Second Helpings.

Chef Dave Del Rio

 There is this local restaurant, "Eaton’s Beach Sandbar & Grille". It is located on the banks of Lake Weir. If you want the best pastrami, or the best shrimp and grits, or anything in between, this is the place to go. But you better call ahead, because there is a wait on the weekends. It really is that good. Great food, relaxing casual atmosphere, and you were always guaranteed a table visit by Dave - executive chef and owner. Eaton's Beach has won most of the local culinary awards for the past few years, often besting the finest of down town five star dining establishments. This year was no exception. Last month was "Taste of Ocala", a black tie fund raiser event where all the local top restaurants compete for awards. The monies go towards the college scholarship fund. The jazz band that I play in was hired to provide the night's entertainment. Once again, Chef Dave Del Rio took top honors. From the stage, I could see him - in his trademark hat, proudly walk up and accept his awards on behalf of his staff. Two weeks later, Chef Dave died at the age of 62 from a sudden heart attack. Just like that. One second he is at the top of his game. The next, gone.
 http://www.ocala.com/news/20170324/friends-staff-and-diners-remember-chef-dave-del-rio
No second chances. No do-overs. No extended play. No refills. His time on earth just abruptly ended.

So my last blog entry left off with me about to have my first post treatment PSA test. Well, that is over with, and the final results are in. But first a little side bar. Fun fact - I am deathly afraid of needles. To this point in my life, I barely have a 50% success rate at not passing out on a blood draw. Seriously. My biggest fear surrounding my prostate surgery was the I-V line. When I had to get two simultaneous hormone shots in the stomach, there was almost a complete throw down in the doctor's office. To this point, I have managed most of my PSA tests by closing my eyes, looking away, and gritting my teeth hard enough to make my ears ring, until the nurse physically takes my other hand and places it on the cotton ball - my signal that it is over. I am not exaggerating. It really is that bad. This time, about a week before my blood draw, I decided that I was going to watch the whole thing - come hell or high water, I was going to do this. I decided that I would prepare for this feat by watching you-tubes of blood draws and phlebotomist training videos. That actually worked. I was able to watch the whole thing, and stand up and walk out. I don't know why that became so important to me, but it did. And I am oddly but shamelessly proud of myself for that little personal success.

Yea, I know I have tattoos. but that is different. Much different. To me, anyway.

So, on to my results. After an excruciatingly long week of waiting, my PSA came back as undetectable (<0.02). Finally. I can exhale a little. I met with my doc, and after acknowledging the good news, we discussed a game plan and options going forward, should my cancer resurface. He is going to send tissue samples saved from my surgery for a new test called a decipher test - that uses genome sequencing to determine types and probabilities of recurrence. He also mentioned the possibility of clinical trials that are focused on my particular rare form of prostate cancer. All of this was a little bit of a buzz kill, but I also appreciate his proactive approach. Anyway, my next PSA is in September. Meanwhile, I get a reprieve. A chance to go back for second helpings, if you will.

There has been a lot of water under the bridge since I was initially diagnosed, and there are a lot of things that I still don't understand. A lot that doesn't make sense, and probably never will. I have no idea what caused the cancer to start with. Even within the community of men fighting this cancer, there seems to be so much unexplained randomness in how we each respond to the different modes of treatment. And how those treatments take a toll on us by way of side effects. The thought of chemotherapy petrifies me beyond words (see my above take on needles and I-Vs). Yet there are brothers in this fight that have weathered chemo only to have lupron knock them for a loop in much the same way it did me. That blows my mind. Some come through surgery without any loss of continence, yet for others, it is a battle of months or years. Radiation is a minimal issue for a lot of us, but for some, it causes major issues. There seems to be no rhyme or reason. Why some of us get to take a reprieve, and others do not. There are so many that I have met on this journey - brothers that I have fought along beside, and leaned on for untold emotional support. Some have already responded well and moved on. Others are fighting their asses off every day, hoping for their break, while congratulating me on mine. Yet there are some, as I write this, are in the final stages of their battle, having come to terms with the imminent conclusion of their decades long fight. I am indebted to them all for the life lessons that I have and continue to learn from them. Not to mention their unwavering friendship, support, and love.

Then there is Chef Dave Del Rio. He never had a chance. Not a single day to get things right. To say what he meant to say the day before. Neither did Gardner Spencer - my neighbor that got me back on the bike after my surgery, back in the beginning of this Journey. We went for a ride the day I found out that surgery did not work, and that I would need follow up salvage treatments. He was killed four days later when a truck veered into the bike lane and hit him. No previous diagnosis of any kind for either, yet their deaths seem to somehow bracket this phase of my journey. Both stark reminders that a cancer diagnosis is just that. A diagnosis, and not necessarily death sentence. At least not at the onset. Someone on the online support group I follow said "Cancer is not a death sentence, it is a life sentence". I like that. I guess that it is up to us how we choose to live out that sentence. Many people never get that option.

There is a lot that I can not begin to understand, but one thing I do know is that this opportunity I now have - whether it lasts 5 months or 5 years - is a genuine gift and blessing. It marks the beginning of a different phase of my journey. Instead of actively treating cancer, I get the opportunity to regain my strength, and once again try and experience life without directly looking through the "lens of cancer"(I believe Mark Bradford, one of my brothers in this journey, originally used that phrase to very aptly describe life with cancer). There is no doubt in my mind that I need to take utmost advantage of this gift.

    It is also, I think, an appropriate time to bring this particular blog to a close. Not because I think I am done with cancer (or writing, for that matter). I am many years away - if ever - from being able to consider that. I also know that despite my best attempts otherwise, the nagging thoughts of "when?" will never leave. I also know that I am forever changed and can not go back to before. Nor do I want to. But I do need to frame the next part of my journey in its own perspective, and not waste any of it worrying about all the possible "what if " scenarios. I can't do anything to change how long my cancer will or will not remain dormant, but I can make damn sure that my plate is clean when the time comes. No regrets. No should haves. No excuses.

   I would like to thank everyone for reading along. If you want, you can find the blog in it's entirety here: http://gettingtoquetico.blogspot.com/ Feel free to read and share as you see fit. I look forward to creating a follow up blog in the future. A blog about Living. Not about cancer.  In the mean time, I see that there is a big ole plate of life left in the kitchen, and it is still warm on the oven. I think I will go grab my self of a second helping or two. And maybe some mashed potatoes as well. I love me some mashed potatoes and gravy.

The End.