I just searched through my blog to find something I wrote about my rodeo experience ten years ago and realized it wasn’t a blog post, it was a newspaper article. I did mention this in a blog post (Rodeos, beer, and cancer), and even included the picture below, but I’d like to share it here on my blog today. This was first printed in the July 2008 issue of The Local Rag newspaper.
Like any PRCA-sanctioned event, the Home of Champions Rodeo in Red Lodge, Montana draws contestants from all over the U.S. and Canada. There are two events, though, that are all about the locals: mutton busting and the wild horse race. A few years ago, a fellow came into the bookstore and asked me if I’d be interested in joining his team.
The wild horse race uses a team of three. The horses are assigned by random draw, and the team is allowed to put a halter and a long rope on the horse before the event. The rope is threaded through the gap on the latch side of the gate to the chute, and one of the team members is assigned to stop the horse when the gate opens, so the others can get hold of the animal and put a saddle on it. This person, known as the anchor, is generally a big guy. Size alone isn’t enough to stop a mustang, but it certainly doesn’t hurt. Since I was 6’5″ and 260 pounds, he figured I’d be perfect for the job.
It was long before the event, and I had plenty of time to think over the offer. I was–how shall I say this?–a few years past my prime, and had never done a wild horse race before. The other team members assured me that all I needed was strength and persistence: there really wasn’t that much agility or technique involved. I agreed to do it.
Now, we fast-forward a few months. I had an odd lump in my chest, which puzzled my doctor. The dermatologist, equally puzzled, had taken a biopsy. I received a phone call with the results when I was on a business trip in Las Vegas. “Come home now,” he told me. “You have an appointment with an oncologist tomorrow morning.”
Yes, indeed. I had been diagnosed with lymphoma, and they needed to start me on chemotherapy and monoclonal antibodies right away. Obviously, a lot went through my mind those first few days, and my plans for the summer were changed dramatically. At first, I forgot all about the wild horse race.
Then, the doctor began explaining the effects chemo would have on me. It would destroy my immune system, meaning that seemingly minor cuts and scrapes could develop into nasty–possibly even fatal–infections. “What am I supposed to do?” I asked the oncologist. “My ranch is a small one, but I still have two miles of barbed-wire fence and a bunch of critters with horns and hooves. Someone has to take care of things, and my wife can’t do all of it.”
He assured me that I could go about my business, except for the days right after a treatment, which would knock me flat. If I got a cut, scrape, or scratch, I just needed to clean out the wound and watch for signs of infection. He said I could do anything I felt up to.
“Even including a rodeo?” I asked him. I could almost hear my wife thinking, “Tell him no! Tell him no!” but the doctor said if I thought I could do it, then more power to me. The Wild Horse Race became my goal in the battle against the lymphoma. If I could compete between cancer treatments, I could do anything.
I explained everything to my teammates. The Home of Champions Rodeo would be right before a chemo treatment, so I’d have maximum recovery time from the previous treatment. I’d be shaky and have little endurance, but I thought I could do it if they’d still have me. They said yes, and we were on.
Day 1: July 2nd
Day one of the rodeo arrived. There were only four teams signed up, so we actually had a shot at this. We met the other teams, and drew our horse. A spunky little mustang filly. I had a case of butterflies in my stomach like I’ve never had before. As the bullriders took their rides, we got ready. We were up next.
They got the horses in the chutes and marked the finish line across the arena. It looked miles away. We haltered the horse and ran the rope out to the arena. I stood there with my partners, holding the rope. What did I think I was doing? Thousands of people crowded the stands, and I was about to get knocked silly by a horse. I braced myself. The chutes opened…
The horse didn’t know what was going on, but she knew she wanted out of there. She charged straight at me, and I got a good grip on the rope. She stopped, unsure of which way to go, and one of my teammates stepped in and grabbed her halter. He pulled her head down and looked her right in the eye. She reared up, kicked him in the head, and charged me. My partner went down like a sack of grain, the horse pulled me off my feet, and I lost the rope.
We managed to catch the horse again, and this time two of us (I and the poor fellow with a big bruise on his forehead) managed to hold her still while teammate #3 got the saddle on. Unfortunately, there was a problem with the latigo and we couldn’t get the saddle cinched securely. He hung on valiantly, but by the time we hazed our horse to the other side of the arena, it was too late. The 90-second timer went off.
