All I want for Christmas.

This January it will be two years since we learned that Phil had cancer.  What a milestone, when you consider the prognosis in March of 2011--six months to a year.  We're so blessed that Phil has responded well to chemo.  It has bought us nearly two years.  There's something about a terminal diagnosis that makes life so much sweeter. Each day—even each minute—is a gift.  Suddenly it's simple to recognize what really matters.  

I've noticed so many changes in Phil—not just those you can see, like the suffering that has etched itself on his face, or the weight he’s lost.  It's what has changed inside.  He's more reflective, more thoughtful, more expressive, more appreciative.  He’s never been excited about Christmas decorations, but this year he can’t thank me enough for decking the halls.  One night he said, "I know why you're doing this."  And he's right.  I want everything to be so special because we don't know how many more Christmases there will be . . .

Today we visited our friends Calvin and Verdonne Blake.  I'm sure it's the last time we will see Calvin.  He was so pale and weak.  He took great effort to express how happy he was to see us.  He labored to tell Phil, "I think you're the greatest broadcaster in this century.  I love to hear you on the radio!"  What a great friend.

In 2009 Calvin was managing the Cal Black Memorial Airport at Lake Powell and feeling fantastic.  Verdonne read about free cancer screening in the local newspaper and they were both tested because both had exposure to uranium.  Verdonne worked in the office of the vanadium mill in Monticello where high grade uranium was processed, and Calvin was a "mucker" who hauled radium-bearing rock out of uranium mines in San Juan County.   

Verdonne was OK, but not Calvin.  They found themselves at Huntsman Cancer Institute where they learned that Calvin had a particularly vicious lung cancer that doubled in size every 90 days--without immediate treatment, Calvin would not live another six months.  Nearly four years later, Calvin and Verdonne are grateful for that "extra time."  

It's so hard to watch our friends in these final days together.  It's like looking into the future--our future.  All I can say is, if Phil and I are so fortunate to have such love, and even one more year together, we will feel blessed, indeed!

This will be Calvin and Verdonne's last Christmas, at least on this earth.  It would seem sad if we didn't know that a babe was born in Bethlehem who would become the Savior of the world--a Savior who would give His life for us.  Whose ultimate sacrifice and resurrection would make it possible for us to repent and live with Him again.

How grateful I am at this Christmas season for Christ and His gift of eternal life.  For the opportunity to have an eternal marriage and know that families can be together forever.  I am so thankful that we are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. 

In our last General Conference, President Uchtdorf said, "Let us resolve to cherish those we love by spending meaningful time with them, doing things together, and cultivating treasured memories. . . . "

"To avoid some of the deepest regrets of our life . . . 1) Resolve to spend more time with those we love, 2) Resolve to strive more earnestly to become the person God wants us to be, and 3) Resolve to find happiness, regardless of our circumstances" (Ensign, Nov. 2012, pp. 22 & 24).

I'm not waiting for January 1.  These are my New Year's Resolutions and I'm starting now!

Life is good . . .

The highlight of our summer has been Mark's marriage to Cassie!  They're the cutest couple ever, and so much in love.

What a wonderful time it was being together as a family!  That's all that really matters—FAMILY!!!

Our children from left to right: Jeff, Liz, (me), John, Cassie and Mark, (Phil), Becky and Adam.

It's been a great summer and Phil is doing well.  Today he learned that his carcinoembryonic antigen (CEA) count has dropped over the past months from 6.7 to 4.9 to 4.6.  Carcinoembryonic antigens are tumor markers which, while not entirely reliable, tend to indicate what tumors are up to.  In Phil’s case, the numbers seem to confirm results of his last CT scan on June 11—“no new growth.”  And while it would be wonderful if the tumors could just shrink and disappear, no new growth is terrific news.  Especially since his cancer was already inoperable when discovered and he's had no new growth of tumors in the colon or the liver since he started chemo in March of 2011!

Much of this success can be attributed to the excellent care Phil receives at Huntsman Cancer Institute, and particularly from his oncologist, Dr. John Weis. These two have become great friends and besides "friending" each other on Facebook, they enjoy swapping stories at Phil's monthly appointment.  At our last visit on Monday, Dr. Weis opened his FB page and showed us his album of pictures from a recent trip to Europe.   We saw the castle where he and his wife and son stayed, and learned that Dr. Weis’ father, a U.S. Intelligence officer, stayed in the same castle during World War II.  His father played a significant role in preserving freedom and we see the same kind of courage as Dr. Weis fights the war against cancer.

