Friday, May 20th: Diagnosis Day

May 20, 2009 - May 20, 2011

2 years

24 months

730 days

May 20th is this Bill Baker's 'diagnosis day' - a day that all cancer patients face. For many, this is the beginning of a death sentence, the point at which they begin a long battle towards their ending. For the rest of us it is the beginning of a changed life - a 'born again' experience (to paraphrase the teachings I learned in the holy roller churches I grew up in) that changes your entire being, your outlook, your relationships with others, and your views of the world around you.

There are thousands of cancer variations - most of which have no relation to each other than sharing a general category of similar "bat shit crazy" cellular activity. But the one common thread between all cancer is the reaction in your soul once those words of "you have cancer" pass through your eardrums.

As many of you have read from this blog - I passed out when Dr. Philippon said it. After I woke up to an offer of a beer from my doctor (yes, he did offer me a brew - that good French Canadian!) I put on a brave face the rest of the day. I held it together until my friend Steve called and I saw his number and just couldn't pick it up. He left me a touching voicemail later that night after hearing the news - cancer had affected his family in significant ways and he shared encouraging words for the beginning of this new journey. It was over - I completely lost it in that hotel room in Vail. You see people who go through emotional triumphs of joy or experience the ultimate despair and how they leave their emotions "on the table" after that cry. I've been there and it was what I consider to be the darkest moment of my life.

If you've been diagnosed with cancer you know exactly what I mean. Prior to your return towards Cure, Diagnosis Day is a reminder of your mortality and vulnerability. No matter how "fit" you are, how good you treated your body, how few petrochemicals you bathed in, or how few trips to processed fast food joints you took - sometimes you just get a good swift kick in the nuts. It lets you know that you are not in control. Those of us in the faith-based end of things look at this as a way of God telling you that you're just borrowing some time on this Earth - and that's the truth. Those who are more in the atheist/agnostic end of things just say "serendipity" (or whatever the phrase is) and chalk it up to the DNA lottery.

Maybe it's the first, or the second - it doesn't matter to me, but what I do know is that it changes you forever. Those who don't want to hear about 'when I was sick' stories I'm sure get a bit annoyed - but frankly, I don't care. My good friend and fellow survivor Eric told me once "Baker - it's a battle medal that no one can understand except another survivor." He's 100% correct.

It's been 2 years since that day in Vail. 2009 sucked, royally. Cancer diagnosis, treatment, challenging business environment, and a pregnancy in process during all of it put the emotional full court press on me and my family. I feel blessed that my faith, family, and friends are the reasons we came through it. Oh yeah, I would be remiss if I didn't credit the $400,000 in treatment costs that the Rocky Mountain Health Plan absorbed.

Also, Doctor Hinshaw and her PA Julie get BIG props. Also the chemo nurses of Lucy, Emily, Rose, Karen, and the rest of the gals at the Rocky Mountain Cancer Center should get big props. If you're sick, and in Denver - go see them. East 18th avenue is the place to be.

2010 and 2011 have been, by all accounts, kick *ss years for me.

Most importantly, I'm still here. That statement alone is worth a lot of points in the 'win' column. Yes, I am keeping score, because 14 months ago I was fresh out of the battle of a lifetime and wasn't sure how the future looked. Statistically speaking, my oncologist said I had a 50/50 chance that this may come back within 5 years, with the first two years being especially tricky. Now that I've got the first two down, I am feeling a bit more at ease with each passing sunrise.

But that's the thing, as all of you who have had (or do have) cancer know - you're never fully at ease, ever. And it will never change no matter how long you live - you're always looking over your shoulder and asking yourself the question "is that ache cancer?", or "does this sniffle mean it's back?" It's the price of cancer success.

My greatest moment so far has been the birth of our daughter, Elaina. She's beautiful, pretty happy, and (thankfully) looking more like her Mom every day. Thanks to the miracles of modern medicine, we're able to be parents. It's awesome, and I look forward to every day coming home from work seeing her drool-laden smile and hearing "da da" or some other baby babble. This past January we went back out to Colorado for some skiing and for a checkup with my Denver docs. Last summer I caught some grief from the medical staff at the cancer center when I didn't bring Elaina and Amanda with me - so this time I brought my girls. It was great to see their reactions, especially since so much of their professional careers are spent with persons who are dying. They have even said that seeing the gift of life for me and knowing that my daughter has a father was a real joy for them. Give your local oncology doctor or nurse a hug - 1/3 of you will need them in your lifetime.

Here are some photos (L-R) of Julie, Dr. Hinshaw, and Lucy - three women who were instrumental in why I'm still here.

2 years down, hopefully 61 more to go (until I hit 100). How will I celebrate my Diagnosis Day? A lot of introspection, probably a loss of focus at work for a bit, and most importantly time with family.

Sounds good enough for me. I'm just glad to be here.

Carpe diem.

-Bill

Wednesday, September 8: Open your wallet.

I know it's been a while, as I've got a lot to say. But for now, look at this video and think seriously about supporting this cause. Not for me, but for you, your family, your friends, and your children.

CCSI will be back in the next couple of weeks - the summer has been awesome and I am truly blessed. More to come.

Saturday, May 15th: The beat goes on....

