Author: Jgknjlapk

I was excited to be leaving Gothenburg on Monday morning to go see the town where Joey was living…Tibro. Tibro was apparently a small enclave in the south central part of Sweden that would be about a two and a half to three hour trip by train and bus. I was fortunate to have an English speaking hotel manager who not only called a cab for me but was a huge Philadelphia Flyers fan! We talked hockey for about twenty minutes until the taxi arrived. He was so happy to meet a real Philadelphian and thanked me for staying at his hotel for the few days that I spent in Gothenburg. Now, off to the train station and make my way to see Joe. The station in Gothenburg reminded me of a toy train setup that my Dad would put up at Christmas time when we were kids. A whole bunch of trains lined up facing the station, like fifteen across. Some were commuter style trains and others more like the one that I rode in in from Stockholm. I had planned my route the night before and needed to purchase a ticket to Skovde where I would then get on a bus for the ride into Tibro. One problem. When I approached the ticket booth and asked to purchase a one way ticket to Skovde, the teller looked at me like I don’t know what. I said, ” I need a ticket to SkOvdee”. Again, he looked at me crooked and said…. in Swedish… who knows what he said. Lol. He was kind enough to find me an English speaking rep who kindly corrected me in my pronunciation. I was going to ” Hoovduh” What? “HOOOVEDUH”. OK then, how much?? Just get me there, eh. It was actually pretty funny. I grabbed some snacks for the ride, it was a commuter style train, and I found my seat. Only a two hour ride this time.

The ride to Skovde was pretty uneventful. It was snowing and a much slower pace with many stops along the way. The scenery was typical, lots of trees, lakes, red barns, small towns and lots of graffiti. What a shame. Everywhere that I’ve traveled in Europe, graffiti was prevalent and excessive. I don’t get it. Anyway, without a beautiful blond traveling companion to pass my time, I just kind of closed my eyes, off and on, to rest up for the next leg of my trip. There was very limited cell service on the trains when traveling across the rural areas of the trip. The train finally pulled into the station in Skovde and after a little bit of luck, I purchased my bus ticket and found my way to the terminal and another mass array of large vehicles lined up in rows. I was almost there. This ride was different though. It would be forty five minutes of bus stop to bus stop….like a ride on Septa through Philly. The little boroughs were very rural and the stops not far apart. There were lots of students coming on and off and we passed a very modern, somewhat large town before we reached the final destination. I almost got off at the wrong stop several times. They were marked with Skovde but the stops were just small street drop offs before the final terminal. It really wasn’t a terminal…lol. It was a jughandle where the busses just dropped off and picked up people heading back to Skovde. The drivers made the round trip like four times a day. But here I was. I made it to Tibro. I was literally dropped off in the center of town. We’re talking like one central square bordered by four small streets and a few more around that! Talk about a small town! I walked to the hotel and found the front door locked. Nobody home. I needed to call a phone number to alert the manager who made her way to the “lobby” to let me in and show me my room. The hotel was only ten rooms and eight were occupied by full time residents. Mostly transplants from Africa, like many residents of Tibro. The town was integrated by the Swedish government with migrants from Africa and Syria. I found out that this was a huge problem in Sweden that backfired on the powers that be in the past few years. The open border policy caused a huge riff in the politics of the country and changed the course of elections to bring back a big conservative movement rejecting the current immigration policies and working to expel the immigrants back to their prospective countries. Crime was out of control as well as the cost to support the influx. Tibro was a prime example, I observed.

I found a small supermarket to buy some snacks for the hotel room, so expensive! I also went into a bank to exchange some American dollars for Swedish cash. Apparently not. Swedish banks don’t have cash. Or tellers. You took a number and then were called to a desk manned by a bank associate. All transactions were handled on cards. Unfortunately, I had no bankcard that would work so I would have to use my credit card for the rest of my trip. My Kronas were gone already. Prices here were crazy high!

Back in my room, worst one yet, I got in touch with Joe and let him know that I made it to Tibro. Another eventful day. We would meet tomorrow at the arena.

Next up: Opening Night

I had made my way to the hotel in Gothenburg via another cab and finally got a driver who spoke a little bit of English. He enlightened me to some local eateries that I might like before reaching our destination. Entering my room, I thought that the last place that I stayed at was small! A virtual kids shoebox, this room had barely a window or view and a bathroom that you could hardly turn around in. I ventured outside to forage for food, following the directions of my cabbie, and to my delight, found a Thai restaurant in walking distance that had a delicious menu. I just made it there before they were about to close and I left with a nice takeout order to satisfy my need for edible food. Swedish TV is a real treat. There are some English speaking stations that play reruns of 1990’s era sitcoms, but mostly it was slim pickings. What really got me though was the fact that the commercial breaks were literally 10 minutes long…or more! Every commercial was about some type of lottery or online gambling site. The Swedes are huge gambling addicts! No wonder! Every morning I would go into a small local grocery store to grab an orange juice and a bagel and there would be huge lines of people waiting to buy lottery tickets or pick numbers. It was crazy!

