With the first major step out of the way (radiation/oral chemotherapy), it was time to give the body a rest. I finished the first round of treatments on December 13th, 2017; this was perfect timing as my Winter Break started just a few days later on December 18th, leaving me with 3 weeks off from school to rest and recover. I had a busy winter break planned- I would meet my Dad in Phoenix and travel to Sedona, followed by a trip to Chicago for a visit with my mom, Papa, and other family members; and finally, back to San Diego to wind things down. Surgery would be held February 7th, 2018, followed by another 6-8 week break to let the body recover. We would then move into the final phase of treatments- Intravenous Chemotherapy (the rough stuff). Although overwhelming, I had to constantly remind myself to take it one step at a time, and my first step was to enjoy time off from treatments and winter break!
Regarding school, I refer to my work as “school” as I’ve basically been in school my whole life, from the time I was in Pre-K all the way up to my college years, immediately followed by teaching and later, graduate school. My school community has been an instrumental component in my life for as long as I can remember, shaping and molding me as a person both inside and outside of the classroom. I’m thankful to have found a career that I’m passionate about and love to do and I often think I’ve learned more from my students, families, and coworkers than they have from me. With that, I have to give a massive shoutout to my Grizzly Family at MHHS and San Marcos community in general. Prior to starting treatments, I had emailed my school to share the difficult news, asking for support in any means possible and later receiving an overwhelming, positive response (you can view the original email here). To this day, I still marvel at how these people rallied around me, picking me up when I was down and out.
One of my coworkers organized what I call, “The Meal Deal”. She created a schedule/spreadsheet, asking staff members to volunteer to make a home cooked meal for me during treatments on a weekly basis. The spreadsheet blew up, it was filled with over 40 names/volunteers within an hour! It was incredible- from the start of treatments (November 2017) until the end of the school year and well into summer, I was given delicious home cooked meals, donated gift cards (GrubHub, Uber Eats, Vons, Ralphs, etc.) by my thoughtful, generous coworkers. This was huge for me, as a single guy working full time, while enduring nonstop cancer treatments, it was a relief knowing that I didn’t have to worry about cooking for a few days at a time. Not only was The Meal Deal a success, but I was bailed out in an even bigger manner when coworkers and employees around the district donated their Personal Time Off.
Our district has a policy in which a staff member may ask for “donated sick days” when facing a specific hardship (ex. Cancer diagnosis, bereavement, etc). Staff members are able to donate up to two days per calendar year. Going into treatments, I had already burned through most of my PTO (having 10 sick days/year, along with 4 personal days); with a major surgery coming up, followed by more chemo, I knew I wouldn’t be able to work for the remainder of the year. I reached out to my Grizzly family and SMUSD community to receive a substantial amount of donated days, which allowed me to take off from my surgery date to the end of the school year. This allowed me to retain a full paycheck and all benefits (unfortunately, this wouldn’t be the first time I had to reach out for donated days, more on that later). Without these people and their selfless generosity, it’s no doubt I would be unemployed and have no benefits. Thank you to my amazing Grizzlies and SMUSD community- I wish I could do and say more, but for now, know that I love you and will never forget your kindness. As if this wasn’t enough, staff in the school started a project- with the goal to fold 1,000 origami paper cranes to drape throughout my classroom. An ancient Japanese legend suggests that anyone who folds a thousand paper cranes would be granted 1 wish from the Gods. My coworker’s wish for me was to get healthy and beat this disease.
Everything seemed to be falling into place. I had completed radiation/chemotherapy and was feeling pretty damn healthy for the first time in a long time! Sure, there were side effects from round 1 (mainly fatigue and skin irritation), but I was well enough to travel and relax along the way. I spent some time with my dad in Sedona as we explored the beautiful scenery and the Grandest Canyon of them all (I still think it’s a giant backdrop/green screen- unreal, we gotta be in a simulation)! After exploring AZ, it was off to Chicago to hang with my mom, Papa, friends and family. Although it was heavy travel, I was able to find time to lay low and relax with some of my favorite people on the planet… And naturally, crush some serious pizza. After a few weeks on the road, it was back to California for the new year. The plan was to teach for a month, then take time off for the surgery and following steps.