                          Phil and Dr. Weis at our last visit on Monday, July 16.

Among our many blessings are other incredible friends we've made at Huntsman Cancer Institute--like Dov Siporin (pronounced Dōv, with a long “o”).  There is a definite camaraderie among cancer survivors but Phil's bond with Dov is exceptional.  We feel that meeting Dov was "bashert" (meant to be)!  Dov is always paying it forward and Phil is following his example.  

Dov has fought every minute for nearly four years to survive colon cancer.  He fights for his wife and their two young children, and also for everyone he can reach at Huntsman and beyond.  Dov is such an inspiration!

Moving from Stage 3 at diagnosis, to Stage 4, Dov has endured painful surgeries, countless radiation and endless chemo treatments.  But despite all this, Dov never stops helping and lifting others with his endless antics and colorful personality!  He usually shows up with a big bag of treats that he distributes liberally, and I wish you could hear his hilarious monologues.  He can make the most drastic procedures and circumstances seem funny!  There is no one who can lift your spirits like Dov.

                                     Dov on Valentine's Day as "Chemo Cupid!"

We met Dov at Phil’s first chemo treatment and he literally changed our lives.  We walked into the chemo lab fearful, not knowing what the future would hold, and walked out with a renewed sense of hope and, yes, even adventure.  Dov normalized for us, the most abnormal of all circumstances.  Thanks to Dov, we no longer saw cancer as something that would take everything from us.  Instead, we realized that a terminal diagnosis SHOULD and COULD be defied!

 Here's another of Dov's countless stunts on his way to get a (you guessed it) PET scan!


Dov helped us discover that behind all the terribleness (and there’s plenty of that), there is a wonderful, magical quality to this journey.  


Phil's cancer has brought us so much growth and understanding--we've never been closer or appreciated each other more, and we've never felt more dedicated to serving others.  


Some might think we're overly optimistic or dwelling in denial, but it's actually the opposite--we're keenly aware of just how precious life is and we choose to experience it with joy, not fear!  


Yes, Phil deals with the ugly side of illness--not being able to do the things he used to enjoy, like taking walks together, being able to taste and enjoy food, mowing the lawn, playing “dark house” with our grandkids, going for months without needing to see a doctor, staying up late (or even past 6:00 p.m.), and more.  You never realize how much you appreciate the simple things in life till they’re no longer possible. 


Through it all, however, Phil stays positive and optimistic.  Not even relentless fatigue and feeling crumby all the time can bring him down. Nothing dampens his faith and optimism.  Really . . . NOTHING!  Like Dov, Phil is an inspiration!

No test results, as yet . . .

First a disclaimer . . . no new post means nothing new is happening--and that's a good thing!

Phil saw his oncologist, Dr. Weis, at Huntsman on Monday, April 9. Phil's blood work was good, but we were disappointed that the results of genetic markers from last month's biopsies were not yet available.

Then Phil went to the infusion lab for his 25th chemo treatment. After a month's hiatus to try and gain weight, Phil was barely starting to taste food and enjoy eating again, so he didn't really add many pounds. But the break was rejuvenating, just the same, and helped bouy him up to begin again. Phil does the first five hours of chemo in the lab, and then the next two days by portable infusion. He wears a little pump in a fanny pack with a tube that extends between the pump and the port-a-cath implanted just beneath the skin near his left shoulder. It's quite innocuous looking, but a hassel for Phil, as he has to cover the whole apparatus to shower. It's always a terrific relief to get unhooked at Moab Regional Hospital. How can we ever thank Gayle and all the many people who serve, strengthen, and support Phil at MRH? You guys rock!

Days three and four of each chemo cycle are the hardest (that's today and tomorrow) and Phil will have very little strength and no appetite. Then he'll rest all weekend and I'll try to entice him to eat so he can build up strength for the coming week. Then chemo again . . .

But no matter what, Phil will power through. Each day will find him back at work, defying the odds, and nothing will knock his faith and his determination to fight back. Like I always say, "Phil may have cancer, but cancer doesn't have him!"

Another miracle . . .

