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personal

Heavier than when I left

My thoughts are never far

Subway Station at Bowling Green NYC

Me: I’m off to the gym.
Her: (nods)

Wish I could give you good news about Alison and the rest of us but I can’t. New and unexpected miniature disasters visit us regularly, each one with it’s own particular set of grief and crazy.

It’s exhausting.

Haven’t been able to go fence, even though it’s around the corner, cause classes are only at night.

Did manage to get to my other gym this week, after not going for over a month.

While it’s not around the corner, it’s also not that far from me. Grab my gym bag, which never has much in it – mouthguard, clean clothes, water, and maybe my keys – and 18 minutes or so and I’m there.

It’s strange being back there. The older guys know better than to ask how I’m doing but newer people want to know details of my horror story, which I understand from a morbid curiosity point of view, but I go to forget my problems, not relate them.

Still, I try to focus on being there but it’s hard. My thoughts are never far from her. 90 minutes later, I’m done and start heading back home.

Even though the distance is the same, and my bag should be lighter since I drank the water and am wearing the clothes, instead home seems forever away.

And I struggle with a bag that seems even heavier than when I left.

Me: (cheerily) Hey beautiful, I’m back.
Her: (nods)

\’

Location: snowy NYC
Mood: struggling
Music: minor catastrophes bring me to my knees

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My job is to kill things that need to be killed

Giving us time

Redeemer Church in the Upper West Side
Years ago…

Her: Logan!
Me: (running over) What?!
Her: Spider. Kill it!
Me: Wait, what? Why?
Her: Your job here is to kill things.
Me: …that need to be killed. Spiders are our friends. (turning to spider) Arentcha, little guy?

Friends keep asking if they can stop by and take me out for a spot of rum or maybe bring me out to eat. They feel I need a break. Probably do.

The thing with me is that I have an addictive personality. It’s related to my insomnia, as I can’t turn off my mind.

Now, I feel that every moment of my time has to be spent finding a way of killing this monster that’s entered our lives.

I don’t go to the gym. Don’t cook. Don’t even have time to work.

Instead, I spend my time researching ways people somehow beat this cancer. The largest percentage of my time is wading through pages of medical jargon and separating the crackpot solutions from the things that actually have some science behind it.

All the while, hoping to find something that might lead us home. To our old mundane lives, with our old mundane problems.

Her: Kill it, Logan!
Me: Nope. I’m gonna name him, Hubert.

A Day For Alison

Regarding cooking, I rarely cook these days because my church has been sending us a jaw-dropping amount of ketogenic food – we’re on a ketogenic diet partly because of a well-researched podcast a female gym buddy sent me.

And the food has been organized by an amazing woman I met for the first time at my buddy Bobby’s memorial. She checks in on us regularly, as do many members of my church.

There’s even a fundraiser happening at the end of this month in New Jersey.

Information, donations, and time. These are the most valuable things to us right now, with time being the most valuable.

We just need more time.

 

\’

Location: home, of course
Mood: reasearch-y
Music: One minute I held the key, next the walls were closed on me

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Felicitous

All emotional pain and joy is the same

Snow covered bicycle in NYC

For everyone that shared my letter to Vice President Joe Biden, thank you. I’m hoping that it will find its way to him somehow. And if you’ve not shared it, please consider doing so?

Alison finished her radiation and chemotherapy this week. The standard route is six weeks but ours was only three because the surgeon took out so much of the tumor.

Doctor: In some ways, her collapsing was felicitous. Because the surgeon did a beautiful job cleaning up the tumor. And we can also reduce the number of treatments.

I agree. If nothing else, not sure Alison would have been able to finish a full six weeks of chemo and radiation. The toll of just three weeks – both mentally and physically – is shocking. The last day of radiation and chemo was…difficult. And now, we wait.

Waiting is always its own special hell. Because we form expectations of what might happen: too high an expectation and you’re dashed when reality falls short; too low, and you spend more time in anxiety and distress than necessary.

My whole life, I’ve always wondered the meaning of Hope being the last thing to escape Pandora’s Box.

