I will have the stoma correction surgery I mentioned on <a href="http://bertscholl.blogspot.com/2012/11/freedom.html" target="_blank">November 24th</a>. If things go as planned, it will be an outpatient procedure and I'll be released by mid to late afternoon. And my doc did tell me it could possibly be one to two overnights in the hospital, but that's all to be determined.<br />
<br />
I feel more anxious than I normally do. I've had major surgery three times and enough minor procedures that I've lost track of how many I've had. In the past, the surgeries and procedures, were uncharted waters and since they were my chosen method of treatment, I embraced them and took them on with some curios excitement. Not like I liked it, or even wanted any thing to do with it, but I actually used to find myself a bit captivated by the experience. Kind of like watching a house fire. It's not something you want to have happen, but if it's happening in front of you, and you have no experience with such things, it can be a bit captivating.<br />
<br />
I believe that's how I've approached my surgeries and surgical procedures in the past. But I've been through it enough that I no longer care to discover the unknown aspects. There's no longer any excitement. I signed up for this procedure because it's a quality of life issue. I just been down this road enough times. So, I do look forward to my quality of life improving. And to being home again. There's a couple hugs I'm already looking forward to.<br />
<br />
<br />
Now I'm off to take my night-before-surgery-shower with the stinky pre-surgery anti-bacterial soap. Then back to the couch. I doubt I'll get much sleep.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-75116424647121447332012-12-23T23:23:00.001-05:002012-12-23T23:23:48.450-05:00Stay the CourseLast week I was in a state of fear about the possibility of an eventual recurrence. Yet the banner at the top of my blog says:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span></span><span>My commitment is to transform our current cultural
conversation</span><span> about cancer from one of fear and dread to one that
empowers </span><span>those of us who have cancer, as well as our friends & loved
ones.
</span><span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span>I had cancer. Cancer didn't have me.</span></blockquote>
Last week this was not the case. My cancer had me. My thinking had me. It was disempowering and thus it didn't serve me. As a Life Coach I support people navigating a cancer diagnosis so they stay empowered in the face of whatever circumstances they face. Ironically, I was not engaged in the work I do with others. Fortunately, due to the bold generosity of a friend's facebook message and one face-to-face conversation with a new acquaintance on the street, I realized I had stepped away from my commitment to living inside an empowering context regardless of circumstances.<br />
<br />
It happens now and again. Of course it does. I'm human. But what was different this time is that I didn't reach out to my support network. Instead I got "stuck in my head." Or to put it plain English, I got scared and didn't speak up with the people in my life who are committed to coach me to create an empowering context to live my life from.<br />
<br />
For over five years, I have dealt with painful and profoundly difficult circumstances, and for the most part, I have been able to be strong in the face of it because I consistently reach out for support/coaching when I feel confronted or scared or overwhelmed with my circumstances. As a result, I have remained grateful for my life and present to love for my life, regardless of my circumstances because the circumstances are not me, they are just circumstances. We all have them. But last week I was lost in my circumstances; lost in my fear and forgot there was a way out.<br />
<br />
<br />
What I'm clear about now is that I can be concerned about my quarterly scan results each time I have a scan, but being afraid of what the results <i>might</i> be, does not serve me. Like being chased by a bear. It makes sense to be scared. But if I'm in a forest where bears live, there's no reason to be scared if I am not aware of any bears. Now inside that of that analogy, I have been chased by bears before, but I am unwilling to walk through the forest scared for the rest of my life. It doesn't serve me. The fear did serve me initially. It got me to take quick action so I could stay alive, but after that, it doesn't provide anything. It just gets in the way.<br />
<br />
I am grateful for my life, my kids, my family, and so many people and things. There has been no sign of cancer in my body for over a year. Being declared cancer-free after receiving a Stage IV cancer diagnosis...that's pretty damn fantastic! I still feel like a stranger in my new life, but I'm okay with that because so much of my life is new and uncharted. Christmas begins in two days and will take us into the New Year. I love this time of year. But I won't create a resolution for the coming year. I will stay the course and be clear that I am healthy.<br />
<br />
And whether you celebrate Christmas or not, I wish you a Merry Christmas and the strength to face powerfully, whatever circumstances come your way, for the coming year and for many, many more to come.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-25669902471492431642012-12-17T15:04:00.001-05:002012-12-17T22:12:59.251-05:00All ClearThe CT scan came back NEGATIVE. Doctor Kemeny reminded me it has been over a year now that I have been cancer-free. She said once I reach the two year mark, that will be an even greater milestone. Next scan in three months.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8146185555985083132.post-61329991487621092722012-12-16T21:24:00.002-05:002012-12-16T21:36:37.354-05:00Quarterly ScanMonday December 17th I head to NYC for my quarterly CT scan & blood work. I haven't been this anxious about a scan since my very first one five and a half years ago. Honestly it feels like the results will tell me one of two tings:<br />
<br />
A) You have had a recurrence<br />
<br />
OR<br />
<br />
B) You haven't had a recurrence yet.<br />
<br />
My once, nearly unshakable confidence has indeed been rattled. So much of what I thought was "my life" is no longer. A part of that has to do with the prognosis being "very likely only a matter of time before it's back." That on top of everything else has begun to weigh heavy on me.<br />
<br />
I believe an individual's intention makes a difference. I just no longer have unwavering intention about my future. If I at all felt like there was something holding me up other than me, I would feel a little more grounded. Yet from another perspective, my son & step-son give me reason to stand on my own. And so I do.<br />
<br />
And I can't help but notice a change in who I am right now. When I heard about the news in Connecticut on Friday, I shed a few tears for a total of five minutes. A year ago, I would have shed tears on and off for a few days. I feel maxed out, like there's not much to give right now. Like a dear in the headlights. I know I should react but I feel kinda frozen.<br />
<br />
Maybe after five and a half years of high stress, one things after another, there's going to be some impact. I'm exhausted. My emotions are by no means "off," but there appears to have been a shift and I feel wiped out. Every day.<br />
<br />
I believe this will change over time. We find our way back. Human beings are incredible. But I can't help but wonder if this is some kind of post-trauma emotional crash of some sort. For those who don't interact with me regularly, some perspective would help. Groceries are purchased, food is cooked, laundry is done, the house is clean. Play dates and birthday parties and great times with the grandparents are common in my little boy's life. I'm just tired right now. Physically and emotionally tired.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow I do a round trip to NYC. Hopefully driving home with good news.Robert Schollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01541463336085628162noreply@blogger.com7