You may recall that Dr. Weis took Phil off chemo for a month so he could gain weight. With Phil off chemo, the timing was perfect for a colonoscopy and biopsies of his tumor to culture for genetic markers. Markers indicate if his tumor will respond to certain drugs, or not.

On Tuesday, March 20, we finally had a date . . . TWO DAYS LATER! I packed quickly and we left for Salt Lake the next day, after Phil's morning talk show. Phil was on clear liquids and we made sure to be at our daughter Liz's in Heber City in time for him to take four Dulcolax tablets at 4:00 p.m., and a concoction of Miralax and Gatorade at 6:00 p.m. After that, Phil stayed close to the bathroom!

The next morning Phil took the last of the Miralax and Gatorade, as directed, then no more fluids for four hours till his 11:00 a.m. appointment at Huntsman Cancer Institute. Phil was placed in an exam room to change into a hospital gown so the procedure could get started, and I was told he would be in recovery in about 30-60 minutes. I rushed to University of Utah Hospital to see three patients while I waited for Phil: my nephew, Willie; my Cousin Tasha's husband, Dustin; and a friend and colleague, Nedra. I visited each one briefly, and I was excited that I also saw my son Adam and my sister Wendy in the hallway. They both work in different departments at the hospital.

After Phil’s colonoscopy (which lasted much longer than expected), Dr. Samadder explained his findings:

(1) No new tumors!!! (This is significant when you recall that Phil’s CT scan last month hinted of two possible new sites.) The normal adult scope wouldn’t pass beyond the tumor, but a pediatric scope allowed Dr. Samadder to observe the entire colon.

(2) The tumor is located in the middle of the transverse colon, instead of the hepatic flexure, like we were first told. Not a game-changer—just nice to know.

(3) The tumor is completely circling the inside of the colon where it's located, leaving an opening of only 11 millimeters (about one-half inch); the width of a normal colon is several centimeters.

(4) The danger of a complete blockage is imminent. Dr. Samadder recommended placing a stent to broaden the opening.

With Phil already prepped, Dr. Samadder was able to schedule the procedure for 12:30 p.m. the next day, and the stent would be placed by scope, similar to the colonoscopy. Of course Dr. Samadder was concerned about the length of time since Phil’s last dose of Avastin. . . . had it been long enough to reduce the risk of accidental perforation?

Throughout this journey with cancer, we’ve learned to weigh the risks and this time was no exception. Should we risk perforation or occlusion? Perforation is life-threatening, but so is a blockage, which is also exquisitely painful. And if it happened in Grand or San Juan County, Phil would definitely be flown out to be treated. Plus, as Dr. Samadder explained, a successful stent placement after a blockage is much more challenging.

All these considerations lent themselves to our decision and we decided to go forward with the stent. Phil was put back on clear liquids, with another delightful elixir of Miralax and Gatorade that evening, and fasting after midnight. For the guy who was supposed to gain weight all month, Phil had not been able to eat anything solid since Tuesday.

But Phil never complains. He always looks at the bright side . . . and I mean, always! He believes in success. Failure is not in his lexicon, and that’s why he’s still here. Phil has the strongest faith of anyone I know. He places his trust completely in the Lord, where he derives his strength.

So it didn't phase Phil in the slightest when Dr. Samadder called late Thursday to postpone the stent for two weeks. That had all kinds of frightening implications, but Phil was still optimistic. Dr. Weis, Phil's oncologist, felt the risk of perforation was too great. After more back and forth exchanges between Dr. Weis' office and Dr. Samadder the next morning, we got a call from Judy, Dr. Weis' nurse, informing us that everyone now agreed that the stent placement should go forward and at 12:30 p.m., we reported to University of Utah Hospital. Here's Phil at check-in.

The team in the endoscopy lab was upbeat and supportive, and Phil was totally calm and positive. I was allowed to go to the surgery room with Phil and stay while they hooked him to multiple monitors and inserted his IV. Michelle, Phil’s surgery nurse, turned out to be related to some good friends who used to live in Blanding, and she was so fun.

I know that sounds like an oxymoron . . . fun in surgery?

Being in the radio business, Phil is used to being "wired." Here you can see him all hooked up with his IV plugged into the port-a-catheter in his chest. The yellow spot under the tape is called a butterfly needle. You can't see it but it has little yellow wings that are pinched while the nurse inserts the slightly curved and hooked needle that resembles a hummingbird's beak.

