johnwalkwithme

Ok. So it’s been a full year since I last posted on here. My apologies. Anyways, it’s hard to believe it’s been a full 18 months since my last chemotherapy treatment. But it’s given me plenty of time to reflect on what these last two years have been like. Two very formative years that I’ve learned a lot about myself and my beautiful wife, Sam. Because for as much as what I’ve been through, I feel like it’s been even harder on her. That’s something very few people know. But I feel comfortable sharing it now because she has come out on the other side even stronger, too. Words can’t do justice to how proud I am of Sam growing into a better woman through these trials, with me discovering inner-strengths in her I never knew existed. Hardships can do that to you.

And just when we put 2015 behind us, the first weeks of 2016 were just as hard. Those were the final weeks of the life of George Robertshaw, my grandfather, who lived a very long and very happy life. Still, it’s easy never easy saying goodbye – for now – to a loved one, especially one who had such a vibrant spirit.

Then Sam and I, renters since we married in 2010, went in search of our first home, and nearly made what would’ve been a costly mistake when we fell in love with a home. Looking past its many defects, we got it under agreement only for it to fall apart and lead us to pull out of the deal.

Looking back on it, God was looking out for us. Because weeks later we found a home across the Susquehanna River in Lancaster County that’s turned out to be the right choice. Even when we discovered our oil tank needed replacing and some patch work done to the roof on this home, God provided for us again when we were able to use the money we had set aside for the home in order to complete both projects down to the very dollar.

These last 24 hours have been filled with good news as well. Professionally, God has continued to allow me to use the skills He has blessed me with in order to be the messenger of some incredible stories. One of them was about a young junior high football coach who lost his ability to walk over the last year or so, with doctors unable to provide answers to his mysterious condition. Just yesterday, that same coach was seen walking without crutches at a new rehab facility that may have found some solutions to his health.

That story was one of six I entered into the Features Beat Reporting category for the 2017 Keystone awards – an annual competition among all the newspaper and print media folk in Pennsylvania. Those awards were just announced this afternoon. And for the second year in a row, I was awarded first place.

This development came just hours after my latest doctor’s appointment with my oncologist – following a round of blood work and a CT scan that I get done every six months – who gave me a clean bill of health, meaning I’m still cancer-free.

I wasn’t the only one to receive such good news. Through my job, I previously covered the York Catholic girls basketball team. And shortly after my bout with cancer, I learned that the York Catholic coach had a son, Chandler, who was in the midst of a battle with a similar lymphoma cancer. Chandler and I got to know each other through this connection, and met in person for the first time just a few weeks ago (see the above picture). It turns out Chandler and I now get our six-month checkups around the same time. And he also got a clean bill of health hours after I got mine.

I’d be lying, though, if I said everything has been looking up. Even while Sam and I found our first home, and even while God has led me to some incredible stories, I lost two young friends to cancer in 2016. And there have been bumps in the road in the dream of Sam and I to be parents, stemming back to what we went through in 2015. That’s a story for another day. One we’re not comfortable telling just yet. But even in those trials, God has proved, in little ways, He is still here and is still listening. And He always will be provided that we trust in him through life’s peaks and valleys. We’ve gotten through this much together. Certainly we’re strong enough now to handle whatever comes next.

(This picture is from last summer. My hair has since grown back, but Sam loves this picture of us, says I ‘look good bald,’ so at least I know she’ll still love me when I’m an old, balding man)

I figured the results would come back clear. After all, my health has been just fine and I haven’t felt any lumps growing on my neck. But on the drive to Cancer Care of York, I did start entertaining those thoughts of ‘What if the cancer did come back?’ Now, I’m not a ‘what if’ question kind of guy. I heard a saying somewhere that ‘what if’ questions usually end negatively – for example, it’s rare you hear ‘What if I played the lottery and won a million dollars?’ or ‘What if I got the perfect job, got married and we lived happily ever after?’

But if the doctor did say I had cancer again, I wouldn’t have much worried about going through treatment a second time. I went through it last summer and handled it just fine, so I could do it over again if that’s what had to happen. Of course, there’s the worry about one of the chemo drugs, where if you have enough of the drug there comes a point where it could cause Leukemia. And there’s always the possibility of treatment being different a second time around, perhaps radiation, which would cause many side effects and likely lead to needing time off work to recuperate – something I was blessed with not having to do last year, as I think I missed maybe only a day or two of work (I suppose I could’ve milked that illness pay for all it’s worth, but at the time I was more about not letting the cancer slow down my life).

