Attitude

But having a good attitude about cancer? It was a test. Who wanted to have that word thrown at them at 42? Let alone to tell their 12-year-old daughter what was going on.
 
A few days after my diagnosis, I knew it was time to tell Emma what was going on. I didn’t know how much she knew about cancer or if I should even use that word. I wanted to spin this in a positive way, and make sure that I had the right attitude about it, so I could keep her from being too scared. I kept reminding myself we really didn’t know what we were dealing with yet. Keep it vague and she’ll never know what deeply this scared the shit out of me.
 
Lissa and I discussed for hours how to best have this conversation. Should we be together, or should I do it on my own? Do we keep it from her? But I knew she could sense something was going on. I felt, in the end, that it would be better to explain to her as best we could, rather than have her feel left out and confused.
 
I couldn’t help but think back to when I’d told her about Lucy. As I’d guessed when she was a baby, Lucy passed away when Emma was 8. While it was definitely a conversation I didn’t look forward to, when I’d thought about it before, I hadn’t taken into account how devastated I would be. I was just thinking about Emma. But when Lucy died? Wow. I was a basket case.
 
Lucy was the first dog I ever had. I never grew up with animals, and so when Lissa broached the idea of adopting a dog, I was reluctant. I didn’t really know what this relationship would entail.
We visited several area pet rescues without any progress. I knew what I didn’t want in a dog, but I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted.  And then, one day, we arrived and I saw Lucy. I don’t know how to describe it except that I knew the moment I saw her that she was the dog for me. She was a German-Shepherd-Rottweiler mix. An enthusiastic puppy. Every time we took her to the vet, he would look at her paws and say, “Oh, she’s going to be a big dog, probably 40 pounds.” But each subsequent visit, he would add another 10 pounds. Lucy topped out at 100 lbs.
 
After mellowing out after her puppy years, Lucy was the perfect dog. She was well behaved and never even needed a leash when I walked her. If I stopped, if she was ahead of me, she’d turn around and come sit by my side. She hated strangers and had a vicious bark, but if you crossed the threshold of our house, she was your best friend.
 
She was my dog. She always wanted to be next to me. I didn’t realize how much a dog could give you. The amount of joy they express when you come in the door whether it’s been 5 minutes or 5 days.
 
And Lucy and Emma? They were truly sisters. Lucy was so patient with Emma as she grew up, got bigger, and wanted Lucy to be her playmate. There was one Christmas morning in particular that Emma received a toy hair styling kit for Christmas. I walked into the living room with a cup of coffee to see my massive, 100 lb. dog patiently getting her fur blow-dried and curled with the pretend tools.
 
When the summer of 2010 rolled around, and Lucy was 15, she started to slide downhill. Sleeping more, eating less, having accidents in the house. We knew the time was coming.
 
That August I attended a Star Wars convention with my 15-year-old nephew in Florida. We were gone 5 days and when I got home, Lissa approached me as I was unpacking my bags, still on a high from my experience. She sat down on the bed.
 
“I didn’t want to ruin your time but things aren’t going well with Lucy.”
 
I immediately stopped what I was doing and listened to Lissa talk about the vet visit and that Lucy was dealing with liver failure.
 
“What did he say?” I asked. “Is there anything we can do?”
 
Lissa shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “We could spend thousands of dollars on surgery but it would buy us a few months at most.”
 
I sat there, looking at my hands. I hated that it had come to this. But I knew, I just wanted to help Lucy. If she was so uncomfortable, we needed to do this now.
 
I went to the vet that afternoon and said goodbye to Lucy.
 
Emma was in school and while I knew that it would be hard to explain that Lucy was just gone, I didn’t want her to have to say goodbye. In so many ways, I thought that would make things even harder.
 
Then it was the moment I had been dreading for 8 years. I had to sit down with my daughter and explain that Lucy wasn’t here anymore. I had to break my daughter’s heart, when mine already felt shattered into a million pieces.
 