We lost, but I still felt good as I walked out of the arena. All PRCA-sanctioned rodeos must have a doctor on site at all times. As it turned out, my regular family doctor–who specializes in sports medicine–was on that day. As I approached the gate, I saw him standing next to my wife. She turned to him and said, “is this the kind of therapy you recommend for all of your cancer patients?” He just shook his head. “Yeah, I thought that looked like Gary out there.”
Day 2: July 3rd
We’re down one team member. His forehead contusion turned out to be a mild concussion and the doc said, “Don’t compete.” Our fearless leader, however, had come up with a substitution. He found a wiry little bullrider ready to step in and join us. Like many bullriders, he was small, but full of muscle and spunk.
This time, since we had only four teams, the rodeo committee decided to make things a bit more exciting by putting horses in the empty chutes, too. When the gates opened, I was focused on holding our horse. When one of the “extra” mustangs ran into me, I lost the rope. Our bullrider buddy had a good grip, but didn’t have the sheer mass to stop the horse (he was probably half my weight). The horse took off for parts unknown, and our new teammate held onto the rope and got dragged along behind like a water-skiier. He stayed upright the full length of the arena, and then went down and got dragged on the ground.
I caught up to them and grabbed the horse again. I got a deathgrip on the rope, and held on even when another horse bumped my back. I took a step, and found myself standing on another team’s rope (see picture). It was a scary moment–getting tangled in that rope would not have been a good thing–but I held on this time.
Our team leader arrived toting the saddle, and threw his arm over the mustang’s neck. She took a jump sideways, right into the fence. His arm was caught between the horse and the pipe, and I could tell it hurt. He’d already taken a blow to the face and he was spitting blood, but he was determined to get on the horse. Alas, by the time we got the saddle on, our 90 seconds was up again.
One fractured arm and one concussion. Two days, and two teammates out. We hadn’t even made it across the finish line. But I felt good. We pulled our team from competition on July 4th, and I watched from another team’s chute.
I didn’t win a buckle, but we bought one as a souvenir. Two treatments later, my chemo was done, and this summer will mark five years cancer-free. I doubt that I’ll ever compete again, but I’ll treasure the memory of that 2003 Wild Horse Race forever.
I have been pretty lucky as a freelance writer. There have been very few times that I haven’t been paid for my work. In one of those cases, I was approached by a medical magazine in Canada — it’s always nice when they call you — about doing a guest column for medical professionals about online medical information. The editor and I discussed all of the details: pay, deadlines, bylines, residual rights, and so forth. One thing I forgot to bring up was a kill fee.
You guessed it. When I finished the column and submitted it, nothing happened. After a few months, I was informed that the magazine had been sold and the new editor wasn’t interested in my column. Since it was a relatively small amount of money, the magazine was in another country, and I had no kill fee in the contract, I never collected a dime from the column. It’s been sitting on my hard drive for the last nine years or so (I save everything), so I decided to post it on my blog.
I hope you enjoy the article. If you want another story about my lymphoma experience, take a look at Rodeos, beer, and cancer.
I found an odd lump on my chest. Neither my family doctor nor the dermatologist he called in had ever seen anything like it. They took a biopsy, and called a few days later to tell me I had an appointment with an oncologist. It was a frightening time, but I assumed it would be a melanoma, and they would simply cut it out and send me on my way. I was wrong.
The oncologist informed me that I had a dermal large b-cell lymphoma—it had manifested in my skin rather than my lymph system. He took a bone marrow biopsy, and recommended immediate monoclonal antibody and chemotherapy treatments. I left his office reeling from the news. I walked out with a little informational pamphlet about lymphoma, a fistful of prescriptions, about a half-liter of barium sulfate for the next morning’s C-T scan, and a bloodstream full of Demerol.
I’m not afraid of anything I understand, but I knew nothing about lymphoma, Rituximab, or CHOP. I hadn’t checked into a hospital since I was seven years old. I was downright terrified. My immediate mission: find out everything there is to know about this cancer in my system and its treatment methods.
I knew I’d lose the hair on my head, but what about body hair? Would I be able to keep food down? Would I lose a third of my body weight, as a friend did when he went through chemo in the 70s? Were there new, more-effective anti-nausea drugs or would I have to use medicinal marijuana, as he did? With my ravaged immune system, how could I protect myself against infection when I worked on my ranch?
