Showing posts with label breast cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label breast cancer. Show all posts
Friday, October 9, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
SMILE, HON: Down to the Underwire
BALTIMORE – For the third straight year, SMILE, HON, YOU’RE IN BALTIMORE! Editor/Publisher William P. Tandy will participate in the annual Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure, which raises funds to combat breast cancer. This year’s event will be held Sunday, October 18, in Hunt Valley, Maryland. A cancer survivor himself, Tandy will once again represent the Oncology Center of Central Baltimore, where he took treatment. To support the cause, please visit Tandy’s fundraising homepage.
In related news, SMILE, HON, YOU’RE IN BALTIMORE! is accepting submissions of your Mobtown-related stories, essays, poetry, photography and other artwork for the forthcoming SMILE, HON No. 12 through Saturday, October 31, 2009. Creative non-fiction is preferred, though all submissions will be considered. Articles (100 – 2,000 words) are preferably received via e-mail (wpt@eightstonepress.com) as attached Word documents. Image files should be approximately 5” x 7”, 300+ dpi (.JPG or .TIF format). All contributors will receive a byline/artist credit for their work as well as two (2) complimentary copies of the issue in which their work appears.
From the harbor to the hills, SMILE, HON, YOU’RE IN BALTIMORE! collects the tales of those on whom Mobtown has left her indelible mark. Polished, professional essays; barroom sermons delivered from the sanctity of a favorite stool; the poet’s fleeting sentiment, captured in both word and snapshot – SMILE, HON offers a slice of Baltimore as told by Baltimore, presented with the time-honored DIY accessibility of a limited-run, handcrafted zine.
An Eight-Stone Press production, SMILE, HON, YOU’RE IN BALTIMORE! is available locally for purchase at Atomic Books (Hampden); Cyclops Books & Music (Station North); and Red Emma’s Bookstore Coffeehouse (Mt. Vernon). For more information, contact:
William P. Tandy, Editor
Eight-Stone Press
P.O. Box 11064
Baltimore, Maryland 21212
E-mail: Wpt@eightstonepress.com
Website: http://www.eightstonepress.com
MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/eightstonepress
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/wptandy
Twitter: EightStonePress
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In related news, SMILE, HON, YOU’RE IN BALTIMORE! is accepting submissions of your Mobtown-related stories, essays, poetry, photography and other artwork for the forthcoming SMILE, HON No. 12 through Saturday, October 31, 2009. Creative non-fiction is preferred, though all submissions will be considered. Articles (100 – 2,000 words) are preferably received via e-mail (wpt@eightstonepress.com) as attached Word documents. Image files should be approximately 5” x 7”, 300+ dpi (.JPG or .TIF format). All contributors will receive a byline/artist credit for their work as well as two (2) complimentary copies of the issue in which their work appears.
From the harbor to the hills, SMILE, HON, YOU’RE IN BALTIMORE! collects the tales of those on whom Mobtown has left her indelible mark. Polished, professional essays; barroom sermons delivered from the sanctity of a favorite stool; the poet’s fleeting sentiment, captured in both word and snapshot – SMILE, HON offers a slice of Baltimore as told by Baltimore, presented with the time-honored DIY accessibility of a limited-run, handcrafted zine.
An Eight-Stone Press production, SMILE, HON, YOU’RE IN BALTIMORE! is available locally for purchase at Atomic Books (Hampden); Cyclops Books & Music (Station North); and Red Emma’s Bookstore Coffeehouse (Mt. Vernon). For more information, contact:
William P. Tandy, Editor
Eight-Stone Press
P.O. Box 11064
Baltimore, Maryland 21212
E-mail: Wpt@eightstonepress.com
Website: http://www.eightstonepress.com
MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/eightstonepress
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/wptandy
Twitter: EightStonePress
-30-
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Battle Front
If you love the ladies (and boobs) as much as I do, why not put your money where your - er, well, you get the picture.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Eight-Stone Press Fights Cancer, Provides Breast Support
BALTIMORE – Because I love boobies (and their owners) so much, Eight-Stone Press will participate in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure, for the third consecutive year, on Sunday, October 18, 2009, in Hunt Valley, Maryland. Once again, I will be a part of the Oncology Center of Central Baltimore team – the people who, quite literally, saved my life.
Two years ago this month, I wrapped up six months of intensive chemotherapy for a particularly aggressive form of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma that could have well otherwise killed me. To date, the cancer remains in remission, and I feel as healthy as I ever did (if not better), and I wholly attribute this fact to the professionalism and compassion of Dr. Stanley Walker and his top-notch team of nurses and office staff at the Oncology Center of Central Baltimore.
