If you've read any of this blog you can probably tell that I'm not a deeply religious person. I think my destructive lifestyle was indicative of my religious beliefs. But you will see, I do believe...
One morning during April/May 2011, I arrived at my country club. Tom called me over and said, "I've got stomach cancer. " I remember that, like it was yesterday. "When are you going to have surgery"?..."There is no surgery, it's inoperable. Going to get chemotherapy. Should start soon".
All 5 or 6 of us in our small golf group, must have been in some form of shock. We golfed with Tom that day, but none of us brought up anything or pried further about his condition. We watched Tom take the lead and we sort of numbly followed him around the course. After all, Tom was a former club champion and was able to kick most of our butts whether he was healthy or not.
For about six months, Tom went through a regimented course of chemotherapy. "Big Gun" therapy as I now call it. They blast you full of "high test poison", then give you a week off for a breather and the following week it's back to the big guns again. When Tom was having his off week he would play golf. He didn't play just once, he played four times during most of those weeks. I played in his group on Wednesdays and Fridays. We did this for many months after his diagnosis. At times I felt bad for Tom. I knew he was struggling to maintain his good play and it frustrated him. We all saw his pain and some times we heard him cry out. Tom was tough, and I tried to tell myself...he'll handle it. Onward our group trudged, hitting shot after shot, hole after hole, week after week... it was Tom's will. This was a personal battle and he was leading us soldiers through his war. I have never experienced anything like it in my life. Trust me, Tom was kind and compassionate, but he was the toughest man I ever met!
Tom left us for a much better place about a year ago. As for me, I'm not much of a believer in coincidence. I believe that I was in that golf group for a reason. A far deeper and more spiritual reason than I could have ever imagined.
People are very scared when they get this kind of cancer and they have every right to be. Too many people give up and never have a chance to recover. Many people don't know how to mentally cope with the disease. I believe anyone can develop the mindset needed to bring enough confidence to fight hard. Of course having a playbook detailing what to expect along this hard road is a nice thing to have. Whether it was by pure fate or by Tom's design, I know not, but he left me his playbook. I know what to expect in advance and it gives me comfort and confidence. It has allayed my fears and it has significantly played into my reasons for writing this blog.
During Tom's most difficult hours, I know he looked this "Devil" in the eye and growled. I just know it!
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
Whew...I've been through a bit of a rough patch from this last chemo treatment. However...
My take on today's medicine is that oncologists must be one of the most dreaded doctors people have to face. That also makes them one of the most under appreciated doctors, in my opinion. These chemical wizards have the thankless job of trying to convince their patients that by putting carefully crafted poisons into their bodies they will be cured or at least have an extended quality-of-life. This is not like the old days. Patients have internet access, they come armed with questions. Many patients want to know the truth, even if they can't handle the truth. It takes a very skilled physician to assuage fears, build confidence and instill that "never give up attitude". I'm sure my oncologist could sell ice to the Eskimos or convince people to take sand to the beach. He instills confidence in me, yet is very honest assessing my situation. I'm not rushed, he spends time with me and Kathryn going over my MRI's in detail. His confidence for my recovery has allowed me to feel that I am an important part of this process, not just another object in a cattle-herd type process.
Whenever I began a new undercover investigation and met the crook for the first time, I always got an adrenaline rush. The best undercover agents I ever met were pure adrenaline junkies and I had the pleasure of knowing and sometimes working with a few great ones over my 13 years of undercover work. My personal idol and all time favorite was Willy, a graduate of Notre Dame and Yale Law. He had a wry Irish smile that could allow him to play Santa Claus 365 days a year and he was absolutely brilliant in his affable approach that appealed to people's desires. He could switch from quoting philosophers to pure debauchery without missing a heartbeat. To be honest, I don't think any crook ever stood a chance with Willy. Would anyone have ever guessed that the devil they were dealing with was the FBI? Plain and simple, it wasn't a fair fight. Willy infiltrated the infamous Japanese Yakuza, a very ruthless crime syndicate. He also successfully infiltrated the New York mob and managed a nightclub for them, for quite sometime. Adrenaline junkies do that sort of thing and thrive on it.
Every good undercover agent has his own shtick, his own bag of tricks, his certain lines, his hooks so to speak to reel in the bad guy. I would blind a crook with a bit of "bling" and appeal to his greed. I've often thought of it as similar to a magic act...sort of a smoke and mirrors routine. I lived 24 hours a day with another identity completely different from my real life, right down to the USA passport. I morphed into that undercover person, always on alert for that accident waiting to happen, that unexpected run-in with someone that knew me as Richard and not Ralph. There was always that constant adrenaline pump going, tempered by that drink or two or three.
