UNTITLED CHAD DARNELL PROJECT

Happiness, It Hurt Like a Train on a Track...

On Wednesday I did a podcast (CLICK HERE TO LISTEN) with my dear friend Mel Majoros ("The Cancer Warrior") and she reminded me that I have a blog.  Oopsie.  We also talked about the fact that when I was first diagnosed with cancer, I read every single blog about testicular on the internet and I got pissed off when people just stopped writing about their experience!

So for catch-up...

It has now been two years since the death of "Henry, the Sad Little Testicle."

I am now going to City of Hope for continued blood tests and CT scans.  I had a scan on Thursday.  Apparently I drank the barium contrast wrong and it's supposed to be 8 ozs at a time (in the past it had always been one the night before and one the morning of).  SO i had to arrive an hour early to drink more of it.

They were backed up about an hour, so I went for coffee in the cafe.  They serve Seattle's Blend and much to my surprise... they have a "Henry's Blend."  It is described as "nutty... rich, complex."  Clearly, I think this was a sign, sent from the spirit of my dearly departed testicle.  You need only look at the forlorn cat in the photo to understand.

Finished the scan.  Going back for results today.

Promise to update on that more... I started blogging about testicular cancer so guys who were diagnosed could follow the whole journey and I neglected it over the past year.  But you can read they whole thing here under "The C Word" (which I titled BEFORE that series on Showtime!)

As for the boobs, it turns out I have gynecomastia and I'm now on Tamoxifen and we're hoping that it shrinks the tissue.  Otherwise they will have to do surgery (not covered by insurance), but the tamoxifen appears to be working.

The blood results from that came back and it showed that my testosterone level dropped a little from cancer, but not what he thought it could have been. 

Follow up on that next week.

I'll update later today on all the screenplays and where they are.

 

"I... Am... Changing..."

To recap:  it has been two years since the great testicle exodus of 2008.  (If you've missed that, go back and read the entire "The C Word" thread.)  I had a terrible oncologist and fired him.  I went to a supermodel oncologist and his "little bit more" prices were 10 times what I was paying before.  And I've been working out and training for a marathon.  It has also been nearly a year since I went vegetarian (with sometimes fish).

I've been working out A LOT.  Like a lot- a lot.  I've been running about 20 - 30 miles a week.  I've been eating the right foods and the right calories.  But I haven't seen hardly muscle growth. 

I started to notice that my abs were slowly starting to show up again for the first time in two years.  But, I had these two large boobs.  Like, these two bitches need a training bra.  Like I run AND THEY BOUNCE.

I am always tired.  My muscles ache all the time, but not in a good "worked out way."  So obviously, something's not right.  I thought "maybe" it could have been that I wasn't eating meat, but I still manage to get 150 grams of protein a day in shakes, and other sources.

So I started googling "testicular cancer" and "boobs" and low and behold... I SHOULD HAVE BEEN ON TESTOSTERONE ALL THIS TIME!!!

Why you ask?  Ask yourself... where is testosterone in men produced.  Oh right, we're working at half capacity.  

This explains so much (I mean... SO MUCH...).

When I called my doctor and told him, "yes, everything is fine, and I've got a great rack," he said, "oh... okay.  Come in tomorrow and let's check your levels and get you started."  

I was beginning to believe that was it for me and no matter what I did, I was just going to have to either do lipo or live with it.

I can't wait to see what it does to me.  Looking forward to mood swings, bad skin and depression.  

But until they are gone, I would like to only be referred to as "bitch tits."

It's Not Me, It's You

So I had my oncology follow-up. 

Blood tests and setting the CT scan.

Blue Cross FINALLY (after a year... a YEAR) settled their "investigation" and paid for the CT scan LAST year.  My share is about $330.

Once again, I arrived, got blood drawn, got groped and was sent on my way, after being told the test results would be in on Monday (this was Thursday).  I was also told that the CT scan would be scheduled by then.

Long story short, after two phone calls and seven days, I still didn't have my results and NOTHING pisses me off more than not having my phone call returned when it involves my health.

They didn't draw enough blood.  I have to go back again tomorrow.

