Time sure flies when you're having fun?

It's really hard to believe, but two years ago this week I first started noticing something wrong.

Catherine and I were on our vacation -- a drive from Central Florida to Yellowstone National Park and back via Baltimore, Chicago, Minneapolis, Mount Rushmore, Badlands National Park and several other stops -- when I became nauseated at a Ruby Tuesday restaurant. It happened again the following night after a late meal. And again later at a casino in South Dakota.

I dismissed the symptoms. I was on a diet. I was traveling and not drinking enough. I thought the two were causing food to just not make it all the way down.

After the two-week trip, I traveled to South Florida, where my mother was about to have a cardiac catheterization. I dismissed the symptoms more in the coming weeks and months as my mother was swept into a deeper illness following open-heart surgery. My inability to even eat a doughnut as I drove to or from South Florida was ignored as a diet issue. I actually kept extra grocery bags in my car in case I gagged while driving. I was that ignorant as to what was happening to my body.

I couldn't check in to see a doctor; I had work during the week and on weekends I was visiting my ailing mother. I just didn't have the time.

But Mom was falling deeper and deeper into a medical nightmare and I finally listened to my wife Catherine and went to see my doctor.

Dr. John Pfeiffer in Celebration, Fla., suggested I needed to see Dr. Phillip Styne. He suspected the sphincter of my esophagus was not dilating properly and that Dr. Styne could enlarge the opening during an endoscopic exam. There was a very small chance I had cancer of the esophagus, Dr. Pfeiffer said, but I was too young and he'd never come across an esophageal cancer patient. He doubted that's what I had, though the chance was there.

I'll never forget Dr. Styne's greeting to me as I awakened from the anesthesia of that endoscopy. He told me there was some "swelling" and -- drum roll -- he took a biopsy.

This was on a Thursday. Talk about a miserable weekend.

But by Monday it was confirmed. Dr. David Diamond, who would become my radio-oncologist, called to say I did have cancer and I needed to get in pronto. I needed to see Dr. Lee Zehngebot, my oncologist. Together, this team -- Styne, Zehngebot and Diamond -- plus, later, Dr. Joseph Boyer, would be the men who saved my life.

But I digress.

Dr. Z explained that esophageal cancer was rare and deadly. In my case, it was likely caused by a combination of factors, including years of heartburn treated with antacids but no real medicines. My odds were not good, but the docs were not ready to write me off just yet.

Dr. Diamond initially told me I was stage 2 to 3. Not good. He said I had a 50-50 chance of survival. Again, not good. But each step of my treatment could lead to a new assessment. As I passed a new threshold, I'd be re-assessed. Still, 50-50 meant I had as good a chance to live as to die.

I chose to live -- though later during treatments I briefly questioned the sanity of that choice.

In the weeks that followed I underwent daily zaps of radiation, heavy-duty jolts of X-ray-like doses of isotopes I'm not too familiar with that, weeks later, I'd learn affected my liver and other hot-spots in my body, which resembled new cases of cancer. Thankfully, biopsies would find that not to be the case.

I also was attached 24/7 for seven weeks to a chemo pump injecting poison directly into my jugular vein.

This one-two punch sapped me of my strength and, at times, my will. But I didn't want to let depression get the best of me. I tried to remain focused and positive. I would not be distracted by my condition or the deteriorating state of my ailing mother.

After these treatments were completed I had about a month of a "cooling-off period" to recover before major surgery to dissect and resect my esophagus, stomach and lymphatic system in my chest. Also during this time, my Mom seemed to be getting mildly better. We were able to move her from the hospital in Fort Lauderdale to a rehab center in Boca Raton, then, days before daughter Jennifer's marriage to Chris Kuz, to a rehab center in Orlando.