The Komen Race for the Cure is the Oncology Center’s main fundraising event of the year. As such, I feel it is nothing short of my duty to help those who helped me and, in so doing, help others battling any manifestation of this terrible disease. I participated in my first Komen Race about one month after my final round of chemo. Three years later, I’m back at it, still going strong.
These are tough, lean times for everyone, to be sure. But as any who has ever suffered this disease firsthand – be it themselves, family or friends – will attest, things can get awfully tougher. It is for them that I ask you to join me on Race day (10/18) – or, if you are unable to attend, to kindly make a donation on my fundraising page below (and remember, no amount is too small, or too arbitrary):
http://tinyurl.com/ldgwlo
Where do the funds go, you ask? Well, “at least 25 percent of net proceeds are used to support the Komen Award and Research Grant Program. Funding national research is vital as this is where we believe the cures for breast cancer will be found. Since Maryland is home to many prestigious research institutions, Komen funding often goes to cutting-edge research happening right here in Maryland.
“Up to 75 percent of net proceeds stay in Maryland to fund grants that provide transportation to appointments, financial support, appropriate diagnostic testing, and a comprehensive range of follow-up services. Because early detection is the best protection for breast cancer, Komen Maryland sponsors grants that increase the number of women who have annual mammograms and clinical breast exam screenings. Komen grants continue to focus on recruiting patients for clinical trials.
“The programs we fund help to overcome the cultural, social, educational and financial barriers that prevent people from receiving life saving treatment right now.”
For more information on the Komen Race for the Cure, visit www.komenmd.org. And thank you all for your kindness and support over the years.
Stay healthy,
WP Tandy, Editor
Eight-Stone Press
P.O. Box 11064
Baltimore, Maryland 21212
E-mail: wpt@eightstonepress.com
Website: http://www.eightstonepress.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/wptandy
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/eightstonepress
MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/eightstonepress
-30-
Monday, September 21, 2009
Late for Work
I arrived at work late this morning, having paid a visit to the oncology center for my regular checkup. Since undergoing chemotherapy, the frequency of such visits has gone from once a week to once every other month.
Today was the first day for the temp nurse who drew my blood. She’s filling in for one of the regular nurses while she’s out on maternity leave.
“I used to have great veins before I started coming here,” I warned her.
She spent a minute or two trying to spike the chemo-scarred vein inside my left elbow without striking paydirt. “Try somewhere else?” she asked after noticing my obvious discomfort.
“Please.” She had better luck with the back of my hand.
“That one just kept rolling out of the way,” she said, indicating the fruitless vein near my elbow. “If I were you, I’d tell everyone to just stay away from that one, as it’s basically kaput.”
The subsequent checkup went off without a hitch. Blood counts were good – or good for me, anyway. No signs, no symptoms. My doctor asked if I’d be participating in the Komen Race for the Cure again this year. I’ve walked with his team for the big annual fundraiser, geared specifically toward breast cancer (though I had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma), every year since I finished treatment.
“Absolutely,” I said. This year will be my third walking with them.
“Great,” he said. “We need your support, not to mention that picture of you jumping through the fire.” He grinned at the mention of the profile picture I use on my fundraising homepage. He likes the picture, and from what he’s said, I gather there are few pix of his “alumni” leaping over bonfires.
On my way out of the office, I stopped by the front desk to schedule an appointment for my quarterly CT scan. I didn’t even recognize my friend Jeff nearby; rather, it was he who noticed me.
“There’s my friend!” he said with a big smile. I turned and smiled, and nearly at once realized who it was.
“Jeff!” I said, and we shook hands. I’d venture to guess Jeff is in his early 40s, and I’m ashamed to admit I don’t recall the exact type of cancer he was facing treatment for. For some reason, lung cancer comes to mind. We first met around the time I was finishing my treatment. We’d pass each other in the waiting area, or in the hospital hallways outside the oncology center. When I’d last seen him, nearly a year earlier, he was lean (though not alarmingly so), and his hair had just started falling out from a new treatment he had started.
But this morning he looked different. His head was topped with the soft, fine, wispy hair of a cancer patient, but his face and body were extraordinarily bloated – likely the product of steroids that comprise part of his treatment. He looked tired, though his expression suggested that seeing me had mustered within him genuine enthusiasm.
But the most notable difference this morning was that Jeff was in a wheelchair.