But really the true frustration would have come in the other areas of life, such as having to put plans on hold to buy a house and start trying to build a family, goals that Sam and I have been working toward for many years now – and goals which we hope God will allow us to reach in the near future.

Fortunately, we don’t have to worry about any of the above. This month was my six-month checkup since I finished chemo last August or September (can’t remember what date the final day of treatment was). It basically consists of me getting bloodwork done (having a vial of blood withdrawn from my arm) and then a couple days later following it up with a CT scan of my head and neck (since that’s where the cancer was this time last year). And then today going over the results of the blood work and scan with my oncologist, who gave us the good news that I’m still in the clear and everything looks good. He also informed us that I’ll be getting these six month check-ups in regularity for the next two to three years, at which point it would then go down to a once-a-year checkup for the rest of my life, the reason being that the type of cancer I had is one that could either never come back or could come back in a year, or three, or 10 or 20.

You might be thinking that’s a scary prospect to live with, but I know so many folks who unfortunately have it much worse. There’s an older gentleman at my church who still takes a chemo pill after earlier bouts with cancer. There’s a woman I know who battled breast cancer last year and is now on a chemo pill for the next 10 years of her life. There’s a boy at a local high school I know who is battling Leukemia and has to be on a chemo pill for the next three years of his life while also getting once-a-month treatments at Penn State Hershey Children’s Hospital. There’s a seven-year-old boy I recently met who had a brain tumor removed and is taking medication in hopes to shrink the other two brain tumors. And there’s a former high school classmate of mine who has Multiple Sclerosis and Crohn’s disease, two medical conditions that aren’t cancerous but are not fun to deal with and ones that he’ll likely have to live with the rest of his life. So you can trust me when I say I’m not worrying about my health prospects.

Instead, Sam and I are continuing to work towards what is hopefully a bright future. One where we continue to grow in our walk together with God, in fellowship with our supportive community of church friends, and enjoy the comfort of knowing we are surrounded by such loving and caring family members.

(Sam and I having fun at the Cape May Zoo last summer)

Well, the last six or seven months have gone by like a blur. It’s crazy how it all started. Just a lump I noticed on the right side of my neck one day, only a week or so after starting a new job in Lancaster. Then finding out the mass was cancerous, and nervously waiting to find out what the side effects of chemotherapy would be, only to prove over the coming weeks and months that cancer couldn’t stop me, that the side effects would be very minimal, and that I could continue to work and live a relatively normal life throughout treatment.

Of course, I couldn’t have done it without all of the love and support of my family, church friends and colleagues. One day I’ll take the time to sit down and write out thank-yous to the many of you who helped along this journey. Just know for now it meant the world to me, from those who drove me to and from appointments, to those who cooked meals for Sam and I, to those would just occasionally check in, it truly warms my heart to know we are loved so much.

I also couldn’t have done it without God’s grace. It hasn’t been easy, but this trial has provided us an opportunity to grow stronger in our faith, and perhaps open the eyes and ears of others to the Gospel.

There’s been nights when Sam and I have cried, wondering why we were afflicted with such a test. Asking God why He would throw such a wrench in our plans to start a family – a family we are still hopeful He will one day bless us with. There were the days over at Cancer Care when I felt like I shouldn’t be in there, looking around and noticing I was the youngest person there. This whole year has been tough. Sam lost her grandma to cancer. My dad was hospitalized and is still on the path to recovery. Some folks at our church have lost loved ones, others have been hit with devastating news related to their health.

There’s also been the pretty pennies I’ve had to fork to get my car fixed – and as a matter of fact I just returned from dropping Sam’s car off at the shop to get fixed. I know these last items are material objects, which surely don’t bother me as much, but when thrown on top of everything else we’ve had to deal with this year, it can get to be a bit much. Trust me when I say I’ll be glad when this year is over, because I definitely feel like this has been a year of trials. Still, I’ve learned to accept these bumps in the road as a way of life. Stuff happens. There’s gonna be ups and there’s gonna be downs. And we have to take both in stride, trusting in God when times are good and when times are bad.

