Ladders, Razor Blades, and Three Years of What the Hell
It’s been about three years — yes, three full years — of walking around with two little landmines on the bottom of my feet. Every step? Pain. So, naturally, I adjusted my walk to avoid the pressure. Then, of course, other body parts got sore from all the overcompensation. It was like a domino effect of dumb pain. Still, I powered through. I was pulling 20,000+ steps a day at work, begging for mercy each night when I finally flopped into bed. The pain would ease just enough to sleep, then I'd get up and do it all over again. Every. Poopy. Day. Eventually, I figured it out: these two painful spots lined up perfectly with the edge of a ladder rung. And guess who stood on ladders for forty damn years? Bingo. That’d be me. Then I switched careers — no more ladders — but the pain stayed. The new job? Just a step-by-step, slow-motion reminder of every single ladder I ever stood on. Now I’ve done a lot of things over the years: Built restaurants. Ran a drywall business. Carpentry, cabinet shop… you name it. The one constant through all of it? Painting. That job never disappeared — and apparently neither did its effects. Here I am, post-chemo, post-cancer (well, as post as one can get with stage four), and where am I headed? Right back to the painting business. You know, the one that now gives me PTSD every time I pass a damn ladder. So I figured it was time. After ignoring this for three years and being reminded daily just how fun untreated pain can be, I scheduled a visit with the foot doctor. Yeah, I know there’s a fancy name for it, but “foot doctor” is easier to spell — and I’m tired of seeing red squiggly lines under every other word. Of course, I’d already asked every other doctor I’ve ever had — my primary, my oncologist, random people at the gas station — all of them had a theory. So I figured I might as well pay someone to finally tell me what the internet already had. I showed up this past Wednesday, ready to throw my wallet on the counter. “Are you self-pay?” the check-in lady asked. I said yes. She gave me the full head-to-toe scan with her eyes. I refrained from giving her the middle-to-top scan with my finger. Surprisingly, they didn’t ask me for money up front. No vitals, no weigh-in, no blood pressure cuff strangling my arm. No lab chair. Nothing. I thought, hell, this is great! Until I started wondering if I accidentally wandered into a Good Feet store. Been there. Done that. Got offered $3 insoles for the low price of $1,500. Yeah… I passed. Walmart, aisle 12. You're welcome. Anyway — the doc walks in. Sits on the stool. “What’s going on?” I tell him: two spots. One on each foot. I start to point — BAM. He presses the exact spots before I even finish talking. I yelp. He nods. Says, “I’ll be right back.” Now I’m thinking uh… what the hell was that about? He comes back in with a metal box, puts gloves on, pulls out a razor blade, and heads straight for my feet. Still hasn’t told me what he’s doing. No warning. No explanation. Definitely no numbing shot. At this point, I’m mentally preparing for him to carve out my soul (or sole, depending on the mood). But he just… scrapes. No cutting. No digging. Just light scraping. Three minutes later, he sets the blade down and gets that evil look in his eye again. He’s going to press the spots. Again. I brace myself, grab the sides of the chair… He pushes. NOTHING. No pain. Not even a flinch. Just… gone. You have GOT to be kidding me. Three years of misery. 18 weeks of chemo. A stage four diagnosis. Daily anxiety and mental fatigue. And this guy fixed this in three minutes with a glorified Exacto knife. Then he casually trims my toenails, tells me to buzz back in if the pain returns, throws in a “keep those toenails clean,” and hits me with: “That’ll be $200. See the lady at the window.” Two days later? Still pain-free. I almost want to punch a ladder. So here’s the moral of the story, kids: If something hurts, go see someone about it. Don't wait three years. Don't Google it. Don’t ask Karen from aisle 4 at Home Depot. Just get it looked at. Starting to wonder if the whole “I’m a Simple Man, not a stupid man” tagline might need a little tweaking… — A Simple Man