I finally told Mom about my cancer and how I was doing pretty well. I mean, I hadn't died during the chemo (several people had during trials of the treatment) and I was still standing. We moved her belongings from her apartment in South Florida to our garage. A week before my surgery the weekend before Christmas 2007, I traded in my beloved Mazda RX-8 sports car for a larger and easier to enter Saturn Vue SUV. I'd never be able to squeeze into the RX-8 after my surgery, and I'd need the SUV to haul Mom's oxygen tanks after she was discharged from treatments.

Mom had a couple of setbacks in the interim, and on Dec. 21 I underwent surgery. I had an esophago-gastrectomy -- basically, most of my esophagus was cut away. To replace it, my stomach was cut, spliced, pasted and pureed into a faux esophagus and a smaller stomach, now planted in my chest not far from my heart.

It took about three weeks to be discharged from the hospital and another several weeks to recover before returning to work.

Since then, I lost my mother, I've regained about 15 pounds but still am far lighter than I was during those days of dieting two years ago.

Like I tell friends and others, I like the results but I would not recommend the diet program.

So, friends, it comes down to this as CancerVivor.blogspot.com has reached more than 19,000 page views, if you have heartburn, then lose it; if you have problems swallowing; if you suspect something amiss in your digestive system, please see a doctor and be open to treatments. Even if the dreaded "C-word" -- cancer -- is the diagnosis.

Two years later and I'm still here.

A great big sigh of relief

After my first visit with Dr. Phillip Styne since an endoscopy in January, I have one word: Whew!

That's because Dr. Styne affirmed Dr. Miner's observation that my chest pains were, indeed, caused by spasms to my esophagus. He said the nitroglycerin-based meds I'm on do relax smooth-muscle tissue such as a heart -- its most common destination -- and the esophagus.

With that behind us, along with a brief amount of schmoozing, we agreed I won't have to see Dr. Styne for four months, and I most likely will not need another endoscopy until January, a year after the previous one.

In other words, my body finally is healing as it should. Before all this began, the docs said it would be a long road and would take a year or two for me to heal. They were not wrong.

With the expertise of my medical team, Dr. John Pfeiffer, Dr. Styne, Dr. David Diamond, Dr Lee Zehngebot, Dr Joe Boyer and many other docs and nurses and techs and assistants, I'm pretty much back from the brink.

In September 2007, I wouldn't have believed it. The news was so grim, the odds so low and external factors in the tank, I wasn't hopeful at all.

But today, I must say my optimism is back. I might even think about buying some stock. Well, that one I'd have to think about.

Bloody Well Right (with apologies to Supertramp)

Wednesday was a watershed day for me in a couple of ways.

First, it was the first time since my cancer diagnosis that I made a blood donation. I hope the people who receive my donation use it in good health.

Second, it was sort of an affirmation that I am healthy. I received the blood center's seal of approval to prove it -- they took my blood, after all.

Not long ago, if you had certain cancers and were treated with either chemo or radiation, you had to wait five years before donating blood -- if you lived that long.

Today it's just a year.

So in another eight weeks I'll go to work early when the bloodmobile shows up at the Sentinel and make another donation. I've always liked giving blood -- besides helping others, I just always feel physically better afterward.

And I encourage you to make a donation if medically able. Call the blood center nearest you to see if you and your particular medical issues would keep you from donating. If they do, perhaps a year from now you'll be better able to make a donation.

Changing meds, soon changing docs

I saw Dr. James Miner, my cardiologist, today.

The visit was to check out the chest pains I've had the past few months. They're the same one that led me to Dr. Miner in December -- the ones that led to my catheterization. My EKG looked normal to the doc, and said the pains are more likely caused by my digestive system than my heart. That's a good thing for sure.

He did add a med and told me to drop another. Now I'm taking nitroglycerine tabs twice a day, but no longer taking hydrochorathalazide, or whatever it's called. This should ease the pains, since nitro works with the arteries of the esophagus and stomach just as it does with the heart. It also drops blood pressure, thus the change in BP meds.

Sadly, Dr. Miner also told me he's leaving the practice he's been with since 1990. He said he's moving over to a practice in The Villages up near Lady Lake -- a vast senior development that straddles three counties. While parts of Florida's population are declining, people still are moving into The Villages.