The receptionist called his name, indicating that it was his turn to head back to see the doctor. A young woman stood up from one of the nearby chairs and walked over to wheel him back. Jeff introduced her as his wife, and we shook hands and exchanged a few more words.
“Stay strong, Jeff,” I said, “and I will see you soon again.”
He smiled as his wife took the handles on his chair. “You…you have kids, don’t you?” he asked.
I nodded. “One,” I said. “He’s three.”
“Oh,” Jeff’s wife said, kindly. “We have a 3-year-old, too.”
I smiled. “They’re a handful.” We all laughed, and with that they disappeared down the long, bright hallway that leads to the nurses’ station – and the infusion room.
I was 31 at the time of my diagnosis, my son, just 13-months-old. When the word “cancer” was first suggested to me, it drove everything else in the world from my mind – everything, except for him. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think of that, and I hope he was young enough at the time that he will have no memories of the whole ordeal.
My next CT scan is scheduled for five weeks from now – just before my next oncology checkup. I picked up the appointment form, put on my sunglasses and walked out into the warm morning light.
I was 90 minutes late for work.
And when I got there, I cried.
Today was the first day for the temp nurse who drew my blood. She’s filling in for one of the regular nurses while she’s out on maternity leave.
“I used to have great veins before I started coming here,” I warned her.
She spent a minute or two trying to spike the chemo-scarred vein inside my left elbow without striking paydirt. “Try somewhere else?” she asked after noticing my obvious discomfort.
“Please.” She had better luck with the back of my hand.
“That one just kept rolling out of the way,” she said, indicating the fruitless vein near my elbow. “If I were you, I’d tell everyone to just stay away from that one, as it’s basically kaput.”
The subsequent checkup went off without a hitch. Blood counts were good – or good for me, anyway. No signs, no symptoms. My doctor asked if I’d be participating in the Komen Race for the Cure again this year. I’ve walked with his team for the big annual fundraiser, geared specifically toward breast cancer (though I had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma), every year since I finished treatment.
“Absolutely,” I said. This year will be my third walking with them.
“Great,” he said. “We need your support, not to mention that picture of you jumping through the fire.” He grinned at the mention of the profile picture I use on my fundraising homepage. He likes the picture, and from what he’s said, I gather there are few pix of his “alumni” leaping over bonfires.
On my way out of the office, I stopped by the front desk to schedule an appointment for my quarterly CT scan. I didn’t even recognize my friend Jeff nearby; rather, it was he who noticed me.
“There’s my friend!” he said with a big smile. I turned and smiled, and nearly at once realized who it was.
“Jeff!” I said, and we shook hands. I’d venture to guess Jeff is in his early 40s, and I’m ashamed to admit I don’t recall the exact type of cancer he was facing treatment for. For some reason, lung cancer comes to mind. We first met around the time I was finishing my treatment. We’d pass each other in the waiting area, or in the hospital hallways outside the oncology center. When I’d last seen him, nearly a year earlier, he was lean (though not alarmingly so), and his hair had just started falling out from a new treatment he had started.
But this morning he looked different. His head was topped with the soft, fine, wispy hair of a cancer patient, but his face and body were extraordinarily bloated – likely the product of steroids that comprise part of his treatment. He looked tired, though his expression suggested that seeing me had mustered within him genuine enthusiasm.
But the most notable difference this morning was that Jeff was in a wheelchair.
The receptionist called his name, indicating that it was his turn to head back to see the doctor. A young woman stood up from one of the nearby chairs and walked over to wheel him back. Jeff introduced her as his wife, and we shook hands and exchanged a few more words.
“Stay strong, Jeff,” I said, “and I will see you soon again.”
He smiled as his wife took the handles on his chair. “You…you have kids, don’t you?” he asked.
I nodded. “One,” I said. “He’s three.”
“Oh,” Jeff’s wife said, kindly. “We have a 3-year-old, too.”
I smiled. “They’re a handful.” We all laughed, and with that they disappeared down the long, bright hallway that leads to the nurses’ station – and the infusion room.
I was 31 at the time of my diagnosis, my son, just 13-months-old. When the word “cancer” was first suggested to me, it drove everything else in the world from my mind – everything, except for him. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think of that, and I hope he was young enough at the time that he will have no memories of the whole ordeal.
My next CT scan is scheduled for five weeks from now – just before my next oncology checkup. I picked up the appointment form, put on my sunglasses and walked out into the warm morning light.
I was 90 minutes late for work.
And when I got there, I cried.
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