September was prostate cancer awareness month. For me, and every other person that’s ever had, known, or loved someone that’s fought cancer – every month is.
Like Star Wars? ( Hate cancer? ) Me, too. Here’s another one from almost four years ago : That’s no moon!
Take care of yourselves, people. And please, get checked.
-Scott
P.S. I’ve posted ( and drawn ) a lot on my cancer journey over the last six years. If you want to know more go here : Prostate Cancer
I just finished walking in the 2025 ZERO Prostate Cancer Walk at Liberty Station in Point Loma. Some of my closest friends and family joined me for a leisurely early morning stroll with several hundred other survivors, patients, families, and supporters. This year we raised just over $1000 dollars. Thank you so much for your support.
ZERO reached out to me ( literally ) the day before the event and asked if I would speak. I reluctantly agreed, prepared a speech, and was more than a little relieved that, in the chaos, the organizers never invited me up to the microphone.
Sometimes things sound better on paper, anyway – especially when you’re vying for the attention of a half-awake crowd under the San Diego flight path, with jets doing their best to drown you out.
So, here’s what I was going to say…
Hi. My name is Scott.
I’m a prostate cancer survivor.
This is my fifth walk.
I missed my first one in 2019 because I was still reeling from my diagnosis and all the awesome decisions that go with it ….
Decisions like….
Do I tell my kids?
My family?
My friends?
The answer for me was yes.
And I’m glad I did because they were, have been, and continue to be my own little support group.
A lot of them are here today —-
——-aaaaaaaand I squeezed donations out of the ones who couldn’t be.
For such a common cancer, prostate cancer isn’t really talked about much. And I get it – sure – the prostate just isn’t as sexy to talk about as boobs.
And …. while I see sports teams of every shape and form wearing pink every October, blue is typically just an afterthought – like an accent color on a uniform.
That’s not to diminish any other cancer – we all have our battles to fight, right? But the fact is : guys don’t like talking about their prostates. All of the accessories attached to the prostate are fair game – sure, but problems and worries and cancer? Hell, no.
That’s why I appreciate ZERO and this walk and their mission to keep men informed. ZERO gives a voice to something that no one wants to talk about.
After my diagnosis I remember spending a lot of time on Google playing doctor
——-and a lot of time with my doctor telling me to stay off of Google.
The problem with Google is that if you tell it you have a papercut? Google will have you wrapping a tourniquet around your finger and racing to the emergency room for a blood infusion.
And then there’s ZERO – a concise, informative mecca of information.
If you haven’t visited in a while, you should. There’s information for those who have been newly diagnosed, caregivers – and survivors, like me.
Surviving is part of the battle, too – and I mean any cancer, not just prostate cancer.
Diagnosis and treatment is just part of the battle.
After all that shit, you still gotta’ survive. And, I don’t mean just live – I mean you gotta sort out what the hell just happened to you, pick up the pieces, glue em’ all back together, and try and make something beautiful out of the mess it left behind.
When I was diagnosed years ago no one could tell me, honestly, if I’d be alright – and I don’t think I would have believed them anyway.
I’m still working on it – but, yeah, I think I’ll be okay.
But only because of the support I’ve had from
——-my family
My friends.
My doctors.
——-and organizations like ZERO.
Thank you.
If you want to read more about my prostate cancer journey I’ve posted ( and illustrated it ) here on DrawnAndCoded.
I can’t emphasize enough how I wouldn’t be here today without the love and support of so many people.
Thanks again.
Live live. Stay Healthy. And take care of yourselves out there.
My friend, Ben Good, gave me this idea for a comic – or, rather – his van did!
Teaching
I’ve been assisting in art class at Rancho Bernardo High School as an “Artist in Residence” and loving it. I really enjoy working with the students and am blown away by their talent. Thirty years ago I was in their shoes, taking art at a different high school in a different time. It might surprise you, but I didn’t have a great experience in my art class. It would be twenty years later before I’d take another. Part of me wants to make sure that these students have a better experience than I did. And, if that means attempting awkward poses for their figure drawing course, so be it. Art is a serious thing, but it should never be taken too seriously.
While RBHS was out on “Ski Week” ( a one week holiday bookended by President’s Day ) I got the opportunity to substitute for middle school English at Classical Academies in Escondido for a few days. Middle schoolers are squirrel-ly counterparts to their older high school peers, for sure – but I enjoyed my time there, too.
The path to teaching takes time and money, however. For starters, I’m looking at one year of coursework and another year of unpaid student teaching. Furthermore, Computer Science isn’t an “approved” subject matter in California – not yet anyway. I would need to pass a CSET, an exam proving my expertise in an “approved” field, to teach Middle School and above. Yes, Art is an approved field, and I am considering it amongst other things.
So, yeah. I guess I want to teach…
Still in Remission
For those of you who have been following my cancer story, I am still in remission. I just had my quarterly bloodwork, and there is still no evidence of disease. That’s not to say I don’t think about it a lot. The boogeyman is always there, and the boogeyman is me. When I was undergoing treatment, I drew a lot as an escape. Five years since my surgery, it’s still an escape…
Like it? You can wear it, too. I have it available as a t-shirt on TeePublic.
