DANCING WITH MISTER C

My journey into the abyss of cancer...and back out again
by Mychael Patrick
I.  A Full Dance Card

My little adventure with cancer began Thanksgiving week 1998.  I had come down with the flu and was battling it in the usual machismo fashion, which pretty much meant that I was doing a lot of whining and complaining.   A couple of weeks later, I was attending a Christmas social at my daughter Rachel's school.  As I was holding our three-month-old baby Hannah, she swung her arm and struck me on the left side of my neck and it hurt like the dickens.  The pain was sharp and I knew that it shouldn't have felt that way.  A few days after the Christmas social, I went to the doctor because that same left side of my neck was swollen.   The doctor explained that because I had had the flu, the lymph nodes had captured the virus, which is essentially what lymph nodes do.  He gave me some antibiotics and told me that lymph nodes can take several weeks to return to their normal size after a viral infection.

As the next few weeks passed, my neck was still swollen and I quite certain that it been that way for too long, even though the doctor had assured me that it wasn't unusual.  The doctor ordered a complete CBC (complete blood count) for me.  The results came back negative and, as I had none of the typical symptoms of cancer, I wasn't concerned.  The doctor felt that there was no need to be alarmed but as a precaution refer me to Dr. Alan Song, an otolaryngologist at Kaiser Wailuku.  During the consultation, Dr. Song palpated my lymph nodes and scheduled a fine needle biopsy (FNA) for me at Kaiser Moanalua in Honolulu.

A few days later, Kaiser paid for my plane fare and provided a shuttle van for the trip from HNL to the Kaiser facility.   My flight happened to coincide with the USS Missouri's arrival at Pearl Harbor for its final resting place.   Our plane flew over the ship as it was making its way into the harbor.  It was quite majestic.

To do a biopsy from the lymph nodes requires an FNA needle about a foot long or so it appeaed as the personnel wielded it, the reflection of the room lights sparkling off the shiny silver of that harpoon.  During the session, I was fascinated to watch on a monitor the needle's penetration into my neck and its progress deeper and deeper.  To me, the lymph nodes appeared enlarged and that I could actually have cancer was a thought that I had filed somewhere in the back of my mind.  That thought, however, found its way to the surface on the flight back to Maui.  On the plane returning to Maui, there weren't many seats from which to choose and unwisely I chose a seat next to a man in his thirties  I discovered soon that he was a smart aleck who would have preferred sitting next to an empty seat.  He was traveling with two friends, who were seated directly behind us.  Apparently, I was cramping his style or ruining his trip or whatever, and he deemed it necessary to make childish remarks about how he was getting airsick and might vomit at any moment.   No doubt, it was a strategy he was employing in an attempt to get me to move to another seat.   After several minutes of his inappropraite behavior, I queried casually, "I just found out I have cancer.   Wanna trade your sickness for mine?"  Not a word from him the rest of the flight.  Thank you, Sam Horn (author of Tung Fu).

It was two days later, on a Friday, when Dr. Song telephoned me at work and said that he wanted to see me in his office the next week, a statement that I took as a bad omen.  I didn't want to spend the next few days wondering and worrying, so I insisted that he give me his diagnosis on the phone right then.  I was surprised with myself that his news of my malignant squamous cell carcinoma didn't render me speechless, but then again, not much does (a fact to which my friends and family can attest).  Dr. Song said that my cancer was in the earliest stage.  Well, that's one bright spot.  I asked him the prognosis and he answered that, if left untreated, I could be dead in a year.  Ok, fans, we have ourselves a brand-new ball game.

I had scheduled a three-week vacation with Rachel to Disneyland (one week) and Arizona to see my parents (two weeks).  Dr. Song suggested that the first week in Disneyland, but to return immediately after that to begin to address the carcinoma.  Well, I guess he means business.  I wanted to let my parents know that Rachel and I wouldn't be coming to see them in Arizona after all.  My desire was to break the news to them without sounding like a doomsday messenger.  I telephoned them and, hoping to minimize their worrying, I tried to sound as matter-of-fact about the situation as I could.  As I look back at it now, even with the I-could-be-dead-in-a-year prognosis, I don't think the gravity of my situation had hit me yet.

