Posted by Joe on his FB 5/28/11


Well don’tcha know I’m caught in a trap.
I can’t walk out,
Because I love you too much, baby.
Elvis Presley, ‘Suspicious Minds.’

We really don’t KNOW anything. Where we are, where we’re going. We don’t KNOW anything for sure, except that there are ‘suspicions.’

After a day of tests, and a morning of appointments, we don’t KNOW one more thing than we knew going in. What we have in the place of knowledge is suspicion, assumption, and uncertainty. If you know me well enough to be reading this, you know that if there’s one thing I deal poorly with, it’s that trifecta.

Way back on March 31, at Wood County Hospital, a CT scan was done of my chest. On that scan, radiology identified an extremely small ‘nodule’ on my lung. This Thursday, I had CT scans done again in a freezing cold basement at Cleveland Clinic. The nodule was still there. It hadn’t grown in two months, which is good. But its mere presence could, maybe, possibly, in some context indicate a spread of the cancer.

Maybe.

Might.

So now, my scans go off to an independent radiologist to determine whether the nodule is, indeed, suspicious or not. Please note – he won’t be determining if it’s actually cancerous. Just suspicious, or not.

If it’s not ‘suspicious,’ I’m a great candidate for a pretty promising trial of a medicine already used for people with recurrence of kidney cell carcinoma. If it is ‘suspicious,’ I don’t qualify for the trial, but will begin the ‘standard of care’ for recurrence. Maybe. Because it might not actually be recurrence. It might just be suspicious.

Yesterday was the first day I actually considered the fact seriously that this might come back. With apologies to the Replacements, “You can call me Hymie, You can call me Sam, you can call me Stupid, ‘cause that’s prob’ly what I am.” But I had completely convinced myself that I knew what was going to happen next. Dr. K got all of the cancer. Dr. R, my new oncologist and Nurse W – both of whom serve on national kidney cancer boards, and are literally the best in the world – would get me on the trial, the trial would work, and I, Joseph Boyle, would beat the odds.

I reiterate, for my sake as much as yours, that this may still be the case. Maybe.

But it might not. And even if it is, I know a lot more about the treatments they are using with increasing success, and in some cases, have blasted the cancer into complete remission.

I’m trying as hard as I can to bottle up the mights and maybes, to just live it one day at a time, and not get worked up about anything until something is actually known, which would be June 7, at the earliest. But I just can’t explain how difficult it is to keep my mind from going to those places. I know people mean well when they say ‘cheer up,’ and ‘stay positive,’ but it is just not that simple for me – it never has been.
Many of you have been praying, along with me, for a miracle. The more I think about it, the more I think Katie hit it on the head the other day: Catching this when we did, as such a fluke, was a miracle. Ending up in Cleveland with the best surgeon in the country for the removal; and getting an oncology team that specializes in precisely my kind of cancer… well, that’s rather a miracle, too. But I can’t help but to feel a bit greedy for another one, the big one, and I’m sort of ashamed by that. I want the big miracle; I want the cure. I honestly keep waiting for that appointment when they say that they have no idea how it happened, but I’m clean.

I know that, with time, over the next few days, my blood pressure will come down and my mood will improve. And my situation is by no means dire right now. It’s my mind that’s playing games with me, and I have to rediscover the peace I had after the surgery, and then after the blood clot. First and foremost, writing this is the last I am planning on talking about any of this for at least this long weekend. Writing is my therapy, and I just kind of needed to get this on 'paper,' and out there, and out of my life for a few days.

Thank you all again for your thoughts and prayers, and I hope you’ll keep them coming. I know God’s will shall be done no matter what, but I can’t help but think I’m meant to stick around for a while

Posted by Joe on his FB 5/21/11


RELAY FOR LIFE
My walking form right now is even worse than my running form ever was. I’m a little hunched in the shoulders to relieve pressure around the incision, and the further I walk, the more I bend over. Last night, as I slouched around the Bowling Green High School track during the Relay for Life, my gaze drifted down to the luminaries lining the track. I was taken aback when I saw the name on one of them – Dennis Hale, one of my favorite professors from BGSU, a guy who had a quick and easy smile, and whose care for his students shone through everything he did. A few steps later, the name of Chris Bartz, our Rogers athletic director’s wife. A few steps later, and the name Jackie Cocke, the grandmother of one of my oldest friends from back in GR. And on, and on, and on.