I Guess Medical Updates Are Getting Boring (And honestly, I hope they stay that way.) Now that chemo has wrapped up and we’ve shifted into maintenance mode, the updates won’t be as dramatic — and that’s just fine with me. I’m now on a once-a-month visit schedule with my oncologist, mainly to keep an eye on my PSA levels. Right now, they’re holding steady at 0.12, which is extremely good. I’ll keep taking my $500 worth of pills every day and get my quarterly testosterone-blocking shot to help keep things in check. If those PSA numbers start climbing again, chemo could come back into play. Hopefully not — but if it’s needed, I’ll do what has to be done. It’s a strange space I’m in now — this “maintenance phase.” Yes, I still have cancer. No, it’s not gone. But it’s controlled — and that’s something. Still, I don’t know what this road will look like going forward. That part’s scary. I’m sure I’ll get used to it eventually... but I’m not there yet. Foot & Leg Update: I’ve started the path to figure out what’s going on with my feet. I paid the $80 referral fee (don’t get me started), and I’ve got an appointment with the foot doctor on Wednesday. Hopefully we get some answers. I personally think the foot issue is contributing to the weakness in my legs. Walking’s a struggle, and this whole thing is starting to impact what I can and can’t do physically — which means I’m seriously rethinking my path forward when it comes to work. For now, I’ll just take it one step at a time and adjust as I go. Smoking: Yeah… bombed. I made it about 48 hours, and then the cravings hit hard — right on schedule. That 48–72 hour window is brutal. But I’m not giving up. I still want to quit, and failure doesn’t mean I’m done trying. Not yet. Food & Diet: I had a bowl of ice cream the other night, and someone pointed out that sugar isn’t great for cancer. He wasn’t wrong — but I told him after four months of barely tasting anything, I was going to eat whatever the hell I wanted for a few weeks. Let me catch up on the good stuff I’ve missed — then I’ll take a look at cleaning things up. Priorities. I’m not sure how I feel about this phase yet. It’s weird. It’s quiet. And I don’t quite trust it. But it’s what I’ve got — and I’m going to try to make the most of it. Waiting to see how I adjust, A Simple Man
I still haven’t seen the actual scans—and I’m okay with that. I started to ask, then decided not to. I finally saw the Doc yesterday for my follow-up visit after the second set of scans. This is the one where they tell you how treatment’s going and what comes next. As far as what the scan results showed? I’d already cheated and pretty much knew the answer. I had dropped the report—one I couldn’t make heads or tails of—into AI, my Simple Bot, and got the straight-up version. Sure, I wondered if the Simple Bot was right, and yesterday it felt like the human version of it was telling me the exact same thing I was told last Wednesday. It really is something to think about… this AI stuff and where it’s going to lead. The Doc seemed… excited. Which I’ll take—especially when they’re supposed to keep emotions out of it. She kept saying “major improvement” over and over, followed by “but you’re not in remission.” I already knew remission was unlikely, so that part is what it is. But major improvement was the best-case hope, and that’s exactly what I got. Long story short: chemo cleaned a lot up, and I’ll probably be around long enough for life to stay tricky for a while. Now I’ve just got a few more balls to juggle (I’m going to avoid the obvious sarcastic play on words there—wonder if you can). This whole cancer thing is strange. Time either drags forever or flies past like lightning. You shift gears constantly, and it’s hard to keep any direction locked in for long. Maybe—maybe—with the scan results and a clear plan from 631, I can hold onto a direction that sticks around for a while. Here’s the deal: My PSA is where it’s supposed to be, and as long as it stays there, I’ll continue on Nubeqa (blocks the hormones cancer feeds on) and Lupron (shuts those hormones down at the source). My trips to 631 are being cut by 75%. Now it’s just once a month for labs and a quick chat. I’m officially in the maintenance phase—the stage they said from the beginning we were working toward. Now, we just watch and wait to make sure nothing sneaks back in. PSA becomes my early warning system. I did ask questions yesterday. I got vague answers. Even when I pushed, I basically got: “It looked good.” “Continue what you’re doing.” “Live as normal.” That last one? Hilarious. I have no idea what “normal” even means anymore—but sure, let’s live like that. Doc basically said the same thing the Simple Bot told me, and I told Simple Bot that we were all on the same page. The response I got back... 