LCSC Blog

That wasn't so bad. Approximately 29 hours in the hospital in a private room and all I had to do was drink as much water as possible and shower half a dozen times. The goal being to rid myself of the radioiodine I had been given at the beginning of my admission. This "therapy" is used to measure the iodine related to my papillary thyroid cancer and to determine presumably, whether in fact the tumors in my lungs are thyroid cancer which has moved, whether it's still lung cancer, or both. To say my life depends on the results of this finding and the interpretation of the follow-up gamma camera scans this Tuesday is perhaps a bit much. But my life expectancy sure depends on it, as well as my treatment life going forward. There's too many ifs, ands, or buts to present here, but suffice to say, my future, yet again, is sort of up for grabs. For the moment, however, I feel mostly fine. I'm back eating the foods that I love, after a 31 day lull when I was on the low iodine diet, so all is semi-back to normal. Being able to satiate once again does soothe the ravenous beast inside me. Nevertheless, there are bigger problems/possible solutions in the offing that M&Ms, Double Stuf Oreos and Entenmann's Marshmallow Devil's Food Iced Cake can really address. Still, if I'm going to go down, I can now go down with a smile on my face and a delicious dessert/snack in my mouth. In a way, I'm back on the precipice. Are the tumors in my lungs all lung cancer, which has previously led to my being given a "terminal diagnosis/prognosis: "13 months to two years" back in late February 2009 or are they papillary thyroid cancer, stage II; not terminal, and not just treatable, but curable? Or are they something in between, as yet undiagnosed? Maybe I've developed new tumors? Maybe I'm to be diagnosed with a third type of cancer? Maybe, maybe, maybe. That's how I have to roll for the next few weeks (thyroid cancer) and the next six weeks (lung cancer) when I will have the usual upper torso CT scan of my lungs, the first one I will have had in over five months (all my lung cancer-related treatment was stopped while we addressed the thyroid cancer). Perhaps in mid-July I'll know the "end of the story" as radio icon Paul Harvey used to sign off; "Good day!" For now, all I can do is wait and not "smoke em if I got 'em" but "keep my powder dry" and "keep my eyes on the prize." It's really no different than pretty much how I've managed to live my life since I got the diagnosis 11 years and over three months ago. Although, oddly enough, it feels different than it did before as if I didn't have as much at stake then as I do now. Almost as if this is my last chance to catch a break, especially considering that living nearly a decade past my original prognosis, I've already received a lot of breaks. Somehow, though, this medical-diagnosis-to-be conjures a kind of inexplicable finality. I don't want to go back. I want to go forward. Unfortunately, which direction I'm headed is out of my control. The endocrinologist and the oncologist will tell me whether I "Return to Jail" or "Pass Go and Collect $200." They will be monopolizing my future and in so advising, will indirectly determine my covid-19 risk as well. Will I be visiting my healthcare provider/facility regularly for treatment and possibly exposing myself to the virus(which would be a major complication for a patient like me: over 65, with lung disease and a weakened immune system) or will I be able to live my life without any of the life-ending-type fears I've had since 2009, and the world has had since the first quarter of 2020? So even though I don't know for sure that my life is at stake, I think I can definitely say that my living is. Will it be cancer-centric or not? Either way, I'll live with the outcome. The only question is: for how long?

In two days I will have completed four weeks on my low iodine diet (no chocolate, no salt, no dairy, no bread) with four days remaining until my one-night hospital admission and subsequent seven-day medical quarantine at home. If I remember correctly, the substance of the hour-long phone conversation we had with a doctor from the Nuclear Medicine department previous to my beginning this thyroid cancer treatment process, on Friday--the day after my "radioiodine therapy"--my eating can return to its previous abnormal. I just have to hope that the supermarket shelves are fully stocked that day. Unfortunately, in our present pandemic pressure cooker, the chances are above average that my hearts of desire will be missing and not in action. To assuage any anxieties I have concerning this non-military "D-Day"-type invasion by yours truly, perhaps I should try and set an appointment with the store manager for my local Giant Food to prepare them for the onslaught and provide a list of my demands. I know they're open and sensitive to customer requests as under vastly different circumstances, I have made them with excellent results. These requests would not be for items unfamiliar to their inventory. It would be more about dotting all the "Is" and crossing all the "Ts" and avoiding any slip-ups to guarantee as much as possible the delivery of my future prized possessions. Though I'm not a commercial customer, I am nonetheless in the desired demographic, the one who primarily makes the food-buying decisions in our home and who's interest and consumption of said items would make me most definitely a person of interest. The items to which I finally refer are branded by Nabisco, Keebler, Hostess, Drakes, M&M/Mars, Entenmann's and Tastykakes. I won't self-indulge myself any further by offering any more specifics as I'm still almost a week away from "the return." But suffice to say, it's likely any adolescent would offer fairly similar details if asked. However, in addition to the availability issue, there is one extremely important challenge remaining: the actual shopping. Given my underlying lung cancer and/or thyroid cancer, I am an ideal target for the COVID-19 virus: over age 65, lung disease and a weakened immune system. In fact, I hit the trifecta. As a result, and according to Dr. Birx's most recent press briefing about the virus, Maryland, my state of residence, is one of the few states not exhibiting the kinds of statistical declines that many other states are. Ergo, by order of Dina Lourie, I am under lock and key. And while under lock and key I will not be doing the shopping - and buying, and therefore will be unable to soothe the savage beast raging inside me. That's not to say I won't see a family size bag of Nabisco's Double Stuf Oreo Cookies on her shopping list; it's more that I won't see any other Kenny preferences on that list. Nor is it likely that while in-store, she'll wander around the pertinent aisles - as I might, and update me by phone on what other potentially interesting items might be stacked on the shelves/end caps. And quite frankly, if she were to surprise me with some other Kenny necessities, she would likely monitor my intake ("Kenny, what happened to that bag of Oreos I brought home yesterday?") and my joie de vie would be mort. Not exactly would she be denying a dying man his last wish, but for a few weeks at least, after such a long, world-record-breaking interval (for me, anyway) of not eating any of my go-tos, let me have some time to myself. Granted, it won't be pretty, but it's not entirely your business. After all, if the roles were reversed, I would definitely do the same for you. Desperate times call desperate/uncharacteristic measures. What's good for the gander would certainly apply to the goose. Please don't fowl up this future feasting. Just leave me to my own devices, for a bit, anyway?

Nearly three weeks into my low iodine diet, in preparation for my hospital overnight on May 28 when I will get my radioactive iodine therapy to be followed immediately by a medical quarantine at home for a week, I wouldn't say I'm thriving. More like persevering. I can't really satiate eating "rabbit" food and what culinary pleasures I can enjoy, I can only have them in small quantities and infrequently at that. I won't give you a list, but just consider what any 10-year-old likes to eat. As you might imagine, I've lost some weight. Granted, it was weight I could afford to lose. And though I'm not exactly a shell of my former self, I am hardly the man I once was. Nevertheless, as my friend Frank would say: "I'm in pretty good shape for the shape I'm in." And the shape I'm in, and the diet I'm following and all the medical appointments I'm going to, is to find and kill my remaining papillary thyroid cancer, the 15% or so the otolaryngologist was unable to get to on my Jan. 29th thyroidectomy. The purpose of this treatment/activity is to locate and simultaneously eradicate the papillary thyroid cancer tumors still in my body. And since papillary thyroid cancer is called the "friendly cancer" because it is generally curable, I'm not worried about the outcome of all that I've described. However, there is an associated element to this treatment which is more important and potentially life-changing. It's possible, according to my oncologist, that my lung cancer tumors may in medical fact, be thyroid cancer tumors. Not unusual since cancer often moves throughout the body. So on paper, one can have thyroid cancer in the lungs. The thyroid cancer treatment I'm presently undergoing will be the final determination on whether the tumors in my lungs are actually thyroid cancer which migrated or still lung cancer. If the tumors are identified as lung cancer then all goes along much as it has for the past 11 years. However, if the tumors are identified as thyroid cancer, and they are all eliminated by this procedure, then a new day has dawned And life will indeed go on, much as it hasn't since late February, 2009 when I was first diagnosed. And though I've just written it, it's really too much to consider. After living on an emotional precipice since receiving a "13 month to two year" prognosis 11-plus years ago, the thought of living a non-cancer-centric life/return to normal life expectancy is disjointing almost. To say it would change everything minimizes the word "change." "Change" would barely describe the effect. I'd be reborn almost with an entirely new lease on life. It's what all "terminal" patients dare not dream: the miracle cure, the medical mix-up, the you're-free-to-go sendoff. It's early days, though and premature until I'm told otherwise. And otherwise will be told sometime in early June when I will have had my post-thyroid-treatment CT scan and then the follow-up appointment with my endocrinologist who will explain the findings. Only after learning these details and then discussing them with my oncologist will I know what the future holds. Right now, my future is a cut-up apple, a four-ounce burger for dinner with no bread or cheese, some kind of vegetable, unsalted kettle potato chips (thank God for them), and no dessert. To say this list compares favorably to my pre-low-iodine diet is the understatement of the year. The overstatement of the year is come early June I'm likely to be cancer-free.