Was Hope last out of the box because it’s the one bulwark against all of the evil of the world? Or was Hope last because is it the worst of the worst?

Because all emotional pain and joy happens in that gap between what you hope and what you actually get.

  • If you expect to make $20,000 a year and you make $100,000, that $80,000 gap is joy.
  • If you expect to make $100,000 a year and you make $20,000, that $80,000 gap is pain.

For us, we remain hopeful. And we wait to find out what is felicitous and what is not.

Her: (waking) What do we have to do today?
Me: Rest.

\’

Location: with our son
Mood: hoping
Music: Hold on, I feel like you could shine

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A letter to Joe Biden

Two questions for the Vice-President

Alison McCarthy

A boy walks across the beach, throwing starfish back into the sea.

Old man: What are you doing?
Boy: (flings a starfish into the sea) Saving starfish from drying up on the beach.
Old man: (laughing) What’s the point? There are millions of starfish dying on beaches. Throwing one back won’t matter.
Boy: (picks up another starfish)

————-

Dear Mr. Vice President;

My wife and I were deeply touched and saddened when we heard of your son’s passing, because we often remarked how unfair your life had already been. How you’ve managed your grief so well, I cannot fathom.

I write to ask that you help spare my family the grief and anguish that your family had to bear both those times.

My wife, Alison, and I have struggled for years to have a family. We suffered several losses in the past few years. That alone would be enough to break someone but my wife persevered. You would like her because, like you, she does not quit.

We were finally blessed with our son in November of 2015. But on November 8th, just five days later, she had a seizure and was rushed to the hospital. After a biopsy, we found out she had an incurable, aggressive brain cancer. I believe it was the same brain cancer that took Beau from you: A glioblastoma (GBM).

Since that day, I’ve done nothing but research the disease and help my wife. And in that time, in less than a month and a half, she’s had a total of three brain surgeries.

As you know, glioblastoma has an almost 100% death rate with a near 100% recurrence rate. Yet after over 50 years of research, little has changed: median survival is only an abysmal 14.6 months – in the past 15 years, there’s been almost no progress in survival rate.

Brain tumors are the leading cause of cancer-related deaths in children under 14, and the second leading cause of cancer-related deaths in children under 20.

14,000 Americans are stricken with it each year, each with names and families. Names like Brittany Maynard, Lauren Hill, Theodore Kennedy, Beau Biden, and Alison McCarthy. Families like yours and mine.

We learned we had this insidious disease the same month you attended the GBM AGILE Reception. There, Dr. Anna Barker said the problem is clear – outdated FDA rules that were never meant to deal with aggressive terminal illnesses:

“Randomized clinical trials [the current standard clinical trials] are 70 years old…what other technology doesn’t change in 70 years? … Meanwhile, cancer biology is moving at light speed and potential treatments have to wait in the queue.”1

Thousands are dying each year while these outdated rules stand in the way of potentially life-saving research and everyone knows it, because we treat brain cancer like an infectious disease. We think that there should be one cure (eg, penicillin) for one disease (eg, strep throat).

But GBM is not strep throat. It is closest to AIDS, when it first arrived, in that it is terminal and terminal very quickly. And time is a luxury GBM patients do not have.

Here’s what an FDA trial requires, of which every step is an excruciating hurdle for a GBM patient:

Phase 1 – Examines the safety of a product in a very small group of healthy volunteers or patients to determine appropriate dose ranges. (20-80 patients)

But: A patient with a GBM is, by definition, not healthy. My wife is not eligible for any clinical trial right now because she is not healthy enough for one.

Phase 2 – Evaluates the safety and efficacy of the product at a pre-determined dose in comparison to the standard care treatment (100-300 patients)

But: This means half the patients don’t have access to a drug that might help them and, for someone with a one-year life span, if that dose is wrong, there is no second chance to get it right – because that’s not the purpose of a clinical trials.

Phase 3 – Tests the product in double-blind comparison to the standard care treatment with a large and diverse population to determine efficacy and usage guidelines (1000-3000 patients)

But: Because GBM is rare, these patients are not to be found. Moreover, double-blind means that half the patients, again, are on placebos.