I was shocked at how many people I knew who had died from cancer – and as I made a second circuit of the track, I started running into a lot of people I knew. People who were wearing purple shirts. People who were survivors. It was a second shock – how many people I know who have survived cancer.

I’m not versed in the statistics, and frankly, the numbers don’t mean nearly as much as the qualitative data. We all know a LOT of people who have died from cancer, and we all know a LOT of people who have survived cancer.


UPDATES
• I went back to work for Thursday and Friday of this week. It was more than great to be back at Rogers. I missed the students and my colleagues terribly, and it was good to be doing something that felt normal. Standing in the hall and laughing with Brian, Eric, and Ron is better than percocet.

• Do not be fooled by my Nike+ updates that say I ‘ran!’ I am using my Nike+ to track my walking mileage, and trying to add a tenth of a mile to my distance each day. My pace is somewhere in the neighborhood of 27’30”. A few people have private messaged me with atta boys for getting out and running – but I’m not quite there yet!! Currently, I can walk about 6/10 of a mile before I’m gassed.

• The walking (and pain therein) is a big part of the reason for this next bit of news: This past week, I gave up my spot on the Normandy Institute this summer. The decision, once I took my heart out of the equation, and thought with my brains, was sort of a no-brainer – especially when they guaranteed that my student, Corey, would still be able to go and will be paired with a couple of great adult partners.
I really wanted to convince myself that I could do it, but reality won this round. The institute is less than four weeks away, and would require at least three miles of walking on each outing, up cliffs, across beaches in France, getting to the Metro, on the Metro, to the next place, etc. It’s a stretch for me to believe that I would be able to do that AT ALL, much less comfortably in this time frame. And then there was the complexity of the medical issues: What if I got cut? What if I took a spill? As good a reputation as the French health care system has, do I really want to risk a situation where I have to spend a week in a hospital overseas when my French is limited to finding restrooms, buying train tickets, and ordering lamb? So, in consultation with the trip’s organizer, we agreed it was a bad idea for me to take the trip this year after the blood clot complication. But should the institute’s sponsor choose to fund it again next year (which seems likely), I am guaranteed a spot. I’m at peace with the decision – I was exceptionally nervous about traveling in this condition. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed. I’ve wanted to pay my respects at Uncle Paul’s grave for so long, and this part of history is so resonant with me, that I wish badly I could go. So I’m praying for good health a year from now, and a wildly successful institute so the sponsor decides to fund it next year!!

• Between not going on the Institute trip, having to cancel our wedding shoots since I can’t even carry the freakin’ bag, and having had to resign my course at BGSU, all of a sudden my summer is a lot more free. For the first time in five years, our weekends won’t be dictated by other peoples’ weddings. We’ll be able to get up to the cottage more, over to Aaron and Kathy’s, and spend a little time in DC with Katie’s sister. I’m rather excited at the notion of being able to spend this summer almost exclusively with family and friends.

• We go to Cleveland Clinic this coming Thursday and Friday to get a battery of tests, and then meet with my oncologist. I’m hoping to get on a clinical trial for a drug that is intended to ward off recurrence. Thus far, nothing science has developed has reduced the 40-50% recurrence rate of renal cell carcinoma. I am all about whatever can improve my odds, and am praying that this might be part of my miracle.

• On praying: Since diagnosis, I have sort of formalized a prayer regimen every day for myself. But the past week, I’ve been kind of disappointed with myself, and feeling as if my faith is weak. When all of this happened, my prayer had an intensity that I’ve never felt before. Now, as life gets more ‘normal,’ I feel that my prayer is again becoming somewhat rote, and lacking the urgency it had when I was in crisis. It’s shameful, and I suspect, not unique to me, that faith and our relationship with God becomes so much more tangible at our darkest hours.

