Faceless Blog

The “Dear 16 year old me” video that’s been going around reminded me of an old note I wrote on Facebook a while back.  It still rings true to me, so I thought I’d repost it here.  So, here you go!

An open letter to the individual who would have ended up with cancer,


Dir Sir or Madam,

I’ve said since this whole ordeal started that, “if this had to happen, I’m glad it happened to me, and not someone who wouldn’t be able to handle it.” Well, while there are days when it’s more difficult than others to believe that, I stand by that statement. And though I do stand by it, I wanted to write this letter to you to make sure that I haven’t gone through this for nothing.

Are you young? (You probably are, as my type of cancer typically only affects children or infants). Get out there, pick a sport that you love and play it. Don’t spend your summer days cooped up in the basement. DO something. I’m not even going to tell you what, that takes the fun out of it…but pick something you like, and do it…often! Go to an amusement park, visit the zoo, go see the paintings in the Museum of Art. Swim in the ocean, walk in the sand. Try and do something new every weekend, just to broaden your horizons and find new and different things that you like.

Are you older? Take a road trip to somewhere you’ve never been before. Go camping and catch your own dinner in a nearby stream. Be active in your community. Plan a three day weekend getaway to some nearby tourist attraction that you’ve never taken the time to check out. Try to get out and see at least one “Wonder of the World.” (be it one of the Wonders of the Modern World, Ancient World, Natural World, etc.) Throw a bonfire party with as many friends as possible…roast hot dogs if available. Thank a nurse. Shake a doctor’s hand. Live. Live hard and live long.

Of course, these are only suggestions. The real trick is to take the spirit of this letter, and make your own life out of it. Every day that I feel trapped in this chair, every time I’m stuck in the house or feel the loss of my independence…I think of you, out there, making the most out of the life that you have, and it helps.

I’m sure I’ll never know who you are. That’s ok, I don’t need to. Just promise me that you’ll do your best, and that will do. 

Sincerely,
Jeff (aka Facelesscog)

Dir Sir or Madam,

I’ve said since this whole ordeal started that, “if this had to happen, I’m glad it happened to me, and not someone who wouldn’t be able to handle it.” Well, while there are days when it’s more difficult than others to believe that, I stand by that statement. And though I do stand by it, I wanted to write this letter to you to make sure that I haven’t gone through this for nothing.

Are you young? (You probably are, as my type of cancer typically only affects children or infants). Get out there, pick a sport that you love and play it. Don’t spend your summer days cooped up in the basement. DO something. I’m not even going to tell you what, that takes the fun out of it…but pick something you like, and do it…often! Go to an amusement park, visit the zoo, go see the paintings in the Museum of Art. Swim in the ocean, walk in the sand. Try and do something new every weekend, just to broaden your horizons and find new and different things that you like.

Are you older? Take a road trip to somewhere you’ve never been before. Go camping and catch your own dinner in a nearby stream. Be active in your community. Plan a three day weekend getaway to some nearby tourist attraction that you’ve never taken the time to check out. Try to get out and see at least one “Wonder of the World.” (be it one of the Wonders of the Modern World, Ancient World, Natural World, etc.) Throw a bonfire party with as many friends as possible…roast hot dogs if available. Thank a nurse. Shake a doctor’s hand. Live. Live hard and live long.

Of course, these are only suggestions. The real trick is to take the spirit of this letter, and make your own life out of it. Every day that I feel trapped in this chair, every time I’m stuck in the house or feel the loss of my independence…I think of you, out there, making the most out of the life that you have, and it helps.

I’m sure I’ll never know who you are. That’s ok, I don’t need to. Just promise me that you’ll do your best, and that will do. 

Sincerely,
Jeff Lowes

P.S.  This was originally posted on my Facebook account, but I thought it was worth reposting here.