Laying in my tiny cot, bed, whatever it was, watching endless gambling commercials, I texted Joey to wish him well for his first game of the season. The game that I would surprise him at the next day. I had it all planned. Inconspicuously, I would watch the game in the arena and afterwards. I would make my way to where the players exited to their dressing rooms and yell “Hey 26, nice game!” How special would that be? His text response went like this…” The Canadian player and I will not be suiting up for the opener. Our IIHF transfers won’t be complete until Tuesday. We can play in our home opener on Thursday.” “U’m what?” I thought. You’ve got to be kidding me! I traversed an entire ocean, to another continent, then across the whole country to watch him play in his first Professional Ice Hockey game… and he’s not playing! Is there a plan B? What now?

The game was scheduled for 4 pm. Since Joe wouldn’t be playing, I figured that I would get to the arena just around the time the game was starting so that I wouldn’t run into him. I walked around the town a little bit and after grabbing lunch from a little pizzeria I came across, I hailed a cab to make my way to the arena. It was an electric atmosphere. The team that Tibro was facing wore Detroit Red Wings style uniforms and looked quite impressive. Some big boys out there. European hockey was played on a huge rink, much larger than the typical North American ice surface. Joe would need to make a big adjustment in his game. That was for sure. I bought my ticket and scanned the sections for Joe. There he was. Sitting with the Tibro management and some other players, they were watching from the second level just above the main concourse. I waited patiently for the first period to end and after the horn sounded, walked past where he was sitting like he wasn’t even there. All of a sudden, I heard this scream as I passed… “That’s my freaking Dad!” He ran down the steps giving me a big hug and blurted out, ” What are you doing here?!” I said,”Have I ever missed an opening game bud?”

We watched the rest of the game together, an opening loss, but a great game. Afterwards, he boarded the team bus to return to Tibro and I attempted to call a cab at 9 pm at night in Gothenburg. Good freaking luck. The cab companies didn’t speak English! After a frustrating half an hour, I was able to find someone who understood my dilemma and finally got me on my way. The next morning, I would be traveling another three plus hours to Tibro, Sweden. Luckily, my departing flight out of Stockholm was on Friday. I would get to watch my boy play his first Pro game. I just have to get there first!

Next Up: Pronouncing “Skovde”

It was the culmination of a career over eighteen years. As I was settling into the realization that my Leukemia was giving me another go around, Joe had signed his first Professional Hockey contract. He would be traveling across the pond to play for the Tibro IHC in Tibro Sweden! A dream come true for him, it was an opportunity to be paid to play the sport he loved. We were so proud of him. Since he hadn’t celebrated his September 21st birthday at home in years, we arranged a nice party at our home to send him off. That was at the end of August. According to Joe, Sweden was a big change of pace from the US and Canada. Quaint, quiet and old European, Sweden is essentially a small country where the teams in their various Professional leagues are situated and directly associated with their towns. Game days were a big deal to the townsfolk and the teams a source of great pride. The arenas are alive with the loud cheers and chants of the fans all game long. Travel to the home arenas of rival teams usually meant a Coach bus ride of anywhere from one hour to four hours. Not bad compared to the exhausting trips of up to twelve hours in the US and Canada. Even though a contract was signed, as usual, you had to pass muster at the initial main camp and survive to make the initial twenty man roster. We got the call a week before his opening game that he made the top squad and he was good to go. Every hockey parent, Pro or Amateur, knows the agony of waiting for the final cuts at the end of tryouts. Joe had been on both ends of those outcomes. It’s not easy.

In all of the years that Joe has played hockey, Lori and I had rarely missed an opening game. Wherever he was playing, we made the trek to watch and cheer him on in his new endeavor. Chicago, Boston, Ottowa, Toronto, etc…. we were there. Now, with the return of my cancer, there was no way that I was going to miss his first game as a Professional Hockey player. No way! Lori was not going to be able to make the trip because of work, but I arranged a last minute flight to Stockholm. I booked hotel rooms in Stockholm, Gothenburg, and Tibro. I was on my way! I packed only exactly what I needed and what would fit in my backpack, got some Swedish currency from AAA and took off from JFK Airport on a Thursday evening before his first game that Sunday in Gothenburg.

I had never been to Sweden. A foreign country, different language of course and I needed to navigate myself across the entire landscape. No problem…right? First off, I had no clue that Stockholm was so far from the airport. A hundred US dollar cab ride of about an hour. I found out that I got ripped off. Next, the hotel was nice, but very old, and the rooms… Ikea small. Like a cot and a table. The food was awful and the people were nice but quite to the point. Not much conversation going on with people that they didn’t know, even if they spoke English. I did observe a group of twenty something couples come into the Pub where I was attempting to have dinner. The young men greeted each other at the bar with jubilant hugs and kisses while the women adjourned quietly to their own table. Very interesting. Anyway, I made my way to my cubby hole to plan my next day. In the morning, I would take another cab ride to the Stockholm train station where I would make my way to Gothenburg. Only a four and a half hour ride across the country. I needed to get some sleep. It was a six hour time difference and I was pretty beat.