It should come as no surprise I’m not the writer Joe is. I use him as my copy editor on the important things.
Joe’s pain is much better. He has increased his walking to a mile a day. No cane or walker. He can start driving when the Percocet is no longer taken.
He is up and down the basement steps a few times a day (we have a one story house). He has done dishes a few times, made his own lunch, helped with dinner and folded laundry. Just about to the point where he can help with more housework but also well enough to go back to work. That said…
Joe went back to school today (but I expect him to be very tired when he gets home) I’m sure he will write more about it. This morning was the senior class awards ceremony in which the Boyle family scholarship was awarded. Last year when Joe won BCSN Teacher of the Year it came with a $10000 endowed scholarship in his name.
The blood work is still not coming back with a constant level. Joe takes the Coumadin each day and the dosage changes depending on the most recent INR. I had to remind him once to not eat salad (greens can effect IRN levels). The transition from Coumadin control done by the Cleveland Clinic has been transferred to his local doctor. During this whole blood clot issue Joe's general practitioner left the practice he was at so it took a little longer to get local care set up. We are happy with his new internist.
The Coumadin thins the blood- which we want so blood can still move while the body works on dissolving the clot-but it means he has a chance of bleeding. Because of that he can’t use a strait razor. I can’t wait for his electric razor to arrive from Amazon so he can shave and be done with facial hair.
We have settled into the new “normal”.

Life, moving forward

Posted by Joe on his FB 5/21/11


I feel a bit like a pretender as I write these blog posts. “Cancer survivor” is not a badge I feel that I have earned; in all honesty, despite the inconveniences and annoyances of the past six weeks, the pain I have had to bear is not that heavy compared to others. So I write this today not as someone who claims to have all the answers – hell, I don’t even think I have many of the right questions yet – but just as a person who is on a journey, and seeing some things for the first time, and remembering others that had been long forgotten or ignored.

Many of you may have seen these things already, and my observations will mean little to you. I hope you’ll think of me like someone just moving to your hometown – the things I note may be obvious to you, and they will almost certainly be naïve in some cases.

The polite thing to do here is to give you the quick and easy rundown of what’s happened, so we’ll start with that: Sunday, May 8, I was sprung from Cleveland Clinic and came home. Since then, I’ve been building strength in my left leg, and endurance to walk on it for longer. It’s been getting a lot better – they sent me home with a walker, and I’ve ditched that. Friday, I went to Kroger with my mom and was able to walk (albeit very slowly) from the car, to the bakery, and back out to the car. It may not sound like much, but it was pretty sweet for me. I also have a new primary care doctor, whom I like personally, and trust professionally. It looks like I’ll be trapped in these compression stockings through June, but then will be able to be barelegged and barefoot, as I prefer to be, throughout the rest of the summer. More on that barefoot business later. I will be on blood thinners – rat poison – for about a year, during which I will have to be exceptionally careful to not to get cut or bruised. Specifically, I am forbidden from being on ladders or roofs. I can't imagine either of these shall be a problem.

Medically, my known future includes weekly blood draws, a return to the Clinic in late May to meet with the oncologist to begin a clinical trial on anti-recurrence drugs, and an August appointment with the vascular people.

That’s the boring stuff. What I’m excited about is that life itself seems to be slowly getting off ‘pause,’ and back in a new kind of action. Next week, I’ll begin my return to work on Thursday and Friday. I just can’t overstate how excited I am about that – not only do I miss the kids and my friends terribly, I miss the routine and the excitement of not knowing what every day is going to bring. I’m sad that I’ll only get a couple of weeks of school before coming home for summer. My summer plans are sort of in flux right now, and I’ll explain more about that in later posts.

If you were looking for a brief update on my condition, that was it! You don’t have to read anymore! If you’re into reading some stuff that’s spiritual on the border of hippy-dippy, feel free to read on.

###

Still with me? Cool – but don’t feel you have to be.

Less than an hour after doctors used the “C” word to describe what was in my body on March 31, Fr. Mark was at my bedside and encouraged me to dig deeper – that cancer, physical cancer, sort of is what it is. But what’s important is to tackle the spiritual cancer. Even at that point, Father identified exactly what my spiritual cancer was, and has always been: Fear.

So, from the day of diagnosis, I’ve been grappling on and off – and sort of grasping in the dark for answers – with fear and its consequences. This past week, I read two books that helped me further understand both my specific fears, and fear’s opposite, love.

