...was way more dangerous than she was letting on. Seriously, folks. Don't let her fool you with that whole "up the water spout" trick. She's not going up the water spout. She's going up the leg of your trousers and she's packing some venom. If you see the Itsy Bitsy Spider, make like Miss Muffet, get off your tuffet and get the hell outta there.
By now, you all think I'm boozing at the computer terminal. I'm not. Really. But I am quite serious about the spiders. Dad was bitten by a spider just before the July 4th holiday (one more reason to live in the city - the spiders don't bite. They carry guns and knives and run in gangs, but they don't bite). The little spider bite left him with an infection and a rash that ran all the way up his leg. One round of antibiotics didn't cure him, so now he's having a second round. The leg looks better, which means he no longer looks like he's propped up on the trunk of a California Redwood, but the ankle puffs up like a water balloon by the end of the day.
We visited him and Mom this past weekend, in part to say "hi" and in part because they took Anna Lee last Tuesday and we figured we should get her back before she got too used to the good life with Grandma Lee Lee and Grandpa Doc.
"That leg looks like hell, Dad," I said.
"It's really much better," he replied as he hobbled after the three-year-old. "It's almost normal."
"I think you should get it looked at, Dad."
"It's fine," he said over his shoulder, clearly getting annoyed with me. Then he limped out to the pool to give Anna Lee a swimming lesson.
Mom clucked disapprovingly at his back.
"He isn't wearing sunscreen," she said.
I didn't respond. If she thought I was going to cross him over suncreen, she was out of her mind. I had bigger fish to fry - there is a huge mud wasp nest in the bush next to the grill and I was afraid Dad was going to get himself stung to pieces trying to get rid of it.
"Don't try to take it down," Dan and I cautioned them. "Get somebody else to do it. Somebody with experience. Somebody with tools. Somebody with a hazmat suit."
Do you think they listened? Naaaahhhhh. Last I heard, Mom was trying to frighten the wasps into giving up their home by throwing beer at them. I believe they responded by sending an emissary to request chips and dip.
So we finished our visit, came back to the city and got the phone call that one of our other relatives is in the hospital with... guess what... an infected spider bite. So I renew my word of caution to you all - watch out for the spiders! I've spent a decade mocking Dan for his arachnophobia. Perhaps his fear is well placed.
Mom and Dad are in the city for another round of scans today. Dad is literally having the scan as I type this. Mom called to say that they took him in and to ask if I thought we would have the results any sooner than next week (answer: nope). As always, I will post as soon as I have information to share. In the mean time, keep thinking good thoughts and I'll do the same.
And watch out for the spiders.
Peace,
Connie
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Ya Win Some, Ya Lose Some
Updating from Mom and Dad's house, which feels slightly strange because they're not here. They're partying somewhere in upstate New York (no dancing on the tables, Dad); I'm in Jersey eating their food, drinking their wine and giving the dogs and Anna Lee a chance to run amok in the back yard. Don't worry Mom - I'm wiping everybody's feet before they come into the house.
For those of you who are wondering:
YES, the alarm did go off.
NO, I didn't set it off. Honest. There was a thunder storm. And a power failure. It really wasn't me.
But I was mightily confused when I called Mom from the driveway to confirm the code that I can never remember because it's not my ATM code, social security number or high school locker combination and she said, "You already set the alarm off."
"From the driveway?"
She insisted I'd done it. I swore up and down I didn't. Dad was the one who thought to ask about the thunder storm and the power failure. Otherwise I fear I'd still be standing in the driveway, protesting my innocence to a mother who has heard me protest my innocence too many times before.
So they're on the road again, but this time Dad isn't feeling too well. He took a bit of a dive just after my last update, so Dr. O'Reilly took him off part of his chemo cocktail for a bit. We knew that at some point, the toxins would build up until we would need to start editing his treatment protocol, and I guess we've reached that point. It's not unexpected, but it's sort of a bummer nonetheless. I hope he bounces back qiuckly, because we need to keep his chemo regime consistent in order to stay ahead of the cancer.
