A cancer story

[Blaze1up]

Cancer journal: A happy birthday despite grim news

 

A day that begins with a fateful choice ends with a celebration

 

By Mike Celizic TODAYshow.com contributor

 

Mike Celizic is TODAYshow.com’s ace morning news reporter as well as a sports columnist for msnbc.com. He is renowned for his ability to write compelling, accurate stories at lightning speed, as well as for his trademark hat, which he never removes, even when appearing as a guest commentator on MSNBC.

 

Last year Mike was diagnosed with T-cell lymphoma. As a dyed-in-the-wool journalist, his first instinct was: Report on it. Thus he is sharing this cancer journal with TODAYshow.com and msnbc.com readers as he turns his reporting skills to his most difficult subject: his own mortality.

 

I’m dying.

 

The lymphoma we’d thought we’d beaten into remission back in May came roaring back last month. We threw some really nasty chemo at it. The cancer ate it up and came back for more.

 

And so I’m going to die, and not in four or five months. I’ve got probably a couple of halfway decent weeks left. Then the lymphoma will take over my bloodstream and kill me.

 

I don’t have to die that quickly. I could undergo months of brutal and debilitating chemo that will leave me racked by pain and barely in control of what few senses I have.

 

The chemo itself could kill me. And even if it didn’t, I wouldn’t have a single day when I’d feel even vaguely normal. I would then have to get a bone marrow transplant — if a match could be found. There’s about a 10 percent chance that I’d survive, and a smaller chance that I’d be cured.

 

Taking that chance might be worth it to some, but not to me.

 

The object isn’t to live as long as you can, but as well as you can. I’ve lived very well; had a grand and glorious life. I’ve done everything I’ve ever wanted to do except meet Al Roker. I’m not afraid to die. But I don’t want to die, and there’s the problem. I love life, love this glorious planet, love simple pleasures, love living.

 

The choice

 

I learned my situation Wednesday. I’ve spent a lot of the time since crying like Glenn Beck, only for real.

But there’s no other choice for me. It’s about controlling what life I have left. Enter treatment, and you surrender all control for a tiny chance of survival at a diminished capacity.

 

I already tried that. I’m not going to do it again.

 

So I’ve made the most personal decision I ever will make. It’s taken every ounce of my courage and 40 years of philosophizing and thinking and reading and traveling and learning to make. The easy choice would have been to go into chemo. For me, it would also be the wrong choice.

 

I’m writing this because I owe it to all the wonderful people who started reading the blog I started when I began treatment for lymphoma last year. It was called “Adventures in Cancerland.” I wrote two really swell entries, I say with no modesty at all, full of insight and humor and perspective.

 

Cancer journal: The diagnosis

 

Then I quit.

 

Sorry about that. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write; it was just that I was waiting for an adventure, and one never presented itself. Getting treated for lymphoma turned out to be as tedious as picking cat hairs off a cashmere coat. It was not exciting. The painful parts weren’t that painful. Nothing gruesome happened.

 

I left the hospital in December, spent three months in isolation at home, and was cleared to return to real life. Sometime in May, I was officially in remission.

 

But it didn’t last long. The cancer came back in July, and this time it’s not messing around.

 

My oncologist, Dr. Ariela Noy, came into my room early Wednesday here at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York City. She’s an extraordinary doctor and person; tenacious, dedicated, talented, caring — name a quality you want in a doctor, and she’s got it.

 

It was my birthday, and she fidgeted as she told me the situation. We’d talked about this scenario, and she wasn’t surprised at my choice. I did promise to sleep on it, and then we had a good hug and cry. (I’m not usually given to crying, but this has opened the floodgates.)

 

I called my wife and told her. I promised to sleep on it, and she promised to come in today to collect me and my belongings.

 

Birthday contraband

 

I sent some e-mails to some close friends. One, Joe, e-mailed telling me to hide the nurses and be ready for an 11:30 a.m. visit. He showed up with major contraband: a huge bacon cheeseburger with wedge fries, an ice-cold Corona and cups and plates. My nurse, who should probably remain nameless, thought it was pretty funny.

 

I could only manage about four sips of beer, but the first one was the most perfect beer experience of my life. After six weeks without one, the hops exploded on my palate. There was barley, a perfect, cold crispness; it was the best beer I’d ever tasted.

 

It was the same for the burger. Juicy goodness with bacon and tomato and lettuce, salt and pepper. I only managed about five bites, but after three weeks of pudding cups, I was in heaven.

 

We went up to the 15th-floor terrace to sit in the sun. I smelled cigarette smoke — a good smell for me — and it was coming from a cancer patient in the farthest corner. I had given up smoking when I was first diagnosed a year ago, but there’s no point to that now, so I bummed a smoke.

 

For a day that started out with “You’re going to die,” this was turning out all right.