Music
Now that I’ve been playing in a band, music has become yet another outlet for me. I’ve been posting some questionable poetry on Drawn And Coded for a while, but what I haven’t shared is that I have also been writing songs. Up until recently the lyrics always came easier than the melodies. Suno, an AI music generation service which I wrote about in my last post, helped me bridge that gap. Suno is not perfect, but if I feed it my lyrics along with details on how I want them to sound, it’ll create a complete song. If I refine my criteria ( for example, if I change the timing, the key, the vocal style ), Suno will eventually produce something reasonably close to what I want.
After playing with Suno enough I realized that I wanted to accompany myself playing my own songs, or basically “cover” them. Before artificial intelligence this statement would have sounded gibberish, but now? Not so much, Unfortunately, whereas Suno can create a remarkably realistic and good sounding song, it’s horrible at transcription. I’ve yet to find a tool that does an adequate job of automating the process of converting audible music to sheet music, so I did it manually. It was a painstaking laborious process that resulted in many changes to what Suno had originally created : the chord progression, timing, structure, lyrics, and intonations all had to be changed to make it playable and singable by ( gasp! ) me.
My first song, “Survive”
This is my first song. I call it, “Survive”. It’s rough. It’s not perfect. But it’s mine, and I am proud of it…
Thank you Ben Good and John Hatcher for your help. Also, thank you to my stepfather, Don, who used to sing and play guitar every night before bed when I was growing up. Don, I don’t think you ever realized how much of an impression you made on me.
Here are the lyrics, if you’re interested…
Survive
[Intro] Why do you have to be there? And come back into my life. Why can’t you just stay sealed up? Where you cannot traum-a-tize.
[Verse] You hurt me, burned me, you scarred me deep. You left me all for dead. A horrible void you left for me. I need you outta’ my head.
[Pre-Chorus] From the outside all is normal. No evidence of disease. But my mind still wanders back to you. Distracted and un-eased.
[Chorus] I will NOT give into you. I will NOT sat-is-fy, I will take you to the grave with me. At best it will be a tie.
[Verse] There are nights where I’m not sleepin’… ‘Cause of what you did to me. Thinkin’ of what mighta’ been… …and of what still could be.
I’ve found myself in re-tro-spect. In this vacuum you left behind. Why can’t you let me live my life? Free from you. Dig-ni-fied.
[Chorus] I will NOT give into you. I will not sat-is-fy. I will find myself! You will see. I just need to try.
[Bridge] I’m not the same I was before I don’t think I’ll ever be. I’ve picked up the pieces you left behind. And made myself a better me.
[Outro] I will NOT give into you. I will not sat-is-fy. I’ve found myself no thanks to you. It’s time to say good-bye. Good-bye. Good-bye.
The Rubber Band
Meanwhile, the “Dad Band” that Shawn Burgwald and I started over two years ago is still going strong. Some Dads have left, and others have joined. The current roster is Shawn Burgwald ( Lead Guitar ), John Hatcher ( Bass ), Kenn Matthews ( Vocals ), Colin Young ( Drums ), Aaron Pipkin ( Keyboard / Guitar ), and Me ( Rhythm Guitar / Backup Vocals ). We’ve been playing together regularly and have even “broken out of the garage” and played live a handful of times now. Kenn Matthews is our lead singer, but occasionally I get a chance to stretch my vocal chords. Here we are at a practice a couple of weeks ago…
It’s been two years since my last treatment for prostate cancer. If there’s still cancer growing in me, there’s not enough of it to detect in my bloodwork.
If there’s anything good about prostate cancer, it’s that it can be detected through a simple blood draw. The blood draw looks for a Prostate Specific Antigen, or PSA. A high PSA doesn’t necessarily mean cancer, but if you’ve had your prostate removed ( like me ), anything higher than zero is bad.
I get tested every three months. The days leading up to those tests are anxiety-inducing to say the least. I try my best to push the worst parts of my cancer treatment as far back into the corners of my mind as possible, but those memories start creeping up, like clockwork, as the blood tests near.
Staying busy helps.
My daughters, now 12 and 14, haven’t outgrown dear-old-Dad, but their own interests, friends, and hobbies have freed up time for me to take on some new interests of my own. I’ve started taking online art lessons, formed a garage band with some of the neighborhood dads, and have even started doing some freelance software development.
It’s been nine months since my last cancer treatment and in another couple of weeks I’ll be “celebrating” my cancer-versary, or three years since my initial diagnosis. According to recent bloodwork which I get done every three months, my cancer remains undetectable, too. For now the boogeyman is bound, gagged, and ( mostly ) silenced – well, at least until my next bloodwork and inevitable scanxiety.
Last weekend my friends, family, and I walked in the 2022 Prostate ZERO Walk in San Diego. This was our first time joining a physical event after COVID forced us to come up with our own last year. I felt a little guilty urging everyone to wake up early on a precious Saturday morning to attend, but they did. Later, I laughed as the DJ had everyone warm up with what I can only describe as Zumba-meets-line-dancing prior to setting foot on the course. We were the second biggest team and rose $2,382, putting us behind only Poseida Therapeutics. For everyone who participated, thank you!
For those of you men who are undergoing treatment I can assure you, that if you take care of yourselves you will be okay. Even though it may not seem like it, there is life at the end of the tunnel and, although it’s going to be different than the one you left, it can be a good one, and maybe even a little better, at least in some ways. The big things won’t seem so big anymore, the small things won’t bother you as much, and you’ll start to realize how important the things are that you always just took for granted.
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.
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.
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.
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