The picture is too good not to post...

Shannon got my dad an electric nose trimmer for Christmas/Hannakuh/Holidays. Since his motor skills were a little loosy goosy, I had to assist him.

This reminds me of another time when he required assistance (applying sunscreen in Hawaii), although it was out of pure laziness. Look at that full head of hair! Well not that full.

Myers Briggs

Merry Christmas! Happy Hannakuh! Happy Holidays!

It definitely doesn't feel the same as usual. I guess that is to be expected. There is a certain joy that it missing that usually fills our house during this time of year.

Only a couple of times did I think "is this going to be his last Christmas". But, quickly, I realized that I could be saying that about any event; hell, it could be my last Christmas!

While it wasn't the same as usual and even though there was some tension in the house, there is still plenty of love.

Just give us cookies.....

Gonna vent here. I apologize in advance.

Nobody has any idea what any of us are going through. I hear people say "I can sympathize with you, my grandpa had _______". But you can't sympathize.

Everybody deals with these life events differently. Yes, several people experience fits of optimism, denial, anger, but its not the same.

I don't know what I am experiencing. I may not know for days, months or years. Even though it seems comforting to say something like that, I'm telling you right here, it's not very comforting. Hell, before this experience that is something I would probably say to someone in my position, but no more.

Instead, send my dad and my family good vibes, prayers, cookies, cards, or chicken supreme (shout out to Jeanine Erickson).

A Dedication to Grandma: Bowel Movements

What better way to make my first post than to do it in honor of Grandma by having the inaugural post be about one of her favorite topics--bowel movements?!?

This is a photo that Megan sent us all yesterday that I think illustrates fairly well how Dad's doing. Smiley, a little more bald than usual to show off his rockin' scar, and with his drink of choice: prune juice...yum! If constipation continues being the worst of his problems, we'll buy him all the prune juice he needs.

Jillian I'm thinking that you should officially change the words of the Miralax song she so brilliantly penned and sang in Paris to celebrate the occasion. How'd it go again? Feel free to post it next.

Right now, I'm having the opposite problem. I think my body wants to be a little thinner for when I see you all this weekend. The only real problem is that I'm going to the US Embassy tonight for a reception. Hope not to offend the embassador or any of the other officials there. No prune juice for me, Dad.

Love you all.

Gameplan: Round 1

Starting on November 3rd, the treatment plan will be:

1) Oral chemotherapy every weekday for eight weeks
2) Radiation every weekday for eight weeks
3) Intravenous (IV) chemotherapy every two weeks for eight weeks total.

Then there will be a break period with his progress MRIs and CT scans at UCLA on January 7th.

Eventhough his main doctor is at UCLA, they have the appropriate equipment and medication so that he only has to travel to Hoag Hospital in Newport Beach everyday.

The IV chemo is called Avastin. I guess it in commonly treated to use colon cancer. Somehow that makes sense for our dad.

Round 1: FIGHT!

The Quarterback

After lots of research and consulting with many friends and colleagues, my dad is fortunate enough to have Dr. Timothy Cloughesy, Director of Neuro-Oncology at UCLA, as his lead doctor during this battle.

My mom spoke to many specialists all across the country and Dr. Cloughesy was recommended by multiple individuals. Multiple recommendations from multiple unrelated sources = good bet.

My dad has lots of doctors now, but likes to call Dr. Cloughesy the quarterback because he is calling all the shots.

I've always appreciated having a Dr. Mom, but not until this year have I fully realized and appreciated the benefits. Mags, you best go to med school so we always have one in the family. Jillian, you best remain close friends with Pook.

Diagnosis: Glioblastoma IV

Our dad had brain surgery three days ago....brain surgery. Say it aloud. Sounds pretty crazy. But not as crazy as brain cancer. Hell, incurable (aka terminal) brain cancer. Yup, say it aloud. Terminal Brain Cancer. Unbelievable.

The results of the biopsy came back. He has glioblastoma 4, which I guess is graded on a scale of 1 to 6 (1 being bad and 6 being extremely super bad).

Still some things to figure out, but doctors say life expectancy for his age and diagnosis is 6 months to 5 years. Hell of a range, eh? Kind of pisses me off. Too broad. Give me something more specific or give me nothing at all. Starting to sound like Patrick Henry over here.

Based on data compiled by UCLA's neuro-oncology group, the median life span is about 14 months. I guess I dont really like specificity either. Shit.

No clue what to expect or for how long, but we have every intention of putting that timeline to shame.

Learning as we go. Inhale before each doctors appointment and exhale afterward. Taking each day at time and appreciating what we have.

Ready.

Most dreadful experience of my life (so far)

I'll try and explain it to you, but I wont do it justice.

Our dad had five hour brain surgery to remove a "mass" the size of a golf ball that was pushing on his frontal lobe. The hope was that the mass was an infection - a couple months of heavy antibiotics and done deal - and not cancer. I guess the moment you cut into the mass you know whether it is a tumor or an infection because if its an infection, puss will start pouring out (what a pleasant vision). So our mom said that the surgeon will know within the first hour what it is.

Since she knew the doctor well, she assumed that he would relay the good news of an infection once discovered. But since we never got notification, we assumed the worse: brain cancer.

While trying to stay optimistic throughout the surgery, I was also trying to stay sane and not throw up. The waiting room attendant came over and said that "they are closing him up and the doctor should be out in 45 minutes". 90 minutes later I don't know how many times I went to the bathroom hoping to get rid of the terrible feeling inside me to no avail. The fact that the doctor was suppose to be out an hour ago created a cloud of pessimism over us. I can't put into words the thoughts that were going through my mind, I imagine that my mom and Jillian (who was the only other person in the waiting room) could either.

The doctor finally came out and I think I stopped breathing. He said there were no complications, that they removed about 90% of the large mass. He also shared some pretty nasty details. My favorite, of course, was that fact that when they opened the skull flap, brain juice shot out of his head due to the release of all the pressure that was previously on the brain. I think I just threw up in my mouth.

While the news was a relief because there were no complications (stroke, unable to extract, etc.), it was also confirmed: our dad had brain cancer. Now, the question is what kind? Did it spread from somewhere (pancreatic, melanoma) or did it originate in the brain (glioblastoma)? How bad is it?

The good news, two hours after surgery a nurse came in to check his vitals - this includes asking him questions like "do you know where you are? whats your name?". The nurse proceeded to ask him "do you know what you did today?". My dad responds "I had sex, of course!". Obviously, certain parts of his brain are functioning just fine, even two hours after brain surgery.

1 + 1 = Dodgers Stadium?!?!

Here is how it started:

My dad left work early because he had a headache. My mom gets home and thinks my dad is acting strange. She puts her doctors cap on and begins asking the basic questions, like "where are you?".

Needless to say, he failed miserably. But at least he was thinking blue. When asked "1+1?" he responded "Dodgers Stadium". Solid.