Paris Hilton--International Spy?

Well, no-- not really.

Hilton faces criminal corporate spying charges

Hilton Worldwide, the American hotel behemoth, could face criminal charges of corporate spying, on top of a civil case brought by its rival Starwood Hotels & Resorts.

It emerged that a federal grand jury is investigating the company and several of its former executives over claims that they engaged in the “wholesale looting” of confidential documents in order to help it to launch a rival brand to Starwood’s W Hotels. The investigation is being conducted as part of a Department of Justice inquiry into the allegations made by Starwood in a civil case in April.

The grand jury will review the evidence from the investigation, which is being handled by the US attorney’s office in Manhattan, and will determine whether there is a criminal case to answer.

According to The Wall Street Journal, prosecutors are considering “an aggressive approach” to the case, which could involve bringing criminal charges against both the hotel chain and the executives involved.

9/11 tribute by Andrew Klavan

Cycles 10-12, and a Miracle

Cycles 10-12, and a Miracle

My apologies for not making a blog entry in so long--things have been stressful and distracting. Poor excuses, but, there you have it.

Cycles 10-12 were pretty uneventful; there has been a rise in my blood pressure, which I attribute to the Avastin and the general effect of my veins shrinking. Benign hypertension, my GP called it. Another pill to swallow in the morning.

I had an..interesting...experience with the nurse at my GP's office; a reaction that I will have to explore more fully in the future.

A CT Scan followed Cycle 12, and showed no spread and no growth in my cancer. Then, this little gem gets slipped into the conversation while discussing the CT results: "You know, some of what I see here could just be scar tissue."

Now, this was something that had not been suggested before: I had been told, after my consult with the liver surgeon, that my cancer was chronic--that I would have to undergo chemotherapy for the rest of my life. I was resolved to that. I understood the odds: average life expectancy for stage 4 adennocarcinoma is two years post diagnosis, and that only 8% of those diagnosed live 5 years or longer after the cancer is discovered. I checked my skin every morning for jaundice, and got used to the fatigue and nausea. I was getting myself ready.

I had never considered being cured. Statistically, it's a remote possibility, but that "remote" is pretty remote--better to focus on keeping the monster at bay, than to waste time and energy focusing on the next-to impossible. So when my oncologist suggested that some of the cancer might be dead, I felt a little shocked. Then, I felt scared--I had had my hopes raised and dashed before, and I was none too eager to go down the same route again.

So, I asked for an MRI to find out how much cancer was left in my liver. The doctor was reluctant at first, and with good reason--the liver doesn't handle radiation all that well, particularly after an aggressive course of chemo. But not knowing is the worst thing, so I insisted.

The MRI was more uncomfortable than noisy--lying with my arms raised over my head aggravates my shoulder, which is still tight from the damage I did to it back in the 90's. 20 minutes in and out, and the most taxing part was trying to find a vein for the IV. Three days later, I get the phone call from the oncologist.

"I've looked at your films, and it's...interesting."

I hate pregnant pauses--especially on this subject. "Well, is it interesting good or is it interesting bad?"

"Well, the interesting thing is, I can't see any cancer in you liver."

That will bring you to a dead stop. A little too good to be true.

Time for a second opinion: the liver specialist, who had seen the lesions on both lobes of the liver and explained why I couldn't undergo surgery. I was supposed to see him today, but he was called away by an emergency operation. I was, though, able to talk with him this morning before he left for surgery. His conclusion: no visible cancer in the liver.

It's a miracle.

Of course, it's not over yet--I have a follow up with a new oncologist in August, when I'll undergo blood-work to check for cancer markers in my blood. After that, probably a PET scan a month or so down the road to confirm the diagnosis. But, as of right now, as far as medical technology can determine, I'm cancer free.

It's a miracle.

Muwahahahaha!--Death to Edward Cullen!

With a tip o' the hat to Sqt at Fantasy & Sci-Fi Lovin' News & Reviews.

The End of Cycle 8 & The Start of Cycle 9: Anaphylaxis

I had thought that I had written on Cycle 8, but given what happened yesterday I suppose that is just as well. Cycle 8 went as usual, with the exception of a blood pressure spike near the end of the course. At the time, both my oncologist and the R.N. attributed the spike to a combination of the Avastin that was added in this cycle and the narrowing of my veins and arteries by the over-all chemotherapy. I noticed the effects of the chemo lasted longer this round--usually they fade by the Saturday or Sunday after the clinic, but Cycle 8 kept the fatigue and neuropathy going up until this past Friday, with a couple of nosebleeds to keep me on my toes.

Yesterday, Cycle 9 started with a twist; about an hour into the procedure, I felt a wave of heat begin from the back of my head, sweep over and down to my chest and arms. My skin began to prickle and redden, like a bad sunburn, and I could feel my pulse start to race. I was so distracted by the itching of my skin that I didn't even think to pull the emergency cord next to my chair. By the time my nurse stopped by to check on me, my skin was breaking out in hives and I was beginning to have difficulty breathing.

"Are you feeling OK?"

"I think there's something wrong."

Five minutes later, after about 25ml of Benadryl and a steroid I don't remember the name of, I was breathing easier, and cooling down. The nurses told me my blood pressure had jumped to 153/96, and that I had suffered an allergic reaction to the oxaliplatin. Apparently, one can develop a sensitivity to the chemical if one is exposed long enough, and I apparently hit my threshold. Anaphylctic shock ensued.