After six weeks or so of isolating at home and working hardly at all, I believe it's time to invoke Violet Crawley (aka Maggie Smith), "the Dowager Countess of Grantham," and wonder aloud: "What's a weekend?" Every day feels like some other day or no day at all because the days in and of themselves are meaningless/indistinguishable. I mean, you can't go anywhere, you can't do anything; thankfully, you can use your phone and access your computer, but at the end of the same-old-day, you're basically nowhere man, with apologies to "The Beatles." If it weren't for the trash pick-up on Thursdays and the recyclable pick-up on Fridays, and, of course, no mail delivery on Sundays, there really is very little to separate one day from the next (the four-week schedule relating to my thyroid cancer treatment notwithstanding). Actually, if it weren't for the thyroid treatment beginning May 11th and the very specific requirements/activities for the following 23 days, ending June 2nd when I return to the hospital for a post-script scan, I would be totally betwixt and between; so much so that I might not know the difference between "Downton Abbey" and "Belgravia." But I still do, thank God, even though they were both written by Julian Fellowes. I haven't completely fallen through the cracks. Although sometimes I do fear that if I indeed have a crack in my psychological armor, it likely would occur in the middle/late beginning of a pandemic when a possible lack of sanity might be exposed. And since I'm not really allowed out of the house and retail stores and service providers are mostly unavailable, this would be a heck of a time to need any kind of help from outside one's house. You're not supposed to go anywhere and neither is anybody else so you're sort of left to fend for yourself. Now, generally speaking, I don't mind fending for myself or others for that matter, but at present, in the midst of pandemic pressures, we're all supposed to mind our own business (and/or others if we stay six feet apart) and watch our "ps" and "qs" as we're doing it. And as well consider what other letters to "watch." The problem with living through a pandemic, aside from listening to all the opinions on "a" to "z" is believing any kind of reliable timeline. No one, despite their credentials and learned experience, can say with any accuracy or certainty when this pandemic will end, when the virus will stop spreading and/or whether and when a second viral wave will hit in the fall, when a safe and effective vaccine will be ready and when we can return to whatever the new normal will be. And though there's no shortage of hopes and prayers on the subject; unfortunately, neither are there any simple solutions or definitive end to this mess. Somehow, we have to persevere in the present to get to the future by presuming nothing except more of the same. I guess it's an updated version of a definite-maybe or a "confirmed I doubt it" as BJ Honeycut frustratingly said on a M*A*S*H episode 25-plus years ago. However, life went on for BJ and the rest of M*A*S*H characters as they all got to leave South Korea and return to The United States (except for Klinger who ironically enough chose to stay and marry a South Korean woman). And just as it seemed that the suffering they all experienced during the police action in South/North Korea would never end, it did. And so too will this pandemic end. Probably not by magic as President Trump has suggested, but likely through the collective efforts of the medical and scientific communities as well as our own mitigation and social distancing behaviors. As my Auntie Irene used to say decades ago, and as so many others say all the time now: "This too shall pass." But not knowing exactly when 'it shall pass' is sort of the problem. As my late mother would say: "It's enough already." I imagine we'll have a better idea of whether it's 'enough already' when we see the effects of the 45-plus states which are "opening." If the virus reasserts itself, and thousands more are diseased and ultimately die, then we'll know exactly what day it is: a day of reckoning.

Sheltering in place while isolating at home, like so many others are, in Maryland, where non-essential businesses remain closed, means life has mostly come to a screeching halt. And unlike Georgia and nearly 30 other common-sense offenders, salons - among many other trying-to-get-going concerns, are not open. Moreover, given the social-distancing guidelines and the stay-at-home mandate, it's unlikely I'll be receiving any service providers in my home either. And considering that I'm not running a bowling alley in my basement, the chance that my hair stylist is going to unexpectedly knock on my front door is fairly slim. As a result, what's continuing to happen then is my hair is continuing to grow. Despite my year of immunotherapy, I have a full head of hair, now more than ever, in fact. So what did I dream about last night? Getting a haircut. As it was dreamt, I was in Virginia (I live in Maryland) doing non-barbershop/salon things when quite unintentionally I walked by a salon that was open and operating. Since I wasn't on a schedule and I needed a haircut, to quote Bob Seeger: "I tucked my hair up under my hat," (sort of) and went inside to make inquiries. I remember asking, as I have previously in real life, if anyone there knew how to cut curly hair. One stylist/operator, who was not familiar to me, offered his services for the task at hand. That's all I remember except feeling pleased with myself when I woke up this morning, as if I had accomplished something overnight. Which of course, I hadn't. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Of all the things I could've dreamt about: interacting with my deceased parents, flying through the air with the greatest of ease, sex, the past, the future, adventures, etc., I dreamt about getting a haircut. How pathetic is that? One week into my low iodine diet (as preparation for my thyroid cancer treatment), when I haven't had any salt, any dairy, any bread, and, most especially, no chocolate or sweets of any kind (jelly beans are on back order), I would have thought that if there was a dream to be dreamt, it would involve food at the very general and chocolate at the very specific, like being in an endless dessert buffet line (social distancing and limiting crowd size notwithstanding). But no. What my subconscious focused on was yours truly getting a stupid haircut. There was no special occasion or event for which I was needing my hair cut; it was simply maintenance. All the more disappointing given the endless possibilities to dream that exist in our heads. What a waste of a deep sleep. What makes the dream even worse is that for the past month or so I've had very poor sleep, lying in bed for hours with very little to show for it. Specifically, rest, relaxation and dreams; not dreaming at all, in fact. Then, in the midst of this poor sleep pattern, I awake this morning with the recollection of having dreamt (meaning a deep sleep) about getting my curly locks cut. Mundane minutiae if there ever was such a combination. Granted, getting my hair cut was a very important part of my life, particularly so for my mother. For my mother, her sons getting a proper haircut was paramount and once she found a barber, Rocky Spirazzo, who cut hair with a scissors instead of a clipper, she was smitten, so to speak. As such, we followed Rocky to whatever barbershop/salon he worked at, including some of the finest hotel barbershops in Boston. We even occasionally went to his home in Roslindale, where he had a barber chair set up in his unfinished basement. I can still see that lone bulb above my head attached to a chord hanging from the ceiling. And so it was, throughout my life when my mother had control of my hair-cutting, that hair cuts were not nearly so arbitrary as they might have otherwise been. Without really admitting it, I guess I would say that getting my hair cut is of some importance, dating back to my "yout," to quote Joe Pesci from "My Cousin Vinny." Like it or not, my mother's influence persists. Now in the midst of a pandemic, with so many other potential problems impacting our life, apparently my subconscious still has its priorities.

The six-week schedule/treatment for my stage II papillary thyroid cancer began on Thursday, April 23 with an hour-long telephone appointment with one of the doctors from the Nuclear Medicine department. He was confirming, clarifying, and preparing yours truly for the arduous task at hand: a commitment to a month-long, low iodine diet beginning April 27 (no salt, no sugar, no dairy, no normal-type bread and a bunch of other less impactful nos) and 15 on-site hospital-related visits (in lab, in doctor's office, and in scan area), followed by an overnight in late May when I receive my final treatment. After which, for the following week, I am to be quarantined at home (unsafe for children, pregnant women, and pets) with miscellaneous other quarantine-associated behaviors/advisories (changing bed sheets every other day, using one bathroom exclusively, flushing toilets twice, using plastic silverware and paper plates, among others) with the fun and games ending June 5th when the quarantine period ends. Then I can resume my normal/familiar routine for the treatment of my underlying/pre-existing stage IV non-small cell lung cancer. Treatment for which will likely begin again in mid-July after I've had a CT scan to assess the damage/success of my thyroid cancer treatment. By then, it will have been about six months that I've actually had any current treatment/medicine for my lung cancer. Once given a clean bill of health (so far as the thyroid cancer is concerned), I'll likely restart my bi-weekly treatments for my non-small cell lung cancer (which as my oncologist said: he could treat but never cure) - treatment which began in early March 2009 and has continued for nearly 11 years. Pending the results of that July CT scan, my life will likely return to abnormal. Still, it's way too early to speculate on life going forward. Six months (dating back to my last treatment in January 2020) is an eternity in the cancer world (heck, six days is an eternity). And aside from the obvious, that planning for or even predicting scenarios two to three months hence, it has never been my oncologist's style. Then consider, as he said during our most recent phone appointment (April 17), that he's no longer certain if the tumors in my lungs are non-small cell lung cancer, papillary thyroid cancer which has moved and/or - wait for it - that my lung cancer tumors have gone into remission. Can you quote the late Phil Rizzuto: "Holy cow!" None of which will be known until a week or so after my July CT scan. And not that wondering/waiting isn't already the hardest part, but before I will have learned the status of my tumors, I will have been in and out of hospitals being treated for thyroid cancer right smack in the middle of the coronavirus pandemic when I'm supposed to do the exact opposite: isolate at home and stay away from hospitals. I couldn't be looking for more trouble if I planned it. Nevertheless, I just hope the old adage applies: "Time flies when you're having fun." (And I suppose I should add: flies safely.) I don't really feel the fun? Maybe it's the needles you feel, or the fear/anxiety associated with being in and out of hospitals multiple times in a comparatively short period of time? Or maybe you feel the worry and difficulty I'll have maintaining a low iodine diet for 31 or so days, and the hunger pains and chocolate withdrawal I'll experience during that month. I'd like to think that the time/treatment will pass quickly, but I'm guessing that the demands of the diet will slow me down to a crawl and that the experience will be an extremely challenging transition/return to normal. (Particularly so for me since food has always been the bane of my existence.) But so what? My health status, which originally had been a terminal one: "13 months to two years" has improved dramatically. I'm still likely to die from cancer but instead of the two years maximum I had anticipated (been "prognosed"), I am now living and breathing two months into year 12, post diagnosis. And depending upon what is interpreted from my upcoming CT scan, I may yet have a bit more life to live.

Since I'm not doing the food and pharmacy out-of-the-house shopping anymore, as I have for the last 40 years (as I may have mentioned in last week's column: "Money For What":), I am no longer in control of what we buy and how much we spend. The pandemic and my upcoming thyroid cancer treatment have combined to empower my wife, Dina, to set fairly strict guidelines. Primarily that I am to stay put in the house ALL THE TIME and that during my isolation, she will fill the purchasing vacuum. The effect being that all my years of experience reducing our grocery expenses has led to this: we're paying re, re, retail for nearly all of our purchases. Not impoverished because of it but not very happy about it either. I derived a certain pleasure in wondering around the stores, advertising circular and coupon book in hand, looking for sale items, checking the 50% off/discontinued merchandise rack, occasionally looking at the day-old bakery cabinet, using miscellaneous paper and digital coupons, buying in bulk/quantity, getting rain checks when products were sold out, as well as being open to any other in-store incentives I might find. The process, as tedious as it may sound, was not nearly so for me, especially considering that over the course of a year, according to the stores' own online tally, I saved the Lourie family business upwards of $1,000. Now it seems as if we're paying it all back since product availability due to pandemic pressures has often laid waste to the stores' shelves. And also laid waste to stores' interest in offering products on sale. And why should they? Consumers are buying anything they can get their hands on, price be damned. Moreover, the stores themselves, at least the ones where I have been a regular buyer, are providing fewer digital coupons on their sites than ever before and the advertising circulars, typically 10 to 14 pages, have now been reduced by half or so. In addition, there are also fewer coupon inserts in the Sunday newspaper editions. The net effect of this is that the supermarket/pharmacy budget has been blown to smithereens. And the outlook for the future (immediate future anyway) is more of the same, or rather less, if you catch my drift. Now further combine the fact that yours truly, a strategic shopper of some repute, is not doing the in-store shopping anymore, and perhaps you can do the metaphorical math. Can you say through the roof? Let me be clear: this situation has nothing to do with control. It has to do with cash flow. I feel as if we're being taken advantage of, like we're sitting ducks almost, and there's not a thing I can do about any of it other than to take solace in the fact that our stimulus checks will most definitely have somewhere to go, even if I don't. Still, I realize there are many others who are not complaining about what they're paying for groceries because they're too busy trying to make withdrawals from their local food bank. I would imagine their challenge is identical to mine, only much worse: hoping to find necessary items in limited supply without the proper money and means to do so. Means, unfortunately, which are not leading to satisfactory ends. Ends which will either bust their budgets, overwhelm public-type assistance or swell credit card balances; thereby increasing future minimum payments and exacerbating pressures to even make monthly payments. A vicious circle and cycle if there ever was one, or two. But I don't have one or two, so I am very lucky. Now I do have two types of cancer but that wasn't the point of this column. The point was more narrow than that. It was simply to make a little fun at a predicament not of my own choosing but one that is impacting my life and totally out of my control. I wouldn't say that it's food for thought but it is something to chew on.

I don't know, really. Money comes in. Money goes out. But since I stay in and don't go out, cash is no longer king. Credit reigns supreme and since the accounting/budget system for the Lourie family business is rarely written down/planned for, I don't know from one expenditure to the next, where the money goes, unlike John Prine knew when he sang about "Sam Stone" when he came home. As the spouse responsible for the business side of the marriage, it has been my job to financially plan what the family can and cannot afford. And since both earners were commission/tip recipients, the task of managing that cash flow, unpredictable as it occasionally was, took some emotional wherewithal. Nevertheless, we survived the ordeal, mostly, and now, as it has happened that all of us are consumed by pandemic-related pressures/procedures, our compensation history/experience has prepared us to ebb and flow with the times. But instead of spending money when we may have it, now we're spending money when the goods and services we need are available, which is similarly unpredictable as our dual incomes used to be,. The result of this inconsistent and 'unpredictable' availability is that when any of the goods and services are available one must buy immediately regardless of cash on hand/in-wallet or credit balance in tow or risk being shut out completely: "No soup for you," from a long-ago Seinfeld episode, so to speak (although my wife, Dina does like soup and therefore it is a regular item on our shopping list.) Accordingly, during these pandemic days, one must strike (buy) when the iron is hot, cash on hand be damned, and worrying about your credit card balance also be damned. We all need what we need in our homes/for our families and lack of paper money is not going to stop any of us from purchasing what staples and peace of mind a piece of plastic can offer. And thank God for those pieces of plastic with the magnetic strip. They're certainly getting a work-out these days providing aid and comfort - of a sort, to all of us non-essential people staying at home. And while we're staying/consuming at home, we're no longer letting our fingers do the walking through our local Yellow Pages. Instead, we're Googling our way, pointing and clicking, and then entering our credit card information while trying to keep our respective family business afloat. The evolving problem for me, however, is accounting for all these purchases and wondering if we're ever going to receive them, how much was actually charged and was the purchase even worth it, given the wait. Still, since we're all housebound, there are so many more purchases that have to be made over the phone/online that what control I used to have when in-person, spending the cash in my wallet, I no longer have. Now, I have to charge almost everything and then wait for the monthly credit card statement for an accounting of what financial damage I may have done. And by that time, 30 days or so later, I likely can't undo any of the damage because the customer-service operators are not available like they were during the pre-pandemic days or in some cases, not even taking calls. Resolution, clarification, compensation? Heck no. All you're likely to get is frustration, and that's after "extended waiting times." And that previous paragraph's presumption is that I even know what I'm talking about (what I bought, where, when, how much, etc.). But the real point of this column, which concerns me more, is accounting for the purchases that I don't know about/haven't received. It reminds of a joke I once heard, David Brenner, a comedian from Philadelphia and a regular on The Johnny Carson Show tell: "It's not the mosquitoes I hear that I worry about, it's the ones I don't hear." Three months plus into this pandemic and our new normal has become fairly familiar. The problem is that familiarity has bred some contempt.

Having recently received in the mail the three-ring binder/manual on the dos, don'ts and what-fors concerning the upcoming treatment for my stage II papillary thyroid cancer, and information as well (including a cookbook) about the low iodine diet I am instructed to start two weeks before my actual treatment begins, my takeaway is that it is going to be long and hard six weeks from start to post-quarantine finish. The reason for my apprehension is twofold. First and foremost is that I am an extremely picky/limited eater. There's only a handful of foods that I will eat on my best day ('best day' meaning completely normal circumstances where cancer is not involved), let alone on my worst day ('worst day' meaning in the midst of cancer treatment where what I eat is restricted). As a direct anticipated result, I fear there may be some heavy lifting - metaphorically speaking - ahead, specifically between April 27 and June 4. The second reason which compounds the problem referred to in the previous paragraph is that we happen to be in the midst of a pandemic. Accordingly, the pandemic and the associated stay-at-home directives will minimize casual visits to the supermarket, restrictions intended to prevent the spread of the virus. Moreover, due to panic buying and the likely employee/staffing shortages at the supermarkets as the virus continues to take its toll, there may be more and more food shortages, which will further eliminate what few food choices I had in the first place, before I even start this specialized diet. This second reason is made even problematic because I am very much in an at-risk category: over 60, underlying medical condition with a compromised immune system, which prevents me or rather empowers my wife to prevent me from doing what I primarily have done (the shopping) for the entirety of our marriage. That process never suited my wife, but it has always suited me. Consequently, I have become dependent on my wife to perform many of the tasks I have spent a lifetime perfecting: what to buy where and when, and how to save some money doing it. Let's just say I am, as Sy Sims and his daughter Marci used to say, "an educated consumer." In our marriage, I have always described my role as the one taking care of the "business side," whereas my wife has always been the one taking care of the "social side." However, as we all try to navigate this pandemic, she is fulfilling both roles. Now, as I roll the dice, so to speak, and plan/purchase for the present and the low iodine diet in the very near future, I am, to a certain degree, at her mercy. Given that the shopping process is hardly the adventure for her that it has always been for me, I have to rely, a little bit, on her benevolence and hope she keeps an open mind while in-store on the various indulgences that I require. Indulgences which, unfortunately, are very different from hers. As but one example, she loves a tuna fish sandwich whereas all I ever need is a cheese sandwich (and let's not even discuss the chocolate issue which is likewise not her priority as it is mine); and to quote my father: "the twain will never meet on the twack." What many of us in this country have long taken for granted: 100 percent availability of food, medicine, health and miscellaneous household products is presently not so true anymore. Not purchasing some of these products until they go on sale is a pattern I likely won't be able to follow. If I do, their purchase may be too little, too late. The last thing my future diet/medical treatment can tolerate is 'too little, too late.' And I would imagine that unless I stay on track, the "twain" will be the least of my problems.

So far as I can tell, I'm being treated as per usual. Meaning, treatment for my recently diagnosed thyroid cancer is on track. On track meaning multiple hospital visits at two health care facilities (some even on the same day) over five consecutive days to include four radioiodine injections, pre-and post-treatment CT scans, lab work, miscellaneous other medical appointments and a low iodine diet to boot spread out over a nearly six-week interval including one over-night at the hospital. To say I'm looking forward to the experience would be naïve. To say I'm looking forward to killing the remaining thyroid cancer in my body would be more accurate. The thyroidectomy I had in late January was very successful but approximately 15 percent of the cancer remains, embedded under my collarbone and elsewhere. Consequently, treatment of my pre-existing/underlying stage IV non small cell lung cancer will be further delayed while we address the thyroid cancer which the surgeon was unable to remove. And now that I have my schedule, as of March 27, I now know when and where and how the process will play out. One potential major complication: the coronavirus pandemic. Given the screening questions I have been asked of late when calling for medical information, if I am unlucky and somehow become infected or come in contact with someone who has been diagnosed or travel/have traveled to an area of the country/world particularly hard hit, I am guessing my treatment stops/never gets started. And not to be too paranoid about something which hasn't even happened yet but, I'd just as soon not become another statistic and/or not get my cancer treatment and allow my two types of cancer to live on without any checks or balances. (Generally speaking, if the cancer is left alone, it likely won't spontaneously go into remission. Quite the opposite in fact and therein lies my fear of having 'cancer in a pandemic.)' I imagine that at any time over the next six weeks, a hundred things could change that could adversely affect my treatment/schedule, many of which are beyond my control. And not that I'm a controlling person, but when it comes to medical treatment that might actually be saving/extending my life, I do become a bit preoccupied. And if push does come to shove, so to speak, there's not much that I can say or do about circumstances (staffing issues, medicine shortages, reduced hours, increase in patients, etc.) which might affect the availability of health care. As a cancer patient, you 'd like to have a little predictability given that your normal routine is hardly what you anticipated. However, none of us anticipated a pandemic and now all us patients are waiting for chips to fall and wondering/hoping our names will be on the treatment list. Unfortunately ,cancer treatment is not hit or miss. It mostly needs to hit. And if some of the hits can't happen when protocol says it should, there is reason to be afraid. But being afraid now, before any of these pandemic-related complications have even occurred, is a waste of time, energy and emotional wherewithal. I don't need to worry yet. If any of these worse-case scenarios do happen, there will be plenty of time to worry later. At the moment, I'm scheduled, I'm not sick and I'm able to social-distance, self-isolate and shelter-in-place until further notice. I just wish 'further notice' wasn't a month from now. So much can happen to so many at so many places, most of which I can't prevent. And yet, if these happenings are not prevented, it's possible the powers that most likely be will inform me that circumstances have overtaken their plans and my treatment will have to be delayed. I'm so close. Thirty days, however, is an eternity for a cancer patient. Somehow, I have to stop watching the calendar. I have to watch my "ps" and "qs" instead and avoid any unnecessary social interactions. I'd like to think that come the end of April, I'll be ready, willing and available. I just hope that I can say the same thing about the medical professionals and hospitals where I'll be getting treatment.

In my 11-plus years as a lung cancer "diagnosee," I've done a pretty good job of facing the facts and acting/planning accordingly. I've accepted my reality and somehow managed to live so long beyond the original "13 month to two year" prognosis I was given by my oncologist that he has introduced me to some of his students as his "third miracle." Unfortunately, this characterization is not the end of the story. In retrospect, dealing with/being treated for one type of cancer (non-small cell lung cancer) seemed easy enough. Soon, I'll be getting treated for two types of cancer: papillary thyroid cancer stage 2, in addition to my pre-existing stage 4 lung cancer. And since the treatments are not identical and cannot occur simultaneously, I'll will be receiving treatment for my thyroid cancer first and deferring treatment for my lung cancer until at least mid April. That's when I have my next scheduled appointment with my oncologist when no doubt we'll discuss strategy and all treating me forward. In the interim, to address the thyroid cancer, I will be spending a night at the Washington Hospital Center. This will occur after I receive a dose of radioisotopes, a type of nuclear medicine designed to target and kill any remaining thyroid cancer in my body, wherever it might be located. What happens after my "overnight" and subsequent follow-up appointment with my endocrinologist has yet to be discussed. What little I know is that I'll need a pre- and post-procedure CT scans and that upon release from the hospital, I'll need to be quarantined for a few days (away from children and pets primarily). Hoping my body responds as anticipated, I'll presume there will be some kind of maintenance-type of treatment for my thyroid cancer, which will likely be combined with the restart of my lung cancer treatment. But I don't really know. But what I really do know is that doctors, generally speaking, don't want to consider scenarios about what might happen if such and such or so and so happens, or not. Though I'm sure there's a reasonable expectation of something or other happening, my experience has been that doctors divulging what might happen (treatment/procedure etc.) next, since there are so many variables/results yet to be considered, is unlikely. Though I will still ask my fair share of questions about my future, ultimately, all I can do is wait and see. Ordinarily, as in how I've managed since my diagnosis, being uncertain about the next medical step has been no problem. I realize that answer would likely be somewhere between a house of cards and definite maybe anyway, always depending. Now add to the mix of uncertainty, the coronavirus that has "pandemiced" the country. As a result of its spread, will I be prevented/rescheduled because the hospitals are overwhelmed? After all, I am the poster child for possible victims: male, over 60, weakened immune system with a severe underlying medical condition. I'm the exact person they don't want to see at the hospital. Yet, if I don't go/receive approval to go, I doubt I'll get any better at home without treatment. In my case, I don't believe leaving well enough alone is going to work very well. Still, my choices feel almost counterintuitive. I have to risk my life (leave my home) in order to possibly save my life (cancer treatment) away from home. I can't do one without the other. To receive treatment, I'll have to expose myself, potentially, to the exact complication that my lung cancer diagnosis makes me most susceptible to: breathing issues. However, if I don't/can't, I'll be worse off than if I hadn't. Nor do I feel as if I can wait until the virus is more under control. Control which seems unlikely in the near term. And in every term (short, medium or long), the cancer is not going to wait. I sure hope I won't have to either.

In a peculiar way, my cancer treatment and all has sort of gotten lost in the coronavirus talk. With so many changes to our regular lifestyle occurring on a daily basis, it feels as if nothing else matters. Granted, one's health is the most important consideration, but now the talk is about everybody's health. Nevertheless, how do I throw caution to the wind and interact with my environment when doing so might endanger the very stability I've worked over 11 years to maintain? I mean, I have to live my life, but will there be a cost to do so? I realize that the good of the many outweigh the good of the few but Spock was speaking from outer space. How do I, while in and out of treatment down here on Earth not worry about myself? I realize life will go on for almost all of us, but will there be consequences for those unable to secure proper care? Will decisions be made about allocating resources because demand has far outstripped supply? How does life for cancer patients undergoing treatment fit into this new paradigm where so many people might need some kind of medical care? Will there even be enough health care professionals to administer the kind of life-sustaining treatment many of us seriously-diagnosed patients have come to expect and need? Unfortunately, only time will tell, and there may very well be little of it in the interim, during which we can anticipate and plan accordingly. So many decisions will likely be made by the powers that be that might not exactly consider my set of cancer circumstances. In a way, I might be collateral damage. There simply might not be enough room and medicine and staff and all to accommodate my needs. It's nothing personal. It's just business, or rather the lack thereof. With so much of the world's population affected while going about their usual and customary routine, who, what, where and how will there be any prioritization? Moreover, what about people who are already sick and challenged by a weakened immune system (like yours truly), will the competition from newly diagnosed coronavirus patients overwhelm our health care system? I can't assume that life will go on as it always has. That would seem to be incredibly naive. I need to proactively make the necessary arrangements and/or contingency plans. I can't presume that being a cancer patient will always get me through the door. I'd like to think I take priority. But it might not be about priority, it might be about availability and a dwindling supply not able to keep up with demand. Still, going down this rabbit hole of fear, anxiety and worry doesn't help either. As I have since the date of original diagnosis, back in late February, 2009, I need to make the best of a bad/challenging situation. I need to roll with the punches and be prepared for any eventuality and take the good with the bad and vice versa. Normal left the building a long time ago for me. The problem is that building to which I metaphorically refer is the very building where I get my ongoing medical treatment. And though I don't anticipate being kept away from that building, the reality is that it's out of my control. As with anticipating the results of CT scans and lab results, all in good time, or bad. I need to keep the same positive attitude as I always have because though I might be at greater risk than many of you regular readers, we are all at risk, apparently. As such, if there is indeed anything to be gained by so many people being so similarly affected, the reality is that there are strength in those numbers and even though it may feel that right now the whole world is upside down, things eventually will right themselves. They always do. I just hope I'm still smiling when the dust settles.

It began years ago when technology enabled bathrooms to change to hands-free. Other than the obvious hands-on responsibilities, many of the other elements no longer required any touching. Be it the paper-towel dispenser, the hand dryer, the hot and cold/on and off functions in the sinks, and, of course, the urinal and toilet flushing functions. All providing a convenience never before possible. Other than an automatic entry/exit function for the bathroom door, and one as well on the inside for the stalls themselves, using many public bathrooms has become much less involved, shall we say, than ever before. And it has not stopped there. It has gone public in a very big way. Driving, specifically through tolls, that is. Thanks to EZ-Pass, tolls or rather interacting with them by having to hand money over to a "toll collector," (or even to stop and toss money into a basket) has nearly been eliminated. Due a device (transponder) attached to my license plate, as me and my car approach the toll booth, I simply go about my normal driving business with nary a worry in the world. I steer into the dedicated EZ-Pass lane at a bit less than the posted speed, and ding!, as I drive through the toll booth, the toll is paid. No fuss, no muss, no window roll-down and no scrambling for change or digging for dollars. What's done is done so long as the yellow light illuminates and "paid" appears. (Although if what's done isn't done, you'll soon receive a paper bill in the mail at the address on file.) Metro, our local public conveyor, also provides a hands-free or very nearly hands-free experience. If you have a plastic "Metro card" linked into their system, all you need do as you enter the turnstile is tap your card and go. No more standing in line at the "Fare"/"Add Fare" kiosks to load your card with money to start or end your journey. As with your EZ-Pass, once you sign up and link your Metro card to a credit/debit card, you are "In Like Flint," as some of us from a certain generation might say. Henceforth, your card is automatically updated to always provide sufficient dollars for this trip and any subsequent trips to make sense. Now imagine if I had a "smart phone." How many more functions/people-free interactions might I enjoy with a tap, a scan or a wave? Unfortunately, I have what my wife, Dina calls a "stupid phone." That's a flip phone with no internet access. As such, I am cut off from an evolving world. A world in which I'll likely not have to interact with anybody or reach into my pocket for anything resembling money. All I'll have to reach for is my "smart phone." I've seen its functionality at the airport in lieu of a paper ticket, on Amtrak, at concert venues and of course sports venues. It seems to help speed up the entry process. I don't really want to be the last flip-phone-holding man standing. But neither do I want to get into a life-accident while negotiating the learning curve. At the moment, the road ahead seems full of twists and turns with more curves than I can possibly imagine. How do I negotiate something I can't see? Moreover, how do I negotiate the road less traveled, by me? Where will I draw the experience necessary to acclimate to these ever-changing signposts? I mean, the words may be familiar, but some of the context may be off putting and counterintuitive, to me. I'm not a complete Bozo. I have partially integrated into this new world. I have had insurance and car payments automatically debited from my bank account for years. I have some over-the-counter medicines, supplements and a variety of cat-related care and feeding products automatically delivered to my home. However, sometimes I feel like a pinball (and I'm no wizard) without the bells and whistles banging around trying to stay on top of what product is debit/paid and when. Now that's a service I could use: an automated weekly reminder of what's happening when. And the beauty of it, I wouldn't need any new devices. I use what I always use: my home computer. Turn it on, click the email, open, read and then close. Even Bozo the clown could do that.

And so, what happens next? There's calm and then there's an eventual storm. The storm to which I refer is what will happen after the March 2nd meeting with my endocrinologist when she will assess and determine the next step in my post-thyroidectomy treatment. Presumably, in conjunction with my oncologist, a coordinated plan will be implemented for treating my two cancers. I can't imagine however, that being treated for two cancers, simultaneously, will be easier than being treated for one. And I doubt, although I don't know, that one medicine will be recommended for the treatment of both my non-small cell lung cancer and my thyroid cancer. We'll know soon enough. In the interim, I intend to acknowledge and appreciate how easy these next few weeks will be. No appointments with doctors, no diagnostic scans, no procedures, no medicine - and no side effects, and no lab work other than as needed, to measure my calcium and magnesium levels and any other thyroid-related effects. Moreover, I am free to come and go as I please. And it does please me. Because I've earned it. I deserve it and I'm going to bask in it. You think being a cancer patient under constant treatment for nearly 11 years is in any way amusing? Hardly. I make fun of it to make light of it. Otherwise, the weight of it would crush me. And even though my father always said I had broad shoulders, I'm always fearful that the next result will be the straw that finally breaks this camel's back. After all, I'm only human. But for now, February 9, as I sit and write, I am three weeks and one day to my next reckoning. And since it's early days yet to know what life will be like after that March 2nd appointment (radiation and/or chemotherapy possibly), I will try to be blissfully ignorant and not think too much how easy and unencumbered my life is at the present. As a cancer patient, ceding control where you can and securing it where you thought you couldn't are keys to managing expectations and minimizing aggravation. Unfortunately, there is no one key that unlocks all doors. And there are plenty of doors, and plenty of doctors too, and plenty of fear waiting for one of your doctors to walk through any of these doors to deliver the results from your most recent cancer-related whatever. None of which concerns me right now, or rather it shouldn't. And if there's any port in this storm where I can offload some anxiety and get in a little R&R, literally, figuratively, hypothetically, magically, unexpectedly, I should jump at the chance. I am reminded of a conversation I had with my oncologist years ago when I experienced a similar interval between treatment. The medicine I was on had stopped working so we needed to start another, another with unknown benefits and side effects. My oncologist suggested that since I felt good, perhaps we should delay the beginning of the next infusion and that I should take that trip I had always dreamed of because I might never feel this good again. I didn't then and I won't know. When I jump however, I can barely get off the ground. I haven't exactly been presented this time, with this kind of do-before-you-die opportunity, but there is an eerie familiarity to my circumstances. And though I've been down this road trying-to-find out before, I can't be at all certain to what kind of twists and turns await. The last thing a cancer diagnosis provides is a guarantee. Actually, that's wrong. A cancer diagnosis does provide a guarantee: that there are no guarantees. And so, as I prepare for the next phase of my life, the one that begins 11 years after being diagnosed with non-small cell lung cancer, stage IV and being given a 13 month to two-year prognosis to boot, I will quote the late, great Satchel Paige: "Don't look back. Something might be gaining on you."

And somewhere to go, or so I thought. I had checked in at the front desk. I was given a number, and almost immediately, it was called. I said good-bye to Team Lourie and was led back to a staging area (beds, curtains, doctors, nurses) where I was told I would see them both before surgery. There I was given a gown, no-slip socks and a hair net to change into, and instructed to place all my clothes (underwear, too) into two plastic bags and then told to pull back the privacy curtain and lie back on the bed. Within a few minutes a female nurse, part of a very attentive and conscientious staff, began to attend me. She started an I.V. in my left forearm, wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my right bicep and then stuck half-a-dozen or so EKG contacts over the front me and down my legs to monitor my heart. In addition, the typical other vitals: oxygen, pulse and temperature were taken. At that point, it appeared that I had passed muster. My surgeon stopped by for a brief visit and all was progressing normally. Until that is when the anesthesiologist came by for what I thought was the final step. It was the final step alright. She said that "due to an abundance of caution," she was uncomfortable proceeding with the surgery. She explained that the facility (not a hospital) where I was to undergo the surgery was not fully equipped to respond to certain potential complications which might occur which involved a breathing tube, a ventilator and the weakness of my lungs, so she sent me packing (unpacking actually). Disappointed, as you might imagine, we all left the facility and waited for further instructions. By the end of the day, arrangements had been made to reschedule my surgery at a local hospital on Wednesday, a mere two day delay. I could live with that. At home, I resumed my post-shower, pre-surgery, infection-preventing scrub as I had for the previously scheduled surgery. This time, surgery was scheduled for 1:30 pm instead of the 10:50 am it had been on Monday. Still, if all went well, I could be released that same day, under someone else's recognizance of course, given the late hour, but likely recuperating at home in my own bed. On Wednesday, I arrived at the hospital two hours before surgery as directed and began the now familiar process. Once again, I was prepped and ready. This time there were no slip-ups. Around 2:15 I was wheeled into the operating room and introduced to the staff on hand. I was asked my name, date of birth, and the reason for surgery that day. Answering correctly, the next step involved an oxygen mask coming down over my nose and mouth and being asked to breathe normally, which I did, and the rest, as they say, is history. It turned out that the anesthesiologist was right to be cautious. My four-hour outpatient surgery turned into a seven-hour admission-to-the-hospital major surgery with complications. Due to my "Adams' Apple" tumor being embedded into/under my collarbone, a thoracic surgeon was brought into consult about possibly cracking open my chest to get at the remaining cancer. Fortunately, a decision was made not to do so and I was wheeled back to recovery and eventually to my room for the night where at 12:35 am, while lying in my bed, my eyes opened and I saw my wife, Dina and close friend, Rita, who had stayed into the wee hours in an amazing show of support. The next day, after an uncomfortable night in my hospital bed, I was discharged, four hours after the process began. (As you may or may not know, getting discharged from the hospital is hardly a straight line from your hospital room to your curbside pick up.) I was given instructions, prescriptions and follow-up appointments. My thyroid gland, parathyroid, "Adam's Apple" tumor and a few lymph nodes stayed behind. Can't say that I miss any of them. Still, my body may miss them so I'll likely have some post-op work to do at home. Nevertheless, progress has been made for which I'm grateful.

From cancer to toilet paper. Is that "off" enough? My reason for writing this column might be because I need a diversion (see last week's column), and because, as is so happened recently, I needed to replenish our toilet paper supply. (It had nothing to do with a winter advisory in the forecast.) As the consumer in the house, I am keen and motivated to spend our money wisely. I look for sales, I use paper coupons, I use digital coupons and of course, I peruse the advertising circulars, in print and online (if necessary) regularly. In addition, I have a number of plastic bonus cards hanging on my keychain. In short, I am prepared and ready for any retail or wholesale opportunity that might present itself. With respect to toilet paper, I believe us regular users have been victimized by the toilet paper manufacturers. I refer specifically to the increase in the size of the actual roll itself; from single to double to triple to jumbo to mega and now super mega. Since the manufacturers can't exactly increase demand, they've devised a strategy to increase supply - in our homes. And though using myself as an example is hardly empirical evidence, I will nonetheless continue to do so in an effort to justify my accusation. If you're like me, you probably like to have an ample supply of toilet paper in the house, just in case (it happened once in college; not good). And to that end, the toilet paper manufacturers have offered up multipacks equivalent to as high as 96 rolls, if I'm not mistaken, to address this potential shortage. However, my beef is not with the number of rolls in these multipacks, my beef, as I've said, is with the size of the rolls. In these cases, size does matter. For years, we've been buying 4-, 6-, 9-, 12-, 24-, 36- and even 48-roll multipacks, some single and some double to stock the bathroom linen closets, so we're used to having a specific number of rolls on hand/in inventory. Now the rolls are double or even triple the size we had grown accustomed to having as back-ups. But we're still, in spite of the gargantuan size of the newer mega/super mega rolls, wanting to have the same number of rolls in the closet as we've always had (I do, anyway). Sort of a comfort level, you might say. The problem is that having the same number of super mega rolls in inventory as previously one had as single or double rolls gives one way more toilet paper in the house than you ever had. In effect, we have over-purchased. The toilet paper manufacturers have used our predispositions against us in order to take a greater share of our household budget previously allocated for toilet paper. I don't need six super mega rolls in our bathroom. But I do want to see at least six rolls in reserve (aid and comfort you might say). If the six rolls in reserve were single or doubles, their size would be irrelevant. The number of rolls was more important - in my head. And now, because of the toilet paper manufacturer's insistence that size matters, I am forced to buy these spare-tire, donut-sized rolls that I can't possibly use no matter what "snowmageddon" might hit us. But I can't stock my shelves with reasonably-sized rolls because their unit cost is prohibitive compared to the big roll multipacks. As the consumer I am, I am loathe to overpay for such household necessities. So I buy in bulk, stuff my shelves with ply and go about my business. I just wish I had more than a hand in their decision-making.

Can You Spell Thyroidectomy? I couldn't before, Mr. Rogers, but now I can. And I even know what it means, which 10 days ago, in my neighborhood, I wouldn't have had a clue. Now, not only do I have a clue, I have a date for surgery: January 27. Moreover, in addition to a date (and I don't mean my wife, Dina), I have a time and a place, a list of pre-surgical dos and don'ts, and a few items to buy: a post-surgical healing ointment and a special scrub to help minimize the risk of infection. And of course, I've been advised to wear loose-fitting clothing, perhaps a button down cardigan will do. If all goes well, I'll be home in my jammies around supper time when my recovery begins. Details of which are still a bit sketchy. I suppose I'll have to 'recover' to find out. Let me amend that last sentence: I'll be on a soft-food diet for five days. What might not jump at you is that I don't eat many soft foods (M&Ms melting in one's mouth instead of their hands likely doesn't count). More significantly and quite out of my ordinary, my wife, Dina will be managing and controlling my menu. So far that menu includes eggs, pudding, apple sauce; all good but her last two items: spinach and kale, not good at all. I imagine I'll survive the surgery, but given how rarely Dina and I have shared meals together over the years, I may not survive the recovery. And though her heart and head might be in the right place, I'm afraid my knife and fork won't be. During the best of times, I'm challenging to feed. After my surgery, I'm likely going to be at my worst. Although I certainly don't look it, food has always been the bane of my existence. But at that post-surgical point, aren't I entitled? I mean, when I was a little boy and had my tonsils removed, I remember being given ice cream to eat - in bed. That had never happened before - or since, quite frankly. Soft foods. What's softer than ice cream? Why should I be deprived? I have two types of cancer. Yet so far, I don't see ice cream on the list. Maybe Dina's waiting for confirmation from the surgeon that cold foods are just as soft as hot. If true, I think I'm going to need that in ALL CAPS to convince my wife to give in to my indulgences. After all, one's thyroid gland isn't extracted every day so shouldn't I scream (perhaps whisper would be advisable) for ice cream? Wouldn't it soothe the savage beast that I might be after surgery? Presumably there will be some pain or discomfort and/or side effects from prescription medications I'm obliged to take so why not humor me; I like to laugh. Except there's really nothing funny about surgery, other than the old joke: it's minor surgery when it's someone else, when it's me, it's major. So even though I've been told on relatively good authority that a thyroidectomy is not exactly major surgery, it's still me that's being anesthetized and operated on for four hours. And though I'd rather it would be somebody else, I don't see how that would help remove my thyroid gland, which apparently has spread cancer to my neck and a lymph node. I guess if it has to come out, it might as well come out of me. And then we can get on to the business of learning whether I have one cancer or two and perhaps get an updated assessment of my life expectancy. If I had my druthers, I'd just as soon have only one cancer. Two is too much. That being said/vented, right now, I just want to wake up after surgery and get home. And when I get there, either that night or for breakfast the next day, there better be a pint or two of ice cream with my name on it. I think it's only fair, don't you?

As I half expected, with my oncologist out on vacation this week, he and the endocrinologist didn't speak. As a result, after sitting in the examining chair, the first question the doctor asks is, "So you have thyroid cancer?" I snickered and said something like "Hopefully," before I began to elaborate. Though she had access to my medical records, I can't say she was prepped and ready for our appointment. As she listened to my story, I could she see was simultaneously trying to review my medical history on her computer. In fact, as I hemmed and hawed in response to some of her medical questions, I kept saying/pointing to her computer for her to get the proper answer. Nevertheless, eventually we were able to move forward in the determination of exactly what kind of cancer I have: thyroid cancer or lung cancer - or both (it's possible, she said). To that end-result, the doctor performed a biopsy on my "Adam's Apple" tumor, as I call it. The biopsy I had two weeks prior was from a lymph node. The results from which caused my oncologist to call me with his "exciting news." Apparently, those results were not enough for the endocrinologist (who had never seen me before) to make a definitive judgment, so in her office, that day, this second biopsy was performed. Fine with me since a second biopsy from a different tumor is absolutely moving the ball forward, as it is so often said these days; I just hope it leads to a touchdown instead of another possible fumble. For the last nearly 11 years, I've been diagnosed with non-small cell lung cancer, stage IV. Now after two biopsies, not so much. Right now, the assessment of my cancer status is somewhere between a definite maybe and a confirmed I don't know. Will I now know - in another week's time (when the results of this most recent biopsy are confirmed) - whether my non small cell lung cancer is actually thyroid cancer or will there be additional biopsies, additional diagnostic scans, injections of isotopes, etc., to make a once-and-for-all confirmation of what the heck is going on (or has been going on) in my body? If so, it's been a long time coming. I first went to the emergency room Jan. 1, 2009 so it's sort of an anniversary of sorts as I write this column. I'd just as soon we get it right this time, if in fact it was ever wrong. I have a few questions, some of which were answered by the endocrinologist. Yes, I can have two types of cancer. Could my lung cancer have changed to become thyroid cancer? No. And the underlying curiosity/question: During this cancer life that I have lived, I have been told, and seen multiple times on discharge-type paperwork I've received, that I have "metastatic cancer" meaning that the cancer has moved. Moreover, when one considers the staging aspect, my cancer was stage IV. Stage IV means, among "relevancies" (like inoperable), that the cancer has moved from its "primary " location. I remember asking my oncologist where did my lung cancer come from (I'm a lifelong non-smoker with no cancer history in my immediate family). His answer, if I recall correctly, and I may not due to "chemo brain," a confirmed side effect of chemotherapy, was that he didn't know, and if I further recall correctly, he wasn't particularly interested in finding out and accordingly no additional tests were ordered. Perhaps we misunderstand the need to know now or misunderstood the answers we were given then (Feb., 2009). But as of this past Friday, Team Lourie is sort of wondering as was the endocrinologist. As of this moment, our focus is on hearing back from the endocrinologist. With the New Year's holiday/truncated week ahead, I expect we'll hear sometime during the first week of January. Until then, we'll try to move forward. What's done is done and we'll hear back when we hear back. I have what I have (and have had what I've had) and right now, all we can do is wait. That being said, we are having a little difficulty restraining ourselves. We can't get past the fact that my oncologist called us in the first place, and in the last place, if he wasn't so sure, why call us and get our collective hope sky high? Why go out on such a presumptive limb? In spite of that call, somehow, we have to internalize and compartmentalize and try to synthesize fact from fiction. So far, it's proving extremely difficult.

The doctor told me that I'll probably receive results from today's biopsy in five to seven days. The pathologist will send the results to my oncologist who presumably will email them to me. Now whether that new information will cause a change in my treatment, I certainly don't know. However, I would imagine that knowing the genetic mutation/biomarker would cause an immediate change. We're not exactly waiting for Godot here. And neither is the process rocket science. It's medicine. It's research. It's years of clinical trials. All of which has led to the FDA's approval of more drugs for the treatment of lung cancer in the last three years than in the previous three decades, according to LUNGevity. Lung cancer research, after years of comparative neglect is finally getting the respect, and dollars, it deserves. After all, lung cancer is by far the leading cause of cancer deaths annually with up to 200,000 new cases diagnosed every year. "Targeted Therapy" is what I'm talking about. And it's a simple as is sounds. A specific medicine is more effective when given to a patient with a specific biomarker (type of tumor; they're not all the same). Eleven years ago when I was first diagnosed, mutations were not yet a part of the oncologist's playbook. Now, they're on page one. After years of receiving treatment based on old-ish/conventional methods, I am about to move to the head of the class. Maybe even become the teacher's pet (I'm already my oncologist's prize cow.) This is not experimental stuff, this is state of the art, so to speak. And soon, if I'm lucky, I will join the ranks. At this juncture, I know very little specifically about what might happen next. I have learned during my years of treatment and meetings with my oncologist that future scenarios are rarely discussed. Sure, we've occasionally mapped out, generally speaking, a course of action/reaction, but my oncologist prefers not to get too far ahead of where we are at present. One new symptom and/or unexpected result from a CT scan or a brain MRI and once again, it will be "Katie, bar the door." Accordingly, I have become a patient patient. That's not double talk, that's years of experience. I'd like to think it's part of the reason I'm still alive. Another reason I'm still alive is the Team Lourie philosophy: hoping Kenny can stay alive until research catches up - or even passes you by which then enables you to take advantage of the next big thing/new drug. Over the last 11 years, I've been the beneficiary of research that has provided drugs which allowed me to live years beyond my original "13 month to two year" prognosis (in quotes because that's what my oncologist said). Now I hope to be the beneficiary once again of the latest and greatest treatment: "Targeted Therapy." If so, another 11 years would suit me just fine. To say I'm excited would not exactly describe my state of mind. Hopeful, of course. Anxious, for sure, because I think my oncologist, per our last meeting, was anticipating my future a bit and switching from my present Opdivo immunotherapy to something brand new (or a new combination of medicines) seemed timely to him. Ergo, my needle biopsy today at the Interventional radiologist. I guess you could say "I'm pleased as punch," though, to quote Hubert Horatio Humphrey, Jr., the 38th Vice President of the United States, that I had this procedure. It opens up/creates new treatment possibilities which for a nearly 11-year cancer survivor is likely way more important than I realize. After all, my oncologist did characterize my non small-cell lung cancer, stage IV diagnosis as "terminal." A disease for which my oncologist also said that he "could treat, but that he couldn't cure." Well, I don't suppose he can cure me now with whatever targeted therapy matches my tumor's biomarker so I'm counting on these new drugs being able to treat me some more. I could live with that.