Of course, if you ask him, he says he feels okay. That's in part because he's just not a complainer, and also because compared to when he feels totally terrible, he really *does* feel okay.
But I want him to feel better than okay.
I want him to feel good.
That's not too much to ask, right?
I didn't think so.
The doctor also started him on tincture of opium to control his symptoms and help him feel better.
"Aren't you supposed to smoke that?" Mom asked, probably imagining that Dad was going to break out a hookah and turn into the Caterpillar from "Alice in Wonderland".
The answer is no - you don't. It's not opium, and it's stripped of most of its narcotic attributes, so it's not a fun drug. But it's side effects are drowsiness and dizziness, so Dad took it and promptly handed the car keys to Mom.
Smart man. He may have lived through a time when drinking and driving was more of a sport than a crime, but these days, he knows when to say when.
So that's the update for now.
More as and when, and until then, keep on keepin' on.
Peace,
Connie
For those of you who are wondering:
YES, the alarm did go off.
NO, I didn't set it off. Honest. There was a thunder storm. And a power failure. It really wasn't me.
But I was mightily confused when I called Mom from the driveway to confirm the code that I can never remember because it's not my ATM code, social security number or high school locker combination and she said, "You already set the alarm off."
"From the driveway?"
She insisted I'd done it. I swore up and down I didn't. Dad was the one who thought to ask about the thunder storm and the power failure. Otherwise I fear I'd still be standing in the driveway, protesting my innocence to a mother who has heard me protest my innocence too many times before.
So they're on the road again, but this time Dad isn't feeling too well. He took a bit of a dive just after my last update, so Dr. O'Reilly took him off part of his chemo cocktail for a bit. We knew that at some point, the toxins would build up until we would need to start editing his treatment protocol, and I guess we've reached that point. It's not unexpected, but it's sort of a bummer nonetheless. I hope he bounces back qiuckly, because we need to keep his chemo regime consistent in order to stay ahead of the cancer.
Of course, if you ask him, he says he feels okay. That's in part because he's just not a complainer, and also because compared to when he feels totally terrible, he really *does* feel okay.
But I want him to feel better than okay.
I want him to feel good.
That's not too much to ask, right?
I didn't think so.
The doctor also started him on tincture of opium to control his symptoms and help him feel better.
"Aren't you supposed to smoke that?" Mom asked, probably imagining that Dad was going to break out a hookah and turn into the Caterpillar from "Alice in Wonderland".
The answer is no - you don't. It's not opium, and it's stripped of most of its narcotic attributes, so it's not a fun drug. But it's side effects are drowsiness and dizziness, so Dad took it and promptly handed the car keys to Mom.
Smart man. He may have lived through a time when drinking and driving was more of a sport than a crime, but these days, he knows when to say when.
So that's the update for now.
More as and when, and until then, keep on keepin' on.
Peace,
Connie
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Welcoming Summer With Open Arms... And a Little Bit of Disco
And so, here we are, nine months later. Does it feel like nine months to you? I think it feels like nine minutes and ninety years.
How is Dad?
He's doing well. Really well. Almost embarrassingly well.
"I thought your dad was sick," people hiss in my ear at parties. I watch Dad boogie past, doing his super special Lindy-Mashed Potato-Saturday Night Fever- Hand Jive and shrug. "That's what they keep telling him. He just won't play the part."
He went to Vermont and helped set the buoys in Lake Morey ("I drove the boat," he proudly declared.).
He went back to help rip the roof off the porch ("and nobody got hurt!" he proudly declared).
He rocked it out so hard at a recent wedding, my sources tell me he giggled himself to sleep and then had the Grand High Master of all Hangovers the next day.
Well Done, Dad.
He had a bad bout of pain in April, which gave us all a bit of a fright. A series of emergency scans revealed...a kidney stone. We all hooted and hollered and cheered for the kidney stone while Dad piped up from the corner, "excuse me, but it still HURTS! ".