🟢 “It looked good.” That’s their way of saying:The treatment’s doing what it’s supposed to. We’re not changing a damn thing because it’s working. They don’t throw parties or high-fives—just keep it neutral so nobody runs out and buys a victory cigar. (You especially, smartass 😄.) We are entering a very strange time with all of this. Once again, I’m transitioning—and there’s been a whole damn lot of that in the past 8 months. But maybe this one can settle in for a while. The weird part? It feels like I’m about to map out a much longer stretch of Highway 33 than anything I’ve done so far. One that might not have an exit for a while. Gonna have to think this one through. The team over at 631 has done their part. Now we keep watch. I was told to quit smoking (in the process of that now) and to lose 30 pounds (currently laughing at that one). I left 631 knowing I didn’t get a clean bill of health. I got a “keep going.” They didn’t say the fight was over. But they didn’t say it wasn’t, either. There’s a huge mental shift coming, I can feel it. I’m transitioning from Fighter to Survivor—and if I manage to kick this smoking thing, I’m probably gonna have a whole lot of extra time on my hands. I’ll save those thoughts for tomorrow. The chemo is done. The scans improved. My body’s not fighting like hell anymore… But my mind doesn’t know how to turn that off. —A Simple Man
Nobody Cheats Me Out of My Scan
A bit of chaos at the Doc’s today. We did get scans done — and for now, I’m fine. No worse off than I was yesterday, so I’ll take that. But man… after all the praise I’ve been throwing at this place lately, we really managed to poop the bed today. My appointment was scheduled for 12:45 PM — a change from my usual early morning slot. The reason? My scan was at 2:00 PM in the same building, so I figured why make two trips? Ha. Turns out... two trips might’ve been the way to go. I showed up my usual twenty minutes early and got checked in — or so I thought. Turns out, instead of checking me in, the front desk marked me as a no-show. Of course, I didn’t know this, so I sat. And sat. And sat. Forty-five minutes later — after watching half the damn room get called back before me — I finally went to ask what was going on, mentioning I had a scan coming up in 30 minutes. Their response? “I don’t know.” Let me go find out. Ten minutes later, I finally get called for labs. And while I’m sitting there, the lab techs are whispering to each other about what happened — and that’s when I find out I was marked as a no-show. Glad they told me — because the front desk sure as hell didn’t. Now I’m behind, the doctor’s already moved on to other patients, and there’s not even a room open for me. We’re ten minutes from scan time when a nurse practitioner pops in, clearly flustered and rushing. She starts rattling off a few things, and I tell her, “Look, I’ve got a ton of questions, but I’ve got to leave for my scan.” She checks her laptop and says, “Your scan’s not until the 21st.” I argue. She shows me the screen. I still argue. I know what call I got on Friday. She tries to speed through my questions anyway and I hit her with the first one — she starts answering with, “Well, I think…” I stopped her right there. “Nope,” I said. “We’re done. I’ll reschedule this appointment. I’ve waited 18 damn weeks for this scan and I’m not about to miss it because someone here thinks they know what’s going on.” She makes me an appointment for next Monday and I haul ass downstairs. Guess what? Scan was today. Just like I said. I don’t give a single poop about anything else — but if they thought I wasn’t getting pushed through that machine, they were out of their minds. I’ve earned that scan. Nobody was taking it from me. Not a “maybe,” not a “I think,” not even the nicest NP in the building. Scan complete, I march right back upstairs to verify next week’s appointment. They tell me it’s with the same NP. My response? “I don’t THINK so.” We got that fixed. So yeah… chaotic day. But all is forgiven because I got my damn scan. Results come Monday. Another week of anticipation. And say or think what you want — the cigarettes stay another week. I’m not putting my family through the stress of anticipating scan results and quitting at the same time. We’ll shoot for next Tuesday. Aggravated but over it, A Simple Man P.S. — You guys would’ve been proud. Had all my questions typed out, pen in hand, ready to go like a pro. Of course, the day decided to go sideways anyway. Figures.