During the week that Rachel and I were at Disneyland, I was surprisingly calm.  I didn't dwell on my situation during the days at the amusement park.  Laying in bed at night I did have small fear of the unknown.  My primary feeling of loss was not so much that I might lose my life but that Hannah, who by this time was still only nine months old, might grow up not remembering that she even had had a father at one time.

Dr. Song had scheduled surgery for me for sometime during the third week of June.  His plan was to do some some nasal-pharyngial blind biopsies while I was under anesthesia before he started the surgery itself. He was hoping to locate the cancer site.  Minutes before my scheduled procedure, I was prepped with information and IVs, anesthetized and whisked off to the operating room.

I awoke a couple hours later in the recovery room.  My wife Lokelani and her Aunty Janet were there to give me moral support when I awoke.  The nurse said that I didn't have the surgery and in my grogginess I must have heard didn't need the surgery, because I remember feeling relieved to be off the hook.  Little did I know at that moment that this day was what I now refer to as the dry run.  What had actually occurred was that Dr. Song had merely postponed the surgery because during the blind biopsy phase he had located the site of the cancer.   One of the places he had planned to biopsy bled when he nicked it at the base of my tongue.   This was a strong indication that it might be the location of the cancer.  He was just a few minutes short of beginning the surgery when he made his discovery.  He sent the sample to the lab, where they froze it for about thirty minutes, sliced it, and confirmed that it was indeed the source of the malignancy.  Dr. Song was thrilled at having found the cancer site and told me that I would undergo several weeks of radiation therapy and then have the surgery.  This was a better scenario because the purpose was to shrink the lymph nodes as much as possible so that there would be less of a mass to remove.

Let me take a moment to introduce the procedure that Dr. Song would perform.  It's known as the Stanford-M.D. Anderson protocol.  It's a very renowned procedure whose euphamistic label is far less frightening sounding than what the surgery actually is:  a modified radical neck dissection.   That description still gives me the shivers.  Here are the groovy details.  Dr. Song would slice my neck from just below my left ear, straight down, then across toward the middle of my throat.   After that, he would fold back that flap of flesh, cut out them nasty ol' nodes, and sew the flesh back in place, and just for good measure he would staple the wound to ensure that the sutures held.  He would also remove some neck muscle and the jugular vein.  All kinds of fun and this procedure is no doubt resposible for the origin of the saying a real pain in the neck.  It surely beats the two alternatives though.   The first alternative would be to remove half my tongue, which would have left me crippled orally.   Before around 1990, and before the possibility of the Stanford-M. D. Anderson protocol, that was the case.  The second alternative would be, well, th-th-th-that's all, folks!

The surgery was indeed performed a couple months later, but first there's the little matter of radiation therapy …33 exhilarating sessions to first the right side of my head and neck, then the left side, then straight on.

II.  Let's Face The Music And Dance

Dr. Bobby Baker and his wonderful staff at the Cancer Institute of Maui would be performing my treatment for cancer by radiation therapy.  The process began with what is called simulation, which was done a few days before I would actually begin my "zapping" sessions.  On the day of my scheduled simulation, I entered the front door of the Institute a bit anxious yet without any trace of fear.  I met Steve and Tim (the Zappers) and they were extremely warm and compassionate.  Steve and Tim spent a considerable amount of time explaining the entire process of my treatment, from simulation through the actual radiation.  Simulation for head and neck radiotherapy required me to lay on my back on the bed of the Toaster, as I called it.  The Toaster, which administers the doses of radiation, is actually a small linear accelerator.

The guys heated a piece of plastic mesh to about 140 degrees, held it over my face, and stretched it down until it was flush with the bed.  They screwed the mask into place so that I was not able to move my head.   Laser light beams were directed onto the mask and onto my chest.  They marked where the light beams fell and this is where I would be zapped.  It's all done by computer and I'm not able to detail how it works but trust me, they had it all figured out.

My daily appointments were set for 8 AM and each appointment lasted 15-20 minutes. The actual time that I was zapped each session was about 2 to 3 minutes. I timed it at about 45 to 70 seconds for each zap: one zap to the right side of my head and neck, one to the left, one straight on. I didn't feel anything. It's like getting dental x-rays but with a lot higher dose of radiation.