After a quality winter break and new year, the surgery date finally rolled around. My mom and dad flew in the day before (from Chicago and Houston, respectively), and I picked them up in my car (1998 Honda Civic). That night, we kept it low key, getting some Breakwater Pizza and watching a movie. These days, there is no need for fasting prior to surgery, in fact, they encourage you to eat in an effort to have strength/energy going into the procedure. Later that evening, I went to bed with Dora, feeling cool as the other side of the pillow. I was ready to go and surprisingly, much more comfortable and confident than I had anticipated going into a major surgery. The following day would be an early start, with check-in at 9 AM. I woke up early, around 7 AM to take my Dora for a walk around the block and get my head right. As if going in for a massive surgery isn’t enough chaos, I will never forget the dramatics that unfolded early that morning…
As I stepped outside my house, I noticed my vehicle wasn’t parked in front as I had left it the previous night. “That’s weird”, I said to Dora. “I coulda sworn I parked WP out front… Well damn, I was pretty baked last night, maybe I got stupid and parked it somewhere else down the street, around the block?”, as Dora gazed up at me with a perplexed look, surely thinking, “Yep, you’re a stoner”. Although none of that reasoning added up, I decided to play it cool and go on our usual walk around the block.
As Dora sniffed and smelled, I scanned the area for my ‘98 Civic. We continued to walk and my curiosity continued to build, “Where the hell is my car?”. We made it around our usual route with no sign of the car, when it finally settled in that she was gone- stolen most likely. Definitely not in the place where I had parked it. I walked back into the house and calmly said to my folks, “You aren’t going to believe it, but I’m pretty sure WP got jacked last night. It’s not out front in the usual spot”. Scramble mode ensued, I called Oceanside PD and they sent out an officer to complete a police report.
At this time, we have an hour til surgery, so I message Dr. K and explain the news. Luckily, my roommate Z bailed me out and let us borrow his car (and it’s a damn good thing Steve knows how to drive a stick- because I didn’t!). As we drove to the Kaiser facility in silence, I’m certain we were all wondering, “Where could the Civic be?”. I wasn’t too worried about it- we had bigger fish to fry. In an effort to make sense of the situation, I had texted one of my ride or dies (best friends) that morning, and he gave me some great advice. He said, “Flacker, I’m sorry, and have no idea why your car got stolen… but think of this as a day in which items that you no longer need are being removed from your life”. Those words resonated with me; I didn’t need this damn tumor in my life, and for whatever reason, The Universe decided I no longer needed the Civic either.
After a strange start to the day and checking in at Kaiser, my surgeon, Dr. K approached to have a quick chat before going into the Operating Room. Naturally, we chuckled a bit regarding the car. Dr. K is a cool dude, and actually the second surgeon I had visited within the Kaiser network. The first guy was unique in his own, odd type of way, but I had better juju alignment with Dr. K and felt more comfortable with him operating on me. Although an intensive surgery, it was evident that Dr. K was a seasoned veteran and the man for the job. He would conduct the surgery using a laparoscopic robot which would entail 5 small incisions throughout the abdomen, about 1 inch in diameter each. As he makes each incision, he would use different instruments (cameras, scalpels, suction tubes, pliers, etc) to go through the stomach wall, muscles, and tissue to locate the mass in the colorectal area. From there, he would remove the mass, along with the “margins”. The margins are vital for any cancer surgery and are considered the healthy tissue surrounding the mass. The reason they remove healthy tissue is to ensure they remove all of the disease; even though he could visibly see the tumor, research suggests that there are always cancer cells in the surrounding margins/healthy tissue, unseen by the naked eye. It’s quite fascinating- Dr. K went in and took out the tumor/margins, they then tested the margins on site (while I’m still sedated) using a microscope/computer system, to ensure he removed everything. In total, he removed over 7 inches of intestine, along with 11 of the surrounding lymph nodes as they had been infected by the disease. Ultimately, the whole surgery took a little more than 5 hours and was a success.
It’s an odd, unforgettable process going into major surgery. A lot of waiting. My mom and dad were hanging with me until it was time. As we said our goodbyes, I could sense the anxiety in my folks. I reminded myself that they’re tougher than I am and unfortunately, they’ve done this before; yet I can imagine it being a helpless feeling, watching your child get wheeled down the hall to the Operating Room given the circumstances.
It was a smooth ride there, two nurses pushing my bed along the way. I knew we were entering the OR as we passed through a doorway; blinding lights pierced the retinas coupled with a noticeable drop in temperature. I peered around the room and saw the operating table. I wanted that table, I yearned for it- knowing it was my time. The two nurses transitioned me from my comfy bed onto the tiny, cold, hard slab. As they strapped me down, the anesthesiologist was in first, while nurses scurried about the room. With massive TVs, cameras, instruments strewn about and machines buzzing and whirring, it was hard to stay focused on the doctor. They confirmed my identity, the procedure and explained that they’d be getting a cocktail ready for me.