Sweden in October reminded me of Pennsylvania, brisk and cloudy. But the weather was about to change quickly. Snow was in the forecast for this last week of the month and my travels would be cold and wet. I made it to the train station and secured my ticket. “Pretty expensive”, I thought. I had to wait about ninety minutes to depart but the train station was quite comfortable and it had a Burger King! Heaven!! I was able to do some people watching too. Little did I know, the Swedish population was very diverse. It reminded me of Toronto. A lot of Indian, Pakistani, African and Middle Eastern people at the station. The local population was also not as beautiful as you would imagine. Lol. Those strikingly beautiful blondes were hard to find. My Burger King hamburgers tasted so good! A little bit of Americana really helped my belly! I diligently watched the departures board as the time for me to get out to the platform was approaching. This was a huge place. It would be easy to get confused and become disoriented looking for the correct platform, train, etc. There were people moving everywhere. I made it outside to the cold and cloudy exterior of the station. The snow was definitely on its way as was the multitude of trains rushing in and out. This was crazy! I took a deep breath and tried not to get too anxious. Here it comes! Train number 1121, car number 4, seat number 102. I’m on my way. Boarding the train felt like boarding an airplane. Gate number, flight number, seat number. Same deal.

Seat number 102 was not a window seat and that sucked. Two seats per side of each aisle, like a plane, the four and a half hour ride would have been nicer being able to enjoy the scenery from that vantage point. The horn for final boarding sounded while the seat next to me remained empty. Lucky me! I would move over as soon as we started moving. In that instance, I felt a shower of water rain over me from behind. I turned back to see a young beautiful blond Swedish girl shaking her wet long blond hair. The reason for my unscheduled second shower of the day. She said something in Swedish to me and pointed to my coveted window seat. No way, I thought. I got up and let her sit in her seat and as she continued to speak, I just said…”American”. She laughed and in perfect English she said, “Oh, no problem, I’m sorry I got you all wet!”. As the train started to pull away from the station, our conversation began. At twenty two years old, an instant ambassador for her country, her personality was as sweet and beautiful as she was. We talked about Joey and his journey that landed him in Sweden. Nick and his accomplishments. Lori, how we met and our life in the states. Her family, friends and life in Sweden. Her name was Madeline. She was on her way to Gothenburg to meet friends. I mentioned that almost every barn in Sweden, and I saw hundreds on our trip, were red. She laughed and said that she had a family vacation home in the country, with a red barn. We passed multitudes of lakes along the way. Sweden was such a beautiful country. “I wish that I had more time for sightseeing”, I told her, but as usual, I would be only traversing the arenas to watch Joe. We exchanged views of photos of everything from jewelry to horses, homes to loved ones and great pics of the tall mast cruise ship that she worked on. Four hours flew by. As we approached the station in Gothenburg, I invited her to the arena on Sunday to meet Joe and enjoy the game. We exchanged Instagram contacts and after departing the train car, I thanked her for her company and conversation. The snow was coming down now and as she walked away, Madeline turned back around and waved goodbye with a big warm Swedish smile. It was such a pleasure to meet her. I had my first Swedish friend. Now, to hail a cab and get out of the snow to my hotel room. It was another long day. Tomorrow was the season opener! Btw…Joey had no idea that I was coming to Sweden! Surprise!!

Next Up: That’s My Freaking Dad!

My somewhat urgent email to Dr. Druker was inevitably intercepted by a member of his staff when it arrived at the Portland University Health and Sciences Center. Their response was cordial, to the point and somewhat ambiguous. If and when Dr.Druker was available to review my case, I would be alerted to be ready for a call. That call was key to understanding the intricacies of why and how, my Gleevec stopped working on me after so long. Things were good. Business was good. Nick was flourishing in Cali, and Joe up in Canada again. Lori was teaching away in the North Penn School Library system and continuing her reign as the District Library Chair.

About a week after I had submitted my Hail Mary letter to Dr. Druker, the phone rang with the glorious sound of “Mr. Keenan, are you available to speak to the doctor?” He’ll yes!! …”Please hold”. As I composed myself, readying every question, comment or analysis that I would confront him with, I felt my life slipping into that void of despair. Please have an answer for me Doc and make it good. “Hi Jeff, how the hell are you?” “Well Dr. Druker, here is my situation.” Hopefully he had received and reviewed my email and would deliver an easy logical answer to my problem. His analysis and take of my issue was that invariably, Gleevec had found a way to circumvent the path to Cml remission and basically become useless in the fight against my Leukemia. The question was why? Our next move was for Dr. Druker to send a special blood harvesting kit that would allow a tremendous amount of blood to be drawn and sent priority status from Philly to Portland to analyze the CBC and PCR parameters in the PHSCenter. The labs there were the tops in the country. He would figure it out.

