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My finger hovered over the mouse button.
Did I really want to read this report?
No matter what it said, it would be life changing.
The report contained the results of my latest PET scan. I tried to beg off the procedure, telling my medical team that I'd been thoroughly inspected by our dog, Bella, and our cat, Sparkles. The doctors replied that didn't count.
It all began in March of 2024 when I noticed an odd lump at the base of my jaw. Thinking it might be cat scratch fever (don't play tag with a cat unless you're faster than a cat), I was prescribed an antibiotic and a steroid. Nothing changed.
The lump didn't hurt or bleed and didn't interfere with swallowing or speaking. I felt fine otherwise. Like many guys, I could have simply ignored the lump and hoped it would go away. I chose to have it investigated.
This eventually led to a diagnosis of poorly differentiated squamous cell carcinoma. It's never a good day when those words become part of your medical chart.
One of the first steps of my treatment was a left side tonsillectomy. The theory was that the primary tumor was in the left tonsil since that was the side where the lump occurred. While they had my maw jacked open, they biopsied other parts of the oral cavity. Pathology later found a small tumor on the right tonsil.
"You took out the wrong tonsil!" I exclaimed to my medical team.
The radiation people shrugged and said, "Don't worry about it."
Next came the installation of an IV port on my upper chest and a gastric feeding tube. The gastric tube dangled from my abdomen like a spindly plastic snake that was trying to escape.
I protested that I didn't need the gastric tube, that I felt fine and was eating well. I was told that this would change.
Over the summer of 2024, I endured 35 radiation sessions and seven rounds of chemotherapy.
The radiation sessions involved getting bolted to a table with a custom-made plastic mask. I at first thought that I was immune to radiation's side effects. But the radiation burn showed up, as predicted, about two weeks in.
My wife showed the radiation people what appeared to be a severe sunburn on my neck.
"That's not bad," they said. "The skin hasn't even broken open."
The weekly chemotherapy sessions lasted five hours and entailed infusing a drug that's based on platinum. Perhaps the precious metal briefly boosted my net worth.
You know that you're dealing with a seriously toxic substance when the chemo nurse must don a hazmat suit prior to administering it.
The chemoradiation robbed me of my sense of taste and left me nauseous. I was prescribed anti-nausea drugs, but they didn't help.
I had a stern come-to-Jesus conversation with my medical team after I lost 11 pounds in one week. I was told that this was unsustainable (true) and that I needed to use the gastric tube to get more of the nutrient-rich liquid supplement into me.
My wife said that she was trying her best to feed me more of the supplement, but that I'm a stubborn Norwegian (also true).
My sense of taste and appetite gradually returned after the treatments ended. The invasive equipment was removed and I felt human again.
This recent PET scan marked the two-year anniversary of the conclusion of my treatments. If my particular cancer doesn't recur within the first two years, odds are it never will.
Prior to a PET scan, the patient is infused with radioactive glucose that emits antimatter protons as it decays. When a proton meets an electron, they annihilate each other, producing a tiny gamma ray burst that's picked up by a detector. This is Star Trek stuff.
I asked the PET scan people where they obtained the radioactive glucose.
They replied casually, "It's made in a cyclotron in Omaha."
Hunh. Good to know.
During a previous checkup with my ENT team, I mentioned that the surgeon had extracted the wrong tonsil. The doctor peered down my throat and said, "The right tonsil is gone. There's just scar tissue."
The radiation people were correct that the pesky tonsil wouldn't be a problem for their computer-actuated linear particle accelerator. Star Trek stuff.
When I clicked on the results of my latest PET scan, the first line jumped out:
"No evidence for recurrent or metastatic disease."
Halleluiah! What a relief! A mountain has been lifted from my wife's and my shoulders. We can breathe again; life can return to normal.
Much credit goes to my medical team for this outcome. But I also want to thank everyone who sent cards and offered their thoughts and prayers during this journey.
Thank you all from the bottom of our hearts.
-- Jerry's book, "Dear County Agent Guy," can be found at Amazon.com and in bookstores nationwide.