Courage comes in colors

When my radiation treatments ended in March, I walked out of the treatment lab toting a souvenir.

I'm not talking about the side effects from treatment that I'm still dealing with five months later, though I suppose that they are a souvenir badge of my treatments in a twisted sort of way.

I'm talking about the ThermaSplint mask that was molded to the contours of my face for my 33 treatment sessions in February and March. Each visit, before beginning treatment, the radiation techs lowered the mask over my head and locked it into place to keep me from shifting position while the rays were targeting my tumors.

At the conclusion of the final session, the radiation techs ceremoniously presented my mask to me, correctly guessing that I would be jazzed about displaying my mask in my living room.

I placed my mask on top of my television when I got home that night. But it wasn't long before the thing started to give me the creeps whenever I watched my Mary Tyler Moore Show DVDs so I found a place for the mask on the upper shelf of a bookcase in my bedroom.

I don't have any plans for using the mask again, but if you turn on the news one day and hear about a reward being offered for information leading to the capture of a ThermaSplint bandit robbing banks, go ahead and turn me in.

Well, to my surprise I learned that I'm not the only guy in the world with a fetish for ThermaSplint head gear.

A friend just let me know about "Courage Unmasked": a fund-raising event taking place next Wednesday at the American University Museum at the Katzen Art Center in Washington, D.C. One hundred artists have transformed radiation masks formerly worn by cancer patients into unique works of art, with proceeds from the event benefiting head and neck patients who are not able to afford radiation treatment for themselves.

Check out this gallery of photos of the Courage Unmasked collection. I hate to play favorites, but I love the Mr. Potato Head vibe that artist Susan Cole created for "Member of the (Medicine) Cabinet" and the whimsy shown in Raymond Van Santen's "The Magic of Courage."

Courage Unmasked just may inspire me to do something fancy to my own ThermaSplint mask, which is a spitting image of its owner, especially the nose. It would make a splendid rhinoceros.


Support Courage Unmasked with a tax deductible donation

Hunkering down for the long haul

Got a close-up look on Monday at the creepy underbelly of last month's biopsy results.

In Monday's visit with Dr. B1, the head and neck doctor who has had to put up with me more than any other Kaiser provider, he handed a copy of the surgical pathology report from the July 31 procedure to me.

The headline news from that report —that no more evidence of cancer was found in me— was joyfully disclosed here almost as soon as I read it in an email from Dr. B1.

On Monday, Dr. B1 shared additional findings by the pathologist.

I didn't really learn anything new, but the terminology that was used in the report to describe my condition sounded so much scarier than I imagined. (If the pathologist who wrote it ever decided to leave Kaiser, I bet he could earn a lucrative salary from the GOP spinning the Obama health care plan to the electorate.)

According to the pathologist's report, "granulation tissue with extensive necrosis and inflammatory cell debris" was found on both the left base and the deep base of my tongue, and "bacterial colonies" were found on the left base of my tongue.

I knew that there was extensive cell damage resulting from radiation therapy on my tongue —I'm reminded of that every time I try to open my mouth— but the way I had been privately describing the situation was that my tongue simply had an "owee" and just needed time to heal.

"Necrosis" sounds like an arch-villain of Spider-Man, or a death-metal band opening for Marilyn Manson. And a cluster of bacterial pup tents on my tongue would give me plenty to be nervous about, but entire "colonies"?! I only hope that those bacterial Ben Franklins don't take steps toward full statehood.

The bottom line is that if my tongue is healing at all, it is doing so at an extremely slow pace.

After Dr. B1 and I reviewed the pathologist's report, he outlined the next steps for me in my treatment plan: another visit to the Radiation Oncology Department at the end of the month, more imaging studies and possibly more surgery.

So Monday's visit in the Head and Neck Department wasn't the victory lap I had hoped it would be.

For one, my fingers had been crossed that Dr. B1 would tell me that he would agree to begin divorce proceedings between me and my trach. Instead, it looks like I'm going to be saddled with my trach for some time. Dr. B1 doesn't want to remove the tube until a clearer picture emerges about what's happening with my tongue and jawbone.

"Wait and watch" were the doctor's orders.

As far as the cancer is concerned, Dr. B1 said that the risk of recurrence becomes very low after five years. That means I'm going to be having cancer heebee-jeebies well into President Obama's second term or President Palin's first.

Don't get me wrong. I'm still kicking my heels and flashing "V" for Victory signs about beating cancer, at least so far. As Dr. B1 reminded me on Monday, the challenges that I'm facing now are annoying but they are not life-threatening.

There's a huge chasm between life-threatening and quality-of-life threatening, and that gulf is my buffer zone against cancer.

To twist a cliché, this opera ain't over until the guy with the trach sings.