As the specimens were drawn and packed for their cross country FedEx jaunt to the West Coast, I signed my boys initials on the box for luck… Couldn’t hurt. Now we wait again. About two weeks according to the Hanahmen staff. No big deal. “Yeah right”. Words of encouragement from Lor softened the blow and keeping busy at the store kept my spirits up. Still, no one knew of the predicament. It was still too early to scare the family. Things were finally looking up for everyone. About two weeks in, I got an email from the Druker asking if I would be available to talk the next day. It was Saturday. I said “Sure…what time”. He said that he would call around 3pm, 12 pm his time. I will await your call sir. Thank you. So that email was basically an offer to stay up all night to think about your life, your family, mortality and life beyond the unknown if that exists. Without hard proof, the scientist in me remained skeptical yet full of unbridled hope and passion for my truths to be dashed by that well known or vaulted version of bliss on the other side….Heaven.

So, I was watching the Philadelphia Eagles play the New York Giants in a usual tit for tat battle of the pigskin on an uneventful Sunday afternoon. It was a nice day and the Eagles were actually winning when the phone rang. Right on the money. 3 pm.Here we go. Was I nervous? Are you right now? The question all Oncologists ask when they are about to crush your world is always the same. It doesn’t matter who the doctor is. “Hi Jeff, what are you doing?”. What am I doing? I’m waiting to get my heart ripped out! Or, as I actually answered, “I’m watching football”.”Thanks for the call Doc”. Let’s get down to our Sunday call. Usually not too promising since the call can’t wait until Monday. Spit it out. “Ok, you are a bit of a conundrum. An anomaly of sorts. Our lab was able to read and detect a rogue chromosome. A chromosome only seen or discoved once before in the history of the Cosmic Cancer Database. In fact, you are the only one in the world who carries this mutation.” “And the other patient?”, I asked. “He passed away in 2010 a few months after the mutation was detected in his DNA.” Less treatment available eight years earlier. I would now revert to test dummy status again. I asked Dr Druker if I had a chance for living and how much longer I might have. ” He said…how many years since your FDA trial started have you stayed alive?” “18 sir”. ” Let’s shoot for 18 more” he said.

Dr.Druker would now have me transferred from the I. Brodsky and Associates group at Hahnemann University Hospital to the Abramson Cancer Center of the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. Dr. Selina Luger would be taking over my new protocol along with Dr. Druker. Dr. Luger was a renowned expert on Blood Cancer and quite the looker.. Canadien too. They made a fabulous experienced team of seasoned Hemotologist/Oncologists. It was now October and my first foray into the big city would be the first week of January. I would continue to take the heavy dose of Gleevec through the end of the year and contact any of them if things got any worse. I would become the number one and only in the study of J Keenan vs the BCR-ABL(p210) mutation. This was war. Screw you 210!

Next Up: A Pro, A Backpack and A Blond

So many thoughts overwhelmed me at this time. My mind was running rampant with thoughts of what if and where do I go now? What could possibly be going on with my cancer. Why after 18 years would my drug stop working and my Leukemia return? I was keeping this between Lori and I. Figure out the story here and handle it.

My next appointment with Dr. Mike was this week and just about every free minute I had was spent emotionally and mentally preparing for the next move. I’m sure Dr. Mike had done his due diligence and he would be prepared to deliver the goods. But first, to the Phlebotomist to draw another gallon of blood to redo the CBC and PCR test, hoping for a miracle. Would the extra daily dose of gleevec do the job? We shall see. Waiting in an exam room was usually a relaxing respite for me. Lay back on the exam table, usually get in a twenty minute snooze before somebody showed up. Could be a nurse checking in, a Doc saying Hi, an army of Oncology Residents doing rounds and asking a million questions. This time wasn’t as routine when in the next minute you could be hit in the face with a baseball bat. Rhetorically. Figuratively. The reality of a cancer diagnosis pales to the introduction of relapse number one, then two, then three. The mental toll is exacerbated exponentially as each return of your cancer just hammers you.

Dr. Mike entered the room after about 30 minutes with his usual stoic demeanor. So soft-spoken, he was not very excitable. His delivery was a basically monotone word salad of technical, medically charged explanation of your circumstance and diagnoses. In layman’s terms….you’re screwed. Yes, I was. The increase in my medication from 400 to 600 mg a day had done little to stop the increase in my blood counts. They were still trending higher, but not as quickly as before. Dr. Mike said that we would now go even higher in my daily dosage to 800 mg. At that point life becomes more uncomfortable. From 400 mg to 600 mg, not too bad. From 600 to 800 mg., enter the nasty side effects. Our meeting, adjourned for two weeks, I left the hospital and thought to myself…” I’m going rogue” ! Not one to sit back and wait, I knew that I needed to act. Quickly!

