My surgeon told me the tumor was “in retreat.” Not shrinking. Not stable. In retreat. Like it was backing away from my organs instead of invading them. This was Dr. George Poultsides at Stanford, about a week after my Whipple surgery in March 2011. I asked him how the operation went. He said it went … Read more
My oncologist treated Steve Jobs. I didn’t know that when I first met him. I just knew he was the pancreatic cancer specialist at Stanford. Dr. George Fisher. Top of his field. The guy you wanted if you had pancreatic cancer. We shook hands in his office in February 2011. I was 30 years old. … Read more
My surgeon told me the tumor made a sound when he pulled it out. Not a big dramatic moment. Just a casual comment during my follow-up appointment a week after surgery. I asked him how the operation went. He said it went well. The tumor was “in retreat.” Then he made a gesture with his … Read more
Three bites of red jello. That was my first meal after Whipple surgery. Day five post-op. The nurse brought it on a tray with a tiny plastic spoon. It took me twenty minutes to eat those three bites. Not because I was savoring it. Because my body had forgotten how to eat. My stomach was … Read more
My oncologist sits down in the exam room now. He used to stand. Do the quick checkup. Review my scans. Ask a few questions. Move on to the next patient. Now he sits. Asks me questions about my supplement protocol. My diet. My energy levels. How I’ve managed to stay healthy for 14 years after … Read more
The nurse smiled when she saw me walk into the chemo center. Not a polite smile. A genuine one. The kind that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Look at you, Fatty,” she said. I laughed. Then I cried. She knew what gaining weight on cisplatin meant. Most people lose weight during chemotherapy. Their … Read more
The discharge nurse handed me three bottles of Creon when I left the hospital. “This should last you about 90 days,” she said. “Take two pills with each meal. One pill with snacks.” I nodded. Took the bottles. Went home. Twelve days later, I was out of pills. Not 90 days. Twelve days. Because the … Read more
I was doubled over on a wooden bench in the Haight, sweating through my shirt at 9 in the morning. My wallet was on the ground next to me because I couldn’t hold it anymore. I looked exactly like what the two SFPD officers thought I was when they found me: another addict having a … Read more