I’ll start with the second book, “Dealing with Cancer.” My friend Colin’s mom sent me this book just a day or so after I got back from the Clinic. At first blush, it’s something that would probably not be my cup of tea. The author, Myron Eshowsky, is a modern-day shaman – which, in my mind, conjured up some kind of crazy-ass dude in a loincloth jumping around a fire yelling ‘Oonga Boonga!” To be fair, there is a little of that in here. But it’s much deeper.

Eshowsky’s central premise is that we’ve got it wrong in the Western world when we say we’re ‘battling cancer,’ or ‘going to war with cancer,’ or even when we say we are ‘beating cancer.’ Eshowsky takes the position that this visualization is completely wrong.

Cancer is part of all of us; you, me, anyone. All of us have cancer cells in our body. But only some of us have the cancer cells actually take root, replicate, and raise a ruckus in our bodies. So declaring war on cancer is sort of… declaring war on yourself. Eshowsky encourages the reader to confront the cancer; to understand what the conditions were that allowed the cancer to decide to put its roots down, and to sort of negotiate a truce with the cancer, rather than defeat it on the field of battle.

For me, as a guy who counts Churchill, Teddy Roosevelt, and Dwight Eisenhower as idols, this idea of peace-making with a deadly enemy is almost anathema – especially since our doctors, our society, and our friends all use the same verbiage: “You’re gonna beat this thing!” “You’re gonna win this fight!” “You’ll win this battle!”

So as I’m reading the book, and it starts making sense to me, I’m having to reprogram my brain – having to reframe my concept of my recovery. So, the history junkie in me starts realizing that what Eshowsky is saying is kind of like the difference between the Treaty of Versailles and the Marshall Plan. After World War I, we enforced a brutal peace, and felt like we won for a little while. But we never addressed the underlying problems – and it led to an inevitable resurgence of conflict that caught us off guard, and was even more deadly than the first fight. We learned that lesson after World War II, and the Marshall Plan approached the end of the war far differently. In the simplest terms, the Marshall Plan built peace through partnership.

With that vision in my head, it was easier to take deeper steps into Eshowsky’s method. And this is probably where all of this gets a little weird for most of you, and I’ll not even share the weirdest parts.

Eshowsky encourages people to take a ‘shaministic journey’ to sort of ‘meet’ their cancer and learn what it is, and where it comes from. He encourages the journeyer to envision themselves descending below ground, and meeting a ‘spirit animal,’ and then traveling to find and meet one’s cancer and find out why it is working against us.

I know what you’re thinking, and it’s probably not very far from what I was thinking. So last night, after saying my rosary, I’m sitting on the couch, and attempting to drift toward sleep, and I start going through his method to enter a trance. Well, what happened was I fell asleep. And then had a dream that, in large part, was exactly what he described as what happens in the trances.

In my dream, I met my dog Emerald, and she was with me at the grocery. There, we ran into a girl I had a crush on a long, long time ago. She was at least six and a half feet tall in the dream (larger than life, tellingly). I tried to say hey, and she sort of smiled, and walked away. Rejection at my most vulnerable time. Left alone. Scared.

Scared. Fear. Fear of being alone. Fear of being rejected. Later, when I woke up with a start, everything started clicking for me. For the first time, I was realizing what my really, really deep fears entail: Being rejected for who I really am. Being rejected by her so long ago was a scar I didn’t even realize I had – something I had kept down for a really long time. Obviously, it worked out for the absolute best over time! But it was a wound I had never even thought of, and hadn’t considered how deeply it wounded me at the time, and how it changed the way I approached life ever after that.

The dream went on, and if possible, got weirder. My youngest son and I were on a four-wheeler, and being chased by jaguars. I drove faster and faster, but the jaguars kept pace with us. I had to slow down to take a turn, and a jaguar cub caught up with us and jumped on the back. I told the jaguar to calm down, that we weren’t the enemy! That we didn’t want to hurt him, and the jaguar calmed down and said he didn’t want to hurt us, either. Somehow, we ended up driving off with the jaguar into a field being plowed. When I woke up, I had this really peaceful sense – that the jaguar was the cancer – that it didn’t want to hurt me, but that these wounded and fearful parts of my soul were scary to it, and it fought back.