And that was the final straw.  I'm going to sign with another oncologist after the first of the year.   This guy is an idiot.  I can't tell you how many times he hasn't returned my phone call - starting with the "by the way, you need to start chemo TOMORROW" phone call from a year ago.

Whenever I call I have to explain that in fact my first name is NOT "Darnell."

And while I was on the phone with him getting the date for my CT scan, I found a letter in my mailbox with the same information from my insurance company.  In otherwords, the scan had been set days ago and he hadn't called.  And when I told him to schedule it for first thing in the morning, he scheduled it for 11AM.

Idiot.

And I guess I'll have to wait another week to get my test results.'

Idiot.

This Is It (Or When Testicles Go Rogue)

At one point Sunday, Jillian Armenante grabbed my hand during the performance of THE LARAMIE PROJECT: 10 YEARS LATER.  It was a nice, calming moment, because with this brilliant woman, the help of Pauley Perrette, but most importantly, the support of the entire staff of Hollywood United Methodist, we had pulled off a miracle.  We had pulled off a full scale production to benefit the Matthew Shepard Foundation in under three weeks to a sell-out audience with a tremendous cast.

She grabbed my hand and I thought, "this year has really sucked."  I looked over and I saw two men in nice suits and sunglasses, staring out at the crowd.  

On Sunday, it will be a year to the date - 365 days or 525,600 minutes since I was lying in bed and found a large lump on my testicle.  

For the weeks leading up to discovery, I wasn't feeling "right."  I had pain "down there," which I assumed was from lugging camera equipment during the documentary shoot.  I couldn't run as fast as my marathon training group.  I felt sick.

Finding that lump in the wee hours after Halloween scared the living crap out of me.  My heart started racing.  I leaped out of bed, grabbed my laptop in the living room, returned to bed and googled to WebMD.com (which one should NEVER, EVER do to self-diagnose) and discovered that whatever this "thing" was, it most probably was cancer.

Just a day or two later, I went to visit my friend Ryan Green.  He was one of the first people I told and told me that most probably it was a cyst.  

All of my friends tried to cushion it.  There isn't a class to take on "what to say when you know someone who might have cancer."

I was put on antibiotics that made me sick, attempting to reduce it.  (It did not.)  I was sent for second opinions and told "I'm 95% sure it's cancer" (which would be the first time I would hear the word "cancer").  I was told the only sure fire way to know was a biopsy, which would mean removing "Henry" (the sad little testicle)  from my scrotum and cutting him open.  Whatever it was, it was a tumor.  If it was cancer, they would take the testicle, otherwise, if not, they could stick it back in and I would just have a "lumpy" testicle.  (That could turn to cancer.)

I had been training to do the Honolulu Marathon with the AIDS Marathon folks and the only reason I did that was because Ryan was coaching.  Of course, three weeks before I was set to do the marathon I knew I wouldn't be able to participate.  I had surgery exactly 7 days before my friends collecting their finisher medals.

I opted to evict Henry, kicking him out of the scrotum, and of course, but it turned out to be what I thought it was in the early hours of November 1st - cancer.

I walked with a limp for three months (even hiking weeks afterwards... because I'm stubborn), went home to Atlanta for Christmas, and discovered that the oncologist who missed my initial phone call, should have started me on chemo weeks weeks earlier.

Chemo.  That was fun.

I quit/ "the job ended"/ my presence was no longer wanted on a documentary that I had been producing for the past six months.  On cancer.  

I began writing a script the day after Henry was extracted for a producer who would end up not paying me for services rendered.  And hurt me in ways no other person ever had, personally, because I was friends with this person.

I wrote for a website that never seemed to be able to pay me on time, even after breaking stories for them - which recently went under.  I was considered a "loose canon" because I wanted my money.

I was on unemployment for six months.

My pilot deal died.

I fought weekly with insurance companies.

I was nearly hired for two shows as a writer, but because I wasn't in their fellowships (which pay for the low level writers) ended up not getting hired.

I was up to cast VAMPIRE DIARIES in Atlanta.  Practically promised the job, then not hired.

I had another cancer scare.

I lost a few friends to deaths by mysterious circumstances.

I was practically told I would be in the Warner Bros. fellowship, and then didn't make it past the first level.