    Á la David Letterman, here are the TOP 10 BENEFITS OF RADIATION TREATMENT:
  1. You don't have to watch your weight.
  2. You get to sleep all day without feeling guilty.
  3. It gives you that warm and fuzzy feeling all over.
  4. You're self-irradiated against anthrax.
  5. You can get a deep, luxurious tan in just two minutes a day.
  6. You can microwave your lunch just by holding it your hand.
  7. When someone says, That's it pal, you're toast! you know he means it.
  8. No need for a flashlight when you're looking for something in the attic.
  9. Your initials M. P. now stand for Manhattan Project.
  10. When you go to a party you really know how to light up the room.

Over the next seven weeks, I would have several side effects, none of which was terrible though some were a bit bothersome. I lost my sweet taste, I developed small sores on the sides of my tongue (could've been much worse), fatigue though I didn't sleep well at night, no appetite, difficulty swallowing, and weight loss. There was a possibility that the radiation would damage my jaw bone and teeth so my dentist made fluoride trays which would allow me to apply lots of fluoride each day.

The sweet taste went after the second session. Everything was either bland, extremely salty, or sour tasting. You don't realize how much sugar is added to foods until you’re unable to taste its sweetness. Later, I couldn't tolerate the least bit of spiciness. Even plain pepper burned my burned my mouth. No juice or fruits...too sour. After a couple weeks, I realized that I could consume only Ensure or Boost to get my nutrition. I worked up to 8-12 cans a day, around 3000 calories. I slept poorly each night and found that my longest stretch of uninterrupted sleep (about two hours) started at about 5 AM or so. I might have slept longer at that time of the morning but I had to get up for my 8 AM zap sessions. I would finally start to get some decent sleep and then it would be time get up and be "toasted" for breakfast.

I did my best to find positive psychological diversions during my seven weeks radiation treatment. One of them involves Route 66. I’m a Route 66 buff. So is my mom. We’ve talked about making that “California trip.” I decided that the two of us could do it vicariously while I was undergoing radiation therapy. I took the route’s total miles, 2448, and divided that number by 33, the number of radiation sessions I would have. Each day, I would take a map and calculate into which “town” we would be arriving. It helped to visualize how far I was traveling on my own journey.

Probably the most annoying side effect during the seven weeks was that my body created thick mucous, which would first tickle, then clog my throat, and I would cough a lot. It kept me awake at night. I developed a nice sunburn on my neck, which eventually blistered and bled. One good thing was that my neck and lower cheeks grew no hair, so I had a lot less area to shave. The most inconvenient side effect, and one that still lingers, was a substantial loss of saliva, due to my salivary glands having been fried. I have to carry a bottle of water with me everywhere I go. My thyroid gland, too, was wasted during the weeks of radiation therapy so I'll be on medication permanently to correct my hypothyroidism.

My parents had wanted to come visit during the radiation weeks but I told them that I was OK and that if they were to come, I'd rather it be during my recuperation period after surgery.

The end of the 33 sessions came none too soon yet the big challenge was still to come...the Big Cut, after a month to gain strength from the radiotherapy. I finished the radiation on August 20th and was scheduled for that Big Cut exactly one month later, September 20th.

Parts Three and Four span the eight daze that I was hospitalized at Kaiser Moanalua. The adventure continues....


(Day 2, CCU)
III.  The Moanalua Waltz

(Monday through Wednesday, September 20-22, 1999)

I'm a bit fuzzy on some of the minute details of my hospital stay but I will be as accurate as memory serves me.

When I checked into the hospital on the day of my surgery, I felt remarkably calm. I could sense the presence of God abiding in me and with it the peace that only He could bring. Lokelani accompanied me to the surgery pre-op area. I was in good spirits and I joked with the nurses and anesthesiologist, who told me "I'm your best friend". The prep nurse told me what would transpire in the O. R. Several nurses introduced themselves to me and I realized that this would be a substantial team effort. I would have a "basketball team" working on me, about 5-8 people. A nurse gave me an I. V., the anesthesiologist injected me, and soon I would be in Never Never Land. I remember them wheeling me toward the O. R. As I was passing through the doorway, the ceiling started to warp and blur and I would say that I was in Lullaby Land in less than a minute.