At 2 a.m., it all seemed pretty profound, and I wrote it all down so I’d remember it in the morning. I know it all seems fruity as hell, and I’d be the first to make fun of me had the experience not been so powerful in the middle of last night. Addressing this fear, these fears I didn’t know consciously that I had; addressing wounds I had hidden for years under a protective layer of good humor and stiff upper lip… it feels something like progress on the spiritual side.

###

OK, if you made it through that, congratulations. If you’re still with me, this will be the easy part. Promise.

The other life-changing book I read this week was Chris McDougall’s “Born to Run.” Coming back to the spiritual side, Father had asked me a few times throughout all of this – didn’t you notice the past few years how ‘busy’ you were? Working the school day – teaching the BGSU class – participating in youth group – getting ready for the France trip – doing the Tunisia trip – thinking about going back for the Ed.D. or Ph. D. – kids involved in everything – and running, running, and running. One night on the phone when I was in Cleveland, after Doctor Number One had said I likely wouldn’t be able to run the way I used to anymore, I told him flat out that running filled the hole left by drinking. Tearily, I told him, running’s the only thing I do for ME. It’s the only FUN I allow myself to have anymore. It was in that phone call that I realized running was the only thing from which I really derived a personal, internal joy anymore.

When I got home, I had a stack of books to read through. One was “Born to Run.” My friend Cheryl had seen it at Target, and picked it up for me before the whole blood clot thing. Soon after, my friend (and running buddy) Elizabeth told me I absolutely HAD to read this book. But it wasn’t until I was on the couch with a swollen leg that I actually had the time to do it.

I’m not going to even attempt to describe this book in any words other than life changing. Reading about these other runners – and WHY they ran, and how the single most important factor in their distance careers was the LOVE they had for community, and JOY they got from being part of the race… it just rang incredibly true to me.

I guess you could say it gave me something new to shoot for when I’m done. I’ll probably never run a 50 or 100 mile ultra like the people in the book – being down to one kidney does present a few physical limitations – but I now have a goal I never would have imagined before. When I crossed the finish line of my first half-marathon – the race that started the series of events that led to my cancer diagnosis – just about the first words out of my mouth once I could talk, were “I know I’m never gonna run a full marathon now!” But that is now my goal – I’m not just going to run again, I WILL run a marathon in the next two years. I don’t care about my time, I don’t care about any of that, I just want the joy of running with my friends.

Central to the book is the idea of ‘running naked,’ that our bodies were designed to run, and it may in fact be the evolutionary trait that allowed us to survive. It takes it further by saying that running barefoot, in the most minimalist sense possible, frees us to run healthier and further. Unencumbering ourselves, making ourselves freer, gives us joy. And joy helps us run.

I think that message brings it all together with the shamanistic voodoo, and everything else. This process is all about finding the things within me that need to be resolved, that need to be let go, and living life more simply from here on out. Money problems? They’re gonna come and go. Old hurts? They are real, they were bad, and now they can go away. Rich greedheads ruining our country? Nothing I can do about it. Union versus management bullshit at work? It just doesn’t matter, not one damn bit. All of these things that I have literally spent nights awake worrying about… not only don’t they matter. They were quite literally killing me.

Listening – REALLY listening to my kids? Loving every single minute with my wife? Laughing with friends? Spending every minute I can doing what I do best, teaching in a classroom? Feeling grass between my toes? And running through my town, not with a grimace of pain, not to beat a clock, but with a stupid smile on my face just because I can do it?

That’s what I was born to do. That’s what I’m living for.

An update, live from Cleveland




Lord, take me where You want me to go;
Let me meet who You want me to meet;
Tell me what You want me to say,
and keep me out of Your way.
- Fr Mychal Judge