When I arrived home, I immediatly went to my computer and found the email contact for Dr. Brian Druker. Dr. Druker was the main creator of Gleevec and probably the world’s most informative expert on the drug. He would know what to do with my situation and take point on the case. I just needed to email him and await a response. His main practice and research facility was located in Portland, Oregon. Dr. Druker informed me many years prior, that since I had participated in the FDA Gleevec trial in 2000, if at any time I would need consultation or help with my condition that he would just be an email away. This was that time. Email written, conundrum explained, lack of direction and answer reiterated, I would await his response. I was going rogue. Taking the fight to my CML. I couldn’t wait for Dr. Mike to figure it out anymore. Let’s Gooo!

Next Up: Keeping His Promise

So I waited. The average length of time before the results of my PCR blood test were received was about ten days. Always an eternity and a lifetime of contemplation within such a miniscule amount of time when you think about it. Every cancer patient will tell you that waiting on test results, whatever they may be, is agony. I already knew that my white blood cell count was highly elevated. An ominous precursor to a positive outcome to my DNA testing. When my phone rang and I saw that it was Dr Mike’s office, the lump in my throat began to explode. Here we go. As expected, the test was positive. For reasons unknown to my current medical team, my CML had returned. It had been eighteen years since I began taking Gleevec. At approximately nine to ten thousand dollars per month for the prescription, the cost to keep me going and living cancer free so far was around $2,160,000. Imagine that! One drug. Thank goodness for health insurance! Now what? Why the sudden change to my condition? I felt fine. I looked fine. I wasn’t fine. The cancer can escalate very quickly, moving into a phase called a Blast Crisis. A situation that has no return. Dr. Dave had told me nineteen years before that he wasn’t going to let me die. Now he was gone and Dr. Mike had zero answers.

The first course of action was to increase the dosage of Gleevec. Hopefully, that would create a situation where the Leukemia would slow down and perhaps stagnate or actually decrease the white cell count. It would also give Dr. Mike more time to consult with other Oncologists who may have some answers as to why my body would reject the current course of treatment. Most CML patients that rejected or had a poor response to Gleevec usually had that happen within a few months of starting the drug. Not eighteen years later. A conundrum indeed. I would return to his office in three weeks. More bloodwork after increasing my dosage from 400 mg to 600 mg per day, starting immediately.

It was May of 2018. Joe was returning from Canada in a week and Nick working hard in sunny California. My parents were getting ready for another summer with everyone at Long Beach Island. This news would not be welcome by anyone. Too many times, our lives have been turned upside down by the terrible return, again and again, of this crap. It would be our secret. Lori and I would wait until we knew more about the situation before unleashing this beast. For now, I hope that increasing my dosage puts a pause on the white cell count. Fingers crossed!

Next Up: Going Rogue

Spring is such a wonderful time of year. The weather changes from the cold long winter to the warming of our local climate in the Philadelphia/Delaware Valley area. April showers and the greenery of the landscape brighten our days. A beautiful thing it is. Spring also meant that Joey would be returning home from his hockey home. This year Bradford, Ontario. He usually can’t wait for his journey back from the Canadian great white North. It’s crazy cold up there. For Nick, his seasons in sunny California haven’t changed a bit. “Paradise”, he says. The end of March or beginning of April for me means, for my treatment current protocol, that I will head to Hanahmen Hospital for my annual bloodwork. Only once a year for the past seven years. No Dr. Dave anymore though. This visit will be a little sad without his contagious chutzpah. Dr. Mike Styler had taken over for Dave and apparently was overwhelmed. The staff at I Brodsky and Associates knew that the end was near. The administration was cutting back on everything, including Doctors, Nurses and support staff. My appointment dragged on as I waited to be seen after the obligatory bloodwork. Dr. Mike apologized for the delay and we chatted while waiting for the preliminary results to come through.

One of the nurses popped her head into the exam room and handed the CBC report to Dr. Mike. I wasn’t too worried about the results. It had been eight years since my last relapse and that was artificially created by my decision to go off of my drug Gleevec. That was a trial initiated by Dr. Druker, the creator of Gleevec to see if I could sustain a permanent remission. I explained this scenario in a past blog. It didn’t work. Back on the drugs. Fast forward, Dr. Mike looked a little pale. He stared at the paperwork with no reply. I stared at him. I knew that this was not good. A been there, done that moment. My WBC, White cell blood count was 18,000. I was not sick. I hadn’t been sick. Why was my count rising? WTF!! DR. Styler was baffled. I was led back out to the lab to draw more blood, repeat the WBC. I would wait for the results only to be disappointed again. The PCR genetic test would take about ten days to complete and tell us more information and confirmation about the possible return of my CML. No doubt though. My Leukemia was back. Dr Mike told me to hang in there until the results were back from the PCR test. He would then contact me immediately.