“It always seems impossible until it’s done.” – Nelson Mandela
 
Emma was now 12, truly growing into a young woman. She’d been exposed to the heartbreak of life more that I wanted.  Just a few months before my diagnosis, my dad had unexpectedly passed away. He’d gone in for a biopsy to make sure he didn’t have lung cancer, and a couple days later, his lung collapsed, he went into a coma and never woke up. Ironically, the biopsy came back clear. But it was too late. Pops was gone.
 
It hadn’t been easy sharing the news with Emma. But her grandfather was old. She’d had friends who didn’t have living grandparents and knew that it was something that happened. But a parent being sick? Did she know the word cancer? I knew that she would probably grasp more than I expected. I just needed to focus on the facts.
 
I sat down with Emma. I slowly broached my illness. I probably had cancer. I would have to have surgery. If everything went well, it would be cut out and that would be it. 
 
I definitely minimized my fears. She cried. I held onto her tightly. I told her it would be alright, knowing it might not be the truth.  
 
In the days that followed, I could hardly look at Emma, fearing for her potential loss. Yes, I was scared by the diagnosis and waiting to see what our treatment plan would be. But mainly I just kept thinking about Emma. About how young she was. Of how difficult it would be for her to grow up without a father. Of how much I would miss if I couldn’t beat this.
 
I consider myself a fairly even-keel person. It takes a lot for me to visibly show emotion. But I found myself standing the shower, sobs wracking my body. We were still waiting to learn exactly what we were dealing with.  The diagnosis was vague without a lot of positive options. All I kept thinking was that I could die within a year.  I hadn’t yet had a chance to make a difference in the world with the exception of my family. Was that enough? I didn’t know.  
 
I tried to remember all the quotes I’d written to Emma over the years, look through my list of favorite sayings. How could I dance in this rainstorm? How could I see a glimmer of light so as to see a rainbow, something I would never have seen if the rain wasn’t there? But I couldn’t find a glimmer of light. Anywhere.
 
Napkin Notes Available on Amazon: http://nndad.co/1Q86gmB

Notas de amor 22.11.2016: http://nndad.co/2fSKpSP

Digging Deep

I stared at the computer screen in front of me. How did this happen to me? I am only 42! 22 years younger than the average age of diagnosis! And the tumor that they’d discovered in me? 13 cm at its largest point. Which meant, that if it was growing at the average growth rate, I had had it growing inside me since I was 29. Essentially ever since I had become a father, I had had a ticking time bomb inside of me.
 
I continued to read. Kidney cancer is notoriously tough to defeat and even when everyone thinks it’s defeated, it tends to show back up years later. Kidney cancer doesn’t really respond to chemo or radiation. How on earth was I supposed to win this battle?
 
I didn’t want to feel discouraged. I knew, going in to my next doctor’s appointment on Monday, when they would do a number of scans to figure out exactly what we were dealing with and our treatment plan, that I needed to feel like a warrior. I wanted to be the best and most aggressive patient known. No treatment would be off the table. I would jump in to this crazy phase of my life and attack.
 
I am a self-described geek for many reasons. One of those reasons is that I am not afraid to admit how much I love Star Wars. I spent hours playing with Star Wars toys as a kid and as an adult, I belonged to the Rebel Legion, a costuming group dedicated to charity work while dressed as a Star Wars character. Every time I thought about this battle I was facing, lines from my favorite movie would pop into my head. 
 
I decided to not only wear only Star Wars t-shirts to each medical appointment, I would tell each member of my medical team why I was doing this. I needed to differentiate myself. Be a person, not just a patient number. I knew how many countless appointments these people had each day. But Garth Callaghan? Oh yeah, he was the Star Wars guy. They would remember me. I would stand out.  I would have brought a lightsaber to my appointments if I thought it would help.
 
...
 
I had a full set of scans on Monday: another CT, an MRI, and a full body bone scan. Lissa and I went to the hospital for the day. I spent the day laying on various tables and staying still. Yet it was exhausting. 
 
We went home. We had eight days to wait until we’d meet with Dr. Bradford and learn exactly what was going on. It seemed like an eternity. At least, we had Thanksgiving to celebrate to take our minds off things. My mom arrived. We really tried to not let cancer overshadow the holiday. It was already difficult as the first holiday without my dad. Mom wanted to stay past her planned departure so as to be there when we got the results from my tests. But Lissa and I had our anniversary to celebrate right before the next appointment. I was bound and determined to celebrate as if it were my last opportunity. Maybe it was.
 