We were sort of heartless and told him to tough it out, and he did, which was quite decent of him.
Of course, it's not all posies and parties - this is life in the world of cancer and chemo, after all.
He has days when he is wiped out.
He has days when he feels really crappy.
He has days when he gets really frustrated that basic activities - things we all take for granted, like being able to go out to dinner - sometimes seem out of reach.
But his moods are a bit like a superball - they drop and then bounce back up and he's off and running once again.
His next round of scans is scheduled for July. We expect (nay - demand!) another set of positive results, and that he will spend a good chunk of the summer teaching the grand kids to swim in the lake and the pool (if it ever stops raining and gets warm).
We are, as always, astonished and humbled by the continued outpouring of support we have received. The prayers and good wishes of our friends and family help give Dad the strength to get up every day and say, "No way, cancer. You won't get me today. I will fight. I will survive." (I feel a disco ball and a Gloria Gaynor song coming on. Let's go, people. You know the words. Let your inner 1970's Disco Diva run free, strap on your roller skates with your Adidas knee socks and sing along!)
"Oh no not I!
I will survive!
Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive!
I've got all my life to live,
I've got all my love to give,
and I'll survive... I will survive!
Hey hey!"
< and we're off, discoing into the summer sunset >
Peace,
Connie
How is Dad?
He's doing well. Really well. Almost embarrassingly well.
"I thought your dad was sick," people hiss in my ear at parties. I watch Dad boogie past, doing his super special Lindy-Mashed Potato-Saturday Night Fever- Hand Jive and shrug. "That's what they keep telling him. He just won't play the part."
He went to Vermont and helped set the buoys in Lake Morey ("I drove the boat," he proudly declared.).
He went back to help rip the roof off the porch ("and nobody got hurt!" he proudly declared).
He rocked it out so hard at a recent wedding, my sources tell me he giggled himself to sleep and then had the Grand High Master of all Hangovers the next day.
Well Done, Dad.
He had a bad bout of pain in April, which gave us all a bit of a fright. A series of emergency scans revealed...a kidney stone. We all hooted and hollered and cheered for the kidney stone while Dad piped up from the corner, "excuse me, but it still HURTS! ".
We were sort of heartless and told him to tough it out, and he did, which was quite decent of him.
Of course, it's not all posies and parties - this is life in the world of cancer and chemo, after all.
He has days when he is wiped out.
He has days when he feels really crappy.
He has days when he gets really frustrated that basic activities - things we all take for granted, like being able to go out to dinner - sometimes seem out of reach.
But his moods are a bit like a superball - they drop and then bounce back up and he's off and running once again.
His next round of scans is scheduled for July. We expect (nay - demand!) another set of positive results, and that he will spend a good chunk of the summer teaching the grand kids to swim in the lake and the pool (if it ever stops raining and gets warm).
We are, as always, astonished and humbled by the continued outpouring of support we have received. The prayers and good wishes of our friends and family help give Dad the strength to get up every day and say, "No way, cancer. You won't get me today. I will fight. I will survive." (I feel a disco ball and a Gloria Gaynor song coming on. Let's go, people. You know the words. Let your inner 1970's Disco Diva run free, strap on your roller skates with your Adidas knee socks and sing along!)
"Oh no not I!
I will survive!
Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I'll stay alive!
I've got all my life to live,
I've got all my love to give,
and I'll survive... I will survive!
Hey hey!"
< and we're off, discoing into the summer sunset >
Peace,
Connie
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Holy Moly!
All I can say is "WOW". Dad finally got around to asking for the results of his blood marker tests. We were all so jazzed with the results of the scans, we forgot to follow up on the markers. So on Tuesday, sort of conversationally, Dad asked the nurse to check on the results. The number nearly knocked him out of his chair.