Dr. Song had told me just before surgery that he would be talking to me during the procedure and that, while under anesthesia, I would hear him and respond. Yeah, right. Naturally, I didn't remember anything until I woke up from surgery. When Dr. Song came to visit me after I awakened from surgery, he said that he indeed had been talking to me and that I had responded. The idea of it seemed surreal.

Kaiser had booked me for a six-day gig in the Critical Care Unit. I received top billing and a command performance. I was so good, they held me over for two more days. I think CCU had one nurse for every two patients. The CCU staff was unbelievably compassionate, helpful, and comforting. I was overwhelmed at their concern for me. They were probably just "doing their jobs," but nonetheless, their kindness made a huge impression on me.

I was uncomfortable from the beginning because I was too weak to move much and as the days went by, my body became very stiff from being in one position for so long. It was a major undertaking just to turn on my side, which I was able to accomplish only once. Another lousy part of my recuperation was that awful tracheotomy tube. My throat hurt every time I swallowed and the tube would fill up with mucous. When the tube filled up with mucous I would have a difficult time breathing and I felt that I was going to choke. I would ring for the nurse, he or she would come empty the tube and I would start all over again. The tube would have to be emptied about every hour or so. They would remove the tube from me, have me cough out the mucous (which I was very good at) and then the tube would be replaced. Sounds kinda gross now, but I was actually happy that I could "hoick" that mucous several feet across the room. I remember one occasion when the nurse jumped out of the way. Whether or not it was psychologically or physiologically related, every time I needed the tube emptied, I also had to urinate. The nurses placed my urinal in a location that always seemed to be juuuuuussssst beyond my reach. It would take me about two minutes to stretch my arm and finally grab the urinal and then I would be in a near frenzy to empty myself into the urinal before wetting my shorts. Meanwhile, I would be close to choking from the accumulation of mucous in the trach tube. I had a rollicking good time.

The physical discomfort in swallowing with that blasted tube inserted, carried with it a psychological impact as well because it was one of those situations where you tell yourself, OK, it hurts when I swallow, so I just won't swallow. Sure. Dr. Song had told me that I would be miserable during my ordeal but I yet to reach that point.

Lokelani, God bless her, flew from Maui every day to visit me. Her presence helped to save my life as much as anyone else's involvement did. The nights seemed interminable as I slept only 30 to 90 minutes at a time. The nurses would give me Valium and morphine, alternately, to try to help me to sleep. I could not turn my head to see outside my window but with my peripheral vision I could tell when it was night and when the dawn was coming. The black of night seemed to last about 18 hours. I "inched" my way through the nights, asking God to please get through the night, one hour at a time. When I saw the first light of dawn each day, my heart raced, knowing that Lokelani would be arriving in a little while. You cannot imagine how thrilled I was to see her each morning! Her visiting me in the hospital and staying all day, every day, has been the highlight of my life. She became my hero.

I had no pain from the surgery because Dr. Song had to sever the nerves in my neck to perform the neck dissection. The tracheotomy tube was one of the two worst parts of my hospital ordeal, the other being the interstitial radiation tubes I had in me. During surgery, Dr. Song had Dr. John Lederer, from the Queen's Medical Center, insert the tubes onto the back of my tongue. There were six tubes and they were about the diameter of fishing line. The procedure involved Dr. Lederer cutting a hole under my chin and inserting the tubes up through the bottom of my mouth. The ends of the tubes outside my body were taped to my chest. The ends inside my mouth were fed up through that chin hole and wrapped around my tongue, waaaaay in the back. The tubes gagged me often and, as with the tracheotomy tube, I would tell myself not to think about them. No dice. Between the discomfort of swallowing with the trach tube, the accumulation of mucous, and the gagging from the radiation tubes, I was pretty darn uncomfortable, yet I absolutely refused to be miserable.

Wednesday, I would go to the Queen's Medical Center to have Dr. Lederer run me through simulation for my upcoming interstitial radiation treatments. This simulation was to confirm that the tubes were in the right place and that everything appeared to be in order. I would begin the interstitial radiation the next day. I was scheduled to two radiation sessions per day for two days. I would have a morning and afternoon session on Thursday and the same on Friday. I’ll address the actual interstitial radiation treatment further in Part 4. Hasta la vista, Baby!