Throughout the events of the past five weeks, I have struggled mightily to stay positive, to trust in God's plan,  and to sincerely believe that at some point, my life would return to something that would be different, but something I would recognize as "normal."
Yesterday was the first time I doubted all of those things, and just got angry. Here's the backstory:
Last Wednesday was just about the best day I have had since The Diagnosis back in March. I went to Youth Group at church, and it was great to be back with my friends and the students for the night. I had a dynamite talk with Deacon Joe Malenfant from Maumee about faith, healing, and recovery. I felt like I was really turning a corner, both psychologically and physically. Thursday, I was still full of it. I made a big pot of white chicken chili, frosted and decorated a birthday cake for Jophus that night, and spent two hours painstakingly lettering a prayer flag that mom's cousin Janet got for me. I was really wiped out at then end of the night, and noticed what felt li ke a muscle pull, and a bunch of pressure in what my sophomore history teacher artfully called the "doobie and clackers." I figured I pulled a muscle with all of the stuff I had done that day, and the awkward manner in which I had to do it because of the large belly incision. Friday morning, the pain was a little worse, and I decided to sit all day with the leg up, and iced, to bring down what I assumed was inflammation.
By Saturday morning, the pain had spread a little further north toward the belly, and in the afternoon, my intuition and that of a lot of my friends and family was that I had blown a hernia.  So I sat around feeling sorry for myself that I'd have to have outpatient hernia surgery. But that day was J2's birthday party, and the next day was E's first communion. So I resolved to gut out the pain until I could get into my family doctor on Monday, and not miss these family events. I made it through J2's party, but by 10 pm the pain was getting more intense in my leg, and it hurt to stand on it. I fell asleep for y about two hours, and then at 0130, I woke up Katie with my moaning, and we took the sheets of the bed. My left leg was about half again as large as my right leg, and a sickening shade of purple.
For the first time in this whole journey, going back to the initial diagnosis of cancer on March 31, I had a real fear of imminent death. Katie called my dad to come over to stay with the kids, but as I tried to stand up - and couldnt bear weight on my left leg, I panicked more and more. I told her we needed to leave immediately or get an ambulance. She called our neighbor (and saint!) Bob, who came and sat with the kids while she drove me to the Wood County ER. Now, weird side note. We live exactly one mile from Four Corners, but we could hear bar noise all the way in our neighborhood. It was eerie, almost the sound of riot.
When we got to the ER, it looked like a riot must have happened downtown. A couple frat boys were in the waiting room swearing worse than anything I ever heard from sailors. A bunch of party girls were there because of a friend with alcohol poisoning or some such. The intake nurse, I think, had pity on us and moved me up in the queue. They quickly got me back to the exam rooms, and shot me up with morphine. The nurse said I was one of only two people "legitimately ill," and not suffering from "brown bottle syndrome." The ER doc said it was almost certain I had a blood clot in the leg, and called the Clinic for guidance. They were back and a forth with the Clinic from 0230 through 0500. The Clinic said they wanted me back there instead of at WCH, and arranged ambulance transfer for me. My dad came over, and rode in the ambulance with me. It was truly miserable- I had my last pain mess at 0610, and we hit the road at 0645. The driving rain made the trip slower, and I essentially went three bumpy hours strapped to a stretcher and off meds. I've never been so glad to get in a hospital as I was when we pulled in the port at the Clinics ER.
I wasn't in my room for too long before they sent me down for an ultrasound, which was incredibly painful as they jammed the sensor deep in the swollen flesh of my leg to get an accurate picture. What they found surprised them, and doubly surprised me; a clot extending from my pelvis down to mid calf. Absolutely enormous, as these things go. I met with my original surgeon, Dr K, and he told me the course of action - injected blood thinner, and then transitioning to coumarin. He was very optimistic, as always, and made me feel pretty good. As the pain management grew better, I felt pretty damn good as the day moved on, other than the leg. Then the vascular guys came in.
These two dudes just freaked me out. They said that the clot is so big, and my surgery so recent, that they can't eliminate it in the manner they would with a normal person. Therefore, the best we can hope for is to reduce it, and deal with the effects of having reduced capacity in that leg for the rest of my life. This will include wearing support socks virtually 24/7, and the end of running hard or over long distance, unless I am lucky enough to have the clot dissipate naturally.
Like I said earlier, I'm trying to accept that whatever happens is Gods will, and I'm trying to look at the bright side, and I'm trying to find grace, but to be honest, this really pissed me off and continues to make me sad, fearful, and angry. Running replaced a lot of unhealthy things in my life, and has become part of my self-identity for the past year, and to have it diminished at the least, and gone at the worst just makes me terribly angry, especially after the cancer problems. I feel like I can handle one major crisis, and recalibrate my diet, my lifestyle, and my expectations around it. But to get hit with a second major thing in four weeks just enrages me, especially when it can potentially take away one of the few physical pleasures I have allowed my self since quitting smoking, quitting drinking, changing my diet, and trying to grow in faith over the past ten years. I just wonder, what else? What more does God expect me to handle?
I'm still praying for a miracle, and I'm working my ass off here to do the things they tell me to do - they told me to get out of bed five times today, and I turned every out of bed into a fairly long and painful walk around the ward to get those veins moving and healthy. I'm counting again on the intercession of Blessed John Paul II - My cancer diagnosis came near the anniversary of his death, and this diagnosis came the very day of his beatification. I just know that his intercession is key to my recovery. Still. I guess as an asthmatic with bad knees who worked up to half marathons, I've beaten physical limitations before, I just hope I can again.
It's not all doom and gloom here. I'm back on the same floor of the hospital, and I love the staff here. Most of them remembered me, and they're just some of the coolest people I have ever met. They are everything you expect not just of medical professionals, but as children of God. I am constantly amazed by them. The food is also pretty damn good, as far as hospital food goes. Katie has kept me flush with contraband Vernors, and cookies and cream bars. My room has STO this time, so I can watch the Tribe games. On Sunday, the whole floor was cheering when the Indians pulled out the walk off win against the Tigers. And later that night, there was muted clapping up and down the hall at midnight when the president announced bin Laden's demise. So there's kind of a sense of community here, which is nice if I have to be stuck here until next week. I also got a roommate today, a younger guy who sounds like he got kidneyjacked, too. He seems like an ok guy.
My love goes out to all of you,and I thank you again for your renewed prayers.

