Mission Accomplished (For Now)

The latest campaign is complete — three precision strikes, delivered over three days (November 12–14), courtesy of the Mayo Clinic’s elite Photon Radiation Division. Target: one stubborn little outpost in my liver. Weapon of choice: Stereotactic Body Radiotherapy (SBRT) — a treatment that delivers highly focused, concentrated radiation over a short period. In practical terms, those three days of SBRT equal about three weeks of standard radiation.

Each treatment day began with me strapping into a custom-fitted body mold, created during the mission planning phase. The picture below was taken by the Mayo staff just before my second treatment began. The radiation itself is fired from the large “head” positioned above me. The two “wings” on the left and right are retractable — used to scan and align me before each session.

Preparing for Treatment #2

Sounds straightforward enough, right? Not quite. Each treatment absolutely required me to hold my breath — on an exhale — while the beam was firing. To pull that off safely, they attached a motion sensor to my abdomen (not pictured) to detect even the slightest movement. Hovering just above my face was a small monitor with a moving horizontal line that tracked my breathing in real time. My job: exhale, relax my abdomen, and guide that line into a narrow target zone. Once I hit the mark, the system automatically unleashed the radiation — and it kept firing only as long as I held my breath and stayed in the zone.

Let’s just say that holding your breath under those conditions gets unnerving fast. The moment I had to breathe — or tensed up in the slightest — the radiation stopped automatically. I’d get a chance to catch my breath, then we’d go again. This cycle repeated until the main firing head slowly completed its half-rotation (moving to my right) and returned to position, outputting the entire time. Total beam-on time? Only about three minutes. Actual session length? More like fifteen to twenty — thanks to those breath-holds and the occasional minor panic attack. More than once, the techs had to turn off the monitor because I simply couldn’t relax my belly enough to hit the zone. Who knew that high-energy diplomacy could be so mentally challenging?!

Side effects so far? Not much beyond extra fatigue — which might just be part of being 64 and waging a years-long war with cancer. Otherwise, all systems remain operational, morale is strong, and supply lines (coffee, snacks, sarcasm) are intact.

So for now, the nuclear option has done its work. The missiles have launched, the warhead’s hit its target, and the enemy has hopefully taken a serious blow. My next mission: rest, recover, and regroup while awaiting post-strike reconnaissance — a.k.a., follow-up scans in about three months.

Thanksgiving’s coming, and I plan to spend it celebrating small victories: fewer battles, more pie, extra whipping cream, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing we just dropped another precision strike on cancer’s front line.

Operation Liver Liberation: Phase Complete.
Mission logged. Standing by for further orders.

The Nuclear Option

When you’re at war with cancer, you use every weapon you’ve got. There’s no room for diplomacy or negotiation — it’s total war from day one. Each battle plan depends on which “general” you’re talking to, but the mission is always the same: destroy the enemy before it destroys you.

For some generals, the best opening move is a surgical strike — precise, decisive, and aimed to take out the target cleanly. But the battlefield isn’t always straightforward. You’ve got to think about collateral damage, what’s in range, and what’s simply out of reach.

Other generals may advocate for a chemical offensive. It’s brutal, yes, but effective. When chemo hits hard, it can root out the enemy wherever it’s hiding. There’s no running, no refuge, and nowhere left for cancer to retreat. This approach works best when it can be concentrated — short, sharp, and overwhelming (ideally in less than six months).

But when the fight drags on and the enemy refuses to surrender, there’s still one last, powerful weapon in the arsenal: the nuclear option.

These missiles come in all shapes and sizes, guided by cutting-edge targeting systems designed to hit the tumor and spare the surrounding landscape. When everything else fails — or when you just want to be certain you’ve finished the job — it’s time to go to DEFCON 1 and unleash the nuclear option.  Nuke it!

Radiation Oncology: A “Nuclear Strike” on Cancer.

Radiation Oncology: A "Nuclear Strike" on Cancer!

Of course, even in war, no one fights alone. Every patient needs their joint chiefs — surgeons, oncologists, radiologists, nurses, and family — all weighing in from different fronts. Victory depends on teamwork, strategy, and trust in the experts guiding the mission.

In all seriousness, I think the analogy holds. I’m about to go “nuclear” on a new tumor in my liver, using high-dose SBRT (Stereotactic Body Radiation Therapy) over the course of three days: November 12, 13, and 14 at Mayo Clinic here in Jacksonville. The plan is simple — hit it hard, hit it accurately, and make sure it doesn’t come back.

Honestly, I’ll be glad to complete this campaign and shift my focus to something far more rewarding — a great Thanksgiving with the people I love. Here’s hoping for stable scans, quiet battles, and a little peace on the home front.