Prelude to a Cancer Stroy

If someone were to ask me to summarize the past four months of my life in just a few words, I would tell them that is a stupid request and they should shut-up. There were too many emotions to be summarized in a tidy little package, and I have never been good at condensing long stories so that people could save time by not listening to, or reading all the details. I prefer the idea of laying it all out there, and I think for my own sake I need to do it like that because everything happened so fast I never really had a chance to wrap my head around the enormity of it all.

Such is time. It goes by without delay or trepidation. It doesn't slow down to make sure you're keeping up, and it certainly doesn't stop to wait for you. In fact, when you wish time wouldn't go so fast, that's when it starts lapping you.

So now that I've been able to reclaim a bit of normalcy and routine back into my days I feel like it's time to start confronting the emotions I've openly expressed, and the feelings I know are in there but never emerged while I was sick. By releasing my mind through written words I hope to come to grips with how my life is forever changed. I know I am, and am not, the same person I was before, but after everything that has happened I feel as though I am beyond vulnerable and ready to confront the reality of my second chance.

Throughout the course of my treatment the last thing I ever wanted is pity. I never wanted the deep pathos that comes with being told you may have a terminal illness. But I think it's natural for people to react that way, and when it comes to cancer they automatically feel sorry for you. It allows humans to show they care and that they're concerned about someone else's well-being, and I'll admit that when I felt like death warmed over it was good to know people were out there feeling sorry for me. It made me feel like a fighter--like a survivor. Besides, how else is someone supposed to react when getting the news that their friend, brother, son, husband, or now father, is facing something as ominous as the 'C' word. There's no best way to react, and so we do what comes naturally--we cry, we worry, we wonder, we might even start to pray again. Regardless of what we do, we do it based on who we are.

In writing about my experiences I don't want people to revisit those feelings for me again. All of this is meant to be an experiment, an exploration, a sincere reflection on what has happened and what might happen next. It's hard to say whether or not any of this is going to come out of me in chronological order, but it should be relatively easy to identify where you are along the timeline.

Here goes nothing...

Thank You Letter to Friends

June 11, 2010

Dear Friends,

Greetings from the reclusive world of the Matkin’s. Where to even begin? It’s been difficult to keep track of the days over the past few weeks. So much is happening in our house at any given moment, but nothing is really going on either. I’ll just say it’s a weird sensation--like a time warp, or a scene from a movie when you don’t know if the characters are in the present, past, or future. I guess it’s our new reality, at least for the next few months, and it’s been one hell-of-a ride so far I can tell you that much.

First and foremost, let me express to you all our most sincere appreciation and gratitude for staging the fundraiser on our behalf. It is incredibly overwhelming to think about the support we received. In fact, it’s made me cry on more than one occasion (but I blame that partly on hormonal overload from the chemo). What’s even more amazing is the fact that so many of the people we know are strapped financially these days, and somehow they still managed to help support us. That kind of friendship and compassion is truly humbling, and we are so blessed to have so many amazing friends. Saying thank you a thousand times does not even begin to express how grateful we are to each and every one of you.

I also thought I’d share a few updates since I don’t have much direct contact with the outside world. I’m nearing the end of my first cycle of chemo and feeling somewhat normal again. This may not be that interesting, but I’ll fill you in anyway since I can honestly say I had no idea what cancer treatment was really going to be like. My chemo is called BEP, and the letters represent the three kinds pollutants they pump into me to kill the cancer. I’m slated for three cycles, and because of the advanced stage of the cancer the regimen is pretty intense. It goes something like this:

~Week 1: I spend M-F at Huntsman in the infusion room hooked to an IV for five to eight hours. Side effects are nausea, fatigue, eventual baldness (which started this week) and some kind of truth serum that inspired me to profess my love of beer to my sister--the one who goes to church every Sunday. The days are long and I come home with olfactory overload. The smell of coffee makes me want to vomit--how messed up is that?

~Week 2: Blood tests and a 15-minute blast of morning chemo on Tuesday. Easier. Side effects are insane fever. Topped out at 102.6 last week.

~Week 3: Same as week two, but feeling pretty good. Although I now have to administer injections into my own belly to help get my white blood cell count back up before the cycle starts over. Makes me happy I’m not diabetic, because it’s not that cool to jam a needle into your own gut.

~Repeat.

Since I’m in the third week of treatment right now I feel pretty good, and although I dread the first week of the cycle again I wish it would come sooner so I could plow through this and get on with life. Even though the cancer I have is in an advanced stage, this chemo is proven to work for testicular cancer, and we are nothing but optimistic about the end result.