I (thanks to Catie) finally found employment at a hotel.  That has turned me into a vampire.  But I have a job and for that, I am grateful.

And then three weeks ago I got what Pauley calls "the God tap" to produce THE LARAMIE PROJECT: 10 YEARS LATER.  

And here I sat.  Amazing cast on stage and I watched as two men in suits scanned their eyes right passed me.  They were here, because of a potential threat from the outside.  Because Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptists decided to come play.

We prepared for them.  We assembled the congregation with umbrellas.  We built angel wings into the wee hours of the night before.  We were going to face down this hate from the outside in the biggest, baddest, silent way Hollywood had ever seen.

And they didn't show.

Part of me was relieved.  Part of me was pissed.  No one likes confrontation, but I wanted these people to face off against my people.  The media was ready for it and no one would ever question that on October 25, 2009 - three days before the Matthew Shepard Act was signed by President Obama, that we silently, profoundly and eloquently blew these idiots to the other side of Franklin Avenue.

They didn't show.

The pictures sent to me and the message "remember these pictures" of Matthew Shepard's funeral were considered a threat.  Everywhere I went, people followed me.  I felt safe, but at the same time, I felt uncomfortable that people were following me for my protection and the protection of my cast.

And as I sat there, watching Zachary Quinto and Helen Shaver reenact a moment as Moises Kaufman and Judy Shepard - in that moment when I thought, "this year has really sucked" - I realized I started off the year with my body trying to kill me and now there were Baptists trying to kill me - physically, emotionally, psychologically - whatever.

And for the first time, I started crying.  Couldn't stop.  Helen's performance, mixed with the men in suits and the fact that every time my blackberry started vibrating during the performance, I feared it was the text, "Westboro is here."

If I can make it through today, I'll be fine.  Then I remembered... "WHY DID I EVER SIGN UP TO DO A MARATHON!?"

On Sunday - 365 days or 525,600 minutes after discovering a lump, I will run.  I will run for 26.2 miles through the street of NY.  I will run for Lance Armstrong's Livestrong Organization - which was a huge support and education for me over the past year.

Not long ago, I went back through my 12 of 12 pics in January and I remember telling Zen, "I can't believe I tried to hike Runyan a month after major surgery and I was pissed that I had to stop three times to catch my breath" and she told me that all of my friends knew that they wouldn't be able to stop me, so they just let me do my thing.  I remember dragging that right leg (where they cut into muscle for the removal) for three months and on Sunday, it's going to be running all over New York City.

I haven't trained properly.  We had fires.  We had heat.  We had rain.  I had a crippling cough.  I work at night and couldn't sleep due to the heat.

If you haven't followed the entire story - read in reverse, HERE (though, I actually - out of concern for my family and friends, didn't start talking about it until mid-November).

I'm thankful and grateful to everyone who has supported me financially to support Team Livestrong and emotionally.  I couldn't have done it without you.

And come Sunday, come hell, come high water - if I have to crawl over that finish line, I'm going to finish it.  I'm going to finish and as God as my witness, next year is going to be the best year of my life.

Here We Go Again

I found another lump.

Last Wednesday night I was in bed.  To be perfectly honest, I have not "explored" "the area" or "said hello to Edward (the left testicle)" since Henry's death and removal.  Again, if I could afford therapy, we could go into that.

So there I was in bed.  And I found "it."  And "it" scared the shit out of me.

I couldn't tell if it was attached to Edward or not.  And frankly, I didn't want to touch it.  The next morning I was supposed to be in Westwood at an early call time to help Zen with her fitness shoot at Exercise TV and then I had a pitch meeting at my manager's office at 4PM.

In the late morning, while Zen was changing in between takes, I went outside and called my urologist.  Left a message and later I missed his phone call in the middle of a shot.  Went outside and called him back.

"So I found a lump."  He wanted to see me that afternoon, but a) I couldn't leave in the middle of the shoot.  b) I had a meeting.  c) I never would have made it to mid-Wilshire from Westwood before he closed.  

He was closed Friday.  He wanted to see me first thing Monday morning.  I could tell from his voice this wasn't good.