Michelle demonstrates an esophageal stent, just to give us an idea (although this one is much larger than a colon stent). The wire mesh is titanium and if all goes well, it will gradually expand to about 2.5 centimeters and significantly increase the passageway through Phil's tumor.

Ricardo came in to assist and he was fun, too! As it turns out, Dr. Samadder was also pretty jovial and he told us about multiple guest appearances on radio and television talk shows this month--National Colon Cancer Awareness Month. Before going under light sedation, Phil (always the consummate broadcaster) made arrangements to interview Dr. Samadder on his morning talk show this week.

P L E A S E . . . FOLLOW THE RECOMMENDED GUIDELINES AND GET A COLONOSCOPY! You don't have to experience what Phil's going through!!! Colorectal cancer is slow growing and 90% curable if it's caught early. You should have a colonoscopy when you turn 50, and then every ten years after that. If you have any pre-cancerous polyps removed, the current recommendation is to follow-up every three to five years. If there's a history of colorectal cancer in your family, your first scope should be before the age of 50. Talk to your doctor, and then don't get too busy to follow his advice--like Phil!

When I left surgery, everyone was in a pretty festive mood, including the patient!

Ricardo, Michelle, and Dr. Samadder (wearing another doctor's apron). Ricardo and Dr. Samadder have their fingers in the esophageal stent, which acts like one of those finger puzzles--when you pull, it only tightens and you can't get your fingers out.

After waiting and waiting and waiting, the news out of surgery was great. Despite swelling from the previous day’s procedure, which necessitated a whole lot of incremental dilating, the stent was placed and Dr. Samadder felt it was a good placement. Phil was pretty miserable in recovery, but within the hour we left the hospital behind us and were on our way, and he has (according to his own account) felt good ever since. But what else would you expect. It's Phil!

Phil was told to stay on a clear liquid diet for another 24 hours! Imagine that, Phil went four whole days without eating anything solid. He has to be careful for a few days--no corn, celery, etc. (in other words, foods that don’t break down in digestion), while the stent continues to expand.



We feel that we have been the recipients of multiple miracles over the past week!!! And we're very grateful . . .

Time-out from chemo . . .

Some of you will be anxious to know the results of Phil's CT scan on Friday, March 9, 2012. Unlike his last three scans, this time there are changes, namely:

1. Segments of the existing tumor in the transverse colon appear to be more confluent (running together).

2. What appears to be narrowing of the descending colon in two places could be two new tumors, or normal movements of the bowel (peristalsis).

3. Liver tumors are unchanged.

4. There is some increase in the size of lymph nodes near the liver.

Dr. Weis is concerned about Phil's consistent weight loss, which could be caused by cancer spreading or by the side effects of chemo. Since research indicates that a brief "time-out" from chemo will not negatively impact chemo's effectiveness in the long run, Dr. Weis took Phil off chemo for one month. Now Phil's job is to try and gain weight--not an easy task since, according to Phil, "Everything tastes like cardboard." Hopefully, further out from chemo food will begin to taste like food again.

Also, since cancer cells eventually adapt to chemo and become resistant (similar to viruses adapting to antibiotics), Phil will have a colonoscopy to biopsy the tumor in his colon. Biopsy samples will be cultured for genetic markers to determine whether Phil's tumors will respond to other chemo regimens--so we'll have a back-up plan. This time-out is the perfect opportunity, since Phil has to be off Avastin for 3-4 weeks before being biopsied. (Avastin significantly increases the risk of fatal bleeding.)

Hopefully after one month there will no longer be a shortage of Leukovorin. Leukovorin and several other cancer drugs are going generic, which means huge cost savings for consumers (if the drugs can be found), but little incentive for drug companies to produce them. Phil received Leukovorin at his last infusion on February 28, but right now, both Moab Regional Hospital and Huntsman Cancer Institute are out of this drug.

If you're friends with Phil on Facebook you know that he always has a plan of ATTACK!!! and this is no exception. Phil is still the eternal optimist--a true man of faith--and he's still determined to "beat this!" We know that we have your faith and prayers and best wishes. We want you to know that we feel your support, and that means more than we can express.

Happy Valentine's!

One year ago today, my sweetheart and I sat in the foyer of the University of Utah Med Center waiting for Phil's colonoscopy. That wasn't the beginning, but that was the definitive moment in a long series of doctor's visits and diagnostic tests. That was the pivotal event that changed our lives forever.