But given all that we and others have been through this year, today’s bit of good news is much-needed.

All Clear: Sam tagged along for my appointment with my oncologist this morning, where we learned of the results of last week’s CT scan.

Aside from scar tissue left over on the right side of my neck as a result of the chemo, the doctor said that I’m in the clear. In other words, I’m cancer-free. For now, anyways. The chemo did its job. It killed the cancer. I’ll have a follow-up CT scan in six months – and learn of the results on March 24, which will be Sam’s birthday. I’ll have another CT scan six months after that. If those scans come back all clear, I’ll be even happier.

It’s worth noting here the type of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma I had is a type that could never show up again or could return in a year, three years or 20 years. As a result, I’ll be getting a CT scan once a year for the rest of my life. Plus, I now know what to look out for. Or should I say feel for, as in keeping tabs on the lymph nodes in my neck, armpits, stomach and groin. So if it does show back up in the future, we’ll be able to catch it early. But lets hope we never have to cross that bridge again.

For now I am more relieved than anything. Relieved that I don’t have to go through chemo again, because although I didn’t have many side effects, it’s not all that fun.

And I am thankful, to God for making Sam and I stronger in our faith through this trial, for bringing us closer together over this summer and showing us we can make it through anything together, and for showing His love by providing us with an amazing support system.

You may be wondering what’s next. I certainly am. Getting cancer surely makes you think about your future and all that you still want to accomplish with the time God has allotted. There’s some career goals on the horizon I’d like to tackle. Sam and I have to wait six months until we can start trying for kids. I’d like to help my dad return to full health. I’ll continue the labor of love of trying to lead some of my family members to Christ. Next year, I’d like to run the Lancaster Red Rose 5-miler and maybe even a half-marathon later in the year. And, lastly, Sam and I have began taking steps towards planning a cross-country road trip, visiting some awesome destinations and camping at spots along the way. It’s something we’ve always wanted to do since we met. And this whole cancer thing has given us a kick in the butt, I suppose, to finally crossing it off our bucket list. Hopefully next summer I’ll be able to use this blog to document that trip. In the meantime, when I get a chance I’ll occasionally check back in on here, perhaps sharing some of the high points and low points from the last seven months.

God bless,

John

Well, it’s the morning of my CT scan and I woke up extra early on purpose. You see, I’m not supposed to eat or drink anything (except water) three hours prior to my CT scan, which is scheduled for 11:45 a.m. So I figured I’d wake up just before that three-hour mark began and get some breakfast in me so I’m not completely starving by the time of the scan.

Then, beginning at 9:45 a.m., there’s a liquid I’m supposed to mix with a quart of water, and drink eight ounces every 30 minutes leading up to the actual scan. The liquid will serve as the contrast on the CT scan, which is looking at my neck, chest and abdomen.

I’ll find out the results of the scan when I meet with my oncologist next week. We’re all anticipating it’ll come back clear (AKA technically I’ll be cancer-free). After all, the last time I had scan was after my second round of chemotherapy months ago, and that one showed I had a small mass of cancer left in my neck – an improvement from the original diagnosis that showed my right tonsil and all of the lymph nodes on the right side of my neck were cancerous. I’ve since had four more rounds of chemotherapy.

A part of me is anxious and excited to learn where we stand on this. But another part is also hesitant to really celebrate anything. Because the type of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma I have is one that could return, whether it be in a year, or three, or 20. Or it could never return. I’m scheduled for scans six months from now, and another one six months after that. I suppose if those come back all clear, I’ll feel a lot more at ease. From what I’ve read on blogs and have been told by other cancer survivors, this feeling seems normal, that of becoming less worried about cancer as time progresses.

But I will say I’m glad to have the chemotherapy treatments behind me. While I am blessed to not have had many side effects, the accompanying feeling of being bloated in the immediate days after chemo as the drugs cycled out of my system wasn’t much fun. And the weird, novacaine-like taste the drugs caused in my saliva made everything I ate for about a week taste like it was covered in pool water. But again, I’ll take those side effects over anything else, because I know they could have been much worse.