The Rock was back. That damn rock! Hanging over my head. Ready to drop again. What’s next Leukemia? I fuc#@ng hate you! What do I say to my family? How do I tell them…Again! It’s baacckk! For now, I tell no one. No need to cause a ruckus. I’ll wait to get the final test result confirming my new relapse. Then, I’ll tell Lor. Just Lor. And we’ll be heartbroken…all over again.

Next Up: Course of Action

On a terribly sad note, yesterday, 8/22/22, another lovely soul passed due to the disastrous effects of cancer. Specifically, Pancreatic Cancer. Fran Baker fought valiantly as she withered away over a relatively short period of time. A pretty, petite and quiet person, Fran was married to a great customer and friend of ours, Paul Baker. Paul adored Fran. He lavished her with beautiful gifts of Antique and estate style jewelry. The older, the better. He would always call the store to see if we had received any new relics for him to look at for Fran. And always, we jousted over the price. It was always enjoyable. Paul was devastated by Frans diagnosis. He was with her side by side throughout every treatment, every, appointment, every moment, with every ounce of hope he had in him. Until the moment the cancer took her life, he stood by her, hoping for a miracle. The miracle was their story though. Meeting in their midlife, marrying, loving and enjoying each other every day. Never an argument, never a doubt. Theirs was a fairytale moment in time. Rest in peace Fran. It was a pleasure to know you.

The new year came and went as 2018 would hopefully usher in a better year than last. I was struggling mightily with the consequences of my brain hemorrhage. This was no joke. Doctor Gooch was right. I needed a good three months of work and stress free existence. We all know that that didn’t happen and I’m paying for it now. No time to complain though, life goes on. A great celebration was coming up. Sixteen years prior, I was setting goals. Way back in my blog, I wrote that I would be blessed to be able to see Nick graduate from kindergarten. That was a major milestone in my battle with CML that I would reach after so much fight and resilience. It was an incredibly emotional time for me and accomplished right before my first major relapse. Now, I was going to see my boy graduate from college. Who would have thought! Lori and I were so proud. After five years of hard work and perseverance, Nick would be graduating from Temple University Fox School of Business with degrees in Real Estate and Risk Management. The ceremony was fabulous! Held at the Liacouras Center on Temple’s main campus, we had a whole contingency of family attend. Afterwards, we had a great luncheon in town, a glorious day. The happiness we felt for Nick went hand in hand with the sadness we had in our hearts because he would be leaving in a few days for his new career in Los Angeles. So far away, we already had plans to visit in the summer. Lor cried at the airport when we dropped him off for his flight. My tears waited until he went into the terminal. Nick was a smart, handsome, confident and determined young man. “He’ll be fine”, I said to Lori in the car. “He’ll be fine”.

We cruised through Valentines Day at the store a week later and prepared for the winter blues. Usually, after that holiday, we waited for the tax refund money to start flowing. Engagement ring sales would shoot up as that extra influx of funds helped our customers out who were looking to pop the question. We were happy to oblige. I needed a gift too. The end of February was my wedding anniversary. Married on the 29th of February, leap day, I always joked that since the date was not on the calendar but every fourth year, I had two or three days to come up with a gift. The 28th of February, the 29th of February or the 1st of March! All kidding aside, this year was 26 years. An important number in our family. Lori’s birthday was on the 26th, Nick’s was too. Joey wore the number 26 as his jersey number from when he started playing Junior hockey as a tribute to his Mom and Nick. Kicked me to the curb eh!

Our story began when my brother Glenn had a vacation he had planned, stymied by a work obligation thrown at him at the last minute. A week in Puerto Rico was mine if I wanted it and could quickly arrange transportation. Hell yeah! I asked my friend Eric Cutler if he wanted to go and off we went. A week at the El San Juan hotel. A nice but hot week in July of 1990. We arrived on a Friday morning, relaxed for the afternoon and headed out to dinner at the hotel restaurant and Casino. During dinner, we noticed a trio of pretty young ladies having dinner in the restaurant at the same time. We made our way over to their table and started up a conversation after we had finished our meal. Lori Ann, Valarie and RoseAnn were their names and they were definitely not from Philadelphia. Their distinct New York accents were both loud and prominent in our conversation as we tried to talk over the surrounding noise and local band playing in the venue. I was mostly speaking with Lori and having a nice time connecting with her. The night flew by and the girls excused themselves, going back to their hotel a few blocks away around 1 AM. Eric had left about an hour earlier. I was wide awake and feeling great. I wandered over to the casino and tried my luck at the Roulette table. Having never played before, I started out watching other players and their strategies. At 4 am, the casino closed down and I cashed out with $2800 dollars in chips pouring out of my pants pockets. Holy Sh@*%^t! What a night!