IV.  In The Mosh Pit

Yours truly on the Interstitial Radiation machine; note the yellow radiation warning

(Thursday through Saturday, September 23-25, 1999)


Interstitial radiation treatment (IRT) on the base of the tongue is a kick in the pants. In plain terms, the IRT zaps the cancerous cells and a small area around them. Dr. Song had told me that the cancer site was approximately one centimeter across (a little less than a half inch). So, the IRT would zap that half inch and the area around it. (Footnote: In January 2002, Dr. Song checked my cancer site with a fiber optic scope and this time I got to watch on a monitor. The spot was frightfully close to my vocal chords, and the realization of it was unnerving).

The IRT procedure called for one zap session around 9 or 10 AM and another in the mid-afternoon for two days. The "rads," or units of radiation, were about 33 kazillion times higher than my seven weeks of regular radiation was, and about 855 kazillion bizillion times more than you get when you're x-rayed at your dentist's office. I forget the actual numbers now, but 900,000-somethings of "rads" is rattling around in my head.

American Medical Response (AMR) transported me to and from Kaiser Moanalua (because Kaiser had no IRT) to Queens Medical Center twice on Thursday and twice on Friday for the IRT. The AMR teams were superb; efficient, friendly, and caring.

At Queens, Dr. Lederer's team plugged my end of the wires into the their machine and everybody left the room...Hey, don't leave on my account! The currents of radiation were fed from La Machine, through the tubes, and directly onto the offending area of my tongue. I thought, "I must look like something from Dr. Frankenstein's lab." I felt no pain or heat from the IRT, just a little bit of ticklish twitching. Dr. Lederer's team was every bit as compassionate and friendly as every other that took care of me.

Believe it or not, a humorous moment came when my right arm was shaking from my Parkinson's Disease (hey, that's another whole story). Dr. Lederer's staff began laying blankets over me, thinking that my shaking was because I was cold. They got three or four blankets on me and I gave Lokelani “the nod,” which was my signal to her to inform them that I was shaking from the PD, not from the cold. I don't know...I guess you had to be there, but I actually would have laughed out loud if not for the presence of the trach tube.

After the fourth and final IRT session, Dr. Lederer gave me a light dose of anesthesia so he could remove the radiation tubes. He had wanted to do it without my having anesthesia but when we had tried a "dry run" previously, I gagged enough that he agreed to put me under me a little. (Footnote: Dr. Lederer was honored soon thereafter as Physician of the Year at the Queen's Medical Center. I'd like to think it was because of the work he did for me).

On Saturday, I pretty much had it easy. There were no more treatments to be done. I was progressing well enough that I would be moved to a private room in the regular ward that evening. After I was moved, I still didn't sleep well but it was a relief to be out of CCU, though I had grown close to the nurses and I missed them.

My stay in the hospital wasn't all bad. There were some fun times, too! Because I couldn't speak, due to the tracheotomy tube, the nurses in CCU had loaned me a whiteboard and a pen to communicate. At first, I tried to write full words and sentences but my PD made that difficult, so instead I wrote the letters of the alphabet on the whiteboard and I would point to each one in succession to form the words and thoughts that I wanted to convey. Sometimes, the nurses tried to anticipate what I was going to say. At other times, I would get frustrated when I couldn't communicate clearly or quickly enough. All in all, the whiteboard system worked out well. Another entertaining moment came one afternoon when I tried to use my urinal from what must have been 3-point Land, missed, and got my shorts all wet.

The most poignant moment of my stay, and my life, came late one afternoon just before Lokelani left to return to Maui for the night. Although I was unable to communicate verbally, with my eyes I tried my best to let her know how much I appreciate her. She looked at me a long moment and said, "I love you too." Yes...she's my hero.

Dr. Song had let me know ahead of time that I would come home with the nasal feeding tube, and that it would remain in me until the tracheotomy tube could be removed. The nurses gave Lokelani a lesson in changing the feed bag, which contained a supplement that was probably like Ensure. Lokelani was a bit apprehensive at the thought of having to take over the duties of a real nurse, but she was more than willing to do so because it's what I needed.