Undercover agents, the adrenaline junkies that we were, all suffer the same fate... withdrawal. Like any junkie, you can't stop cold turkey and not suffer withdrawal or depression as it may be. I know this is true, I saw it in Willy after he retired and I know the effect retirement had on me. That was when I really should have, bent over, reached down, grabbed a root and growled...but I didn't.
Do oncologists have their bag of smoke and mirrors, I think so, and I can appreciate that. Even if my oncologist is telling me to bring sand to the beach, he has succeeded in his mission, by boosting my confidence that I can and will beat this disease.
My Kathryn goes with me for my chemotherapy treatments. I can drive, so she doesn't have to be there for the 8 to 10 hour stint. She goes because this is her journey also. Kathryn is a veteran, she has been through all the health wars with me. When you're in trouble one needs veterans around. My veteran knows my every move, my every thought, she knows what's going on with me at all times, she is my advocate, my rock and she has saved my life more than once.
A doctor was standing over me with a very large syringe ready to plunge right into my heart when Kathryn jumped up and said, "Stop! Don't do that, he's only got gas!" NOW THAT'S HOW MY ADVOCATE SPEAKS FOR ME. (I needed that to lighten things up) If you follow along you will catch my drift.
Something quite similar to that incident really did happen in 2009. If Kathryn wasn't my advocate at the hospital that morning, demanding that the ER doctors to do a CT scan of my chest, I may have died from an undiagnosed pulmonary embolism. I subsequently spent 10 days in that hospital dissolving the blood clot.
Everyone facing a desperate life threatening situation needs humor to get them through. It lifts the spirits and allows for gaining strength and most of all confidence. Tears and crying are not bad things, they help to release all the pent up emotion and shock. Those feelings are as important as anything, but then we have to work on...moving on, there' life to live! Permanently remaining in a depressed state of mind is torture for you, as well as family members and is the perfect recipe for doom. No matter how bad it is, exercise daily, even if it's nothing more than just a short walk. Don't lay around watching TV and vegetate!
When you get far along in your personal journey, your mind may be your only weapon. Drugs and all medical science may have run their best course. You must will your body's natural defenses to work for you and that can only be done by your positive thinking and your innate belief that you will survive. You have to bend over, reach down, grab a root and growl and most of all you must believe...you must be tough.
When you crash and burn so to speak, or just do something plain stupid, try to stand back, take a deep breath and you will find some way to laugh at it. Even while doing it through those frustrated tears.
Your mind is your greatest weapon and may be your only weapon. Trust me I know. It has given me the confidence to fight great adversities in my life. Doctors wrote me off on numerous occasions. One even called me a salvage operation.
This is what I thought about that opinion: "Book 'em Danno", which was a statement made famous on TV's Hawaii Five-0 and also happened often for me during my law enforcement career. I put bad guys in the federal penitentiary and one bad guy I know is doing a life term.
Now the phrase, "Bag 'em Danno" doesn't belong here. Why, because I don't believe it applies just yet. I know that something will break loose for me again. Perhaps something unusual, unheard of or even confounding to my doctors, will occur. If you believe as I do, it can happen for you...no one has anything to lose. When you get up each day, think to yourself how much better you will feel in a year, two years. Refuse the temptation to let your mind slip to the dark side of the force.
Many of my loved ones, friends and colleagues over the years have told me that I am like a cat with nine lives. It's another viewpoint but I'll take it and run with it. Right now I need another cat and I'm damn sure I haven't used them all up!
And by the way I did undercover meetings using the Oahu Ilikai hotel suite that featured Jack Lord in the opening scene of the original Hawaii Five-0 TV series. There were a lot of book 'em and bag "em Danno scenes in that show, and a few in my case.
I completed my second chemotherapy treatment yesterday, spending 10 hours at the City of Hope. Now I am home, hooked up to my last chemo bag and a small pump for the next 48 hours. The next few days are my worst and really it's not all that bad. I'll be back in two weeks with a smiley face, to do it all over again.
In the meantime, I will return to the golf links next week with the mindset that I will score my age...some year in the distant future. <;-)
My folks moved us to the City of Duarte in 1954. At that time, the big deal in Duarte was a national medical hospital called the City of Hope.
The City of Duarte was also known for a few square blocks of terrain known to locals as "Rock Town".
Rock Town was poor, literally dirt poor. As a kid, I heard rumors that many Rock Town families lived with dirt floors. It was common community knowledge, that if you didn't live in Rock Town you didn't want to be there after the sun went down. The area was tough, the kids were tough, the dogs were tough, hell even the chickens were tough. The whole area was filled with tough growlers young and old, and baby, I got some serious life lessons. They made me grow up and they made me tough.