We have had doctors in and out today. We are bummed Joe will be at Cleveland Clinic for 7 days. He was just starting to feel like himself. Clot is really clots plural up and down left leg. He is looking great in the support stockings! We hope clots resolve completely on their own and reabsorbed in body and don't become fibroids that could be live long issues. Oral Coumadin will be started later today in place of IV Heparin. He is becoming a pin cusion with all blood draws to check the therapeutic level of the blood thinners.

Joe had some groin/leg pain Thursday. He thought it was Pulled muscle or a hernia. When he woke me at 2am Sunday and I felt the left leg swelling we knew it was more. I took him to Wood Co Hospital not even waiting for the neighbor to come over to be with the kids. They treated it as an expected blood clot. The ER doctors conferred with doctors at the Cleveland Clinic and they made arrangements for transport back to Cleveland.
Just an aside- the college student stupidy in the ER that night was high. Maybe it was the week before exam or just a normal weekend but e stories we over heard about fights that involved beer bottles breakingbon heads and requiring staples to students found past out on hoods of cars was enough to make me wary of ever letting the kids out of the house after age 13.
E was making her first communion Sunday morning (we also had had Joey's 6th birthday party Satursday afternoon) and Joe did not want to mess things up for Ellie. He asked his Dad to travel wiht him back to Cleveland. I left them at 6:30, went home to sleep a little (by that point Joe's Dad had releaved our neighbor and our BIL Aaron was at the house). E&J were awake when I got home and wondered what was going on. They crawled into bed with me, Aaron took J2's bed and we tried to go back to sleep. Not sure if every one else did because when I woke 1.5 later Aaeon was entertaining all 3 kids in the living room.
We made it to church for 10 am Mass. Ellie did a great job and we are so happy she was able to take part in her special day. My Mom was a wine distributor and was able to offer Ellie the Blood of Christ for the first time just as my Grandparents had for me.
After brunch, cake and presents at the house, I took a nap and got packed for a few days in Clevland.
When I got here last night Joe was so much better! Better than I had seen him before the surgery! It maybe in part to the Indians winning record!
I stayed for a few hours the went went to the hotel. After the Bin Laden News Joe was on Facebook a lot I told him to go to bed!
When I came back this morning he was in good shape. He was bummed he was not going to be in the classroom to talk about the current events. We joked about him lecturing to the others on floor. When he moved out of bed to the chair while they remade his bed he was in a lot of pain! Once he was back in bed and had pain mess he took a nap.
Betsy and Ben are here now on their way back to Maryland.
I have written this on the iPad in fits and starts so sorry if it is disjointed.