The pamphlet was only mildly useful. It was just too generalized. So I turned to my usual resource for first-line research: the Internet. I found a whole lot of highly technical information that was probably wonderful for an oncologist, but useless to me. I couldn’t understand it. I also found thousands of Web pages written by patients and their friends and families. Nice, but of questionable accuracy. There just wasn’t much to be found that met my criteria: it had to be authoritative, understandable, and comprehensive.
Had I been suffering from a common disease with a well-understood and long-unchanged course of treatment, things might have been different. Dermal lymphomas, however, are rare, and monoclonal antibodies are still becoming established as mainstream treatments. There is a lot of conflicting information online, and it’s very difficult for a layman to determine which information is truly authoritative.
Medical patients simply can’t get all of their information from friends, phone-in radio shows, and newspaper columns. We can’t rely on what some unknown author keyed in to their personal Web site—even if there is an “MD” after their name. Our lives are on the line here.
Medical journals are written for medical professionals, and that is as it should be. The information is carefully vetted and peer-reviewed. There is a crying need for trained medical professionals to produce a body of peer-reviewed medical information written for laymen, with a meaningful stamp of approval on the individual articles.
It would not be necessary for all of this information to reside on a central Web server, nor for a single administrator to oversee it. All that would be required is a central directory or search engine for information carrying the aforementioned stamp of approval.
I ended up getting the information I wanted. I used up a lot of my chemo nurse’s time (she’s not only an RN, she’s a cancer survivor), and asked my oncologist many questions. I read articles online and in magazines. I got data from cancer support networks. Eventually—that’s the key word—I learned about my disease and its treatment. But that was no substitute for what this scared and lonely patient needed the afternoon of my diagnosis: fast, clear, information I knew I could count on.
Eight years ago today, I competed in the wild horse race at the Red Lodge Home of Champions Rodeo. At the time, I was between chemotherapy treatments for a life-threatening case of large B-cell lymphoma. It was, shall I say, an interesting time in my life, which I wrote a newspaper article about three years ago [update: the article is now here on my blog]. The oncologist had informed me that the treatment (CHOP chemotherapy plus monoclonal antibodies) had about a 50% chance of success in cases like mine.
I didn’t win anything. But I set my sights on being there that weekend, doing my part, and walking away under my own power. It meant a lot to me, and I still wear the buckle I bought myself to commemorate that event almost every day. They say fighting cancer is all about your attitude. Perhaps they’re right.
The whole experience of having cancer in 2003 changed my point of view on what’s important in life. Family and friends count for a lot more than money and possessions. Enjoying life is paramount. I’ve become less concerned about what others think of me, and my attitude these days is generally “live and let live.”
That is probably what upsets me so much about legislators hurting people who could have used help instead (see my post about the changes in Montana’s medical marijuana laws), or vicious personal attacks during political campaigns. Unfortunately, many diseases still carry social stigmas with them (e.g., AIDS), and it seems like most of the attention — and money — goes to just a few hip diseases. I see more posters, ribbons, news articles, bumper stickers, and talk shows about breast cancer than all other types of cancer combined. Ever see a fundraiser for non-Hodgkins large B-cell lymphoma?
My other bout with cancer happened just last year, and it was one of those that you don’t generally discuss in polite company. Prostate cancer is one of the “icky” diseases. Your average man on the street doesn’t really know what his prostate gland does, and if he’s heard anything at all about treating prostate cancer, he’s probably heard about the dangers of impotency and incontinence as possible side-effects. I know that scared the heck out of me when I was diagnosed.
Now, I have received my second “all-clear,” leaving the current score at Gary: 2, Cancer: 0. Although I wouldn’t call either experience enjoyable, the side effects have been minimal and my life can continue as normal. But not as it was before.
In our little town of 2,300, our “Pints for Prostates” fundraiser pulled in over $1,200, and over 50 people showed up to have a great time, hear my quick talk about prostate cancer, and leave with some discount coupons for PSA tests at the hospital. That made me feel pretty good, and I’m hoping to do even better next year.
Although I like to think of myself as a generally easy-going kind of guy, I have a lot less tolerance for intolerance these days, and virtually no tolerance for incompetence. It’s a good thing I haven’t set my sites on public office, because I’m too darned blunt for it. Legislators from Federal level to city level are passing laws that don’t address the problem they were purported to solve. We’re spending billions of dollars interfering with other countries when we aren’t doing an adequate job of fixing problems at home. Our health care system is badly broken, and legislators are working overtime to fight attempts to fix it rather than working together for a solution.