This is why in the past 15 years, there have only been four advancements in GBM therapy: Optune (2015), Avastin (2009), Temodar (2005), and Gliadel wafers (2002).

The outcome is so consistently dire, we cannot afford to deal with each treatment option via FDA rules, which have a real-world cost of over 2.5 billion US dollars per trial.

The cost, coupled with the requirements, make it easy to see why only four advancements happened in the past 14 years.

People think – in fact our doctor thinks – that the Hippocratic Oath says, “First do no harm.” This is false.

In fact, the Hippocratic Oath does not say that. It does, however, say “I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures which are required.”

Similarly, researchers are held the standard of the Declaration of Helsinki which expressly states that “concern for the interests of the subject must always prevail over the interests of science and society.”

Here is my first question: Can we honestly say that the FDA regulations in place now for GBM aren’t in violation of those oaths?

The rules are not there to save patients, but to aid science. A laudable goal, but one directly in conflict to these sworn oaths.

This is precisely why Larry Kramer wrote in the NY Times about AIDS decades ago, stating that “Double-blind (placebo) studies were not designed for terminal illnesses in mind. … It’s genocide by neglect.

My second question is equally simple: If there is credible evidence that a treatment may improve both progression free survival and/or overall survival, and GBM has an almost 100% death rate with a near 100% recurrence rate, why would we not afford a patient every bit of chance possible?

For example, Valcyte is a medication for HIV use but has been shown to have some effect on GBM. However, “it is not standard practice to prescribe medications that have not been vetted through appropriately designed phase II trials.” This, despite the fact that the drug is well-tolerated and has minimal risk.2

Similar to HIV treatment, gonorrhea, combination therapies are the only hope for a cancer as deadly and insidious as glioblastomas.

Yet FDA rules are designed for monotherapies – again, treating this terminal illness like a mere infectious disease.

Dr. Emil Freireich, one of the three doctors that promulgated combination therapy to cure leukemia, is on record saying, “Would the things we did in 1960 be possible today? The answer is unequivocally capital N, capital O, no. … Reforming regulation is the most important thing we can do.”

– https://vimeo.com/119006145 at 1:04:13

ACT-UP transformed AIDS from a death sentence to a chronic condition through by-passing the FDA and creating a drug cocktail, a combination therapy of current drugs to deal with a terminal disease.

To this date, there has never been an FDA randomized Phase 3 trial for the AIDS cocktail. This is totally due to political will.

“If AIDS patients demanded direct access to drugs and treatments, should cancer patients with terminal illnesses not also make similar demands?”

The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer, pg 310

Everything we knew and read of Beau Biden confirms your statement that he was the finest man you have ever known.

My wife has been heartbroken, not because she has to go through this, but because my son and I have to go through it. For this and countless other reasons, she’s the finest human being I have ever known.

Your grandchildren deserved every chance – however minute – to grow old with their father, to remain on top of the mountain. My son is only some 70 days old as of this writing. He deserves to know his mother, just like every child deserves to know his or her parent.

We must hold doctors and clinicians to their oaths and put patients first, not science and rules. Instead of these onerous rules, doctors and their patients should, together, be allowed to simply weigh the benefits against the risks.

I ask for GBM patients what the AIDS activists demanded for their loved ones, when faced with a terminal illness, as delineated more thoroughly here:

  1. Shorten the drug approval process.
  2. Eliminate double-blind placebo trials – this is the height of cruelty.
  3. Include people from all affected populations at all stages of GBM in clinical trials – currently there is a clear distinction between “new” and “recurrent” patients.
    • Why on earth is that? Beau and Alison should have had access to everything the moment they found out they had a GBM.
  4. Medicaid and private health insurance must be made to pay for experimental therapies. This is critical with the passage of the ACA.
  5. Doctors must inform patients of any and all clinical trials that a patient may be eligible for.
    • Currently, patients must learn that clinical trials even exist on their own. Then they must research to see if they are eligible for them, also independently.
  6. The FDA must support a goal of keeping patients – that is keeping people – alive, rather than furthering science.