The next day, Sunday, Dr. Mark McKenney would pay me a visit to see how I was doing with my tracheotomy tube. But, until Sunday comes, along with Part 5, that's it for now. I'll be back: same Bat time, same Bat channel.

V.  May I Have The Next Dance?


After a week of discomfort, Sunday seemed like a day at the beach. I had been moved to a private room Saturday evening. I had a TV in the room, something I lacked in CCU...not that I would have had a rollicking time watching TV anyway in CCU. Though I felt slightly better, I still had the tracheotomy tube and the nasal feeding tube for companions. At least I was able to sit in a wheelchair to be moved from CCU to the private room. I hadn't been in the upright position for seven days, though earlier the nurses had tried to get me to walk around a little. I think it was the previous Wednesday. I gave them a look as if to say, "You gotta be kiddin' me!" Lokelani had vouched for my weakened condition and they gave up on the matter. I did sit in a chair for about a half hour and felt crappy (excuse me). Anyway, I watched some TV Saturday night, and actually rather late into the night, as I still had trouble sleeping.

Sunday brought Lokelani right on schedule, and Dr. McKinney, who was filling in for Dr. Song. Dr. Song flies from Maui to Honolulu and back to perform the operation such as he had done on me. Because Dr. Song was back on Maui and not able to check on me himself, he had asked Dr. McKinney to take his place. Dr. Napier, who had assisted in my surgery, checked on me throughout the week. I was progressing well and Dr. McKinney would be back to check on me the next day, Monday, when I would be discharged.

Lisa Song, one of the CCU nurses, won my heart when she went out of her way to come down after her shift to see me. She had taken extra special care of me while I was in CCU and she was very interested in my well-being. I will never forget her gesture of kindness.

Lokelani received a second lesson on changing the nasal feeding tube and she was still apprehensive about it. She went home Sunday afternoon an expert in the theory of the procedure.

Monday arrived, and with it, Dr. McKinney again. We went over the instructions from Dr. Song: that I would leave the hospital with the nasal feeding tube still in, that I would stop by his office on Maui, and that he would examine me since he hadn't seen me for a week.

Dr. McKinney became my friend when he removed the trach tube and what a relief it was not to have that Alaska Pipeline in my throat. My spirits were lifted now that that beast of a tube was gone. My mom telephoned my room just moments after the tube had been removed. She had called to ask the nurse how I was and she was shocked when the nurse said, “Ask him yourself.” "Hi Mom" were the first words I had spoken in eight days. Hoarse and raspy those words may have been, but they were my own words.

I laboriously took a shower and was glad to be rid of that yucky I’ve-been-in-bed-for-a-week feeling.

I was filled with mixed emotions as I spun out of the hospital in my wheelchair. Of course, I was ecstatic to be discharged yet I was touched by the poignancy of leaving the CCU staff, whom I would possibly never seen again. Every bump, turn, and jostle felt exaggerated because of my weakened condition. When I got outside, the sun seemed ten times closer, after my having spent a week indoors. I winced with every bump of the shuttle van ride to the airport and with every slight jarring of the airplane in flight. I was so elated to be out of the hospital that I didn't care what I looked like or if people stared.

We stopped by Dr. Song's office and he said that I looked great for having been out of surgery for only a week. He determined that if I could drink a glass of water without it leaking out of the cavity left by the trach tube, he would remove the nasal feeding tube. I drank...it worked. He took out the nasal tube and this time I think it was Lokelani whose spirits were lifted, knowing she wouldn't have to fool around with feeding me.

When Rachel saw me at first, she seemed intimidated, just as she had been after our cat Hazel had had her hindquarter shaved for an accident-related surgery. I guess it's strange to see a cat with no hair over 20% of its body, and equally as strange to see one's dad with part of his neck missing.

It was terrific to be home and I would spend the next few weeks recuperating and shooting for my goal to return to work by Halloween. That would give me 33 days to improve to the point where I could work again. I fell far short of that goal and actually returned to work Thanksgiving week. I was used to recuperating after the flu. A few days and you're up on your feet again. Modified Radical Neck Dissection is different...it ain't like havin' the flu.

