My buddy Jim needs your help



Not the best image of Jim Solomons, but he's working.

 My friend Jim isn't asking for any help, and he is in need of nothing physical.

But he needs your help. In the form of prayer, well wishes, positive thoughts, good vibes or whatever you want to call it. And he needs this karma now.

Jim has gone through the same cancer treatments I did, just a few years later. The technology and surgery used to fight cancer of the esophagus had been honed by the time it got to Jim. He made it through the chems and rads seemingly fine. His doc was my doc, Dr. Lee Zehngebot. His surgeon was my surgeon, Dr. Joe Boyer.

I was in the hospital a bit over three weeks after my surgery before Christmas of 2007. So when I went to visit Jim a week after his surgery, I figured he was just out of ICU, which was my timetable. One week in the ICU and then it's off the the cardiac care unit for recuperation.

Rather, Jim was being prepped for discharge. One week after surgery. Miracle Man. The esophageal cancer terminator. He'll Be Baaack (insert Arnold's voice here) -- to work.

That was the first time we'd met face to face. As he was preparing to leave Florida Hospital. We'd known one another from the zillions of calls we at the Orlando Sentinel made to the Orange County Sheriff's Office public-information team, which Jim, a civilian, helped direct.

So it was a great day. His wife Judy was there and Jim was in pain but all smiles.

Since then, Jim did get back to work, and I think the Orlando media collectively sighed -- he's the best that office has or had for quite a while. But he's has had a rough go since. He had some kidney issues. He had a minor -- if you can call it that -- stroke. He's tried hard to bounce back.

Unfortunately, so did his cancer.

Jim is back on chemo and as bad as the first batch was -- and take it from someone who knows, it was bad -- this batch is worse. He's home. He can't really eat, so he gets his nutrition from a bag in a backpack and an IV drip. Yum. He's nauseous and couldn't even hold down a milkshake today, he said. Trust me, that means it's rough going.

Jim has another major infusion of chems in a week or and he's hoping things will improve.

So am I. And so should you, because Jim truly is one of the most caring and kind individuals I've ever known. And I know many kind, caring people -- and you all know who you are. Seriously.

So when I heard Jim today I know he was feeling bad, down in the dumps, ill and sick to his neo-esophagus (formerly known as his stomach).

Right now, Jim can use your positive vibes. As you know, I'm not big into the prayer thing. But like I've said during my treatments and follow-up surgeries, prayer may not help but it surely will never hurt.

So if you take a moment when you read this, think of Jim and his family and all he's going through. And let's see if this positive feedback helps.

It certainly can't hurt.

Back home, whew

Well, the surgery went well thanks to the steady hands of surgeon Brian Fallon and his team at Southside Hospital.

Results of testing won't be back for a few days - pathology is never quick - but I got a feeling from Dr. Fallon that the three elememts he removed from me were nothing to worry too much about.

He said he removed a thick fluid-like mass that may have appeared on CT scans as a desmoid tumor, plus some tissue. He also drew fluid from my pleura for tests.

And, true to his word, I was discharged yesterday after passing the hospital's requirements.

Since, it's been R&R at home, and I return to work tomorrow.

Woo hoo.

posted from Bloggeroid

Filling in missed months, and a morning mashup

It's been five months, give or take, since I've updated but there's a good reason. The dog ate my homework.

Actually, it's a bit more complex than that. Basically, since December I:

• Was offered a new job in Long Island;
• Accepted the new job in Long Island;
• Left the Orlando Sentinel but kept many friends;
• Left the comfort of insurance for 24 uninsured days with Cobra as a backup;
• Was diagnosed with cancer based on pathology taken from my pleura;
• Was told I needed a PET scan;
• Was told by my longtime caretaker Florida Hospital Orlando they wanted $10,000 down before they'd conduct a PET scan, even knowing Cobra would cover it (note, Florida Hospital is on my poo-poo list -- that's where I encourage anyone who would listen to boycott the hospital and Adventist Health);
• Was given a PET scan at M.D. Anderson Cancer Center at Orlando Regional Medical Center with no money down, with the anticipation of Cobra coverage;
• Was told I am cancer-free based on the PET scan;
• Dr. Z asked pathology to re-evaluate my sample, and the conclusion was no cancer was actually there; 
• Started work in Long Island with Newsday;
• Was covered with insurance starting Day 1 -- which was Jan. 24, 2011;
• Found doctors to care for me; they're a good group and I'm confident all will be well;
• Love my new job, new colleagues, new bosses and new residence in Bohemia, N.Y. (yes, we're Bohemians);
• Found out after a follow-up CT scan that I have a desmoid tumor outside my right chest wall and attached to a rib;
• Will undergo surgery in about eight hours at Southside Hospital in Bay Shore.

Well, that is the quick version that led me from then and there to the here and now.

So, I am now off food and water until surgery in the morning at the hands of Dr. Brian Fallon, the hospital's chief of thoracic surgery at the hospital. I'll be at the hospital overnight and then go home. By Sunday, I should be mostly as good as new.

