First and foremost, Happy Veterans Day to all who have worn the uniform and served our nation!
Thank you for your service, your sacrifices, and your commitment to something greater than yourselves. Your dedication to our country and its people is deeply appreciated.
Medical update:
A few weeks ago, I met with a head and neck oncologist to discuss a small nodule on the right side of my parotid gland, one of the salivary glands near the jaw. We decided an MRI would give us a better understanding of what we were dealing with.
If you've never had an MRI of your head and neck, it's quite the experience. They placed a cage-like device over my head to keep everything in position. All I could think about was that scene from The Silence of the Lambs when Hannibal Lecter was strapped to a gurney for transport. Thankfully, nobody made me wear a mask, and I wasn't being wheeled off to meet a senator.
After reviewing the MRI, we decided to hold off on a biopsy for now. The nodule is about the size of a pencil eraser, roughly 6 millimeters, and sits deep within the parotid gland. There are several important facial nerves in that area, making a biopsy a bit more complicated than simply sticking a needle into it. The risk of hitting a nerve isn't something we want to take lightly, especially for something so small.
For now, we'll continue to monitor it. The current thinking is that it isn't related to either my Hodgkin's lymphoma or my T-cell/histiocyte-rich large B-cell lymphoma. That's encouraging, although we don't know exactly what it is yet. Sometimes the best course of action is to watch and wait, something I've become rather familiar with over the last couple of years.
Last week brought another adventure. I had one of my two ureteral stents removed while fully conscious. I'll spare you the ugly details, but after some local anesthetic, the doctor went in to retrieve the stent. Apparently, the two stents had become somewhat intertwined inside my bladder, which meant the doctor had to spend a little more time than anticipated getting the first one out.
Let me just say that this was not an enjoyable experience. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend. I'm fairly certain I discovered a few new facial expressions during the procedure. If the follow-up labs show that everything is functioning properly, we'll move forward with removing the second stent. Hopefully, that one will be a little less adventurous.
As if that wasn't enough excitement, I managed to get a case of food poisoning over the weekend. I'll spare you those details as well. Somehow, it managed to be even more miserable than the stent removal, which is saying something. The good news is that I'm feeling much better now. My appetite has returned, my energy is coming back.
Overall, things are moving in the right direction. We still have a few things to keep an eye on, but that's become part of my normal routine. Not every medical update needs to be dramatic, and sometimes no significant changes are exactly what we want to hear.
For now, I'm happy to be feeling better, eating normally, and putting another interesting chapter of medical adventures behind me.
Onward.
Sometimes the best medicine has four legs and a wagging tail.
There is something magical about dogs. They have this remarkable ability to sense when we need a little extra love, a moment of comfort, or simply a reminder that there is still joy in the world. They don't need words to communicate affection. Sometimes a gentle nudge, a wagging tail, or simply sitting beside us is enough.
Over the last couple of years, I've spent more time in hospitals, treatment centers, and waiting rooms than I ever imagined I would. I've met some incredible people along the way. Doctors, nurses, technicians, fellow patients, and volunteers have all played a part in my journey. But there is another group of volunteers who deserve some recognition. They don't wear scrubs, carry stethoscopes, or ask how I'm feeling. They have four legs, wagging tails, and an extraordinary ability to make a difficult day a little brighter.
Therapy dogs.
Recently, I had the pleasure of meeting Atlas. At approximately 125 pounds, Atlas is a massive dog. The kind of dog whose size makes you stop and take notice. Despite his imposing stature, he was as gentle as they come. A gentle giant with a calm demeanor and a seemingly endless supply of affection. There is something wonderfully amusing about a dog that big being so incredibly gentle. Here is this enormous creature who could probably knock me over without much effort, yet all he wants is a little attention and perhaps a good scratch behind the ears.
For a few minutes, the hospital faded into the background. No discussions about blood counts, PET scans, treatment schedules, or what comes next. Just a big dog, a few scratches, and a smile that I probably didn't even realize I needed. It was a simple encounter, but one that stayed with me long after Atlas moved on to visit someone else.
For those of us going through extended medical treatments, these encounters mean more than people might realize.
One of the harder parts of my treatment journey has been spending so much time away from home. When Maria and I moved to New York so I could receive treatment at Memorial Sloan Kettering, we left behind many of the familiar comforts of our everyday lives. We adjusted to apartment living, the sounds of the city, and a routine built around appointments and treatments. It was a necessary change, and one we were grateful to be able to make, but that didn't mean we stopped missing home.
Among the things I missed most were our dogs.