Curing cancer – especially this cancer – is not a moonshot because we’re lacking the knowledge, sir, it’s a moonshot because we’re lacking the political will to change regulation.

Please help me save my wife, Mr. Vice-President, and all those waiting for a cure for this horrible cancer. We don’t have much time.

Please #SaveAlison.

Logan Lo

————-

Boy: (shrugging and flinging the starfish into the sea) It matters to this one.

DONATE

Location: home with my family
Mood: determined
Music: Together we could break this trap

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You fight for that 1%

I don’t accept it

Logan and Alison in Bermuda

Her: (crying)
Me: (awaking anxiously) Are you alright?
Her: I thought I died.

The night terrors have slowed down but haven’t stopped. But for better or worse they’re happening at home because Alison came home this week.

She’d been in the hospital for over a month. When she went in, the kid was just over 32 days old. He’s now more than twice that age and over twice as big.

When she first got home, she couldn’t look at him. Not long, anyway. She’d start to cry. Because he reminds her of what she’s missed out on. What she’s lost.

In some ways, that perfectly encapsulates what’s happened in the last two months.

The women that gave birth to him is not the woman here now. The woman that gave birth to him was a normal weight, with long blond hair, and an easy laugh. She was doing pregnancy work-out videos in the weeks leading to delivery.

Now, she’s only 100 pounds. Bald. With a foot-long scar encircling her head and another six-inch scar going from the top of her head to the base of her neck. She rarely smiles, let alone laughs.

And she sits in a wheelchair. She has little use of her left side. She’s a shadow of the person she was.

But I hope. I hope there’s some way she can be that person again. I believe she can be that person again.

In my gym, we get yelled at a lot. It’s not a place for the soft.

And we each get yelled at for specific things. For example, I get yelled at for accepting what’s called a “pass.”

Coach: Don’t accept it, don’t accept that pass!
Me: He was 99% passed!
Coach: (angrily) That means 1% not passed! 99 is not 100! You fight for that 1%. You don’t give up until it’s done. You’re not done at 99%! (kicks me)

And so it is here.

I don’t accept it: The prognosis. The statistics. This life. I refuse to accept any of it. Not for her, not for me.

Whatever the percentage we have, I refuse to accept it. We’ll fight until it’s done, whenever that may come.

Me: You didn’t. You’re still here. And you’re gonna be keep being here as long as you keep fighting, ok?
Her: OK.
Me: Go back to sleep. I’ll be here the whole time.

12510411_10153743014581877_1751352215977495639_n
My gym is holding a fundraiser for Alison – this is the fourth or fifth one.

I’m so grateful that I have them supporting us. I’d have gone full raving without them.

DONATE

Location: Home. There’s no place like it.
Mood: f__ this thing
Music: But I have the skill, yeah I have the will

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I’m all by myself

Four words and 50 stories

Weill Cornell Christmas Lobby 2015

There’s little sadder than being the only person in a hospital on Christmas.

———-

Me: (picking up phone, anxious) Alison?
Her: (panicked) Where are you!? Where am I!?

Of all the Adam Sandler/Drew Barrymore films, the one I’ve enjoyed most is 50 First Dates.

In it, Barrymore’s character can’t retain recent memories and only remembers things in her distant past, and Sandler’s character has to repeatedly “meet” her again and again. In the end, he records a video – on VHS cassette no less – to remind her of everything the two of them had gone through together.

So let me tell you about our first Christmas as a family…

I woke up and made a cuppa joe before I was going to make my way to the hospital. But then my phone rings and I look down to see it’s Alison. It’s the first time she’s called me in months since this happened so I anxiously answered.

She didn’t remember anything happened and was terrified. Minutes later, I’m in a taxi, rushing across town. She calls again.

Her: (scared) Where are you?
Me: I’m in a car, I’ll be there in 10 minutes.
Her: Hurry. Please. (pause, quieter) I’m all by myself.

In life, there are words that chill you to your core. “Your wife has cancer” were four such words. “I’m all by myself” were four others.

So I said to her what I’ve always thought are the four sweetest words in the English language: I’m on my way.