 

I went back to my room, Joe went back to work, my nurse grinned at her naughty boy. About an hour later, she came back in carrying a birthday cake, leading all the nurses and aides on the floor as they sang “Happy Birthday” to me.

I totally lost it. When she came back later with a bunch of birthday balloons, I was reduced to a soggy mess.

 

When I could talk, I told my nurse friends, “This is one of the best days of my life.”

I never thought I’d say that about the day I learned I would die, but it’s the absolute truth. The big things are great and memorable, but it’s the little, unexpected pleasures that make life so wonderful.

 

I’m going to miss it. Terribly.

[Blaze1up]

Never knew Bill Cowher just recently lost his wife to cancer. I was also affected by this deadly disease, my uncle who was very close to me had stomach cancer and it too took his life which forever changed mine.

 

Bill Cowher confirmed his wife Kaye's death in a statement released on Saturday.

 

"Sadly, my wife Kaye lost her battle with cancer on Friday. Kaye was such a loving and compassionate person and she was the foundation of our family. Kaye was always at my side throughout my career as a player, coach, NFL analyst and, most importantly, as a parent to our three daughters Meagan, Lauren and Lindsay. They will miss their mother dearly.

 

"Kaye was the rock that we could all lean on in the tough times. She was looked up to by so many people and I cannot say enough about what Kaye meant to our family. Her memory will never be forgotten. We would like to thank everyone who has kept our family in their thoughts and prayers and for those who have reached out to express their condolences. It is clear that Kaye touched a lot of lives."

 

Pittsburgh Steelers president Arthur J. Rooney II also expressed the team's sadness over Kaye Cowher's passing.

 

"Kaye was a very private person who was very devoted to her family. Kaye made many friends in our organization and our community. She will be missed by the many people whose lives she touched. On behalf of the entire Steeler family, we extend our condolences to Bill, his daughters and their family."

 

-----

 

Kaye Cowher, wife of former Pittsburgh Steelers head coach and current CBS analyst Bill Cowher, died after battling skin cancer, according to a Pittsburgh Post-Gazette report.

 

Kaye Cowher, 54, is survived by her husband and three daughters, Megan, Lauren and Lindsay.

 

The couple met at North Carolina State in 1976 where both were student-athletes.

 

Bill Cowher left the Steelers after the 2006 NFL season. He led Pittsburgh to victory in Super Bowl XL and amassed a 140-90-1 record as the team's head coach over 15 seasons.

 

-- Armen Terjimanian

[knapplc]

Three members of my family have had cancer or are currently going through cancer treatment. Two have made it so far, one of them five years plus, but the one going through treatment right now has very little chance of survival. We cannot find a cure fast enough.

[ohiohusker]

I, too, have been personally affected by cancer. My Dad lost his battle with prostate cancer about 4 years ago. His cancer came back and he also decided against treatments. He was 82 and had lived a long, good life. Why spend the next several months not feeling well? We agreed with his decision, and he passed away in May 2006. My Mom and I were with him, and we knew that he was finally not in pain anymore. A few years ago, I had a scare after going through several mammograms, aspirations, and biopsies. I have been a volunteer for the American Cancer Society Relay For Life for the past seven years. Last year I was co-chair and will be again this year. My wish is that we NEVER have to hear the word "cancer" again! Anyone can participate in Relay For Life. Friends, families, neighbors, classmates, sports teams, etc., can form their own teams. No matter who you are, there's a place for you at Relay. It's a life-changing experience. At Relay, every person in the community has a chance to celebrate, remember, and fight back. And every person who participates joins others around the globe as part of this worldwide movement to end cancer. Everyone's reason to Relay is as unique as their own personal story. At Relay, you can find healing, comfort, and support from others who have faced cancer or who have lost a loved one to the disease. You have a chance to meet people in the community who are equally as passionate about finding an end to cancer in our lifetime. You can thank all the people who have done so much to support you through your personal cancer experience. And you can gather together with friends, family, and colleagues to laugh, cry, and create lasting memories. This year more than 11 million cancer survivors will celebrate another birthday, thanks in part to the progress we've already made. I have made a commitment to keep fighting until we find a cure! And.....knapplc, you are right....we cannot find a cure fast enough! Thanks for reading this and I hope you would all think about joining a local Relay For Life......you'll be amazed!

[suh_fan93]

Thanks for posting that blaze1up. My uncle just stopped his chemo and now it's only a matter of time. I'll be heading down to New Mexico with my father for his funeral at some point here very soon.

 

Just like that amazing guy wrote above don't take life for granted. It's the little things that make life worth living.

[NUance]

 

Yes, Mike Celizic really did wear that hat all the time. What you saw was always what you got with Mike, who passed away Wednesday from cancer at the age of 62.

 

He is survived by his wife Margaret and four children. My link