Anyone who shares their home with dogs understands that they aren't simply pets. They're part of the family. They become woven into the routines of our lives. The greetings when we walk through the door, the quiet companionship when we're reading, the occasional demand for attention at the most inconvenient moment, and the simple comfort of knowing they're nearby. Our dogs have their own personalities, quirks, and ways of reminding us that they are important members of the household.
Dogs don't care about our professional accomplishments, the size of our bank accounts, or the mistakes we've made. They don't know what a PET scan is or understand the complexities of cancer treatment. They don't care if we've had a productive day or spent most of it resting. They simply know us, accept us, and love us without conditions.
Being away from that affection for extended periods leaves a little hole in your heart. Even with Maria by my side, there were moments when I missed the simple pleasure of having a dog resting nearby, content just to be in the same room. There is a particular comfort in that kind of companionship, one that is difficult to explain to someone who hasn't experienced it.
That's where therapy dogs come in.
I've encountered several throughout my treatment journey, and each visit has brought a little bit of home into an otherwise clinical environment. Sometimes it's only a few minutes, a chance to pet a dog, exchange a few words with its handler, and enjoy a moment of normalcy. Those brief encounters have become something I genuinely look forward to, especially on days when the appointments seem endless or the waiting rooms feel particularly draining.
I've also noticed what happens to the people around me when a therapy dog enters the room. Faces change. People who were staring at their phones look up. Conversations begin between strangers. Smiles appear on faces that, just moments earlier, looked tired or worried. There is almost a collective shift in the atmosphere, as if everyone has been given permission to forget where they are for a little while.
For a brief moment, patients aren't defined by their illnesses. We're simply people enjoying the company of a wonderful animal. We ask about the dog's name, age, and breed. We laugh at their personalities and share stories about the dogs waiting for us at home. The conversations are ordinary, which is precisely what makes them so special in a place where so much of our lives revolves around something extraordinary and frightening.
I've come to appreciate those moments more than I ever would have before cancer.
There is a lot about serious illness that takes away our sense of control. Appointments dictate our calendars. Lab results influence our plans. Treatments can leave us physically and emotionally exhausted. Sometimes the uncertainty is more difficult than the treatment itself. We spend so much time thinking about what comes next that it can become difficult to appreciate what is happening right in front of us.
A therapy dog doesn't change any of that. Atlas certainly isn't going to improve my platelet count or make the next scan less stressful. He can't offer medical advice or explain why something showed up on an imaging study. What he can do is make me smile, remind me of home, and provide a moment when I'm not thinking about cancer. Sometimes that's exactly what I need.
I also think about the people who volunteer their time and share their dogs with patients like me. They could be spending their days doing countless other things. Instead, they choose to walk through hospital corridors, visit strangers, and offer a little kindness to people who might be having one of the hardest days of their lives. They may never know the full impact of those visits, but I hope they understand how much their presence matters.
It's a beautiful form of service. Quiet, uncomplicated, and deeply human, even if half the team happens to be canine. It reminds me that service doesn't always require grand gestures or extraordinary sacrifices. Sometimes it simply means showing up, sharing what you have, and making someone else's day a little better.
I've written before about how this journey has made me more intentional about connecting with the people around me. About looking up from my phone, starting conversations, and taking time to appreciate the small moments that make up our lives. Atlas reminded me that not every meaningful connection requires a conversation. Sometimes it just requires an open hand, a wagging tail, and a willingness to be present.
I don't know what Atlas thought about our encounter. Perhaps he enjoyed the attention. Perhaps he was hoping I had a treat hidden somewhere. Or perhaps, in that mysterious way dogs seem to understand us, he knew that I needed a little extra affection that day. Whatever the reason, he made my day better, and I suspect he did the same for quite a few other people.
To Atlas and all the other therapy dogs who walk the halls of hospitals and treatment centers, thank you. To their handlers, who generously share these wonderful companions with strangers, thank you for the kindness you bring into places where it is so desperately needed. You may see these visits as a small part of your day, but for the people you visit, they can become one of the brightest moments of the week.
To my own dogs waiting at home, I miss you. There will be plenty of scratches, cuddles, and probably a few extra treats when we're together again. Until then, I'm grateful for the occasional visit from dogs like Atlas, who bring a little bit of that familiar love into a place where I sometimes need it most.
Cancer treatment has taught me that healing isn't always about medicine. Medicine treats the disease, but there are other parts of us that need attention along the way. Our spirits need lifting. Our hearts need comfort. We need reminders that life is still filled with simple pleasures, even when the circumstances around us are anything but simple.
Sometimes hope arrives in the form of a promising scan or encouraging bloodwork. Sometimes it arrives wearing a white coat. Other times it arrives on four paws, weighing 125 pounds, with a wagging tail and absolutely no idea how much joy it brings into the world.