The Benadryl pretty much wiped the floor with me--my head was swiveling like my neck was a bag of ball bearings. I mostly slept through the remainder of the chemo, waking up every half-hour or so. By rights I shouldn't have been able to sleep at all--my sleep apnea should have made it pretty difficult, and Benadryl makes my condition only worse. But the O2 supply they had me on must have provided enough force to keep air flowing through my airway, and keep me stable.

Where I go from here, I can guess--but I won't know for sure until my next meeting with my oncologist. The most likely course that I can think of is that the oxaliplatin will be discontinued. But I don't know how important the oxaliplatin is to the overall treatment, so that's just a guess. Perhaps the dosage can be changed, or staggered out over the next three cycles. I'll just have to wait and see.

The End of Cycle 7 & No More Mr. Nice Guy

I'm just about through the effects of my 7th round of chemo. Once again, the fatigue and nausea were the worst elements, with the neuropathy almost non-existent in my hands and feet ( possibly due to the increasing warmth of the late spring, but there were still enough cool days to note the neuropathy's absence ) and only minimal amounts in my throat ( what little I experienced was from drinking something cold tonight, and it was barely noticeable ). The "fast dose" of 4FU and Oxaliplatin seems to be doing as expected: 2-3 days of heavy symptoms, followed by rapid fall-off on days 5-7 and a week almost symptom-free. The effects are still cumulative, so I do not know if it will hold to this pattern; I imagine by cycle 11-12, I'll be very happy to get it all over with.

A frank discussion with my oncologist last week; my situation is, for the foreseeable future, chronic--I will not be eliminating Igor's leftovers through surgery, but through the full 12 cycles of chemotherapy. She knew that the odds of a surgical solution were poor, but chose to let the liver specialist make the final judgment. A bit passive on her part, and I would have accused her of passing the buck, were I not able to see the value of giving me the most optimistic outlook possible. Still, I'd like the hard truth to the hopeful possibilities--I need to know where the monster is strong as well as where it is weak if I am to destroy it. "Know thy enemy, know thyself, and you shall be victorious in every battle." ~Sun Tzu, The Art of War ( yes, I know I mangled that quote--give me a break, will ya? ).

For good or for ill, a ran across a self-help book entitled No More Mr. Nice Guy by Dr. Robert Glover, and found a rather dark reflection of myself in the doctor's of "Nice Guy Syndrome"--not a perfect reflection, mind you, but one close enough to shock and anger myself into some serious contemplation. I've said before that Igor had awakened myself to the fact that I had sleepwalked through most of my life; now, I have to wonder as to what effect that sleepwalking through life has had on my current predicament.

Consider: it is a well-established fact that one's mood can have and effect on one's well being--there's the placebo effect, the power of prayer, positive re-enforcement, and so on. Lord knows, my cancer had a definite impact on my emotional outlook--so much so that, prior to discovering that I had cancer, I was seriously convinced that I suffered from serious psychological dysfunctions. But what about the impact of years of negative emotions and dysfunctional beliefs upon my physical being? As anyone in my family can attest, my life has rarely been a happy one. Could the pent-up anger and rage over my failure to live my life have triggered a physiological response?

In short, could I have caused my own cancer? Is my cancer some wildly strange attempt by my subconscious to commit suicide? Can a person become so despondent that they could will themselves to death? Or is this some absurd attempt on my part to give some greater meaning to the incident of my illness, to give it some existential credence? If it can be caused by sheer force of will, can be destroyed the same way? Can changing my life now, to live as I have wanted to live my life, save my life?

Which segues back into No More Mr. Nice Guy; for the longest time, I have been a "Nice Guy"--it's what was expected of me, and--to believe Dr. Glover--what is expected of most men. But as the saying goes, "nice guys never win"--and that is so true that it hurts. A "Nice Guy" never gets what he wants, but what he is settles for. He always plays it safe, and suffers as a result. He appears honest and trustworthy, but he is deceptive and distrusted. In short ( there are a lot more characteristics I could list, but you get the idea), a "Nice Guy" is just a guy--he is never a man. And that's really my problem--I've lived my life as a guy, instead of living my life as I should have, as a man. I hated living my life as a guy--and I don't want to die the same way.

I guess it boils down to what Andy Dufresne said in The Shawshank Redemption: "Get busy living, or get busy dying." I know which one I'm going to be doing.

The Quitter

Something inspirational, for a change. With a tip o' the hat to The Art Of Manliness

The Quitter

By: Robert Service

When you’re lost in the Wild, and you’re scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you’re sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: “Fight all you can,”
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it’s easy to blow . . .
It’s the hell-served-for-breakfast that’s hard.

“You’re sick of the game!” Well, now, that’s a shame.
You’re young and you’re brave and you’re bright.
“You’ve had a raw deal!” I know-but don’t squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It’s the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don’t be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it’s so easy to quit:
It’s the keeping-your-chin-up that’s hard.

It’s easy to cry that you’re beaten-and die;
It’s easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope’s out of sight-
Why, that’s the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each grueling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred,
Just have one more try-it’s dead easy to die,
It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard.