It has now been six months since my oncologist paused my treatments for prostate cancer and it remains undetectable. My doctor calls it a treatment “holiday”, and it’s one holiday I never want to return from.
I had forgotten what it’s like to have energy. I started running again, something I thought I’d never be able to do after recovering from surgery, radiation, and having zero testosterone for two years. I’ve also started playing paddle ball and pickleball a couple times a week, too. On some days I probably push myself a little too hard, but for me, applying a ice pack and swallowing an Ibuprofen is more symbolic of me being fixed than being broken. Life is good.
One day in particular that I am looking forward to is Saturday, September 17th. On that day my family, friends, and I will be walking in the 2022 ZERO Prostate Cancer Walk at De Anza Cove Park in Mission Bay. Last year, we, as “Team Vandervort”, raised $4,134, making us the second highest fundraising team in San Diego. We were also the second largest team with 44 people participating in the walk. This year I am hoping that we can do even better and I have set our fundraising goal for $5,000 and would love to have a team of at least 50 people. If you’d like to join us please go here and register.
In my defense, she did encourage me to swing harder.
My family and I were recently introduced to Paddleball by Jayme, my sister-in-law. Jayme and my wife, Jodie, were avid racquetball players before the onslaught of our children. A few months ago Jayme started playing a similar sport, called Paddleball, with a group at the local High School on Saturdays. She invited me to join her, and, naturally, I said “maybe”. My history with racquet sports isn’t a pretty one. I was the kid in high school that spent more time fishing tennis balls out of the bushes than hitting them. I was also the dude who screamed like a girl every time I played indoor racquetball with Jayme or Jodie. Simply put : They’re good. I’m not good. But, it’s more than a machoistic thing…
“I’m really not a fan of claustrophobia, 80mph balls, and swinging racquets in close quarters”, I told Jayme.
“It’s not a racquet, it’s a paddle”, Jayme encouraged me.
“And, it’s outdoors”, she continued.
“And, the ball is softer and doesn’t travel as fast.”, she finished.
“Maybe.”, I replied.
I eventually did join her, not to play, but because my youngest daughter, Kaylee, who had been going with Jayme, wanted me to meet “Grogu”, the “cutest puppy in the whole world” that frequented the courts. And, Kaylee was right, of course. Grogu absolutely was the cutest puppy in the whole world. But, I ended up playing a couple rounds of Paddleball, too, and, as expected, hit several balls over the wall in the process. But, everyone encouraged me to keep playing and had tips on how to improve my game. I remember coming home, sore and tired, but excited to tell Jodie all about it.
Fast forward a couple of months and Jodie and I now have our own paddles, made by Gearbox, a set of balls, portable chairs, and lots of new friends. We play Saturdays with the San Diego Elite Paddleball Group.
I drew these pictures for Kevin and my ongoing endeavor, a children’s book, titled “Jalapena”. If the name sounds familiar, that’s good, because my last post was over eight months ago. If not, well, it’s a story about a young troll, Jalapena, and her human friend, Raven, as they journey to save their world by means of saving a unicorn. Kevin based it upon stories he told his daughter when she was younger.
As per my last post I’ve been putting a lot more effort into drawing “au natural”, with pencils, pens, and paper. The first two drawings were done entirely on my Surface Pro using Clip Studio and Gimp. The later three were done using a blue pencil, an HB pencil, Micron Pens, and a sheet of printer paper. It takes a little more work, but is a lot more rewarding for me. At some point, if there’s enough interest, I’ll do a quick post on my process.
Take care. Stay healthy. Live life.
-Scott
Jalapena, Raven, and their new companions, a couple of wizards named Tholaman and Choinard as they evade the evil Bolziks in the town of Abbington.I’m a big fan of noisy family meals and wanted to sketch what such a meal would look like in Jalapena’s household. This is what I came up with.Six years into my self-bestowed title as “amateur illustrator” and you’d think I’d have drawn a horse – uh, unicorn by now, but nope. It took some effort. Maybe I’m a little biased, but my initial sketches all looks liked long-legged dogs. It’s been said that for every good picture there are thousands of bad ones leading up to it. I have stacks of bad horse pictures, maybe not thousands, but enough to make a equestrian whinny. I hope you like them.
I’ve often caught Jodie staring into Mochi’s aquarium, wondering, I assume, if the clumsy, pink, legged fish staring back through the glass has developed any sort of affection for her. I can only guess….
An unintended but unavoidable result of our trip to Vegas a few months ago was our new pet, Mochi, the Axolotl. Axolotl’s are almost extinct in the wild and illegal to own and sell in California, but quite plentiful in the city known for loose slots, loose women, and ( as we found out ) loose pet restrictions. After experiencing Mochi firsthand, I’m honestly surprised that Axolotls still exist in the wild at all. They’re clumsy for starters. Mochi, of course, is also bright shade of pink, a color that does everything but scream “here I am, come eat me” to any predator with more than an ounce of intelligence.
Although Mochi is my oldest daughter, Ashley’s, pet, my wife, Jodie, is her primary caretaker. Honestly, I am more than a little jealous of the amount of attention she gets, too. Every morning Jodie and her sister Jayme, who adopted an Axolotl of her own while in Vegas with us, compare detailed notes of water conditions, bowel movements, and the number of worms their respective legged-fish ate the day prior. The nitrates, nitrites, and ammonia levels all have to be just right as well as the water temperature. Since we got Mochi Amazon has chartered entire truckloads worth of fans, filtration devices, sand, rocks, blood worms, and nightcrawlers, water testing kits, etc… to our house – oh, and Jayme’s, too, of course. Mochi only cost about thirty dollars, but we’ve easily spent ten times that keeping her alive.
I’ve often caught Jodie staring into Mochi’s aquarium, wondering, I assume, if the clumsy, pink, legged fish staring back through the glass has developed any sort of affection for her. I can only guess…..
On a side note, you might have noticed that my artwork has changed. Up until a month or so ago I drew the majority of my comics and illustrations digitally on my Microsoft Surface Pro 7 using Clip Studio Paint and Gimp. I’ve since gone back to basics and started using pencils, inks, and paper. My reasons are threefold. First, after spending an entire day at work in front of a computer screen, it was getting more and more difficult to motivate myself to spend even more time in front of the same screen to do my art. Second, although drawing digitally allowed me to make corrections easier, I found myself taking it to extremes. I found myself obsessing over every detail and, in the long run, I felt my artwork was loosing some spontaneity. Third, I found myself not improving as much as I would of liked. Drawing digitally was making me sloppy. Paper can only be erased so many times before you wear a hole through it. Computer pixels aren’t so limited. While using pencil and ink I find myself carefully planning each stroke.
Admittedly, I’m still working out the details. My lines aren’t as crisp, my colors are streaky, and the scanner I’ve been using somehow manages to wash everything out, but I’m enjoying the whole process a lot more. I haven’t completely ruled out digital arts, either. I just needed a little change.
Two years ago today I had my prostate removed as a result of being diagnosed with prostate cancer a few months prior. Surgery or no it was one of the crazier days of my life. The “novel” coronavirus had just made headways into the United States and hospitals were beginning to enforce visitation limits. Jodie wasn’t allowed to stay for my surgery, or even visit when I woke up. It was probably a good thing because my daughter, Kaylee, broke her arm while I was being rolled into the operating room. In some twist of irony Kaylee and I both had operations on the same day, and likely the same time. Jodie and Kaylee were so worried about upsetting me that neither wanted to tell me what had happened, although I eventually found out. It’s incredibly hard to hide a bright pink cast, after all.
We recovered together. We had lots of time to recover, too. What eventually became known as COVID took a lot away, but it also gave Kaylee and I a lot of time to do nothing. And nothing is exactly what it takes to recover from surgery – I mean surgeries, plural.
I’d like to say that was the end of my cancer story, but it wasn’t. Less than six months later I started radiation treatment. This was in addition to two years of testosterone-eliminating hormone therapy, too.
Fast forward two years to today. Today marks three months since stopping all treatments. I had my quarterly blood work done today and it indicated that my cancer is still undetectable. Better yet, my testosterone has returned to normal levels as well. This is all good news.
I’m still not in the clear, and honestly I may never be, but every good test results inches me closer to – what? A cure? No, not cure. My doctor has made it clear that “cure” is not in the vernacular for people in my situation. At best people like me get to stay in remission. Long, happy, grateful, normal, live-life-to the-fullest remission.
Ever get the feeling that you feed your pets just a little better than you feed your kids? Sometimes I do … and then I see my dog eat a rock and all is right in the world again.
For my most recent appointment with my oncologist Jodie and I decided that we should wear our ugly Star Wars-themed Christmas Sweaters. My oncologist laughed when he saw us and, knowing that I draw, remarked how he would like to see the prostate as the Death Star. Well, here it is in all of it’s glory : Male reproductive organ, destroyer of planets, and 2nd most common cause of cancer. Now stop laughing and go get checked, guys!