The next day, Eric and I spent time on the beach and decided to head over to the Sands Hotel and Casino for dinner. The girls had mentioned that they were staying there until Sunday and we figured that maybe we would run into them again. That we did and they said that they had made reservations at our hotel and would be heading that way soon. With time to kill, I convinced Eric to join me in the casino before going back to the El San Juan. I was on a roll. Two hours later and $500 dollars up, I figured that we better go back and try to meet up with the New Yorkers. Our cab pulled up in front of the hotel literally as they were walking out. One more minute later and we would have missed them. Talk about fate. RoseAnn and Valarie excused themselves whlie Lori agreed to join me and hang out in the club for a little while longer. A little while longer lasted until 2 AM. The conversation was just amazing and the connection even better. I walked her out of the hotel and we strolled along the beach towards the Sands while the light of the moon and stars lit our way. We stopped and sat on a large boulder that presented an opportunity for me to write my cell phone number down for her and then get her info as well. All of a sudden, a loud burst of thunder and big bolt of lightning ruined the moment. We walked quickly along the fence that separated the beach from the hotel parking lots, trying to beat the impending onslaught of a tropical thunderstorm. We reached the gate for the Sands only to find it locked. The public access was about another block away. We ran to the open gate as the skies opened up. I pulled this beautiful young lady under a huge Palm tree to escape the monsoon descending upon us and made my move. Lip to lip, it was about as romantic as you could get! A Harlequin novel written in real time. As the rain started to subside, another mad dash to the hotel entrance, an elevator ride to her floor and another kiss at her door. I waited a sec as she closed the door and listened as the conversation got loud on the other side. Undoubtedly, an excited exchange. I hoped it was promising.

28 years later, was it our 26th anniversary….?? There was no 29th of February on the calendar this year. Doesn’t matter, every year is leap year…For us.

Next Up: That Damn Rock

As we spend time preparing for our Thanksgiving festivities,the turkey, the sides, the massive assortment of pies and desserts that land on our tables across America… Our families rejoice in this feast and celebrate together the great things that keep us unified. To me, it is a one day holiday respite before the onslaught of the Holiday shopping season. From Black Friday to Christmas Eve, the holiday shopping season encompasses both holidays of Christmas and Hanukkah and the mad spree that fits in to those twenty seven or so days between Thanksgiving day and Christmas day. To the jewelry industry, it’s usually a make it or break it month. As I have written about before, December is the most important month of the business year.

The season ramps up at a fast and furious pace. The closer we get to December 24th, the business done and customer count becomes exponentially greater every day. It’s grueling, tiring and satisfying all at once. I usually love playing Santa Claus. Not this year. My exit meeting with Dr. Gooch at Jefferson was untenable. How was I supposed to take three months off of work? I know….my brain was severely traumatized. I know…the blood was still putting pressure in my skull. I know…the vibrations still occurring in my brain were no good. I know…the pain was unrelenting and distracting as well as the painkillers needed to help me. I know…that I had no other choice. Weather the storm. Work twenty seven days in a row. Suck it all up for the sake of your customers and your bottom line. There was no other way out. I had to do it. I am the business.

My first day back, Black Friday, was terrible.Lori had to drive me to work. I wasn’t allowed to get behind the wheel for a few weeks. Part of my recovery. Waiting on customers was brutal. My head was pounding, I couldn’t focus well and I was constantly speaking off key. Making stupid mistakes calculating pricing and discounts was a normal occurrence. My memory was minimal at best. Regular customers names eluded me. Luckily, everyone that came into the store really understood the situation and gave me a break. Nadine and Sheree just did their best to keep me propped up and representing. It was so hard. When the store was empty, I would crawl up in my office chair and close my eyes. I would remain like that as long as possible to rest my brain and get ready for the next wave. Needless to say, this was “The Christmas From Hell”.

As each day passed, I became weaker and weaker. I could barely keep my eyes open. The holiday grind would wear down the best of us. It was killing me. One day during the last week of the season, a young man, a regular customer, stopped in to let his wife pick out her Xmas gift. She was looking for a pair of diamond hoop earrings. I spoke to him while Nadine helped his wife choose her gift. He seemed down. Not his usual self. He explained to me that his father had just passed away. Two weeks before Christmas. How sad is that? He had a young son who wouldn’t get to know his grandfather. Just awful. “What happened”, I asked. His dad was only 62 years old. ” He collapsed at home with massive pain in his head. The ambulance came and took him to Nazareth hospital where he was diagnosed with a Subarrachnoid Hemorrhage. He was loaded into a helicopter and was on his way to Jefferson Neurological Hospital when he coded and passed in the air.” I listened intently to his story recounting the exact same reality that I had experienced only one month prior. For whatever reason, I was spared another mans fate and still alive and here to listen to this young man’s story. I was numb, lucky, blessed, all of the above. I didn’t recount my story to him. Survivors guilt overcame me once again.