There was a time during all this that I never thought I’d be around to ramble on this date — but here I am. Backseat Q&A was about this very thing this week. And today, I head over to 631 just like I’ve done every stinkin’ Monday for the past six months. But today’s different. I’m not walking in for another fuel injection. I took my last one three weeks ago. Graduated. Rang the bell. At least in their eyes. I didn’t see it that way. I felt like I had to make it all the way through before that bell meant anything. So this morning, when I woke up, I pictured myself banging the biggest damn bell I could find. Chemo, for now, is behind me. And it did a number on me. Physically, I feel like I’ve aged 20 years in 18 weeks. I don’t like it one bit. Can’t change that it happened — but maybe I can improve from here. I’ll definitely be asking about that today. I’m also gonna try to sneak back into the chemo auditorium just to say hi. Those folks over at 631 are special people — at least in my eyes. It’s kinda funny… they’re responsible for pumping you full of poison, making you feel like absolute poop for weeks at a time, and then doing it all over again — and somehow, you still want to hug them. That takes a special kind of person. Today’s trip to 631 comes with a different set of thoughts than the past few months. I’m relieved I don’t need fuel. I was beyond done with that — but I kept going, and I’m proud of that. We’ll still do the usual: labs, check-in, then meet with the doc. I’ve seen his assistants the last couple of visits, but I’m hoping to see him today. That secret nod he gave me early on — the one that said, “If you need to smoke during chemo, it’s okay” — meant something. He gets it. I’ve got questions today. Big ones. And I need real answers. No bullpoop. It’s a double visit day, and it’s the second half that’s got me on edge. Scan day. Back on the tray, rolling through the machine, getting a new look at the inside of me to see if chemo actually did anything. I’m nervous. More than I want to admit. Will there be improvement? A miracle, maybe? Or… did it do nothing at all? I’m guessing I’ll land somewhere in the middle, based on how I feel. And I’ll take that. Middle means more time. More unknown. And I’ll gladly take both. But that wheel in my head? It’s spinning. If there’s improvement, will I let up on this new fire I’ve found for life? If there’s not, will I get too frantic with my goals and watch it all crash? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. What I do know is I want answers fast — so I can stop guessing and start adjusting. Being diagnosed as stage four from the jump helps brace for the hammer, if it comes. I’m not expecting a miracle. But I’ll still hope for one. It’s gonna be a long week. And I can’t wait for a little bit of the unknown to become known. I’ll let you guys know what’s up as soon as I know. Thank you for being here. Seriously. Chemo had its purpose — but so did all of you. And from that standpoint, I definitely won this round against this nasty SHIT. — An Anxious Simple Man
This one feels a little strange to write. It’s been just over four months since I had my first fuel injection. I had five more after that, and now... there aren’t any more scheduled. I’m a week away from my PET scan—the one that tells us what all this fuel they’ve pumped into me has actually accomplished. Funny thing is, I never even saw the original PET scan. Didn’t know that was a thing, honestly. I’ve just been riding shotgun, trusting my doc and his team from the start. I followed their map, stopped at the checkpoints, and now it feels like I’ve reached the end of this curve in the road. May 12, 2025—eight months since diagnosis—I’ll be busy. That day includes a final chemo appointment, one last hang with the doc, a ride through the scanner, and whatever version of a bell ringing fits in my world. Then... I wait. I’ll be real—I’m anxious. Penthouse Dude and Twig are riding with me, and there’s been a whole lot of wheel-spinning going on upstairs. 🌀 Climbing Out of the Crash This past week, I came out of the final chemo crash—at least for now. Took a couple of days where I thought I was bouncing back, then got knocked down again. But as I sit here Saturday night, I think I’ve reached the top of the stairs. I still feel tired. Worn down. But it’s improving. Technically, there’s still a week to go in this round, but something’s different this time—I see signs of myself returning. Physically. Mentally. And I think I notice it more because this time... I’m not gearing up to go backwards again in seven days. People tell me I look better. My color’s back. I don’t look like I’m going to fall over at any second. My skin isn’t alligator-hide anymore, and I’m slowly regaining a bit of strength. Everything right now feels positive. And maybe that’s why the anxiety’s building. Because in my head? I think chemo’s worked. I really do. And if the scans come back saying otherwise… yeah, that would be a tough one to swallow. I’m tired of driving this same stretch of road, staring at the same scenery. I’m ready to turn toward something brighter. 🧠 A Mental Curveball I’ll be honest: part of me is more nervous about good news than bad. I’ve already started wondering… what if I hear it’s amazing news? That the outlook is really good? Will that change this version of life I’ve fallen into? Will it mess with the mental shift I’ve made? Because lately, I’ve had to work a little harder to stay on this emotional path. It’s not as effortless as it was even a week ago. And I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to go back. I’ve fallen in love with this dude with cancer—with the version of me that showed up when everything fell apart. I don’t know where this road leads, but I’m finally sure it can’t be too bad. Living life with a small hiccup that changed everything... —A Simple Man P.S. If you or someone you know is battling something like what I’m walking through— and they just want to shoot the poop with a guy who doesn’t have all the answers, doesn’t preach, doesn’t push… just shares and listens— my door is open. Always will be. Smiles. A wicked path. And a hug.