I'll have my smart phone and laptop in the hospital, but I don't think I'll be able to tweet or blog from the O.R.

So until my drug-induced update tomorrow afternoon, behave yourselves.

Three years, and counting

So, I'm in the office on Friday with oncologist Dr. Lee Zehngebot and he raised a very important point during the brief exam: "You know, it's been three years."

Those are three years I didn't believe I would have; I consider them bonus years. That's because when I first met Dr. Z, I didn't think I'd have much longer to live and, frankly, I didn't know if I'd want to live the tortured life I feared and envisioned. 

So I'll say it: He was right, I was wrong. I'm willing and happy to take that loss.

Dr. Z said the CT scan he ordered for a couple of weeks before our appointment came back clean. Perfectly clean.

That's great news, because many statistics for my esophageal cancer report on survivability three years post treatment. In the trials my treatment was based upon, which was coordinated by the Minnie Pearl Cancer Research Network, the survivability three years out was greater than 43 percent. Earlier esophageal cancer treatments rendered three-year survivors at about a third that percentage, and in many instances far lower.

Still, I'm beating the odds just by being alive today. Thanks to people like Dr. Z, Dr. Philip Styne, Dr. David Diamond, Dr. Joe Boyer, Dr. John Pfeiffer and Dr. Adriana Otto, in addition to the radiologists, nuclear physicists, technicians, nurses, therapists, family, friends, colleagues and those I'm failing to mention.

Basically, it took a village to keep me alive.

And here I am today, swallowing a bunch of pills each day, eating less, drinking more (water) but otherwise back to normal.

In the past few weeks, I've seen pretty much all of my docs and all say the same thing: everything looks good.

I have a couple of friends going through similar ordeals, and I just pray they can experience the same successes as I and that in three years, give or take, they can write the same thing.

Statistics being what they are, I hope to update this blog in seven years to say that I'm still here, doing fine and looking forward to more. I have a good chance due to my age and health condition in other areas. And according to the same trials, the projected survivability 10 years out is nearly 30 percent, meaning about a fourth of those still here today won't be in 2017. I plan to be one of those who will be here.

Dr. Lee Zehngebot shows off his iPhone a couple of years ago.

Back to my conversation with Dr. Z on Friday. As we almost always do, we discussed the technology of the day. He tried to make fun of my Motorola Cliq XT Android phone. "You call this a smartphone," he asked, grabbing my phone. "That's not a smartphone," he added, holding up his Apple iPhone. I asked whether it was the new iPhone 4 and he said no. Finally, I had the edge. "This time, my smartphone's smarter than yours," I replied.

To quote Sheldon, the character on "Big Bang Theory:" Bazinga!

Where has all the time gone? The acid reflux redux

It's truly hard to believe, to imagine, to have lived -- but three years ago this week I began an awkward two-steps-forward-one-back stumble to where I am today: healthy and wise, though still not wealthy. You know what they say about two out of three...

But seriously, A little more than three years ago I was confronted with the real possibility I wouldn't be here today. The dreaded "C word" crept into my life and quickly changed me from who I was to who I am.

Before, I overate with what I thought was impunity -- boy, was I wrong. Before, food couldn't be spicy enough. Before, I let stresses really get the better of me. Now, I monitor my intake and try to moderate it. Now, I still love and desire spicy foods, but limit the volume and veracity of my mouth-melting munchies. Now, I've walked through Hell so there's really not much that can get the best of me.

So it was three years ago, give or take, that I was diagnosed with stage T3, N0, M0 adenocarcinoma of my lower esophagus.

From the diagnosis, my entry into the world of high-tech, high-def medicine was rapid.

As I documented in this blog three years ago:

• Dr. Philip Styne, the best gastro doc in Orlando, spotted the tumor at the base of my esophagus -- near the gastro-esophageal junction -- and sent me to the best person he could have: Dr. Lee Zehngebot.
• Dr. Z walked me through what my next several months would be like. He told me about the chemo, radiation and surgery awaiting me.
• Dr. David Diamond was next on my welcome to the world of cancer. He's a wonderful radio-oncologist and developed my radiation therapy. Together, Drs. Z and D had participated in a national trial of a new therapy to cure esophageal cancer developed through the Minnie Pearl Cancer Research Network based in Nashville, Tenn. So in Orlando I had the two perfect doctors to cure me.
• They, plus surgeon Joseph Boyer, had handled dozens of similar cases and the project they'd worked on had increased the survivability percentage rate from the low-teens to the mid-thirties.

Yes, that's what I looked like after my

surgery in December 2007.

And it worked. With a few complications and setbacks, today I'm free of cancer. In the past few weeks I've seen Dr. Z, who gave me a clean bill of health but wants to keep an eye on me every four months or so. Dr. Styne did a recent check-up on me and said all looks good. He's shifting his focus and will work with Florida Hospital as it digitizes all of its records, so he's handed me off to one of his partners. And Dr. Boyer said all looks good after the original surgery and then three others -- all this year -- that were nominally related.