My last dose of Abiraterone following two years of testosterone-reducing, lethargy-inducing, ball-shrinking, bone-weakening, irritability-causing hormone therapy,
Last night I took my last dose of Abiraterone. Two 500mg tablets. Roughly one hundred dollars worth of high octane prostate cancer killing medication. I plucked them with care from my well worn pill case and stopped just short of tossing them into my mouth. Feeling bizarrely nostalgic I pulled my phone from my pocket, shrugged, and snapped a quick picture. Then I swallowed them with no more than six ounces of water. I had learned the dangers of chugging too much water before bedtime much earlier in my cancer journey, it ain’t pretty. I had learned many things over the last couple of years.
“Good news!”, Dr. Stewart smiled as he walked into the exam room. “No Lupron shot today!”
“Right? And, I took the last of my Abiraterone pills last night.”, I agreed.
Dr. Stewart then instructed me how I should go about weaning myself off of my last medication, a steroid named Prednisone. Unlike the Abiraterone pills I downed the night before, Prednisone cannot be stopped cold turkey. Abiraterone affects the adrenal glands. Prednisone is prescribed along with it to replenish what would otherwise be produced naturally by the gland. Stopping Prednisone too fast would make me feel lethargic and tired. I would have to keep taking it daily for two weeks followed by every other day for an additional two weeks.
“So, I’m not really off medication. Not yet.”, I said aloud to no one in particular.
“When will my testosterone start coming back?”, I asked, changing the topic.
It was then I learned that it could take 6 months or more and that the timeline varies from person-to-person. Fortunately age is a big factor, and I’m relatively young at 45. Two years without testosterone has had a remarkable effect on my body. Body hair – gone. Libido – gone. Grumpy and tired – check. A lack of testosterone has even affected my bones; this year I was diagnosed with early onset osteoporosis. Weight gain, man boobs, and muscle loss are the only side effects I’ve managed to sidestep, and I credit my plant-based diet and exercise regimen on dodging those bullets. Boobs are cool, just not on me.
“So, how will I know when my testosterone is returning?”, I asked.
Dr. Stewart told me that he would monitor my testosterone as well as other markers through monthly blood tests. As my body recovered the tests would be stretched out to every three months. My PSA, a marker used for detecting prostate cancer, would be tested at three-month intervals rather than the monthly tests I had become accustomed to.
“You should start noticing things returning to normal as your testosterone levels increase.”, Dr. Stewart continued, “Your libido will get better. Morning wood, maybe …”
“Should I call you if I wake up with morning wood?”, I interrupted, laughing.
Dr. Stewart laughed. I took that as a solid “no”.
“Hey!”, I asked quickly in an attempt to break the awkwardness of the moment. “Do you mind if we get one more picture?”
“Sure”, he smiled.
Dr. Stewart, Jodie, and I at my end-of-hormone-therapy appointment at UCSD.
And, for those of you who have been following my cancer journey here’s a picture from two years ago during our first appointment with Dr. Stewart.
Jodie and I with Dr. Tyler Stewart at UCSD. Since it was Halloween we decided to come in costume – as a couple of Nerds.
I’m not naïve. I know cancer, especially aggressive ones such as mine, have a tendency to rear their ugly head again – sometimes long after treatment. Dr. Stewart told me as much during my previous appointment and I’ve read about such reoccurrences on the multitude of forums that I follow as well. I’m a realist. I know that my treatment “vacation” and so-called “last pill” could very well be temporary. I know that I’ll be anxious every three months when I get my bloodwork done to check my PSA levels. I know that every time I have an ache or pain I’ll wonder if my cancer has returned. I know all of this, but for now I just want to be a cancer survivor. I want to take off the gloves and figure out how to be me again – not the cancer warrior, but just me.
And, if my cancer ever does decide to come back? Well, I kicked its ass before and I’ll just have to do it again.
In retrospect trying to get the nurse holding the horse syringe to laugh moments before she sticks it into your butt is probably not the best idea.
“There’s a very high probability that your cancer will return.”
My 3-month checkup with my oncologist, Dr. Stewart had just ended. Jodie and I were waiting for what hopefully would be my last shot of Lupron before going on a hormone therapy “vacation” and I couldn’t get Dr. Stewart’s voice out of my head.
“What are the odds of …(pause)… you know what? Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.”, I responded.
And I really don’t. If someone told you that it would be nearly impossible to succeed at something, how hard would you try? I need hope and it’s friend, optimism on my side – even if it’s unfounded in reality.