The only thing that Rock Town and the City of Hope had in common was that they were in very close proximity to each other.
Naturally, I went to Duarte High School. I was a proud falcon. I was in the first graduating class of 1961 and some of my friends that I played high school sports with, and still see today, lived in Rock Town.
Yeah that's me in the picture, Number 22, my senior year playing football. I was a running back for the "mighty" Falcon's of DHS. I WAS IMMORTAL! I threw passes to the kids from Rock Town, I pitched baseballs to kids from Rock Town. I tackled them and they tackled me. Funny thing about sports, it's a great equalizer. There were more things that were different about us than were the same. But we could care less...we were friends; we would die on the gridiron for one another. That being said...I was still out of Rock Town when the sun went down!
The kids I knew worked like hell to get out of Rock Town. Some went to jail trying, some died trying, but some of my good friends worked their way out and became successes in their own right.
It's ironic, perhaps even destiny, that I now make the greatest stand of my life, my toughest fight...on a patch of City of Hope turf that's very near to old Rock Town. It's been 53 years since that picture and as I sit in the City, infusing my bags of chemotherapy, I reminisce about my old friends, the old neighborhood and the immortal days of my youth. Now I sit so close to it I can reach out and touch it, yet it's so far away.
When I bend over, reach down and grab a root, I do what I learned from my pals so many years ago...growl and growl loud.
Pancreatic cancer is a very fast-moving and a very difficult cancer to treat. In my mind I know that my cancer is growing and spreading at astonishing speed. I would wager everything that I own that anyone else that has been told they have this dreaded disease feels the same way.
To have any reference of what I am talking about, you might want to follow along my short timeline. I would say my starting timeline for the beginning of this cancer was December 17, 2012. I had a routine MRI of my midsection at the City of Hope just to check out my adrenal glands. I went to see the doctor on January 4, 2013 to get the results of my MRI, only to learn that there was a lesion at the head of my pancreas and possibly one on my liver. The lesion in my pancreas measured approximately 3 cm and considering the entire pancreas is approximately 15 cm (6inches) that seemed watermelon size to me. The fact that an MRI taken six months ago showed no evidence of any lesions, meant that this all happened fast..."at the speed of light"..so to speak.
Now things for me picked up speed. I met with City of Hope's top pancreatic surgeon on January 7th. On the 18th I had an endoscopy with ultrasound which included biopsies on the lesions in my pancreas and liver. On January 21st I was back with my eminent surgeon who delivered the bad news. Adneocarcinoma of the pancreas and liver and to be quite honest it could have spread to other organs by now!! I felt like I had been slam-dunked by Kobe Bryant.
A meeting with the oncologist (my personal chemist) on January 28th was to set up my chemo treatment schedule. I chatted extensively with the chemist over the list of questions I brought with me. He was a very nice man, honest and he instilled enough confidence that I believe he knows his mixology. He scheduled me for a CT scan on Friday, February 1. I'm sure the chemist needs reference points for the beginning chemo. I am thinking that the CT will show the progress the cancer has made since the MRI taken on December 17th. Unfortunately, I don't get the results of the CT until I meet with the chemist on February 20th. But I'm jumping a bit ahead...
On February 4th, I underwent outpatient surgery to install a power port in my chest. It's a tidy little device which will be used for my chemotherapy infusions. An upside, if there is one, the port can be used to draw blood...so no more needles in the veins.
February 6th...my first day of chemotherapy! It took from December 17 to get to this point, which may seem a long time to some. But to me it came at the "speed of light".
When I take my wonderful long-haired Doxie out for a walk tonight, I'll reach down, grab a root and we'll growl together.
I refuse to let this beat me...ever!
My all female team of surgeons. In reality, I might not be alive today...so I can't live without them.
In one giant step back, I equate my career working as an undercover agent to something like being the headliner in a large theatrical production. With any good production, theater or undercover work, a joint effort from many supporters is required to successfully navigate the operation. I got the kudos and the glory when everything went right and my bosses didn't end up in the funny papers, but I didn't necessarily get all the jeers and blame when things went south.
The women I am about to tell you about, are ones that I couldn't l live without, but spent enough time with, that I felt like I lived with them.
I learned the ins 'n outs of the money-laundering trade, when a couple of women from Miami came to Los Angeles in the early 80s, and began operating a major drug and money-laundering operation. What I learned from these women, while I laundered $24 million in cash from their drug cartel contacts, was a free education in drug trafficking and money-laundering. A kind of a "How-to for Dummy's" book...bet that book would still work today.