So here I am, within 5 days of the one year anniversary of my diagnosis, writing in the wee hours of the morning in the study. I know I said a post or two back that I'd be more frequent than every 2 months - guess what, it's almost been two months. If you want a regular delivery of news - get a newspaper.

It's been a lovely spring here in Cincinnati, compared to the long cold, rainy one back in our former home of Denver - it's as if we got out just in time and the big guy has decided to give our baby girl a wonderful first spring on Earth. The leaves are fully extended, the flowers are pushing through various blooming cycles, and we're getting our first hints of the hot, sticky Ohio River Valley summer which will peek it's head around the curtain of the seasons soon enough.

Many of you know I went back to Denver late in April for my 6 month checkups with Drs Ioana Hinshaw (medical oncologist), Daniel Chin (radiation oncologist), and Ross Wilkins (ortho oncologist) - all of which happened within 72 hours of each other. It snuck up on me, this first 3 month update after we left, and I was a bit blindsided by the importance of the visit. This was my first pet scan post-treatment, and would serve as a true benchmark of my remission, and whether or not the cancer had decided to start to sneak back in.

It was a distant reality, and I hadn't thought much about it until I was in an office meeting the morning of the day I flew to Denver, and then I freaked out. Fortunately, it was an internal meltdown, and I think I pulled upon my Native American DNA (thanks to my Great-Great Grandmother Victorine, who was an Algonquin Indian from Quebec - that isn't her on the right) and kept a pretty even 'stoic' face during the day. Sorry to perpetuate the stereotype of Native Americans as stoic, but if any of you have spent time on a reservation you know there tends to be a cultural tendency towards this label. Oh well, PC Police - sue me. Anyway, back to the meltdown.

There are many folks out there who have been diagnosed with cancers that require some surgery, or a non-invasive treatment, or low-level drug treatment. It's a tremendous emotional roller coaster for those folks to get the diagnosis and be treated, but those of us who have gone through the whole chemo thing have been to an even higher level of intensity. It's kind of like the first group went through Somalia, and the full-out chemo/radiation patients went through WWII and Korea in one fell swoop. I don't mean to discount the first group's emotions, fears, difficulties, or concerns - I have friends and family who have fought and won against cancer this way.

But let me tell you, when you're in the middle of chemotherapy and radiation treatment for Cancer, you are living in such a state of emotional and physical limbo that all you can do is make it to the next morning. I've talked in the past about the positive emotional and personal experiences resulting from my treatments (besides living) - it was an enriching time. But the thought of having to go through that Hell again came welling up in my mind all at once on that Monday. I couldn't think straight, and frankly was absolutely terrified of what would happen when I was tested later that week. Hands were shaky, focus was lacking, and the fear of having to fly back to my wife and new little girl with bad news was about as much as I could handle.

Needless to say, when my flight left Dayton on Monday afternoon I required a bit of liquid calm to take the edge off. $5 per glass of wine ($10 total) is a small price to pay for a bit of serenity.

Give it a try sometime - I highly recommend it. For those of you who don't drink because of religious reasons, don't forget that Jesus made water into wine for a reason.

So Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday were a whirlwind of tests, scans, and visits. In the end it is all looking pretty good. My blood was clean as a whistle - all cell counts and other markers were normal. My PetScan came back pretty good, but they did notice some cell growth activity in the chest (near something called the Thymus) that will require some monitoring. When I go back in 3 months (July) they are gonna run the PetScan again to check on this chest thing and see if it needs to be studied further. This little chest thing, while my doctor was dismissing as minor and not an issue because of positive blood work, started to get in my head once I returned to Cincy.

I'm OK with it now, although I can't deny that every once in a while I'll get a little worried and get some anxiety to tackle, but there's always something to deal with, isn't there? What I have to remind myself of is the lessons I learned during my illness about life and the fleeting nature of our time on Earth. We all think we're gonna live forever, but that isn't going to happen. It's even tougher to think about these things right after my baby girl has been born, but it's reality.

Lately, at the prompting of a friend, I've been putting together our daughter's family tree and been looking back through centuries (yes, CENTURIES) of Baker/Willis/Fritz/Becker family history and have been amazed at the varying lengths of time my ancestors and relatives have had on earth. While most of us think that 70/80/90 is a 'typical' lifespan, a little research in the past will open your eyes. In my research I discovered that a whole bunch of my great (to the 50th ish) power grandfathers died in the Battle of Mortimer's cross in a battle for the English throne in 1461 - many young men (30's) and older ones were offed - including Owen Tudor (yes, of the architectural style) who was my great (to the 40th ish) grandfather and got executed at the ripe old age of 61(ish).

Don't get me wrong, I'm still intending to get to 2072 with my margarita, cigar, and wife by my side - but this research has given me some perspective that not all of us get that much time. The key is, how do you use it - because with or without you, the beat will go on.

What's the point of the story? I get another 3 months to the next milestone. That's the whole point.

I've got to beat my drum of life, and make it count.

Monday, March 29th: Sweet Victory

Round one: Beat cancer

Round two: Baby daughter, Elaina:

Score: Baker 2, Cancer 0.

It's a best of 3 - I win.

Suck it, Cancer.