In the past three years, I've come to know some amazing people. Some were in the medical fields and others were the recipients of their treatments. I've also learned about several friends and relatives with some form of esophageal distress, including an aunt who developed the precursor to cancer called Barrett's Esophagus and a friend and professional acquaintance who just recently went through the wonders I experienced. Both of these are doing wonderfully, though a few other people I know or I know of didn't fare as well. In essence, this form of cancer is more common than one would think.

Esophageal cancer is out there and it is not going away. Americans, especially, are likely to see an increased incidence in the disease due to our wonderful "super-sized" eating habits. Greasy, fattening foods are supplying us with more than just the need for extra-extra-large pants. They are key ingredients in the development, over time, of Barrett's and the resulting cancer. Combine that with some salsa, pepper sauce and hot wings and here I am.

Call it the acid reflux reflex. Acid splish-splashes away in your stomach so much, fueled by those Buffalo wings. Some of those splashes seep up from the gastro-esophageal junction into the lower esophagus. You get heartburn and take a Tums. Feels better, more wings. After awhile, your esophagus responds. It tries to protect itself and physically alters -- stomach-like cells develop in the lower esophagus' lining to ward off those splashes. Barrett's esophagus is born. Since it is a mutation of cellular structure, it's not a far leap from Barrett's to cancer.

There are signs to notice. And precautions to take. If you've had heartburn and acid reflux for a while, see a doctor. Simple medications can and will help. If you haven't seen a doctor and the heartburn goes away -- get to a grastro doc quickly. That's a sign that you may have Barrett's and need immediate care.

According to the latest figures from the National Cancer Institute, nearly 10 Americans out of 100,000 developed cancer of the esophagus between 2003 and 2007. Of those, about eight were men. If you were under 20 you didn't develop this form of cancer, but folks of my age at the time accounted for more than 12 percent of the cases. During that period, 11 percent of the patients in my age group  died -- I was in the lucky 1 percent who survived.

Sadly, most people died of the disease during that period -- which was just as the treatment that saved me was coming online. So I'm sure later numbers will be better.

There are some good statistics, as well. While cancer of the esophagus was growing among Americans between 2001 and 2007 at 0.6 percent a year, it declined by 0.4 percent a year among women. And deaths from this type of cancer were down among men and women overall -- down 0.4 percent a year -- though that's mostly because of the decline in deaths among women of 1.6 percent a year. Deaths among men during that period were up 1.2 percent a year. Detection at an early stage is directly related to your chance of survival.

One sad note is that while the incidence of esophageal cancer is growing, funding is barely moving up. Federal funding for research into cures for this dangerous cancer has increased only $700,000 a year between 2004 and 2008, from $21.7 million to $22.4 million. That's just a sliver of a fraction of the total National Cancer Institute's $4.9 billion budget in 2008.

Here's a final note, and a warning, from the Institute three years after my diagnosis: "Based on rates from 2005-2007, 0.50 percent of men and women born today will be diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus at some time during their lifetime. This number can also be expressed as 1 in 200 men and women will be diagnosed with cancer of the esophagus during their lifetime."

Please don't be one of them.

Read through this blog and heed the warnings from myself and others. Have check-ups if you experience some of the things I experienced three years ago. And if you do have this cancer or know someone who does, feel free to contact me via a comment on the blog. If there's anything I can do to help, I will.

Surgical strike IV: The unsung hero

Before I get into the surgery I had this Monday, Aug. 2, 2010, I have to talk about an unsung hero through every one of my surgeries at Florida Hospital.

Dr. Adriana Otto
(Photo: Florida Hospital website)

Dr. Adriana Otto has been with me before and after each of the four operations I have had. At first I didn't quite realize her role in my care, but I soon came to see what a vital part of my care team she has been.

And each time she sees me as I'm prepped for an operation -- hopefully Monday's was the last time we'll meet like that -- she really helps remind me of how lucky I am to have had such a wonderful group of doctors and nurses work toward saving my life. She also reminds me of what a blessing this added time is and has been.

Now, back to the surgery at hand -- or, rather, at abdomen.

Dr. Joseph Boyer, the major-league Yankees fan and amazing thoracic surgeon, needed to go into my abdomen and rip out the mesh holding my abs and other tissue together because either it had become infected or just wasn't sitting right with my body. He removed the mesh and stitched up the insides of my body by hand with actual stitches rather than using staples. He also sewed up my skin rather than using staples. I was released from Florida Hospital's cardiac step-down unit on Wednesday afternoon.

Dr. Otto was there the moment I arrived and throughout my time at the hospital. She checked up on me, gave me encouraging words and made sure I was fine before leaving.

As a hospitalist, the so-called specialty of tending to patients in hospitals, that was her job, of course. But she went beyond that. She explained how serious the threat to my life was in 2007 and how I survived for a reason. I guess I just have to figure out what that reason is and make sure it was worthwhile for all involved. I think I've been doing that, in part through this blog and in other ways.

As I told Dr. Otto on Wednesday, I hope I don't see her under the same circumstances anymore, but I do hope we bump into one another again. That's because she truly has been an important part of my new found life.