Wildly popular with the media, they dubbed these women the "Grandma Mafia" when the case went to trial. When the "Grandma Mafia" cased ended there were bodies strewn everywhere. I couldn't tell the good guys from the bad guys. A federal agent, turned rogue, met a terribly painful death; federal agents that went to the dark side for money were prosecuted; a prominent Los Angeles attorney was prosecuted and went to jail; crooked cops and agents in Miami and Los Angeles popped up; and eventually a couple of ex-Federal agents committed suicide. ON PAPER THESE WERE THE GOOD GUYS!!
For the most part and physically unscathed, the bad guys and girls went to jail.
So who cares? I'm sure the families of all those people cared. Those naive family members that said, "you want me to put up how much for bail?".
I know my doctors care because, they're asking for answers as to why I transformed myself into the Marlboro man with a gallon sized appetite for Red Label scotch.
It's Valentines Day and I'm now a week past my first chemotherapy treatment. I don't want to scare my Valentine, so I'll probably go over to a corner, reach down, grab a root and growl...softly. I live with her and most of all, I can't live without her!
Life's not fair, you sometimes say...that's nothing but a crock. I fight for my life just like I fight for the things I believe in. I believe in my heart that I will be here much longer than these doctors expect I will. When you get this kind of crap news, doctors begin to talk to you in terms of months "to go", not years.
I flat did not expect this...I thought wait a minute! That's not the plan! My doctors always referred to years remaining, not months! As limited as those years were, they created a comfort zone between me and my galloping soul, which seems far too anxious to find greener pastures.
In 1964 they gave me five years with a diagnosis of a terminal lung condition "histiocytosis X". In 1998 after two heart attacks in Mexico, the cardiologist gave me five years if I did not receive a heart transplant. Too much heart muscle damage. Since then, bouts of congestive heart failure have left me hospitalized for brief periods in such glorious places as Mazatlan, Mexico and Petra, Jordan. Too much salt in those foreign diets I suspect.
Then came 2007... Squamous Cell cancer in my neck lymph nodes. Operations followed, lots of them, as the cancer roared back after each surgery. Doctors advised and then pleaded with me to get radiation and chemotherapy treatment on my head and neck. I knew that the treatment had terrible side affects, so I opted for a quality of life future instead. True growlers are allowed to do that....opt out that is, and do their own thing.
And oh baby, did all that growling pay off. In June 2010 my wonderful team of doctors at the City of Hope found the tumor causing all these cancerous lymph nodes. The primary tumor surfaced at the base of my tongue in a very difficult spot to reach. My surgeons offered to do the operation using the Da Vinci robot...a first time adventure for them in this type of throat cancer surgery.
I could fill volumes talking about my "all star" female team of surgeons. Extremely talented, gifted, skilled, innovative, dedicated, young and beautiful... just doesn't quite get it done. But I know they're all growlers...I'm sure of it...they are my idea of Seal Team 6.
Since the operation I have tested clear of throat cancer. It's been six years since I was first diagnosed! Yes, I like years!
Like with the flip of a light switch, I am now thrown into the months category or perhaps extending my months by doing chemotherapy treatments. My latest doctors/surgeons/oncologist are great. They are formidable experts at what we are dealing with, but they don't know with whom they're dealing with. I'm going to let them do their job and I'm going to do mine.
As you might guess, I'm just going to reach down, grab another root and growl! Months will grow into years.
On January 21, 2013, I was officially diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer, invading from my pancreas into my liver. I have been going to the City of Hope since 2007 fighting throat cancer with great success...I might add. But even their great surgical staff had to grimace when they gave me this news. Shit house odds beating this one was written in their eyes...but If you do stick with this journey you will find that I have been told that story more than once in my life. In fact I've been told that several times, and that's where the mental toughness "reach down grab a root and growl" helps me to over come adversities.
This is Not a pity party so please don't do that. If you choose to follow along, and even respond, understand that this is therapy for me. However, I can only hope that in some small measure I can make a positive difference for someone out there that may be suffering and feeling hopelessness.
My lifestyle, my environment were some reasons doctors gave for why people get pancreatic cancer. Can't say I would disagree with their analysis, since I worked in a high stress environment as a federal undercover agent for 13 straight years. I laundered millions and millions of dollars for the old infamous Pablo Escobar drug cartel. My experiences all began in the days of the Cocaine Cowboys, originating out of Miami in the early 80s and continued through my retirement in 1994. I loved my daily bottle of scotch and my three packs of smokes; and the stress that I had learned to cope with, kept my weight down. I was happy living that rich life style of a dirty money-laundering banker with fast cars, fist class air and five star hotel suites, and I wouldn't have traded those experiences for anything. When you get too close to drugs and money at the same time it tends to intensify situations at hand. Guns, booze and partying don't mix very well...
Did this environment and lifestyle contribute to my disease? It's Possible! I suppose...