In October, he was at 470. As a refresher, a normal, cancer-free result is 0 - 40. So 470 was not a good number.
In December, he was down around 190. We were very happy to see such a drop.
At the start of March? 95. I'll say it again. NINETY FIVE.
No wonder the doctor was so happy. That's an *incredible* result!
As you can imagine, we are all thrilled. Dad was so happy, he finished his chemo and then he, Mom and a friend of theirs went out for a burger. Who finishes chemo and then grabs a burger?
My Dad.
He swears he's doing so well because of all the support, prayers and love he's received from all of his friends. We're all in this together, and we're winning!
THANK YOU!!!!
Peace,
Connie
In October, he was at 470. As a refresher, a normal, cancer-free result is 0 - 40. So 470 was not a good number.
In December, he was down around 190. We were very happy to see such a drop.
At the start of March? 95. I'll say it again. NINETY FIVE.
No wonder the doctor was so happy. That's an *incredible* result!
As you can imagine, we are all thrilled. Dad was so happy, he finished his chemo and then he, Mom and a friend of theirs went out for a burger. Who finishes chemo and then grabs a burger?
My Dad.
He swears he's doing so well because of all the support, prayers and love he's received from all of his friends. We're all in this together, and we're winning!
THANK YOU!!!!
Peace,
Connie
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Survey Says...
It's a WIN!!! Another HUGE win, actually. The results of the scans were "excellent," in the words of Dr. O'Reilly (who is rarely so effusive). We figured Dad was doing well, but the results were even better than we expected. All of the tumors shrunk - the ones on the liver and the big one in the intestine too. Hooray!
I wasn't able to be at the hospital this time, but Dad called with the results as soon as he and Mom and Christian finished meeting with Dr. O'Reilly. Then Mom called to tell me the results while Dad called Kurt to share the results with him. Then Mom called Kurt for the same reason. Then Kurt called me to ask if it was normal for our parents to be standing side by side making the same phone calls to the same people at the same time. A fair question, but given the nature of the news, I don't care if they call me fifty times!
I haven't been able to get the results of the blood tests, but I imagine the markers dropped off significantly as well. I'll post an update as soon as I'm able to track down my parents, who I am pretty sure have been out celebrating since they got the news yesterday.
Thanks to everyone who reads along and comments or just sends a note of good wishes to Mom and Dad. All the wonderful wishes and prayers and good thoughts are working!
Peace!
Connie
I wasn't able to be at the hospital this time, but Dad called with the results as soon as he and Mom and Christian finished meeting with Dr. O'Reilly. Then Mom called to tell me the results while Dad called Kurt to share the results with him. Then Mom called Kurt for the same reason. Then Kurt called me to ask if it was normal for our parents to be standing side by side making the same phone calls to the same people at the same time. A fair question, but given the nature of the news, I don't care if they call me fifty times!
I haven't been able to get the results of the blood tests, but I imagine the markers dropped off significantly as well. I'll post an update as soon as I'm able to track down my parents, who I am pretty sure have been out celebrating since they got the news yesterday.
Thanks to everyone who reads along and comments or just sends a note of good wishes to Mom and Dad. All the wonderful wishes and prayers and good thoughts are working!
Peace!
Connie
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Scan Day!
So I must admit to being remiss in updating the blog. Today Dad is having his second round of scans, having completed his second bout of chemo last week. I think we're all a little nervous, but without reason. He's feeling well, he's looking great and his outlook is superb. It helps, of course, that we have a new member of Team Oberle helping to cheer him on:
Meet Katherine Anne Margaret Geoghan:
Katherine is very excited about joining the fight. I know she looks a little complacent now but trust me - she really gets her spit-fire on at around two in the morning. I think she'll be a powerful addition to the team.
The scan went uneventfully and Mom and Dad went from the hospital to visit Katherine and me. From there, they headed for home and now the tough part begins... waiting. Didn't Tom Petty write a song about this? Yeah - the waiting really is the hardest part. But wait we will, until Friday, when we expect to hear great things yet again.