As the season wore down and came to an end, I was a veritable vegetable. Completely worn out and down for the count. I would need weeks of down time after this ridiculous feat of stupidity. Nevertheless, I survived both the Brain injury and the Holiday season. It was time to heal now. Hopefully the damage to my brain didn’t get any worse. It may just take more time to get normal again. How long? Who knows. Could be years. My appointment at the Neurologist was around the corner. We shall see.

Next Up: 26 Years

The long and arduous journey that lay in front of me couldn’t have come at a worse time. The two to three weeks that I would remain in the Jefferson ICU, would literally come to an end right before Thanksgiving. A mere few days before Black Friday and the start of my big season. Twenty six straight days of long hours and running around the store at a frenetic pace. How the hell will I be able to do that! Dr. Gooch basically told me that I would need to stop working and take at least three months off, then gradually return to the store. Obviously, he never worked in the jewelry industry. That would never happen. My routine in the brain injury and stroke unit was basically a repetitious regimen of drugs, ultrasounds, constant checks by the nurses and residents. Every four hours, a nurse came in with two humongous football shaped pills for me to choke down. I forget the name of those pills but their purpose was to stop any vibration in my brain. To dry up the large amount of blood swirling around in my skull. Whatever. They were nasty. What else was nasty? The constant sound of Snap, Crackle and Pop in my brain. Like Rice Krispies popping constantly out of my ears as the pain kept throbbing throughout and the blood dried inside. The Percocet every four hours kept the edge off most of the time. There was no stimulation like my phone or TV. Too much on the brain at this point and kept off at the request of the doctors.

My mornings everyday started with the loud shouts that came from outside my room. The staff would literally have morning Pep rallies at the front nurses station. A lot of loud gestures and shouting like they were getting ready for a hockey game. It was annoying when your roommate was groaning in pain and hitting the call button over and over again. With no response. Until of course the final “Whoop” went up and the shift got moving. “Ridiculous” I thought. After breakfast, every morning around 11 am, the Ultrasond tech would come in with her machine and do a comprehensive study of my brain, neck and chest. The gel was always so cold. This would happen three times a day…for almost three weeks. Resident doctors came in constantly to review my condition and examine my head, neck and groin.

It was tough for family and friends to visit. Although they wanted to. I wasn’t the best of company and Jefferson not the easiest place to come down to. My parents, Lori, Nick, Aunt Roseann and maybe a few more. It was boring. The only excitement was when my roommates went crazy and had to be moved into private rooms or rushed to the operating room. It was a crazy place and three weeks was gonna kill me. The way I felt though, I had no choice.

A Subarrachnoid Hemorrhage is a mostly or highly fatal brain injury. For some reason, high blood pressure, weak veins, medically induced/drug damage, trauma, whatever in that class of all of the above that can cause a blood vessel to burst and cause massive brain damage or death to an unexpecting victim. I was very fortunate to survive mine. Survivors of Subarrachnoid Hemorrhages face months to years of recovery. Many trips to the Neurologist for follow up visits and cat scans to rule out additional points of interest and the chance of relapse. Memory issues are common as well as extreme fatigue. These issues can go on for years or worse for many patients who digress in their quality of life. No driving either for like 3 months or more, depending on the recuperation period of each patient.

One morning, a young nurse was given the job to change my IV that was in my forearm for the last ten days. Well, I am a bad stick. After three tries, she gave up and called in a male nurse. Three or four more pokes and I was still not done. I had enough. The expert called in was an older Philippino nurse who handled it well and showed up the youngsters. Thank God. Getting stuck with a thick IV needle really sucks. Getting stuck like seven times…awful! The days wore on and Dr. Gooch came by regularly to check on my progress and fill me in on the test results being generated everyday. I was getting there. The vibrations in my skull were lessening and the chances for relapse becoming rarer. All good signs that I was improving and surviving this debacle. The nights were long, the days, the same.

Lori came down to get me out a few days before Thanksgiving. Our meeting with Dr. Gooch lasted about one hour as he detailed the extensive amount of do’s and don’ts for my rehab and recuperation. It was wonderful to see daylight and feel the fresh air as we made our way to the car. I was pretty shaky. My release date was November, 21st. Two days before Thanksgiving. I slept for two straight days then spent the holiday in my bedroom while everyone feasted on Lors delicious Turkey and all of the great sides she prepared. I had a plate delivered. It tasted so good after that awful hospital food. The next day on the calendar was Black Friday. The big start to the holiday shopping season. My season. Sorry Dr. Gooch, I have to work nine hours a day for the next twenty seven days. Or stay home and recuperate for three months and lose my business. No choice here. I’m alive, I’m awake, I’m able to stand, I’m in the store starting tomorrow. That’s the way it goes. This should be fun.

Next Up: The Christmas from Hell!