So, you want to know my eighteen weeks of chemo story? Well, I am here to tell it. I am sure everyone that has had to go through this process has different views on it. I know folks before me have shared their journey down this road, and I got to hear some as I ran into folks at the rest stops along the way — and it was not enjoyable. Technically, I am just completing week sixteen of the eighteen, but I feel I can pretty much predict the final two weeks, so why not let it rip now? My first day of Chemo Class was back in January. January 6th, 2025, to be exact. It was a big day in my life and one I had purposely postponed for a bit. You see, the Doc wanted me to enroll back in December, but I wasn’t ready then. I wanted to spend Christmas without the nasty old side effects that I was told chemo would come with. I didn’t want my family to put up with it either. Christmas — now of course this is the new and improved Mike talking — is about family and celebration, and I didn’t want to ruin that for anyone. Looking back, other than the fact I would be past the entire eighteen weeks, I am happy with that decision. Let’s explore this road. Chemo Drive, I will call it. Everyone buckle up, and away we go. My trip started the day before the actual class. I was figuring out all the prep work that I needed to get done before that first day. My oldest son jumped in and helped me out. I was needing that first day of Chemo picture — you know the one — where we got our new outfit on, stand right outside the house with a big poopy grin for the camera, but really scared to death because we are getting ready to be thrust into a new environment we have no idea about. Yes, that very first day of big boy school. Anyways, with the help of Scott, I got that picture done and proudly posted for all to see. Yep, that’s right — we staged it the night before. No way in hell he was going to get up and do it that following morning. I had already decided that I was going to be the class clown. I knew how to be that guy. I had paid attention during orientation, and I knew my classmates were going to be a bit of a drag. It was understandable, but it wasn’t going to be what I wanted. I went to that first day with my “Who wants to play Duck, Duck, Goose” shirt on, and I wore it proudly. I sat right in the middle of the room with my big chest out waiting for the game to begin — OK, sunken chest, big belly might make you see the scene better. Turns out my first day of class was a disaster — complete failure, I mean horrible. Not the first person wanted to play, hell, not the first person even grinned or inquired what the game was. I was devastated. I left that first day of class having to rethink my entire approach to day two — the shot I had to take twenty-four hours after the fuel injection. I knew right then that this class was going to suck. I even went as far as to inquire at the admissions office if it was too late to change my schedule and was sadly informed it was. Instead of the class clown, I was going to be the class castaway. I went home, and after some thought, I decided if I wasn’t going to be able to aggravate my classmates, I would shift over to the administration. I quickly discovered this was the move. They knew how to enjoy the day and love life, and day two made me smile and look forward to class each day. Chemo class is very predictable. Whatever schedule you receive is stuck to strictly. My particular class was a simple three-week system that would last six sessions. I was fed all the information for each three-week period in twenty-four hours and then would be tested weekly to see how I was progressing. After being fed the information, I was sent home to figure it all out by myself. If I passed my weekly test — was really never told exactly what my test grades were — I would be told to come back in a week to be tested again and not really ever find out my exact score. I quickly just decided if I was sent home after testing and told to come back next week, I was at least passing. Ok, enough with the bullpoop on how I approached chemo class from the beginning. Let’s get to the reality of getting through this whole thing. I was given a road map — the "Waze" of chemo, let’s say. In typical Waze fashion, it highlighted all the traffic, folks stranded on the side of the road, and the blue lights all over the place waiting to make life just miserable. I looked at it and said, "Well poop, here we go," and I followed the map and remembered everything they told me that was going to happen in