Please keep us in your thoughts and send positive vibes our way!
Peace,
Connie
Meet Katherine Anne Margaret Geoghan:
Katherine is very excited about joining the fight. I know she looks a little complacent now but trust me - she really gets her spit-fire on at around two in the morning. I think she'll be a powerful addition to the team.
The scan went uneventfully and Mom and Dad went from the hospital to visit Katherine and me. From there, they headed for home and now the tough part begins... waiting. Didn't Tom Petty write a song about this? Yeah - the waiting really is the hardest part. But wait we will, until Friday, when we expect to hear great things yet again.
Please keep us in your thoughts and send positive vibes our way!
Peace,
Connie
Friday, February 6, 2009
"On the road, again. Just can't wait to get on the road again."
It's the theme song to Dad's life. He and Mom have always been drivers, as likely to dash to Vermont for the day (5 hours driving) as they are to dash to Lincroft (5 minutes driving). When I was a kid, I didn't think there was anything extraordinary about loading into the car every weekend to log several hundred miles for two days of skiing. Six weeks in a van, driving around the country, was just another Oberle (or Griswold) vacation. Now that I am a parent, I recognize the trips for what they were - Herculean efforts made by my parents, with Dad at the wheel and Mom forever riding shotgun but never getting full control of the radio, to score family time. That, or acts of sheer lunacy. I prefer the former classification to the later.
Dad's and Mom's ramblin' ways hit a snag when Dad got sick. It was tough to work up the stamina for 6 hours of driving, let alone any sort of recreational activity, when he hadn't eaten a proper meal in 3 months.
But no more.
The foot is back on the gas pedal and even though he sometimes relinquishes the steering wheel (but never control) to Mom, I feel pretty confident saying he's back to his old ways.
He went to Vermont to take some turns with an old friend from the Ski Club (apparently it was quite cold, but he pressed on). He and one of my uncles took a bus trip to ski in New York (apparently it was pea soup fog and pissing down rain, but he pressed on). He made plans to take my daughter skiing in Connecticut, but when the forecast called for sub-zero temperatures before the wind-chill, he wised up and turned south.
Way south.
Tuesday I met him and Mom and Christian at Sloan for his IV chemo. I like having the chance to spend some time with him and Mom when they're in the city for his treatments, but I had special motivation to see them this week. They were planning to finish his IV, go home, load the car (an energy-efficient Hybrid, I am proud to report) and leave before sunrise Wednesday for a road-trip down the East Coast to Charleston and from Charleston to Miami.
Yes - Dad and Mom are driving to Florida. I could be mistaken, but I think I was in grammar school the last time they drove to Florida. I also think there was a reason we didn't do it again - it's a really long drive.
So I met them at the hospital to spend some time and to say "bon voyage." Dad looks fantastic. His weigh-in showed that he and I are still going pound-for-pound. No, I still won't tell you how many pounds we're currently packing, but it's awesome for him and worthy of a few post-baby visits to the personal trainer for me.
He still isn't having terrible side effects from the chemo, which is great. Curiously, he gets associative nausea when he enters the IV treatment area, but I am trying to figure out a way to make that stop. The continuing nature of the treatments - meaning that they are going to be doing chemo for two weeks out of every three for the foreseeable future - is always a little tough to embrace, but we all know that the chemo is treating him far better than the cancer did, so we grin and bear it, re-fill the prescriptions and plug in to the drip once again.
Dad took his IV and, when it was done, grabbed his coat and hat and with a "C'mon, I'll give you a lift home," was out the door in a shot. Mom and I were scrambling in his wake. They drove me across town and deposited me at my building. Then, with a kiss on the cheek and a "see you later!" they were gone, bouncing off through the snow, on their way to Jersey and from there to warmer climes.
I was left standing on the side of 73rd street, scratching my head and wondering precisely what super-strong stuff was forged into their souls when they were created. I just don't know any other people like them. I wish I could say I weather adversity as well and as gracefully as they do, but I know I don't.