Finally, it was time to meet with Dr. Bradford. This time I made sure Lissa was with me. I needed a partner to listen and absorb what was being said. Dr. Bradford introduced himself to Lissa. We discussed the situation and then the scan results. My bone scan was clear. The cancer hadn't spread to my bones. The MRI indicated that the "spread" we had seen on the CT scan was probably not cancer, but a cluster of blood vessels. 
 
“So this means…” I said, trying to decipher exactly what the doctor was saying. 
 
“It’s good news,” Dr. Bradford said. “While yes, you have kidney cancer, it doesn’t look like it has spread. So we’ll go in, and try and take it out.”
 
I looked at Lissa with a tentative smile. I was so excited to learn I ONLY had kidney cancer. We would schedule surgery soon, and if all went well, I would resume a normal life shortly after the surgery. 
 
As we gathered our things as the appointment wrapped up, I grabbed my bag and pulled out a gift for Dr. Bradford. It was a Star Wars Medical Droid action figure. He looked at it puzzled. I said, “This is the guy who saves the heroes.  It’s your job to save me.”  
 

Napkin Notes Available on Amazon: http://nndad.co/1Q86gmB

Notas de amor 22.11.2016: http://nndad.co/2fSKpSP

Grit Part 2

Noel has a good life today, but we don't know exactly how she lived before we rescued her. We know just enough.

We do know she was about 40% underweight. She was missing a lot of fur. She had recently had puppies. She was found in a rural county which didn't have a no-kill policy in their shelters. She was rescued on day 59, one day before she was to be put down.

She clearly was having a hard life. Thank goodness she was tough enough to make it that far. Thank goodness we were blessed to be able to rescue her.

She was terrified of me at first, especially if I had a jacket on. Worse than that, I didn't really want a new dog in my life. We had just lost my best pet a few months prior. I didn't want Noel and I don't think she wanted me.

We did need each other though.

One year after Noel joined the family, she saved my life. That's a story for another day. (CLICK HERE TO READ IT)

Noel has been my pet partner through my cancer crisis. We've both been through a lot. We're tough on the inside. We've got grit.

Click here to Donate or learn more: https://donate.johnwayne.org/ca…/show-your-grit-2017/c118743

Grit is silent, but strong

Writing out 28 extra notes

Grit is usually quiet, but ready to be there when you need it.

Grit is getting up at 5 AM when you’re dog tired.
Grit is not paying attention to the headache.
Grit is just wiping away the nosebleed.
Grit is ignoring nausea, vomiting and diarrhea.  
Grit is working through the fatigue and muscle pain.

Grit is handling your side effects to write out 28 napkin notes in the dark of the morning because it’s what you do. You’d never dream of sending your daughter off without notes. You’d never allow your side effects to get the best of you and stop you from writing over and over, until 28 were completed. Grit is ignoring the lump in your throat as you count up 28 notes, one for each day she’ll be gone.

Grit is overlooking the fear of sending your daughter away for four weeks because it will be a wonderful experience for her.

Grit is silent, but strong.

#ShowYourGrit

Click here to Donate or learn more: https://donate.johnwayne.org/ca…/show-your-grit-2017/c118743

Show Your Grit

Emma and Garth

I don’t feel particularly gritty. I’d actually rate myself a 2/7 on the grit scale. In any given week, I might have grit on two of the days. The other five days I just feel average, sometimes well below average. I certainly don’t feel it when I am stuck in the bathroom for no reason except my daily chemo is making my stomach wonky. I don’t feel it when I am waiting in line for blood draws or MRIs. I don’t feel it when I think of how much cancer has impacted my family.

Imagine my surprise when I received this email:

Good Afternoon Garth,

I wanted to reach out to introduce you to the ‘Show Your Grit’ campaign, a national fundraising and awareness initiative from the John Wayne Cancer Foundation (JWCF), that may present a meaningful partnership opportunity for you. In case you are not familiar, JWCF is a nonprofit organization that was founded in 1985 by John Wayne’s children as a way to honor the memory of their father and the many others like him who have battled cancer. The mission of the foundation is to bring courage, strength, and grit to the fight against cancer by funding programs that improve cancer patients’ outcomes and save lives through research, education, awareness, and support.