On a more cheery note, Harlow Grace Matkin is a beautiful, beautiful girl. I might be a little biased, but I know an ugly baby when I see one, and she is not an ugly baby. I keep telling Shanon what a great job she did making such a beauty. The first week we were back from the hospital I was too sick to really enjoy time with my girls, and everything I smelled or put in my mouth was making me sick. Luckily Shanon’s mom is an angel and spent a lot of time helping us with baby duties while I kept busy trying hard to not to vomit. I never thought I’d appreciate a live-in mother-in-law, but it’s just another example of the selfless acts people have been offering. I get sent to bed and the mother hen’s do their thing. Plus I love Shanon’s mom like my own, so it really hasn’t been that weird.

Now that I feel better I can say without trepidation that being a first time parent is a trip, as many of you know already. The living schedule goes something like this.

Wake, eat, poop, sleep. Repeat.

That’s it. And it’s amazing how time consuming those four things can be. I’ll be honest, there is senseless screaming and tearless crying that rattles my nerves, and poop blow-outs so massive that one can only marvel at how something so small can make such a huge, disgusting mess. But in those serene moments when Harlow is calm, or alert to the world around her, the feeling of love that hits is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. That’s my mushy dad story and I’m sticking to it. It’s true there is nothing in the world that can prepare a person for being a first-time parent, but somehow you seem to make it work, no matter the circumstances.

The events that transpired during the month of May have been the life changing variety for us. And although I can’t say I’ll be a different person when this is all over, I do feel an emotional transformation occurring. Whether it’s a new appreciation for simple pleasures, or a new perspective on the big picture, I don’t think I’ll know for sure until I’m not a chemo patient anymore, and all signs of my cancer have vanished. For now, we’re just taking things one day at a time and dealing with new challenges as they arrive.

If you feel so inclined, please don’t be afraid to call or text me anytime 801-661-1259. If it’s easier you can email me, too. bjmatkin@gmail.com. For as jaded as I was with the general public before all this began, it’s funny how much I miss socialization with the outside world, and we love to have company.

I miss you all and hope everything is good. Thanks again for your friendship and support.

All of Our Love,

Jared, Shanon, Harlow and Emmett

An Announcement to Our Friends

May 19, 2010

Dear Friends,

Where to begin. First of all, let me say I feel conflicted about sharing this news via email. However, I think this will be the easiest way for me to do it. Due to the graphic nature of the content, parental discretion is advised.

Last Tuesday morning I had a minor surgery, affectionately referred to as a Left Radical Orchiectomy. As I type those words it seems to read like a relatively bad-ass procedure. Sadly, it is far from bad-ass. A more appropriate description would be Lame-Ass. I'll let you Google the procedure itself so I don't have to go into detail, but think Lance Armstrong circa 1996.

To be more direct, lets just say my left testicle defected on me. This traitor testicle and his band of renegade cells rallied together to form a mass which caused me great pain. Great pain! So, based on the recommendation of several doctors, the traitor was relieved from his duties via the procedure mentioned above.

It took a week for my testicle to travel to sunny Phoenix, Arizona, where its gruesome fate was dissection on the biopsy table. Yesterday we finally got some answers. So here it is:

*Embrynal Carcinoma, aka, Stage III A Testicular Cancer*

Before you fret, let me note the recipe for this form of cancer pT2N1M1AS1 (whatever all that stands for) concludes that what we face is GOOD RISK. In other words, the cure rate for this bit of nastiness is 90%, and this unfortunate turn of events is VERY treatable. I am very optimistic. Our oncologist is very optimistic. Shanon is very optimistic, and also very pregnant. How the stress of the past 10 days hasn't put her into labor I'll never know, but it's amazing it hasn't.

What we face now are decisions about how to move forward. It's possible I'll start chemo as early as next week, but we're trying to decide how to schedule my treatment so that Baby M enters the world at a time when Papa isn't occupied getting infusions. Sounds ominous, but we'll figure it out. Although Shanon's official due date is June 5th, this may mean that we have to induce baby sometime in the next few weeks so we know exactly when she's coming.

This isn't exactly the way we planned on starting our career as parents. The lame part is that we'll probably have to put a large bubble around our house for a few months while I'm going through treatment, since I'll be a weak, weak Papa with no immune system. The good news is that Shanon and Baby M will be healthy and out and about in the world, available for dates at the coffee shop, rendezvous on the back deck (which I should be able to attend), or walks through the park.

Make no mistake, we intend to kick this "C" business in the ass, and get on with life. This is not a tragedy, but a challenge. A really poorly timed challenge. :)

As you've probably determined by the way I write about all this, I'm feeling pretty open about it. Given the number of strangers who have seen me naked or probed me in some uncomfortable way, I find if relatively easy to talk about. I know this is heavy news, but I find the whole situation to be surreal right now and I intend to keep the mood light. So one-nut jokes and clever nick-names are encouraged--don't be shy. I just hope that I look as good with a bald head as Kevin and Jeff.

Thanks for being great friends.

Onward!

Love,

Jared, Shanon, Baby M and Emmet