Having re-read what I wrote in last week's column "Still Processing," I can't say it made me feel a whole lot better than when I wrote it. Granted, it was a column that had to be written given my self-indulgent tendencies (that I fight against constantly) and the possible crossroads that I may be entering. Nevertheless, if part of the underlying reason why I take up this space every week is to vent and share, as a means, hopefully not to a premature end, I suppose there was stress released there. But the subject matter was so third-rail-ish that even though I've tried to avoid it, I feel adversely affected by the experience. The subject to which I so ambiguously refer is my own death. Aside from not wanting it to happen, if I don't plan in advance for it having happened, the chaos that will ensue and envelop my wife, Dina, is both unfair and inconsiderate. You see, in our relationship, she's been the social director and I've been the business manager. To quote my late father: "and neither the twain shall meet except on the twack." If I were indeed to predecease my wife, a fairly distinct possibility, not only would there be no twain, there would be no "twack" as well. There would only be trouble, and that's 'trouble' with a capital "T." It's not so much that there are complications lurking, so far as I understand them: there are no children, no blended family, no special needs situations, no multi-layered business entanglements, no offshore anything (heck, there's very little onshore), our home and bank accounts are jointly owned, no financial thresholds exceeded, no delinquencies and few liabilities--really not much out of the ordinary. However, I get that ordinary is in the eye of the surviving beholder, which is likely not to be me. Therefore, if I want to contribute to my wife's quality of life after I've departed dearly (and to her peace of mind now, quite frankly), apparently a road map of sorts is in the offing. (And believe me, none of this is about control; it's more about initiative.) I guess there's something in me that feels I need to get it out on paper so that I might act on it in person. Maybe writing about such a grim task minimizes its grimness, sort of like dipping your toe in the water before you jump? Maybe thinking and writing about the anxiety I'm feeling concerning what my wife will have to do after I've died is kind of a mental ice breaker. Not that I'm getting into any details here, it's more of "a broad brush," to once again quote my brother, Richard, about the need for consideration and fairness. The underlying problem is that getting into all this after-I'm-dead stuff seems and feels incredibly negative. And I try to ignore negativity. In fact, it may very well have been my positivity which has kept me alive all these live-long days. I'm sure I'm rationalizing (maybe more like "irrationalizing") as an excuse for not doing what needs to be done, but I've always been good at that. In addition, I keep coming back to it's my life; I'm the one with "the cancer," to quote "Forrest, Forrest Gump," describing his mother's cause of death, as a means of justifying my stubbornness/unwillingness to make certain arrangements. I mean, when you think of it, having cancer is a heck of an excuse. And though I've rarely used it as one, I've always felt it. And with respect to planning for a future I don't have, I have to blame the cancer. It makes you do and think things you might not otherwise do and think. It's not as if anyone is ever prepared for a cancer/serious health diagnosis. Quite the opposite in fact. As such, you either learn to roll with the punches or get knocked down by them. This recent/current experience hasn't knocked me down or out exactly, but it has made me a little wobbly emotionally, and reminded me just how insidious cancer can be. Once again, and for the first time in years, I seem to be at greater risk than ever. I suppose with risk comes opportunities. Having my tumors "typed" and in turn treated with specific/targeted medicine seems to be present just such an opportunity; exactly what the doctor ordered, literally.

Off we go - or not, into the wild blue yonder. It seems that my most recent CT scan's results, described as "a little worse" by my oncologist, are indeed cause for some reflection and change. (I'm not quite able to say "cause for concern" yet.) As such, to make the most effective change, per my oncologist's orders, I am scheduled for a needle biopsy on the Wednesday this column publishes. This procedure will determine, if there is a match, to the specific type of cancer tumor that I have. (Without boring you with too many details, the short version is that all cancer tumors are not alike. Biomarkers/genetic mutations such as ALK, BRAF, EGFR, NTRK, PD-L! and ROS1 are the most common, and certain medicines work better against certain tumor types. Variations in the tumor types, such as the ones I've described, is a relatively recent discovery in lung cancer research.) What this research has led to is another new kind of cancer treatment known as "targeted therapy." This means rather than "flying blind"--to use one of my brother, Richard's, favorite expressions--and employing a one-size-fits-all kind of approach to treatment, oncologists now have specific medicines to infuse when the tumor's genetic mutation is confirmed. Wednesday, hopefully, will confirm something. However, researchers have not discovered all the tumor types so it's possible that this biopsy will reveal nothing useful for me and in effect, I'll be back to square one-ish. As for what 'square-one-ish' means? It means that I'll likely be infusing medicines that previously worked for a time but whose infusions were stopped after they all ran their successful course years ago. As I've been told whenever this change became necessary, cancer cells eventually figure out what's happening to them and then the tumors begin growing. Once this growth is indicated on the CT scan, a new medicine is usually started, and on and on it goes until, apparently now, for me anyhow. "Targeted therapy" offers lots of new medicines. I just need a match. Unfortunately, there's no guarantee the biopsy will provide just such a match. There's only one way to find out. On Wednesday, we will begin to find out. To say I have a lot riding on this determination is the understatement of the year; at least for Team Lourie, it is. If I'm forced to repeat infusions from medicines that stopped working years ago, it'll be "Katie, bar the door," as we say in Boston which means, "Look out!" I'm trying not to 'look out' though. I'm trying not to look anywhere, except straight ahead. Just because my life may be at stake, is no time to deviate from the norm that has been my modus operandi over the past 11 years. I'm not quite ready to consider that my stage IV lung cancer survival is coming to an end. Maybe it's just staggering and within a week or so, I'll get my bearings again. New medical information getting me new medical treatment is sure to put a bounce back in my step. For the first time in 11 years, to quote George Costanza from Seinfeld: "I'm back, baby." This could be the jolt my body needs to get me through to the next research level. The Team Lourie strategy has always been for me to try and live long enough to reach the next medical breakthrough. So far, I've benefited from a few: tarceva, avastin and alimta; all miracle drugs according to my oncologist, and here I am, living proof that it has all worked. Until I hear, post procedure, from my oncologist, in the interim, I am re-experiencing many what-happens-if-and-when emotions that I've not wrestled with for years. Unfortunately, this hospital visit is taking me back to the visit/biopsy I had in Feb. 2009 which confirmed the malignancy in my lungs in the first place. And here I am, hopefully not in the last place, waiting for the results of a biopsy yet again. It didn't work out so good in 2009. I just hope I have better luck in 2019.

I never want to look a gift-oncologist in the mouth or take a "stable"-type CT scan with a grain of salt, however; self-preservation is a funny instinct. It can change from day to day (heck, even hour to hour) and dominate your pre-occupation or intrude your thinking not at all. You can rationalize away the good, bad or indifferent (results) or irrationalize away the less-than-expected or the more-than-anticipated. Results from lab work and/or diagnostic scans are the axis on which your entire life revolves. You either roll with the punches or you get knocked down by them. For a cancer patient, the punches often keep coming. The punches thrown in my direction occur bi-weekly when I have my pre-immunotherapy lab work for my every other Friday 30-minute opdivo infusion. (Although the actual lab work and even the infusion is more of a jab.) The left hook/right cross combination occurs quarterly. That's when I slide through the computerized tomography scan and wait for results (as I had been for most of the last week). Since I have generally been asymptomatic - other than for miscellaneous side effects from the various medicines with which I've been infused - the tale of the tape, to continue the boxing references, happens when my oncologist emails the radiologist's report to me with a brief sentence summary: "a little worse" (this time), "stable," or something less discouraging that needs to be discussed at our next face-to-face appointment which generally is scheduled a week or so after the previous week's scan. Regardless of what these mostly cryptic emails have said, until I hear exactly what my oncologist says, I am neither too high or too low. Granted, hearing "stable" is extremely encouraging whereas "a little worse," not so much. Nevertheless, the fight goes on. Cancer treatment is a series of actions and reactions (punches and counter punches, you might even say) so depending on how one's body reacts, determines what action is recommended. I am living proof, literally. Over my nearly 11 years of treatment, I have been infused with upwards of a dozen medicines. Once one treatment loses its luster, we change to another, hoping it will be more effective, and so on. It's science, not arithmetic. As such, any guarantees left the building with Elvis. Being a cancer patient is not for everybody. One has to make the most of the least. It's easy to let the hard facts make you soft. Unless you find a way to be up, the cancer will take you down. Somehow, even when it's doing the worst to you, you have to be at your best. Being positive generates positivity in return. When I look at people, I try to smile so that they'll smile back (I'm being selfish, really). Do you remember George Costanza describing the look of disappointment on his mother's face when he told her he wanted to play the accordion? Like that, only the complete opposite. When I interact with people, I don't want them feel "poor, poor, pitiful me" to quote Warren Zevon from his song first sung in 1976. And I don't want them to see cancer either. I want them to see everything about me. I may be diagnosed with a terminal form of cancer: stage IV, non-small cell lung cancer, but I don't want to be defined by it. Just because I'm living with cancer doesn't mean it's who I am. It's what I have, that's all. And what reminds most me that I have cancer and what challenges my reactions to it more than anything, is when I have these quarterly CT scans (and the annual MRI, too). As much as I try to fend off the possible effect on my mortality (my true sense of insecurity), I'd be lying if I said I was always successful. In truth, I'm always worried about it. How could I not be? I guess I'm not quite ready to throw in the towel. I suppose that means, regardless of what my oncologist says at our next meeting, I'm still ready to live and fight another day.