Two weeks later, we sat in the office of Dr. John Weis at the Huntsman Cancer Center waiting for news that we already anticipated would not be good. Phil had endured a CT scan, PET scan, liver ultrasound with biopsies, multiple blood tests, and the colonoscopy—and now we waited for results.

Phil liked Dr. Weis the moment he walked in the office. Dr. Weis was extremely friendly and upbeat, despite his pronouncement: “You have Stage IV Colon Cancer." His candor and confidence gave us a sense of optimism and hope.

"What does that mean?" Phil asked.

"What do you know about Stage IV Colon Cancer?" Dr. Weis countered. It was no mystery to us that the doctors suspected colon cancer. I had researched colorectal cancer extensively and I knew exactly what that meant.

"Stage IV means Phil has a primary tumor in his colon and the cancer has metastasized to one or more organs outside the colon,” I said, mechanically.

"Yes," replied Dr. Weis, turning to Phil. "You have a tumor blocking two-thirds of your colon at the hepatic flexure, and several tumors in your liver."

"What does that mean?" Phil asked.

"What do you know?" Dr. Weis responded.

Again, I replied, "It means the cancer cannot be cured."

"That's right," said Dr. Weis. This was a novel way of delivering bad news, I thought, asking us what we knew. Lucky for him, I was well informed. I suspected Dr. Weis was relieved that he didn't have to say the words that Phil and I had hoped we would never have to hear.

"What can we expect? How much time?" I asked, perfunctorily, as if the question was coming from somewhere or someone else. No matter how well prepared you feel you are, news like this leaves one feeling shocked, disoriented, and strangely detached, like stepping out of time, losing touch with reality and all sense of reason.

Again, Dr. Weis addressed his response to Phil. "You have six to 12 months, if we do nothing. If you have chemo, I think I can keep you alive for two to three years."

Phil's response was spontaneous. "I'M GOING TO BEAT THIS! I am a planner and a dreamer and I have a lot to accomplish. I'm not giving in. I want you to know that when I decide to do something, I GET IT DONE!"

Dr. Weis' response was immediate and forceful. "Good, we'll start chemo right away. I have at least three regimens we can use, and when one stops working, we'll try another."

Phil was referred to Dr. Skaif, a petite and demure surgeon with a very direct bedside manner which we very much appreciated. She described Phil's tumor as infiltrating outside the colon, therefore, inoperable. She also defined eight tumors, about the size of walnuts, in Phil's liver and she suggested the possibility of surgery. However, a subsequent PET scan determined that Phil had a congenital defect--the left lobe of his liver never developed--so surgery was not an option. There wasn't enough liver to regenerate. In an outpatient surgery, Dr. Skaif implanted a port under Phil's skin on his shoulder which provided direct access to a major vein entering his heart. Chemo would be delivered by accessing the port, saving his veins from collapse.

On March 14 Phil started chemo treatments every other week—Modified Folfox 6 with Avastin (plus six rounds of Oxaliplatin). Dr. Weis described Phil's cancer as a "chronic condition" that would require treatment for the rest of his life. And we are thankful that the chemo has been successful in shrinking the primary tumor and arresting any growth or spread over the past year.

Today Phil had his 24th round of chemo. And in today's news was a report of fake Avastin being distributed in the US; I only hope no bad drugs came to Utah. Avastin is one of the drugs listed in short supply so we feel blessed every time Phil is able to get Avastin. It has been instrumental in extending his life and we are grateful.

Anyway . . . as I reflect on this Valentine's Day . . . I realize that over the course of Phil's cancer, we have been strangely comforted. Maybe not so "strangely," when you consider that we believe in God and in his son Jesus Christ and we place our faith in them. We believe that prayers are answered, and when we don't get the answers we want, we trust that the Lord knows what's best for us and we accept His will.

For now . . . we're very thankful that we've had one more Valentine's Day filled with infinite love for one another. "Infinite" . . . what a comforting word. As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Phil and I know that because we are sealed to one another in the Lord's holy temple, if we keep the Lord's commandments and strive with all our hearts to do what's right, we will be together with our loved ones for eternity. And in the end—whenever that may be—that's all that really matters. Besides, it’s not really the end . . .

Happy Valentine's Day everyone!