orientation. Now, I will share the journey. Every miserable pothole and bump this nasty-ass dirty road has. My regular agenda was: Fuel up Fall in a ditch Get back on the main road and up to speed Realize you need gas Fuel up Drive it in the ditch again Recover Wham, out of gas again This repeats itself four more times. Yo, DUDE, stop! Would you just quit and explain how miserable and awful this whole class and process was so I can get back to work and not get caught reading this crap? Ok, if that’s what you want — here I go… I met the other side of my folks that make them really good people. I repaired a ton of broken relationships. I started a website and a vision — may turn out to be only my vision — but I got it rolling. I discovered the meaning of the dollar. I opened myself up to the world. I had coffee meetings with folks I never thought I would. I learned to listen to folks and hear their journeys and make them more important than mine. I learned how to take help from folks and understand it wasn’t pity but true care and want. I discovered I have a wife and a family that will go out of their way for me. I started to get my poop organized. I learned that what other folks think of me isn’t an issue — only what I think of me matters. I played the game I loved when I should have been at home doing the poor pitiful me routine. I got up every damn day and told anyone that wanted to hear it, “Good Morning.” I did everything in my power to tell the administration and the crew over at chemo to take their curriculum and shove it up their ass. I battled the whole weird sleep pattern. I ate cheese toast like it was a ribeye steak. I started a clothing business — not one that works yet — but I started it. I had more conversations with Penthouse Dude than I had in the past forty years. I smiled and told everyone I was just fine and asked, “How are you today?” I slipped and fell into my old world a time or two but stuck with those situations until I got it right. I just kept moving forward every single day. Of course… chemo came with everything they told me in orientation. The huge dive down the pooper, just like they said. A lot of aches and pains. Losing all my hair — which really sucked above my eyes and in my nose. The three or four days where you just want to tell everyone to kiss your ass. The mood swings, the anger, the “I am done with this crap… I am dropping out.” Poop — turns out that was the piece-of-cake part of chemo for me and doesn’t even matter at this point. I accomplished more during chemo upstairs with Penthouse Dude, Thig, Twig, and myself than I have my whole life — and if I have to do chemo again to keep that going (really hoping I don’t have to), but if I did… SIGN ME UP! You want the doom and gloom of chemo? I know a place where you can get it — I got classmates that will hook you right up. You’re not going to get it from me. Thanks for all the support, folks. Without you… I probably would have been just like them. A New and Improved Simple Man
🛞 Pit Stop Update: Chemo Graduation Day
Today, we graduated from our chemo sessions. That’s right — I took in fuel injection #6 and completed the plan. Simple — in and out. Had a great nurse today who made the whole process smooth. We even went through the bell ceremony — and yep, I got my Purple Heart. Now, just to be clear — I didn’t actually ring the bell today. They wanted me to, but I had to explain why, and they bought it. (Maybe I should’ve just done it... but here’s why I didn’t.) Originally, my chemo plan was four sessions. We added two more — and I chose to do it. If you read my earlier ramble, you already know I fibbed a bit about how easy these sessions were going. Each round was the injection, a follow-up shot, a week or so deep in the hole, and then another week or so climbing out of it. Basically, a three-week process. So in my simple world — I’m not done with chemo until I finish crawling out of the hole after this last injection. If I can live with that, everyone else should too. I’ll find myself a bell to ring when the time is right — and you better believe you’ll hear it loud and clear. Just not yet. Not until the job’s truly done. I should start the dive in about 36 hours... and if the pattern holds, I’ll start clawing my way back out by mid-next week. It’s going to be great. Because I’m doing this my way. Bell will ring soon — stay tuned. You’ll hear it when it happens. Till next time, Cancer Mike (That’s right — if we’re talking my medical condition, then that dude is still Cancer Mike.)