The CT scan itself wasn’t too bad, just the large needle that they used to go into my arm, at the crevice in my elbow, was painful and uncomfortable the whole time it was in.

A WEEK LATER…It’s the morning of my appointment with my oncologist. It’s funny. This whole time I’ve been telling myself and others I’ve likely been in the clear for several weeks now considering I only had a small mass of cancer left after my second round of chemo, and I’ve since had four more rounds. But driving over to the appointment the morning of the doubts started creeping into my mind, like what if they don’t come back clear? What if there’s still a small mass of cancer left? What if I have to get chemo again?

Well, either way, I’ve proven to myself I can handle the treatment. I don’t want to have to do it again. But if I have to, I rest in the comfort knowing I am able to, and would have a support system there if needed. Lets hope it doesn’t come to that, though.

An update on my progress as we (hopefully) near the end of this battle with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

My earliest recollection is when I was stretching my neck one day before a P90X workout in my basement, and noticed my reflection in a picture frame that I had so often looked into several times before. Only then, something appeared abnormal in my neck.

I didn’t tell my wife right away, only because I didn’t want to alarm her – my long hair (at the time) played a part in concealing my neck. Plus, I figured maybe my body was just fighting an infection, and perhaps one of my lymph nodes in my neck was swollen as a result.

I paid my doctor a visit about a week or two later. You know the drill. Someone escorts you back to the room, takes your height and weight, tells you to take a seat and the doctor will be in to see you in a moment.

After a few minutes of questions about my health, and feeling my neck, under my armpits, stomach and around my groin, the doctor knew immediately the severity of the lump on the right side of my neck.

“I’m concerned it might be Lymphoma,” he said.

My reaction, “Well, if it is, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

Notice how the doctor never said the word, ‘cancer.’

Perhaps this is why I’ve never once had that feeling of being hit with a ton of bricks when a doctor diagnoses you with the “c” word. Not when I later went for a CT scan, a biopsy of my right tonsil and the lump on my neck, a PET scan, or when I finally met with my oncologist for the first time, which is where he used the previous tests to make the official diagnosis: Lymphocyte-Predominant Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.

Not once did the words of the oncologist drown out in my mind as he explained to my wife and I what type of Lymphoma I had, how he came to that conclusion, and the battle we were facing.

Now, I will pause briefly to say I likely would’ve had a different reaction had the diagnosis came back terminal. But all along, I felt like no matter what popped up, that I was gonna beat it. And, yeah, while I had a cancer diagnosis, it turned out to be one of the most curable types. My right tonsil and all of the lymph nodes on the right side of my neck were cancerous. It had not spread to other parts of my body. The chemotherapy treatment would be once every three weeks for about four months. I likely could continue to work throughout treatment. And I could keep up the same exercise regimen as well, so long as I listened to my body and didn’t overdo it.

‘We need to talk’

For the six days after my family doctor told me he was concerned I had Lymphoma, I didn’t tell a soul. The main reason I did this is because I didn’t want to alarm anyone. After all, it was only a possibility. I hadn’t even gone for further scans or biopsies yet, so I couldn’t tell someone I actually had cancer, which, as I’ve discovered, feels akin to dropping that ton of bricks on them.

But a CT scan costs money. And I couldn’t just charge it and hope my wife didn’t notice.

So it came on a Monday night after work when I approached my wife at home on our living room couch.

“We need to talk,” I said. “There’s a possibility I could have Lymphoma.”

The next few minutes are kind like a blur in my memory. She may have asked me if that meant I had cancer. Or if Lymphoma is a type of cancer. I’m not sure. I just remember she shed a lot of tears while I comforted her until she regained her senses.

“The only reason I’m telling you now is because I have to go for a CT scan tomorrow morning,” I said.

“Well, I’m going with you,” she said.

Losing a loved one

A good two months passed from the initial meeting with my family doctor until I actually met my oncologist, who informed me of the diagnosis in our first meeting. I do not wish that waiting game upon anyone, because out of everything I’ve been through to this point, I think that’s one of the hardest parts, going about your days wondering if you have cancer or not, how serious it may be if it is cancerous, and what the treatment could entail. EVERYDAY FOR TWO MONTHS.

During this span, my wife and I decided not to tell anyone – except for our bosses – about my health until we absolutely knew of the diagnosis and the ensuing treatment.