I'm just a big old baby.
Who was more than a little bit jealous on Wednesday morning, when I awoke to find the temperature in New York barely out of the single digits and Mom and Dad were already nosing their way into Baltimore.
I checked in with them a few times during the day - greetings from Virginia - we're in North Carolina - hi, we're in Charleston. I know Dad gave Mom at least one opportunity to use the bathroom during the trip (once we get going, Oberles do not stop) because they had to re-fuel the hybrid once en route, but beyond that, they seem to have put the pedal down and gone.
Just like they would have done 20 years ago - except our old Chevy van would have needed many more fuel stops.
Dad's and Mom's ramblin' ways hit a snag when Dad got sick. It was tough to work up the stamina for 6 hours of driving, let alone any sort of recreational activity, when he hadn't eaten a proper meal in 3 months.
But no more.
The foot is back on the gas pedal and even though he sometimes relinquishes the steering wheel (but never control) to Mom, I feel pretty confident saying he's back to his old ways.
He went to Vermont to take some turns with an old friend from the Ski Club (apparently it was quite cold, but he pressed on). He and one of my uncles took a bus trip to ski in New York (apparently it was pea soup fog and pissing down rain, but he pressed on). He made plans to take my daughter skiing in Connecticut, but when the forecast called for sub-zero temperatures before the wind-chill, he wised up and turned south.
Way south.
Tuesday I met him and Mom and Christian at Sloan for his IV chemo. I like having the chance to spend some time with him and Mom when they're in the city for his treatments, but I had special motivation to see them this week. They were planning to finish his IV, go home, load the car (an energy-efficient Hybrid, I am proud to report) and leave before sunrise Wednesday for a road-trip down the East Coast to Charleston and from Charleston to Miami.
Yes - Dad and Mom are driving to Florida. I could be mistaken, but I think I was in grammar school the last time they drove to Florida. I also think there was a reason we didn't do it again - it's a really long drive.
So I met them at the hospital to spend some time and to say "bon voyage." Dad looks fantastic. His weigh-in showed that he and I are still going pound-for-pound. No, I still won't tell you how many pounds we're currently packing, but it's awesome for him and worthy of a few post-baby visits to the personal trainer for me.
He still isn't having terrible side effects from the chemo, which is great. Curiously, he gets associative nausea when he enters the IV treatment area, but I am trying to figure out a way to make that stop. The continuing nature of the treatments - meaning that they are going to be doing chemo for two weeks out of every three for the foreseeable future - is always a little tough to embrace, but we all know that the chemo is treating him far better than the cancer did, so we grin and bear it, re-fill the prescriptions and plug in to the drip once again.
Dad took his IV and, when it was done, grabbed his coat and hat and with a "C'mon, I'll give you a lift home," was out the door in a shot. Mom and I were scrambling in his wake. They drove me across town and deposited me at my building. Then, with a kiss on the cheek and a "see you later!" they were gone, bouncing off through the snow, on their way to Jersey and from there to warmer climes.
I was left standing on the side of 73rd street, scratching my head and wondering precisely what super-strong stuff was forged into their souls when they were created. I just don't know any other people like them. I wish I could say I weather adversity as well and as gracefully as they do, but I know I don't.
I'm just a big old baby.
Who was more than a little bit jealous on Wednesday morning, when I awoke to find the temperature in New York barely out of the single digits and Mom and Dad were already nosing their way into Baltimore.
I checked in with them a few times during the day - greetings from Virginia - we're in North Carolina - hi, we're in Charleston. I know Dad gave Mom at least one opportunity to use the bathroom during the trip (once we get going, Oberles do not stop) because they had to re-fuel the hybrid once en route, but beyond that, they seem to have put the pedal down and gone.
Just like they would have done 20 years ago - except our old Chevy van would have needed many more fuel stops.
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