The other day, as I lay in my hospital bed, recovering from the amputation of my right foot (and about half of my calf), I was visited by the Prosthetics Guy(tm).  He was dropping by to give me a brace for my leg that would make sure my knee didn’t get drawn up, which generally (apparently) only happens to older patients.  He was also kind enough to explain what was going to happen in the coming months as it pertains to me and prosthetics.  We talked about the exercises and conditioning I’d have to do on my leg to get it ready to handle a prosthetic.  It makes sense really, that part of the leg is not used to carrying your weight, so it needs to be toughened up a bit.  The end of your leg also needs to be coaxed into the right shape for your shiny new prosthetic.  He answered several important questions of mine.  No, I would not be getting what I’d been calling a “mannequin foot.”  (one of those carved rubber feet that looks like you stole it off of a mannequin)  No, your foot won’t be one of those crazy J feet you see on professional disabled track and field runners.  Those feet, not surprisingly, are designed specifically for track and field, you can’t really walk around in them.  He went on to explain all of the options in covering your leg, camouflaging it so that people wouldn’t be able to tell you were wearing a prosthetic at all.  This is where I stopped him.  “This is going to sound a bit odd,” I said to him, “but I’m from a community of people who, shall we say, is less impressed by a ‘normal’ leg, and wants to see my prosthetic.”  He laughed, and said that he’s been surprised that more and more people have been saying that same thing.  He then went on to explain options of carbon fiber feet, brushed aluminum support rods, etc.  I’ll have no problem, it would seem, making this foot a part of me.  That’s when it struck me, only part of this was the desire to make a cool, cybernetic foot.  The rest of it was similar to my desire to decorate and customize my wheelchair.  You have to own it.  When you’re handed a condition like this, you can fold up into self-pity and depression, or you can turn around and make it a part of you, like it really is.  The truth is, I don’t want to hide my prosthetic.  My prosthetic will be a badge of honor that I won in a war against cancer that lasted over two years.  I want people to know that having a fake foot is nothing to be ashamed of, any more than being in a wheelchair is…or was (shortly).  Personally, I guarantee that my foot is going to rock.

Ok, I’ve obviously neglected this for a while…sorry about that.  As you may or may not know, I’ve been dealing with some health problems over the past two years.  I was diagnosed with (and beat) cancer in 2008.  I then went through physical rehab to learn how to use my shiny new wheelchair.  After that, I spent the rest of the time until now fighting the pressure wounds that I developed while I was in rehab.  The last of those horrible wounds will be gone tomorrow morning. 

During the third surgery that I went through last week, I had a skin graft put in place on the wound on my left foot.  The wound on the right heel; however, turned out to be much more serious.  The bone was infected and, in fact, they had removed over half of the heel bone before that surgery was over.  After it was done, the decision was made, between my doctors, my wife and myself to remove the foot.

The procedure is called a trans-tibial amputation, meaning that my right leg will end around the middle of the thigh.  From what I understand, the fact that I have feeling (and movement) down to my knee makes me a prime candidate for a prosthetic.  There will be a period of time where I’ll be toughening up my leg, getting it ready for the prosthetic, then, as soon as I get it, I’ll be starting therapy to teach me how to wear it, care for it and, most importantly, walk on it.

My goal is to be walking for Christmas.  It doesn’t have to be that far, but I just want to walk into my parents’ house again for the holidays.  Wish me luck.  I’ll post an update tomorrow after surgery.

As I go over old emails, chat logs and my sister’s daily updates from early in my fight against cancer, it’s strange to me how many times my memory doesn’t match up with the actual events.

Sure, there are the occasional things that I’ve forgotten over time…how many times they had to stick me to give me the IV contrast for my first CAT scan, the fact that I was awake for several days that I don’t recall in the ICU, etc.  However, it’s the little inconsistencies that surprise me, things that I was sure I remembered correctly, etched into my brain, that turned out to be wrong.

I swear I remember, clear as a bell, my doctor (upon feeling my tumor for the first time) telling me to just start driving down to the hospital and they would be ready for me by the time I got there.  That’s the kind of urgency that I remember.  In reality, while they were trying to schedule me ASAP, I didn’t make it in to the hospital for my CAT scan until the next day.  My memory, I’m sure, is based on the sense of urgency that I got from my doctor and his nurses, as well as my own hindsight, knowing how serious it was.  Truth is, at the time, I wasn’t terribly worried about it.  I knew it was something worth worrying about, and I was worried…but only as much as someone going in for a routine test.  I certainly had no idea what was coming.