The cab stopped at a red before the hospital, so I flew out the door and ran up the stairs to her room, still on the phone.

Me: (panting) I’m on the second floor, I’ll be right there…

When I arrived, she turned to me with the same panicked look in her eyes that she had a month ago, when I told her the four words the doctor said to me. Telling her then was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.

Then I realized I had to do it all over again.

So I steadied myself, gulped down some air, and sat down next to her bed.

Me: Honey…

And I saw the look again. Could go a lifetime, never see that look again, and it’d still be too soon.

Dunno how doctors regularly give bad news. Where do they find the strength to tell someone that that their lives are in grave jeopardy on the regular? Do they drink every night at their desk?

Me: …he said you might not wake up. But you did. Then he said you might be permanently damaged…
Her: (horrified)
Me: …but you’re not. And then another doctor said he had to open you again and said you might not come back, but you did. This cancer has been wanting to kill you but you just won’t let it.

Somewhere along the line, the alarms that were going off because of her rapid heartbeat, stopped ringing. And she started breathing normally again. Her voice became stronger.

Her: I can’t believe this is my life.
Me: (sighing) This woman once said, You don’t have a right to the cards you believe you should have been dealt. You have an obligation to play the hell out of the ones you’re holding. It’s a ___ hand, but you’ve been playing the hell out of them. We’re all so proud of you.

Then I took her phone and explained everything a third time – this time via a recording on her phone. And I titled it: WATCH ME!

Told her that if she woke up again and didn’t know where she was, she could watch that and wait for me. Because I would always be on my way.

Her: (quietly) I want to get going and beat this.
Me: That’s my girl. (nodding) That’s my tough girl…

Screen Shot 2015-12-25

\’

Location: A different room in the same hospital, looking at the same river
Mood: humbled
Music: Don’t stop, no, I’ll never give up

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Companionship

Someone to sit and eat with

The word companion comes from late Latin, with com meaning with and panis meaning bread.

Essentially, a companion is someone with whom you do these daily mundane things, like sitting down and eating.

When my wife first got sick, I slept on the floor next to her hospital bed for a week. Said I did it because I didn’t want her to be alone, which was true. But equally true was that I didn’t want to be alone either.

Nurse: You can’t sleep here.
Me: (lying down) Let’s find out.

I’m sorry for the lack of updates – especially to those that have so generously donated.

On December 10th, Alison was unresponsive so we rushed her to the hospital. There, the doctors had to remove part of her skull to save her life. They said she might not survive the night. I fell to my knees.

But she survived. Then she had another surgery just a week later. That’s three brain surgeries in a month, just days after giving birth.

To say that my wife is crazy tough is like saying that New York City is a small town. She’s made of steel.

Unfortunately, she’s been in the hospital since the 10th and will be for quite a while. I’m there most days; other days, other relatives are with her.

This is not how we imagined our first Christmas and New Year’s as a family.

Still, I go to the hospital and have bread with her when she’s able. When she’s not, I just sit there. And we dream of home.

She would do the same for me, because she’s my companion and I’m her’s.

Me: (arriving, breathless) Hey, beautiful.
Her: Hey.

Location: The same hospital room, still looking at the same river
Mood: still heartbroken
Music: Somedays I’m built of metal, I can’t be broken. But not when I’m with you

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Bookending

I’m in a funny place, mentally

Child's Birthday Cake
February’s over and it’s been heady.

It was strange in that there were two children’s birthday parties and one death. The children are young: one’s my nephew, who turned one; the other, my niece, who turned two. The death was that of a college buddy about my age, 43.

It was the first time I’d been to any child’s birthday party since I was a kid. And the death was the first time someone I knew well, who was my age, passed.

In any case, my nephew’s birthday party was in Queens, my niece’s was in NJ. It was bitterly cold both days. The kind where every inhale burns the inside of your lungs.

And for the one in NJ, got the added bonus of being caught in a snowstorm so that meant a slow crawl home.

All that traveling gives a fella time to think.

Thought mainly of the bookending of life in these events: Two children starting their journey in the world, one young man finishing his.

Wonder how the children will spend the time they’ll have; wonder how I’ll spend the time I have left.