Ah, well, I’m rambling. I’ll go back to my regularly-scheduled posts with a focus next week. I hope you all enjoy your Independence Day weekend!
I fish. I wouldn’t call myself an expert. Some years I never drop a line in the water at all. But I enjoy fishing, and I enjoy mysteries. T. Jefferson Parker’s book, Hook, Line & Sinister: Mysteries to Reel You In, brings the two together beautifully.
In Hook, Line & Sinister, Parker brought together 16 mystery authors (including himself) who enjoy fishing, and created a book to raise money for two support groups. Casting for Recovery is for women with breast cancer (Why does it seem that all breast cancer groups are only about women? Men get it too!). The other group, Project Healing Waters, is for veterans. As their mission statement says, their aim is “to assist in the physical and emotional rehabilitation of disabled active duty military personnel and veterans through fly fishing and fly tying education and outings.”
Each of the stories has fishing as a major plot point, and in most of them it is directly related to either the motive, method, or solution to a murder. As with most anthologies, there are a few weak stories, but there are some great ones in there as well. Some were very dark, others downright funny.
Probably my favorite was Cutthroat, by Mark T. Sullivan. If I ever approached an author and asked for a fishing-oriented murder mystery, I would hope to receive something like this. The plot is solid, the writing is excellent, and the fishing is woven inextricably into the storyline. When I finished the story, I felt satisfied. The bad guy got what he deserved, and (aside from the poor dead guy) it was a happy ending for all.
There are stories in the book that don’t end that way, though. Death by Honey Hole, by Victoria Houston, has a deliciously complex plot for such a short story. An experienced mystery reader will figure out whodunnit by the halfway point, but you won’t know how it ends until you finish it. Houston kept her options open. The last line is brilliant.
Two of my favorite Western mystery authors, Dana Stabenow and C J Box, have great contributions. They are classic mystery stories, and although they kept me guessing as I read, they wrapped up the loose ends at the end.
Andrew Winer’s story, Darmstadt, on the other hand, left me scratching my head. Granted, I’m not into the German death-metal scene, but I never really felt like I had a grasp on what was happening, and when I reached the end of the story, it felt unfinished. Clearly, this story is allegory, but I came up with a half-dozen possible interpretations of the message within ten minutes of pondering. I understand that some authors consider this their definition of success. If they make you think, they win. But if Winer was trying to make a point, I missed the point.
In any case, I give Hook, Line & Sinister a thumbs-up. If you are an angler who loves reading mysteries, pick up a copy. You’ll be glad you did.
[I reviewed the hardback edition. The paperback is due out on September 19 of this year.]
In 2009, my wife and I had the pleasure of attending the first annual Denver Rare Beer Tasting, put on by an organization called Pints for Prostates. It was a marvelous event, where two dozen breweries poured their rarest, most unique beers and money was raised for prostate cancer awareness. Upon my return, I made the event the subject of one of my Beer Snob columns. Little did I know what was to happen!
My awareness was raised by the little talk founder Rick Lyke (see his blog here) put on, and when I had my physical last year, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. My prostate was not enlarged, so a standard DRE (digital-rectal exam) did not catch it. I requested a PSA blood test, however, and that came back positive. Because of this beer tasting event, my cancer was caught early and surgery took care of it.
Now, it’s my turn to pass the word.
On Sunday, June 26 — the Sunday after Father’s Day — we’ll be doing a Pints for Prostates event in Red Lodge at the Pollard Pub. I’m working with local breweries and the Billings Clinic to put the event together, and I’ll be announcing more details as we get things finalized. We do know that Red Lodge Ales is preparing two special brews just for this event. One will be a vanilla bean porter, and the other will be an IPA aged on cedar chips.
The ticket price for the evening will include your beer and food for the evening (if you want anything else to drink, there will be a full no-host bar). What kind of food, you ask? We don’t have the full menu yet, but I can tell you it will include bangers and mash, along with Rocky Mountain oysters. Appropriate for a prostate cancer awareness event, no?
Stay tuned for more information, and I do hope you’ll attend if you live in the area. If you’d like to help with the event, let me know. Prostate cancer is a killer. I lost a cousin to it. Show up on June 26 and you’ll not only get some great beer, food, and fun, but it just might save your life.