To quote Jim Carrey’s character, Lloyd, in the movie, Dumb and Dumber: “So you’re telling me there’s a chance.”
But Dr. Stewart is right. Statistics don’t lie. So, for the rest of the appointment I refocused on what treatments I could expect if I were to relapse after being taken off of hormone therapy. Unsurprisingly, I would be put back on hormone therapy immediately. If my PSA level, a blood marker used to detect prostate cancer, were to exceed .5 ng/mL, a PSMA Scan would be performed on me. If the acronym PSMA sounds familiar it’s because Dr. Stewart wanted me to undergo one two years ago at UCLA when I was newly diagnosed. At the time the scan was going through FDA approval. Recently approved, UCSD had one installed just days before my appointment. The upsides of FDA approval are that insurance would probably cover it ( it was $3000 out-of-pocket two years ago ). The downsides are that I might not want to see what the scan has to show me. It’s incredibly precise and has the potential to pick up metastasis missed in my prior CT and MRI scans. Ignorance is bliss, right?
“And if my PSA were to rise and the PSMA scan were to pick up something? Then what?”, I asked Dr. Stewart.
“If there’s not too many spots we’d radiate them.”
“…and if it’s in a place that has already been radiated?”, I pushed.
“Then we’d have a longer conversation with your radiation oncologist. Dr. Rose.”, he replied.
“It’s like ‘whack-a-mole’.”, he continued, using an analogy.
“And we’d just keep hitting the new spots over and over?”, I asked.
“Yes, as long as the cancer responds.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we look at other therapies.”, he replied.
Dr. Stewart also told me that I had the option of staying on hormone therapy. I quickly dismissed the idea.
First off, my body needs a break. In my last post I wrote about how hormone therapy can cause bone loss. Well it can also cause muscle loss, fatigue, and liver problems. In addition to 3-month Lupron shots I’m also on Zytiga, another pill-based form of hormone therapy used for advanced prostate cancer, and a steroid, Prednisone – both of which require monthly blood panels. A month hasn’t gone by where I haven’t seen an abnormal reading.
Second, by staying on hormone therapy I’d never know if I was really in remission, or if the hormone therapy was just suppressing the cancer. No, it was time to pull the blocks and take the prostatectomy-ied, radiated, and “hormone-therapy-ed” “car” out for a drive and see what happens.
Third, hormone therapy becomes less effective over time. Hormone therapy works by stopping your body from producing testosterone. Initially, prostate cancer requires testosterone to thrive, but eventually the cancer adapts and starts producing it on its own. The clinical term for this is “Castrate Resistant Prostate Cancer”, or CRPCa. CRPCa is much more difficult to treat and the longer I’m on hormone therapy, the greater the chance my cancer will become resistant to hormone therapy.
( Knock! Knock! )
“Ready for your shot?”, my nurse asked from behind the exam room door.
“Yup! Come’on in!”, I replied, grimacing.
While my nurse donned her protective gear and prepared the shot I fumbled with the exam table’s foot pedal to raise it up to white-knuckled-grabbing-position.
“This is my last shot!”, I said, and then stumbled a little, “…. hopefully…”
“I hope so, too.”, she replied, smiling.
It was my seventh time getting stabbed in the ass with a horse needle full of Lupron. My first injection, a different but similar medication called Degarelix, was administered to both sides of my belly almost two years ago. This time I barely felt it at all.
The Lupron will remain in my system for three months. In December, for the first time in two years, I won’t receive a follow-up shot. I will stop taking Zytiga, too. A week or two later I will go off of the steroid, Prednisone, and then my hormone therapy “vacation” will begin. I am looking forward to the vacation, but I’m more than a little scared. too. Currently my PSA is .01 ng/mL, or undetectable. If my PSA were to increase it would indicate a recurrence; that somewhere inside of me the cancer is still alive and growing. It would also imply that, until there’s a cure, I’ll likely be fighting it for the rest of my life.
In the past I’ve referred to the whole cancer journey as a trip down a dark tunnel. It’s scary. It’s dark. And it seems to go on forever. As with any tunnel there is light at the end. Those are your family, your friends, and your supporters waving flashlights and urging you forward. The thing is there’s light in the tunnel, too. You just need to look harder for it. This light is from cancer survivors who continue to fight. Although they haven’t made it out yet themselves, they, too, urge you forward. They’ve been down the same path. The path forward is possible. It’s been done. You just need to follow the light to find your way.
So wave those flashlights, people – and tell you what, I’ll wave mine, too.
Drawn and Coded 