I went back into the little studio room and continued with Zen and then left to get to my pitch meeting.  Except for a momentary flash in my head of the words, "you are going to die before you see 37," I put it out of my mind.

My mind started to slowly go at this point. An hour later, I was completely freaked out.  I sat and pitched and then made my way home.  I'm up to rewrite a script for an actress who I'm obsessed with.  You know who she is.  I love her.  She has really good instincts.  Some might even call them basic.  I met with the two writer/ producers on the project who are absolutely lovely.  They seemed to like my take on the project.  While I sat there and pitched and asked questions, I could practically see a neon sign above me that read:  "He's going to be dead soon" above my head and I was afraid they could see it.  I smiled and did my best to act as normal as possible.

Sheree was in the meeting as well.  She called me later to tell me how happy and impressed she was with the pitch.  

I waited Friday.  I watched Michael Jackson footage all day Friday and Saturday.  

I went with Summer to the Palisades 10K, but I was too freaked out to run.  I was convinced I was going to start spitting up blood and then to make matters worse, I saw Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt and had visions of them using my lifeless corpse as a photo op.  

I went to a party Saturday night at the home of one of the writer/ producers from the pitch.  And then I went to work.

Oh, right.  I have a job now.  In Manhattan Beach (below LAX) at a hotel doing the night audit and working as the night manager.  Basically, I will turn into a vampire in the coming weeks, working from 11 PM until 7 AM.

Catie got me the job.  She started training me that evening.  I was freaked out when I walked in, because it's a high-end boutique hotel and the lobby has a hip bar in the lobby.  It was like a scene out of ALIAS.  PACKED with hipsters.  Welcome to your new job.  Fortunately, I will be working during the week when it's quiet and not the night of July 4th.

My brain was fried by the time I got home.  I went home and went to bed.  When I woke up, I watched Michael Jackson footage.

And Sunday I began to obsess over my impending death.  "THIS is why I didn't get VAMPIRE DIARIES.  THIS is why I'm not in Atlanta.  Because I'm going to be dead by Christmas.  THIS is why I'm coughing.  Because the cancer has spread to my lungs."  This ran on loop in my head all weekend long.

I even began to worry about the job.  How do you tell your new employers that you're about to undergo surgery to have cancers removed and go through chemo?  Should I just quit now?

And a better question:  WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME AGAIN!?

I only told a few people.  I didn't want my parents to worry.  Plus, the more I talked out loud about, the more it became real.  

I contemplated going to see MY SISTER'S KEEPER because I love Cameron Diaz.  But I decided seeing a movie about a girl dying... probably not the best selection for me.

Last night, I took a Tylenol PM to knock me out.  While I was in the bathroom, I heard what sounded like the kitchen being ransacked.  Thinking it was my roommate, I walked in and saw... there's no one there.

I turned around... and there it was again.

I woke Linc up (since I am deathly afraid of small things with tails and he enjoys killing them for sport) and he groggily walked into the kitchen.  He looked around and saw nothing.  

"Dude there's nothing--" and what looked like a very fast full grown cat ran out from under the refrigerator.  I set a new world land-speed record to my room and screamed, "what was it?!"

Linc didn't say anything for five minutes.  I asked him "where did it go?"  "How big was it?"  "Is it a rat?"  Nothing.

He finally said, "it disappeared between the sink and the stove."  There's nothing between the sink and the stove.  But there is a hole under where the cabinets jut out just above the baseboard and it ran into it.  We set a clue trap and I went into a Tylenol PM induced coma.  As of now, the bastard has still not been caught.

When I got to the doctor's office this morning, I spent ten minutes diving for change to pay the meter.  (Seriously, why don't parking decks in medical facilities in Los Angeles take Visa!?)

Waited twenty minutes.  He arrived.  Got right to it.  He groped around and asked, "so where did you feel it?"

Oh, thank God.  It was all in my head.  I felt around and couldn't find it, then... there you are.  He felt it, backed up and said, "okay let's send you for an ultrasound."

He wouldn't go into what it could be, other than, it could be a cyst or a tumor.  And we "would go from there."