Clock in West Village, NYC

Oddly, my brother called me last night talking about that very subject.

Told him that I’m pretty content with my life. Wish I had more scratch and less injuries, but, on the whole, I don’t have a ton to complain about. After all, I won the lottery where it really counts.

But I’m turning 42 in less than two months, which makes me think about my own life more and more. I suppose I’ll tell you about that some day.

Of course, it’s all time and tide. We just don’t know what either will bring us.

But, I hope good things.

Man at the birthday party: Have a safe trip home, old man.
Me: (leaving) That’s just cruel.

Children's cupcakes (purple)

Location: yesterday, crawling to the Lincoln Tunnel
Mood: thoughtful
Music: away from you, it froze me deep inside. So come back

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Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose

Going down memory lane

William Street Subway Station NYC

Because I have all these deadlines, been all over the city the past few weeks again.

Similarly, my brother, who’s in town, has been driving around a few miles north of the city for a bit.

He actually managed to stop by where we grew up and took a buncha photos while he was up there, all of which took my breath away. Haven’t seen these places in 30+ years.

One picture stands out in my mind though, this one here. It’s panoramic so you can see what my street was like.

Here’s why it sticks out; that building is new but I still recognize the street and the entrance towards it. And I remember it clearly because my parents – who had no money for anything – would bring us there for our recreation.

To me, it was the the most exciting place on the planet for a six year old. I think I would go nuts at the prospect of going.

We would sit and read for hours. I suspect my mom left us there for a while because she figured no one would wanna kidnap two Chinese nerds.

But that was fine by me.

I wonder how much those years influenced my life. The sitting by my lonesome and just reading. My brother is the same way.

I’m looking forward to finishing up this spate of work for a number reasons – like to spend time with my wife and friends.

But I also want to sit by my lonesome and finish up a book I’ve been reading for a while now.

The more things change, yeah?

Location: my desk for now
Mood: nostalgic
Music: I may find myself delayed on the road to New Orleans

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Focusing on the finish line with Lillian

Finishing up with some work soon

NYC subway door entrance

For those of you that celebrate Thanksgiving, I hope it was a nice one.

Didn’t do much, myself – went home that day to see the fam and came back that day. Trying to get a handle on all this work I have.

I see the finish line, though.

Friday is the last of the largest projects I have with some smaller ones wrapping up in the middle of December.

Been working on this portfolio of stuff for the past five or six weeks. I’m pretty mentally drained.

Being so close, though, seems to make time stretch out longer. I think it’s because I start focusing on the finish line instead of the work itself.

Ever hear of this lady named Lillian Alling?

Seems she came here to NYC from Russia when she was a kid and, in 1927, decided she had enough of the Big Apple – something I wrestle with myself – and the rest of America. So she decided to go home.

But she had no scratch and no means to get there.

Unbelievably, she decided to walk back to Russia. From New York. Her feet were her only carriage.

She walked from NYC to Chicago, then through Canada. The last record of her was in 1929, when she was Nome, Alaska.

Seems she was there trying to get someone to give her a boat ride across the Bering Strait, where I assume we was gonna continue to walk until she got home.

Dunno if she made it.

I do know, however, that she probably made it that far by just focusing on the individual task at hand, which was putting one foot in front of the other.

And not dying, I suppose.

Which brings me back to my tasks at hand. Trying to focus but I just want it to be Christmas already, and my work to be done.

It’s hard to stop staring, once you see it. The finish line.

Wonder if Lillian ever got to see home, or if she died with her feet facing home.

In my head, I like to think she made it home.

Mussels at Arte Cafe in NYC, UWS

On the flip side, my brother’s in town with his new girl and he took me out to eat twice – well, him once and his girl once.

One of the times was Shake Shack. Some of the best burgers on the planet – unfortunately, everyone seems to know that so that’s why I almost never got even though it’s only a few minutes from home.

I really gotta stop thinking of food all the time.

Shake Shack burger and fries in UWS

Location: Jersey
Mood: anxious
Music: My feet is my only carriage, so I’ve got to push on through

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