They start with an injection of saline to clear the lines- I like to goof with the professionals and pretend that it makes me drowsy, saying something like, “Oh yeah, that’s the stuff right there” while acting as if I’m going unconscious; I received a baffled look as they explained it was simply saline to which I replied I was kidding around. Next, the doctor administered another round of cocktails and put a mask over my nose and mouth, instructing me to take slow, deep breathes. I never forget the transition from awareness to nothingness. In that moment, I was simply focusing on my breath, looking the doctor in the eyes. It seemed like minutes had passed, and as I was about to say, “I don’t think this stuff is working…” – when everything went black. I was forced into an alternate realm in which time and space were nonexistent. Being under is how I perceive time travel, in one moment, I’m looking at a doctor while on an operating table, and the next, my eyes begin to flutter open as a tingling sensation spreads throughout the body. What seemed like a few minutes was more than 5 hours.
I knew I was alive and had made it out of surgery when I woke up because it felt like I got hit by a train. You would think it would be the abdominal region that was sore, but no, it was my whole entire body. From the tip of my toes to my head- nothing but pain of all dimensions- sharp pains, stinging, throbbing, pins and needles; deep, debilitating, overpowering pain that I had never experienced. Apparently, as part of the operation, the doctor pumps your abdomen and chest cavity full of air in order to expand the whole system, providing more room for the doctor to operate. This air settles in the body, causing serious discomfort and pain (specifically in the chest, shoulders, and neck), with time being the only solution. Although we were grateful for a successful surgery, it was obvious that I had a long road to recovery.
After regaining consciousness and awareness, my dad shared with me that the police had found the Civic. It was found in Chula Vista, banged up and abandoned. In just twelve hours, what was a pristine automobile, was trashed beyond belief; littered with crack pipes, beer bottles, clothing, and rubbish. The officers shared positive news that some of my most prized possessions were still in there- my hockey gear and sticks! Ultimately, I was bummed about the car, but thrilled to hear my gear was still intact. Although we were discouraged, it was easy to move past; having a diagnosis like mine certainly changes your desires, morals, and overall perspective on life. The car wasn’t a priority and I quickly surrendered myself to the idea that it was meant to end up junked, not seeing the bigger plan that would soon unravel as more people in my life continued to step up and carry me through these trying times.
I ended up spending 5 days at the Kaiser hospital. It wasn’t awful and in fact, was a new hospital, only 2 years old and considered the most environmentally friendly in North America. From top to bottom, every inch of that hospital had been planned and constructed with a primary “go green” or eco-friendly focus. It was magnificent work, every detail was automated and established to save as much energy/power as possible. I still laugh to this day, because even though it is one of the most eco-friendly hospitals in the world- my old man still found a way to bust my chops about “leaving the lights on in the room” when we’d go for strolls (they’re automated, guy!). The food was decent and I had a sweet 70 inch TV in my private room to watch NHL hockey and such. No doubt that it was an extremely impressive facility.
The hardest part of recovery was finding the proper drug combination to manage the pain (I got sick from a few of the cocktails) and establishing mobility. The day of surgery, the nurses get you out of bed and moving. Of course, I got lined up with all of the cute nurses, despite being in brutal shape and hanging on by a thread (no way I was going to try and wheel one of them), my only focus was getting through the pain and getting the hell outta there. I will never forget my first attempt at walking- my nurse got me out of bed and I used a walker for support. I couldn’t stand completely upright; hunched over as my body was throbbing and aching, the walker was my life support as we made it about 10 feet down the hall before I had to turn around and get back to the sanctuary of the bed. It was a small, but necessary start. I won’t lie, initially I was extremely concerned. My body was in a dissimilar state, I began to wonder if I’d ever, “get back to normal”. However, as each day passed, the pain began to subside, little by little, and I began to make more gains moving throughout the hospital floor.
By Day 5, I was walking laps around the hospital floor for 10-20 minutes at a time, and soon was released from Kaiser. Although I didn’t have a car to get me home, once again, my roommate and ride or die (Z), stepped up to chauffeur me around from that point on. Soon, my hockey and school community would catch wind regarding the Civic, resulting in more people coming together to pick me up when I was down. Dr. K and company did an excellent job piecing me back together, and although it was a tremendously difficult experience (taking over 6 months to feel some sense of “normalcy), in a bizarre way I’m thankful for the challenge. I now knew what my body could handle physically, and that I could continue to push myself even further mentally. Yet this was just the beginning, as I had 6-8 weeks to get ready for the real deal- intravenous chemotherapy.