I went two blocks over and go the ultrasound.  As soon as I got off the elevator, I remembered this is where I came for the CT scan.  "Heaven's Waiting Room" as I called it.  A room full of people waiting to get scans that will tell them how much longer they have to live.

The technician had the bedside manner of sandpaper.  She sent me behind a curtain as if I were at H&M and told me to put on a gown, opened at the front.  Apparently these gowns were made for dwarfs, as my gown barely covered my one dangling ball and unidentified floating object.

"I need your head on the pillow.  Is it on the left one?" she snapped.

"There's only one left.  So... yes?"

I asked her if she would know what it was when she saw it.  She said "yes.  Will I tell you?  Absolutely not."  I didn't argue.  I just laid pack as she prepared my scrotum like a Thanksgiving turkey:  covering my penis as if she was handling the Hope diamond, stuffing a pad near my hot pocket.  This took about five minutes.  I was about ready to scream, "oh please, it's a penis, get on with it!"

With only my scrotum exposed, she poured enough gel over me to see France on the monitor.  She wouldn't let me see the monitor unlike the other imaging center when I first had an ultrasound, so I could only stare at her furrowed brow with a "this isn't good" expression.

And then that was it.  She handed me a washcloth and a towel to "clean off" the gel.  And I left.

I went home and for the next four hours I laid in bed planning my funeral.  Since Michael Jackson is doing his at the Staples' Center, that's obviously out, because who wants to do the same thing.  

I had a brief conversation with Zen at one point over the weekend when I said, "if it is cancer, I'm not doing chemo again."  

Chemo made me so sick.  I'm STILL sick.  I've interviewed too many people and researched too many people to know that if it comes back that quickly, I'm not going to be around to see 50.  And in my head, I was like, "you know what?  I just don't care. It's too expensive.  I refuse to put up a losing fight.  I would rather go with some dignity.  This cancer thing is too exhausting.  I'm tired of trying to make a go in Hollywood with this writing thing.  Unemployed (save for a new "job" that is not a "career."  Given up on relationships.  I mean, so much for someone being there "in sickness and in health."  I'm tired of fighting.  For everything.   I'll just make a bucket list and then everyone will wake up November 1st and think about how sad it was I was planning on running the NYC marathon.  But then I died.

I contemplated all the numerous conversations people would fight me on.  "But you have to!  You have to fight!"  No, I don't.  I can go gracefully.  Or as gracefully as someone dies with cancer.

I looked around my room, thinking about what I could sell.  What I could box up and donate.  I'll just move back to Atlanta and live out my last few days.

Then I thought about my other option.  If I DO have to go through all of this again, then I'm damn well getting implants.  Two HUGE testicles.

Next time, they should put a zipper or a velcro piece in, so when we keep cutting me open, it's easier to get to.  I got angry and wanted to know why my body was turning on me and my scrotum had turned into the Death Star.

And I even thought, maybe it's not a cyst.  Maybe it's not a tumor.  Maybe it's a miracle and Henry is regenerating!  Henry is coming back, reincarnating!  My balls are so magical, you can cut one out and it will come back!

Five hours later, while sitting catatonic in front of the television, Dr. K called.  "Well, I've got your results back.  It's a cyst."

So it's not dangerous?

"No.  We don't have to do surgery.  We'll just watch it."

So I'm not going to die?

"No, you'll live," he said, laughing.  

The cyst is attached to my epididymitis.  It is not connected to the cancer.  My balls are just bad.  In the Michael Jackson way.  Heh, jamon.  Jamon.

I hung up.  And I lost my shit.  I cried for a solid hour.  I didn't think I was ever going to stop crying.   I've never been so happy to hear "you'll live."  I've been convinced I was going to be dead for days and suddenly, I just found out, it's going to be okay.

I promptly went to Trader Joe's for wine and dark chocolate.

I called my parents to tell them.  I let my friends know.  

I can't tell you how exhausted this has made me.  I feel like every nerve in my body snapped when I hung up that phone.  It was a relief, but a reminder that this is going to be a part of my life for years to come.  On Monday, I have a scheduled blood test.

But I'm grateful that I'll still be around for a bit longer.

So do yourself a favor:  if you are a woman, get your boobs checked.  If you're a guy, get your balls checked.