Even then, shortly after we did learn of all of this, my wife got a phone call informing her that her grandmother was in her final days. We decided then to wait even longer to tell anyone. It would just be too much on her family to not only say their goodbyes to my wife’s grandmother but also tell them I had cancer.

A day or two after my wife’s grandmother died – after a long battle with cancer herself – I went for a bone marrow biopsy at York Hospital. By then, we had already known what type of cancer I had, the severity of it, and the treatment ahead. I’m still not entirely sure why I needed the bone marrow biopsy – something to do with my blood or checking to make sure there was no cancer of the blood. No matter, a bone marrow biopsy is easily the second-worst pain I’ve ever felt in my entire life – second to fracturing my elbow when I fell out of my bunk bed as a kid (socks + wooden steps + middle of the night + nature calling = broken arm).

Anyway, we eventually told our families on the Sunday of that week, a Sunday that began with church and, afterwards, sitting down with our pastor, Joe Fauth, in a spare room. We revealed the news to Pastor Joe and mainly wanted to meet with him so he could provide us with whatever guidance he might have, and pray for us, for the remainder of our day with the tasks ahead.

Maybe it was God’s love coming upon me at that very moment. Maybe it was a culmination of the difficulties of the previous weeks. But as Pastor Joe prayed for us, with Joe’s arm around me to right side, and my wife’s hand on mine to my left, I can say then is the first time I cried over this whole thing.

‘What cancer cannot do’

The blessing in all of this is a couple weeks later, at the funeral of my wife’s grandmother, someone read a passage titled, “What cancer cannot do.” The author of the passage is unknown. But my wife’s grandmother had found it at some point during her own battle with cancer. It reads as follows…

Cancer is so limited…

It cannot

cripple Love.

It cannot

shatter Hope.

It cannot

destroy Peace.

It cannot

kill Friendship.

It cannot

suppress Memories.

It cannot

silence Courage.

It cannot

invade the Soul.

It cannot

steal Eternal Life.

It cannot

conquer the Spirit.

Here’s a video documenting the few weeks from the start of my first treatment.

Well, actually this began back on May 19. That was the first day of my chemotherapy. It only took me a little more than a month to work up the courage to finally start a blog about my experience.

Anyways, for those of you unaware, here’s a quick recap:

Back in February I noticed a lump on the right side of my neck. Several medical tests later and doctors determined I have Stage Two Hodgkins Lymphoma. Well, the technical term is actually Lymphocyte Predominant Hodgkins Lymphoma. Long story short, my right tonsil and all of the lymph nodes on the right side of my neck were cancerous (notice the past tense use of ‘were,’ more on that in a bit).

Before you worry, just know this is one of the most curable types of cancer and I’m able to live a relatively normal life throughout treatment. Oh, yeah. Treatment. I get chemotherapy once every three weeks. It basically consists of getting hooked up to an IV and pumped full of drugs for several hours.

Through only two rounds of treatment, the cancer is almost entirely gone. Only one small mass remains on the right side of my neck. My oncologist tells me this is really good news.

Round Three of treatment is July 1 (today for some of you reading this). If all goes according to plan, I’m supposed to go through six total rounds of treatment, which means we’re halfway there (cue Bon Jovi).

I haven’t had many side effects to this point. The hair on my head and the facial hair has fallen out (yes, the picture above is old one, from my second round of treatment). Fortunately my eyebrows and eyelashes are sticking around, so I’m not as scary looking. Plus, I’ll be more aerodynamic at the beach this summer. I had a couple cold sores in my mouth early on, but those dissipated. And I’ve found that on the night of treatment I’m a little nauseous and the 48 hours following I’m bloated, probably from all the liquid pumped into me during treatment. But I’ll take that compared to other potential side effects. Anyways, I’ve continued to exercise regularly, eat normally and maintain a regular work schedule.

I plan to post more on this blog in the near future, providing further insight and details as to what life has been like these last few months. Just know at this point I feel strong, I’m in good hands when at the treatment facility, and God has truly shown His love through the support and care provided by my family, church family, colleagues and friends. It’s no doubt Him answering many prayers to keep me in good health, and Sam and I in good spirits.

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.” – James 1:2-3