They thought I had grit and wanted me to join in on their #showyourgrit campaign this month.

Huh. Me?

OK, I wanted to take stab at this. Yeah, I have been doing daily chemo for 3.5 years now. This has been the longest running, hardest thing I have ever done. I choose each day to swallow those pills, the pills which make me sicker than I have ever felt. It’s a choice and I still do it. Not only do I take them, but I take them with enthusiasm! How gritty is that?

One of my biggest focuses has been how I can raise Emma to become the strong, confident, young woman I know she has inside of her. I hope how I have dealt with the cancer diagnosis and treatment is an example for her. I hope she learns tenacity, perseverance, endurance, bravery... I guess, grit.

And you know the best thing about grit, it lasts for a long time. It sticks around. You don’t have to have it every day. It’s ok to only have grit sometimes because it carries you through to the next day.

Join me in the #showyourgrit campaign. Take a selfie with a cowboy relate item and post it. Better yet, make a donation to the John Wayne Foundation and help fight this darned disease.

Click here to Donate or learn more: https://donate.johnwayne.org/campaign/show-your-grit-2017/c118743

Spring. Renewal. Easter.

No, my life is much more mundane than that today.
 
It’s been 10 years since I wandered into the Virginia DMV to renew my license. I just received my notice.
 
When was the last time you thought about your driver’s license? I generally don’t speed or have a cause show a police officer. I can’t remember the last time I was asked for identification at the ABC Store or a restaurant. I only give it a thought when I travel. I have a heightened level of apprehension as I pull out my wallet and approach the TSA podium. I don’t resemble the picture on that piece of plastic one bit.  My ticket matches my ID, but my picture doesn’t match my face. Sure, both pictures show a guy wearing glasses, but there’s a 55 pound difference, and if you haven’t noticed, the hair color isn’t the same! I can see the TSA agent trying to assess me. The agent looks at my license, glances up at me, back down to the ticket, and repeats for a bit. I usually lean in and whisper, “Cancer.” Yeah, I am probably on some list somewhere. (Actually, I am. Did you know I was responsible for adding the word ‘lightsaber’ to the TSA database?)
 
Back to the issue at hand. My Driver’s License is expiring. Where was I in 2007??
 
Lissa and I had been married for 10 years.
 
Emma was 7 1/2 and in 2nd grade. She was on swim team and took martial arts lessons. She also
got her ears pierced while I was away for work. (I was NOT happy about that.)
 
I had just started my own IT support company.
 
I wasn’t really going to church. I think I acknowledged God, but He wasn’t part of my life.
 
I marched in my first parade dressed up as a Jedi.
 
I didn’t own any Star Wars T-Shirts.
 
My parents visited at Christmastime and played Wii Bowling with Emma.
 
It’s very likely I already had a tumor growing on my kidney.
 
I didn’t mean for this to become a virtual time capsule, but here we are. I am not even the same person I was in 2007. Thank goodness!
 
Our lives have radically changed in the last decade. I am sure your lives have, too. Have you reflected on that? Have you looked back and remembered where you were and how far you’ve come?
 
When I first started writing this post this was a minor complaint I was processing. My ID doesn’t match my ‘today’ face. I didn’t want to have to go in to the DMV to have a new picture taken. Come on, who wants to experience a multi-hour visit to the DMV and pay extra for an in-person visit just to have their picture refreshed?!?
 
I’ve been blessed with some memories which didn’t surface nearly as much as they should.
Maybe I need to reflect like this more than once every 10 years.
 
-------------
 
Many of you have seen my recent post about some of the ‘extra’ side effects I was experiencing and the minor dental crisis I had. I am well on my way to better health. My mouth is healing up. I still have 3 appointments ahead of me. I resumed daily chemo treatment about 10 days ago. Let’s hope for a better March than February!
 
Lissa, Emma, and I thank you for your continued support!