He plans to commute. Ouch.

I'll see Dr. Miner again on June 1, but that likely would be the last time as doctor and patient. He's a good guy and I'm sorry my time as his patient has been so brief -- though not needing a cardiologist until this time certainly isn't a bad thing.

I plan this weekend to toast Dr. Miner at breakfast -- a cup of juice, wheat bread smeared with heart-friendly spread, egg white omelette and a cup of oatmeal.

Cheers, Doc!

Mostly a clean bill of health

Got back from Dr. Lee Zehngebot's office a short time ago, and I received some very good news.

My CT scans earlier this month showed no signs of improper tissue mass anywhere in my chest or abdomen.

This means no cancer. The past year and a half of physical, radioactive and chemical torture seems to have worked. It also left some odd "scars" inside my body. Like a liver that was "cooked" a little too well done by the radiation. Lungs that also were sauteed by some isotope and produce a little bit too much fluid along with the oxygen my body needs.

Because there's so much going on in my scan, the docs want another one before my next appointment with Dr. Z in August. Soon I'll be glowing in the dark, if I don't already.

And then there's my heart. Dr. Z said my recent weirdness in that arena might be caused by coronary spasms and he'd like some more tests done with Dr. James Miner. Not sure what's going to happen, but I presume I'll find out soon.

But as for my CT scans, everything looks good, the doc said. The report from the radiologist said everything pretty much looks as expected. I just wish they'd expected, oh, maybe someone in better shape with a smaller gut. Then I'd be really happy with those findings. Though I am quite pleased with the findings. Dr. Z was pleased as well, though harried in his new set-up.

Oh, speaking of Dr. Z, he has new digs down the Florida Hospital Plaza hallway from his previous office. Not that the practice moved, just his partners moved him into an office all to his own.

Yes, he's just that good.

As one nurse said to me, "This is like the Hilton" compared with his old office.

And, I'm guessing, the rest of the practice wants to use PCs, not Macs.

Gulp, the scan

In just four months since my previous CT scan in December, things at Florida Hospital's imaging labs have changed.

What used to be a couple of swills of horrible orange-flavored drink prior to the scan has morphed into two pints of bottled water spiked with an iodine solution an hour before the scan and then one more pint of a different iodine solution minutes before. So while I loved the flavorless solution, far superior to the faux store-brand-Tang-flavored drink we had before, that is outweighed by the wasted hour one must spend at the hospital prior to the scan.

It's not as if I -- and most every cancer patient -- has not wasted countless hours at hospitals and doctors office waiting in lobbies or in infusion rooms for and during treatments. But just when you thought you'd escaped that routine, it's back. I didn't even bring my traditional time-waster -- a sudoku book. But, thankfully, Catherine joined me so we had some time with each other.

The CT tech who snapped my internal photos and also gave the most pain-free IV poke I've ever had said Florida Hospital changed the procedure about a month ago and that the protocol is better. Perhaps the chemicals in the bottled water provide better contrast for the CT. I wouldn't doubt it. That place is always improving upon itself.

The tech also said it has to do with distributing the contrast drinks. I mentioned in 2007 about the milky contrast drinks they make you consume before a PET scan and some CT scans (use liquid strawberry-flavored Quik to make it go down easier). Well, by administering the drink prior to the scan -- not the day or days before -- Florida Hospital's imaging service can't be seen as distributing medications like a pharmacy. Maybe the lawyers got involved.

Florida Hospital also changed the procedure at its Advanced Nuclear Imaging center across the street, where PET scans are produced. So be prepared for a wait there as well.

I won't hear about the results of the scan until later this month -- the 27th -- but I figure no news is good news. If something shows up that shouldn't be there, I think I'll hear from the doctor sooner. I'm hoping I don't.

So don't panic about taking the scans, just be prepared to wait a while once at the hospital. Arrive an hour or more before your appointment -- and bring something to read.