As difficult as the last few weeks have been, with Chino's at-home hospice-type care and ultimate passing and the "Catch-22 A" realities of "reverse-mortgaging" my house "perplexed" by the "derelicht" stable/shed on my property, my upcoming quarterly CT scan hasn't even "blipped" the radar. Though it will have occurred already by the time this column prints, it's quite possible, due to the Thanksgiving holiday, its results won't be known for much longer, 12 days in fact, than has been customary. And so far, between my wife, Dina and I, none of this has even been discussed. Yet, as I sit and write on Sunday, the scan is on Wednesday, three days away. Close enough to where it should have been front and center instead of where it's been: back and off to the side. But so what, really? My attitude is, and has always been, to quote John, a close friend: "It is what it is, and it will be what it will be." By the time I slide forth and back under the CT scan's arch, or earlier I imagine, the damage to my body such as it is - or isn't, will have been done. Either the cancer has grown/spread or it hasn't. Certainly hearing and/or reading results from the oncologist will confirm facts at present not in evidence, but there is, without being particularly negative about my circumstances, an inevitability to it. One day, my amazing nearly 11-year run is going to come to a walk and eventually to a lie down. And I will deal with it when the time/results come. In the interim however, this next scan is merely another stop on the less-than Merry Go 'Round. I don't mean to make light of an extremely heavy burden that us cancer patients have to carry: the prospect of death. As Lee J. Cobb said in The Exorcist: "I only mention it in passing." Cancer causes enough internal problems (physically), one doesn't need, if possible (and so far for me, it has been possible) to cause external (emotional) problems as well. Maybe it's a kind of resignation or some kind of accommodation or acceptance of reality that has enabled this one to have lived so long beyond my original "13 month to two-year" prognosis (offered up on Feb. 27, 2009), an accomplishment I am proud to say occasionally has led to my oncologist showing me off to his medical students; his prize cow, I call myself. Honestly, what's the point, really? I'm only in control of so much. Focusing on things I can't control seems a waste of time and energy. Life is precious. Why dwell on things beyond my reach? Grasping at straws, if you can even find one, is likewise counter-productive. And setting oneself up for failure or disappointment is counter-intuitive almost. Why do that? The cancer is already causing enough havoc in your body. Don't let it affect your mind too. "Piling on," as the NFL referees used to call this major infraction. Now I believe its called "Unnecessary Roughness." For cancer patients, doing anything, physically or emotionally to hasten your demise/adversely affect your quality of life is most definitely unnecessary roughness and should be penalized. Learning to live with what ails you seems a more prudent plan than "woeing" is me or bemoaning the process. Sure, we'd all love to be on the President's plan where you're examined in the morning, scanned in the afternoon and operated on in the evening. But none of us are on the plan and wishing we were, to quote Jean Luc Picard from "Star Trek: Next Generation," is not going to "Make it so." But I can live with that. I have lived with that for almost 11 years now and counting. I'll learn the results from my scan soon enough. Good or bad, life goes on. To quote my friend John's daughter, Melanie: "Whatever."

Given the extremely sad experience I shared with you all in last week's column: "Chino Lourie, Rest in Peace," this column will be an attempt to bounce back to my usual and customary reality, one oddly enough that has nothing to do with cancer (well, much, anyway). Instead it has to do with unexpected joy. The joy to which I refer has to do with a subject which typically provides me little joy: I refer to our two automobiles, a 2000 Honda Accord and a 2018 Audi A4. The former inherited from my parents, payment-free but rarely hassle-free, the latter not free of payments, unfortunately, but free of hassle since its maintenance is covered by the warranty. Nevertheless, for the past few years, off and mostly on, both cars have had an indication that all was not right. Each had illuminated dashboard warning lights (aka "idiot lights"), constantly reminding the driver that attention to some detail was required. For the Honda, it was twofold, a "Main't Req" light and a "Brake" light " were dashing." For the Audi, it was "onefold," an icon which looks like an upside down horseshoe, sort of, which I learned, after thumbing through the owner's manual, meant low tire pressure, appeared directly under the speedometer. Since I felt no give or take with the Honda and saw no evidence of low tire anything with the Audi, I learned to take their reminders in stride and figured I'd wait until their respective next service calls to respond to them. Those service calls have now occurred. And I am extremely glad and relieved to say that their necessary/underlying repairs have been made. Glad/relieved not so much because the repairs/obvious safety issues have been addressed. Rather, glad/relieved that in making those repairs, the dashboard warning lights are no longer illuminating their disdain with the idiot behind the wheel: me, neglecting them. No more, after starting either car, will my initial focus be on the dashboard to see if miraculously the warning lights have disappeared and finally stopped their incessant, non-verbal badgering. No more will I be forced to ignore their illumination and attempt to compartmentalize their visual reminders that all is not well under the hood (so to speak). And finally, no more will I have to worry that one day - or night, the other mechanical shoe will drop and I or my wife will be left stranded on the road somewhere waiting for a tow truck to drag us to our car-repair maker. And though this dashboard-warning-light-turn-off is really a turn-on, I am still able to keep its effect in perspective. It's not a cure for cancer and neither it is a cure for my "stable" issue as written about multiple times recently ("Please Relief Me" and "Apparently, Not a Stable Genius"). However, as we say in sales: "I'll take a yes;" as they say on the high seas: "Any port in a storm;" and has been said for the last century: "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth." For the official record, I am not horsing around in the least when I say how thrilled I am now that every time I start our cars, I see no lights reminding me what an idiot I've been. As a cancer patient, I don't need that kind (or any other kind, quite frankly) of negativity in my life, or in my car either. Eliminating it from my activities of daily living adds a bounce to my step and a joie to my vivre. I realize I may be over stating the significance of this momentous occasion, but when cancer takes over your life, it does so emotionally before it does so physically. As such, finding relief is HUGE. Moreover, solving a problem, however insignificant in the scheme of things it appears to be, provides the building blocks of success that, as a cancer patient, help strengthen your foundation as you navigate your daily routine. A routine which is already filled with enough challenges. So yes, I am going to make a mountain out of a molehill. And I am going to fill myself up with as much positivity, nonsensical or otherwise, as possible. I need to be pulled forward, not dragged backward.

Please relief me or let me go. So sang Engelbert Humperdink way back in 1967 about having lost that loving feeling. His lost loving feeling was not about his mortgage. The lyrics: "I have found a new love dear" imply, if not clearly state, that there's a woman involved. My lost loving feeling is about my mortgage. And contrary to Engelbert, I can't leave it, and believe me, I've tried, though I've never sung about it, only droned on about it in print. To invoke the legendary Ricky Ricardo, aka Desi Arnaz, from "I Love Lucy," originally broadcast in the mid- to late-50s: Let me 'splain. It's been over 15 years since my last successful refinance. Twice in the intervening years I've tried to refinance. In each case, I've been denied even though I've had upwards of 50 percent equity and an 800 or so credit rating. Between multiple problems with the house (lead paint on the exterior, broken windows, etc.) and less than ideal income documentation, debt to income ratio, yada, yada, yada, we've regularly been kicked to the curb, which we also don't have, so I gave up, and have proceeded over the years to fix some of the problems mentioned, which unfortunately has not led to an acceptable resolution. Time has passed, and after years of television advertisements by Henry Winkler, Fred Thompson and most recently, Thomas Magnum himself, Tom Selleck, promoting reverse mortgages for those nearing retirement, I buckled under the pressure of these years of paid celebrity endorsements and made a few inquiries. It turns out that given my age - and circumstances semi-unique to us (no kids, lots of equity, need the money), we're perfect candidates. So we applied to company number one (denied), which led to company number two: also denied. The second time, the denial was not about income documentation and so forth as it was with the first "reverse-mortgager." No. It wasn't even about the house. This time it was about an out-building on our property, specifically the foundation of a "shed"/stable standing derelicht in its duties and of no use to anyone. Not however of 'no use' to the appraiser, apparently, who mentioned its condition in his report to the mortgage underwriter, who now has, because of those findings, slam-dunked us (put our application on hold), pending the shed's disposition. To summarize and recall another legendary figure from the 50s: author Joseph Heller, I'm in a bit of a "Catch-22." I can't refinance the house and get access to its equity because I can't meet the financial qualifications. And I can't reverse-mortgage the house - to gain access to the equity I need to live on, because the out-building on my property ("Belly Acres" as I call it) is a shell of its former self, so to speak, and needs upwards of $100,000 of repairs (I've gotten an estimate), money that if I had/could even get to, I'd need to live on, not spend on a building I'll never use/don't need. And neither can I sell the house (nor do we want to quite frankly) because the "shed" would be part of any deal, which means its repair would still be required. And one more thing, because the house is registered with the Federal Government as "Historic," we can't demolish this out-building either. In effect, we are stuck between a rock - as in those missing and cracked in the 100-year-old shed's foundation, and a hard place: the underwriter's intransigence and the Historic Preservation's rules. Let's call it a Catch-22 "A." At this point, I don't really know which way to turn. I'm not exactly damned if I do, I'm more damned because I can't. I don't think I'm asking for any kind of special dispensation. I'm not involving the Pope. I just want, to quote singer/songwriter, Nick Lowe from his 1974 song, ("What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding," some 'peace, love and understanding.' I'm not looking to make any trouble. In fact, I'm looking for the opposite: serenity, now and forever, with or without Seinfeld reruns. And I can afford it if the powers that be won't be less omnipotent and help a fella out. I swear I won't bother them if they won't bother me. Make the approval a Festivus-type occasion except it won't be for the rest of us, it will be just for me and my wife. I promise I won't tell a soul.