Okay, So That's Funny

I was just going back through some of my past 12 of 12s when I just realized it was today and I see that in January I went hiking.  I remember it being really painful.  I remember hurting my neck on that hike.  And I remember I was doing chemo.

And NOW I get why my oncologist was all, "I wish you'd take this seriously."  What the hell was I doing hiking Runyan a month after surgery and in the middle of chemo?  I could barely walk!!  I remember having the limp as I was dragging my leg all over Runyan.

What a difference five months make.

It's REALLY Not About the Bike

Lance Armstrong wrote a book about his whole testicular cancer battle called "It's Not About the Bike."

Lance Armstrong took up running a few years ago.

Lance Armstrong's LIVESTRONG team is running the New York City Marathon on November 1, 2009.

And this morning, I got an e-mail saying I was picked to be a part of the team.

It's on.

I'm Normal

I've been so busy writing that I haven't been writing here.

First off - you can GO HERE and read the whole cancer story in one place.  April is Testicular Cancer Awareness Month and Gaywired.com asked me to do a story about my experience.  It took a week to write.  It was hard to write.  But at least I have a nice long "treatment" for the book now.  It's almost ten pages long and doesn't really scratch the surface, but is a nice start to finish look.

Secondly - I got my markers done on Monday.  They were supposed to have called Wednesday and never did.  When I called Friday, the nurse said, "it's a 1.4.  It's in range," "In range of what?"  "I don't know" and then I lost my ever loving mind and screamed that I wanted to talk to my doctor immediately.  REALLY?  WHY tell someone "I don't know what it means" and the words "in range" in one breath?

In range of NORMAL.  I was so angry that I sat there for ten minutes thinking I was going to have to go through chemo again, I wanted to book a new oncologist immediately.

More blood tests in July.  But no signs of cancer in my blood as of now.

I would love to get rid of this cough.  That's all I have left.

New Look

So thanks to my friend David Ross (his photography site is here), I had a picture taken today to run with the cancer story that I'm writing right now that will run later this week.

I've always hated my squinty eyes, but as he was loading the pictures, I grumbled, "wow, I hate my hair."

He took a great picture - it wasn't his fault.

THEN Zen saw the picture and told me to cut my hair.

It was time.  It's funny, all this time I didn't want to lose my hair.  The day after I'm declared in "remission," I cut it all off.

Remission

Hello again, remember me?

I keep getting e-mails and notes saying, "why aren't you writing on your blog" and the fact is, I haven't had anything to say.

I've been very busy doing freelance articles and working on the new script, so trying to be witty at the end of the day for my own blog hasn't been on my list of priorities.  And there are only so many times you can write over and over again, "waiting to hear back from producers."

The good news today from the script front is that there are still three producers interested in THE BODY FARM, but a fourth emerged today that just might be the fire to lit under the asses of everyone taking their time.  BIG producer.  Very connected.  Wants to attach actresses and take it to the studio.  And they are very picky about projects. 

Still, we wait.

I have to get to the gym and then get back home and start an article on testicular cancer, but quick good news:

I had my blood test follow-up today.  My blood count looks good.  I will know Wednesday if the blood markers show anything.

Officially now, I'm in remission.  Apparently you go "into remission" following treatment.  It IS something to celebrate, but it's not OVER.  We don't know that it's not in my blood.  And I get to be "in remission" for five years, until I am deemed, "cancer free."  But I now have a word to identify with:  remission.  End of "treatment."  I don't have to do anything at this point except pay bills.

My insurance company - in addition to the bank now - is convinced I'm dead.  I joked on my last call, "okay, fine.  I'm calling from beyond the grave.  Could you please pull my records and take care of this provider, because I'm getting calls and there is nothing I can do.  You know, being dead and all."  It just confuses them.  I'm not sure how I "got dead" on everyone's records.  Perhaps I called them in the middle of the night.

The other thing that I learned (why he didn't tell me this two months ago, I will never know) is that I have no immune system and won't for the next six months.  Chemo destroys your immune system.  It's not like it comes back after a week.  I'm sick right now, but fighting through it.  He told me I have to be very careful about germs until July.

Awesome.