The left side of my neck, the surgery side, was both tender and numb at the same time. When I laid my head down, my left ear felt like a rock. I could sleep on my right side only and it was a drag. As was the case during my weeks radiation, I was sleeping only an hour or two at a time. My neck muscles were so weak that it took me, literally, two to three minutes to get up from the bed. I would have to press my left hand onto the bed and use it to push myself up onto my right elbow. I had to do so very slowly, as my neck was extremely stiff and weak. It took me a long time to sit down on the couch to watch TV and an even longer time to get up again. I couldn't sit with my head and neck unsupported, so I would lean back and rest my head against the back of the couch. It took great effort to lift my head back upright again.

I am a squeamish person by nature and I could not bring myself to look at the hole where the tracheotomy tube had been. The dressing over the hole had to be changed every day and I enlisted Lokelani to do the dirty work. She would swab the area gently with some ointment then tape a gauze bandage over the hole.

Of course, I grew stronger over the two months and returned to work on Monday of Thanksgiving week. Dr. Song had suggested, and wrote a note to my postmaster, that I work only half-time until I was strong enough to endure a full day's work. I told Dr. Song that I would go for the gusto and try to work full-time. I figured that if I couldn't handle it, I could cut back the hours. Well, I was able to work full time. I was weak and shaky but I persevered through the long days.

I felt honored to be missed so much by my co-workers and my customers. One of the carriers, Mario, saw me across the parking lot and walked all the way out to shake my hand and give me a hug. My co-worker and good friend, George, captured the moment on film and later entitled it, "First Contact." Even the postmaster hugged me when he saw me. I received lots of hugs and to this day, March 30, 2002, two and one-half years later, my customers still ask me how I'm feeling. If I take a few extra days off for vacation or just to spend time with my family, my customers become concerned and ask if I'm all right. It's nice to be missed...and even better to be alive.

VI.  Clear The Dance Floor

Dr. Song had told me that, without treatment, I would be dead in a year. By the grace of God, I'm still here and I consider each day beyond that one year to be a blessing from God.

"...a thorn in the flesh was given to me....Concerning this thing I pleaded with the Lord three times that it might depart from me.  And He said to me, My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness."—II Corinthians 12:7-9

Ah yes...it's great to be alive!

VII.  From Bad To Verse

Following are two of the several poems I have written about my cancer experience.

Survive

the machine
it had a message for me
What you thought was influenza is really carcinoma.
I stretched
the trees were blanketed in cashmere snow
I pondered the perennials
searched for an instant savior
then hope blew in with the breeze
at once I knew
I promised myself that I would survive
in fact, I’ll do better than that—I will thrive

I amble in under my own power
a few moments of unwelcome heat
a little twist of crimson light
and I stumble out in a cloud
start counting the days
count sheep at night
the hours turn into weeks
yet still I remain
I promised myself that I would survive
in fact, I’ll do better than that—I will thrive

there was something wrong
wasn’t there
I was on my last legs that day
do I deserve a second chance
and if so at what cost
the future can be frightening
yet I will march on unceasingly
I promised myself that I would survive
in fact, I’ll do better than that—I will thrive

A Hundred Years Last Night
for Lokelani

yesterday late in the afternoon
the band began to play.
they played a song I did not recognize.
I had to dance anyway.
I cracked my eyes and tried to lift my head
to glimpse the starless sky.
wait a minute, that's not a starless sky, it's just
the loneliness of a midnight black and empty room.
last night I spent a hundred years without you.

every heartbeat brings a fresh nightmare.
it's no better when I wake.
I find no relief as I tremble in the dark,
every clock tick seems a lifetime long.
they cut, I bled, there was enough gauze and tape
to wrap the world ten times around.
I called Heaven, I asked for Jesus,
and when He answered I begged,
Send me an angel.
He promised you'd get here soon
but until you do...
at night I spend a thousand years without you.

every flower in the meadow, every rainbow in the sky
fades to grey when you shine in my door.
in your brilliant light each shade of black on the wall
falls away and crumbles to the floor.
last night I spent a million years without you.

"Survive," and "A Hundred Years Last Night," by Mychael Patrick, ©1999-2004 Mychael Patrick, all rights reserved. Internet version ©2002-2004 Mychael Patrick, all rights reserved. No parts of these poems may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without previous written permission of mychael patrick.

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