Cancer? My Arse!!

Consolation Prizes

2012-03-03T02:37:00.000-05:00

Knowing that March 2nd was going to be a tough day, I eagerly booked a ticket to see a dear friend take the next step on her journey to music stardom. Alejandra Ribera has barely got a demo-disc to her credit, but she has been featured countless times on French and English TV, and is a darling of CBC radio. She has floored audiences as a guest performer at concert halls, and has wowed patrons of small local Toronto venues with her indescribable charisma and goosebumpin' voice.

Friday night, she, and a fabulous five-piece band (Adam Warner, Bryden Baird, Dean Drouillard, Brian Kobayakawa & Joel Visentin) performed at a sold-out Glenn Gould Studio, CBC's own soft-seater and a gateway drug to Massey Hall. To me, well, it was one of life's consolation prizes, the lollipop from the dentist (yes kids, we used to get candies from dentists for good behaviour).

The day began inauspiciously enough. The alarm shrieked at 5:30 AM, an altogether uncivilized hour for Helen and me. But, it was time to begin SUPER CANCER WEEKEND! By 7:30 AM, I was lying in a fetal position, fast asleep again, thanks to a skilled anesthesiologist at The Kensington Screening Clinic. This time, the doctor lowered a camera down my other hole to see if my esophagus was damaged by cancer, which it wasn't. Check.

Five hours later, I was in the good hands of the oncology team at Sunnybrook Hospital. First, Dr. Chemo, followed shortly thereafter by Dr. Radiation. Both examined me, asked lots of questions, answered a few (mostly posed by my caring spouse), and then closed with their respective treatments plans.

One doctor said I will be ingesting a radiation sandwich over some twenty-one weeks beginning in early April. Eight weeks of take-home chemo-pills (which apparently have few side-effects), followed by five weeks of daily radiation treatments at the hospital in June/July (while continuing with chemo), topped by another eight weeks of chemo-pills. If my math is correct, I should be thoroughly pickled by October when this is finally over.

The most sobering news we got was from Dr. Radiation. Apparently, the location of my tumour was such that should it come back again in the same place within my colon, I would have to have the whole thing yanked. Worse, he indicated that my prognosis would not be good.

The preventative measures prescribed to me today are not an option. I must and will take them. And all of this could be moot if Monday's closing act to SUPER CANCER WEEKEND, an MRI of the liver, spots some cancerous schnitzels. That would require more surgery and a drip, plus, plus, plus. Fingers crossed, yet again.

Life, it seems to me, is nevertheless merciful. Yes, the news was not the best today. But the music was. I've seen Alejandra perform a dozen times, and spent a fair amount of time with her at various venues, conferences, chatting over breakfasts and over long drives between cities. She is as unique as they get, half-Scottish, half-Argentinian, 100% authentic woman. You can have your Angelina Jolies; I'll take my Alejandra jollies. She sings from every bone and organ in her body because she must do so, it is impossible for her to mail-it-in. And on this evening, she was unencumbered by an acoustic guitar, and was free to express herself fully.

It was a double-encore, triple standing ovation performance. Even her charming mum was mesmerized. Alejandra's next record and related performances will introduce her to a huge international audience, and she's ready in every way. Best of all, she's a warm and wonderful human being. I must now talk down my goosebumps.

A Sonnet for Helen

2012-02-25T13:28:00.002-05:00

Has one ever been so lucky as me?
To be so loved by one as fine as you?
And for so long, nearly one and thirty
Trips 'round the sun, a dozen moons of blue
You were an old soul playing young Audrey
Breakfast at Tiffany's it was or not
I played young Peppard only more tawdry
A young soul acting like a bigger shot
That fires at will though fallow and fragile
While you steady and strengthen and protect
Your heart so healthy, loving and fertile
My heart shredded from trauma and neglect
And now with your love you heal me again
Has anyone ever had so great a friend?

The above Sonnet - such as it is - is written for my beautiful wife. It was inspired by this delightful card made by the fine folks at JibJab. I sent out 112 similar cards, some featuring Elvis and others featuring me as a crazy rock guitarist. I also know I must have forgotten 100 other people. So to you, dear readers, thank you for being part of this journey. I am not ending the blog, but updates will be more infrequent. Time to get back to work.

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

Good News

2012-02-22T16:39:00.001-05:00

Today's news was likely the best news of all. The cancer did not spread to the lymph nodes that were removed from the bowel region during surgery. It really appears as though the little alien was operating alone; I'll hereby name it Lee Harvey Oswaltumour.

What a fucking relief.

Docs also say that my recovery is going swimmingly well, but they are suggesting I meet with an oncologist named Dr. Wong to discuss radiation and/or chemo as a preventative measure, mainly because Lee Harvey was located on the border of the rectum, the poop depository, close enough to give Lee's potential successors a slightly higher chance of resurfacing than they might in other regions of the colon.

ruby kills lee harvey live on tv

Of course, many suspect Lee Harvey didn't act alone, that there may have been other assassins present, so to that end, the investigation will continue via an MRI of the liver, and an endoscopy to examine the esophagus. Frankly, I'm with the Warren Commission on this one; I think Lee Harvey acted alone, that he was - in my case - caught in time, and that my brilliant team of doctors led by Andrew (Jack Ruby) Smith killed Lee dead.

I also finally learned that Lee Harvey Oswaltumour was Stage 2. Thankfully, I got my colonoscopy when I did, and that this bugger was nipped in the butt.

If you know someone who is

50 plus
and/or has a history of colo-rectal cancer in their family
eats lots of processed food and a diet heavy in red meat
drinks his/her weight in liquor every year (or so)
or is Ashkenazy Jewish (apparently they have a high rate of colo-rectal cancer)

get them to get their ASSES over to their doctors for a relatively quick and relatively painless exam. Take advantage of our superb health system while we still have it.

Note for JFK buffs: Thanks to my good friend David Newland, here is an eyewitness account of the Ruby/Oswald shooting from Toronto's Peter Worthington.

FAQ - Slap Chops

2012-02-14T22:34:00.003-05:00

Now that surgery is a week in the rear-view (as it were), it's time for another FAQ instalment.

Q: So, where are you at in terms of recovery?

A: I am literally home for a few weeks dealing with two things: a 4" east-west cut just south of the navel, and 4 other bullet-holes that are healing from having been used as entry points for lasers, laparoscopes, cameras and slap-chops. Having sharp instruments navigating inside your body does leave damage, and only time and rest can heal the wounds. I am very lucky, however, I could have been cut up like a piece of beef and been laid-up much longer. Dr. Smith's team was amazing.

Q: How is your energy and mobility?

A: Pretty good. I go in shifts of three to four hours each with two long naps during the day and a full night's sleep. I can tell by the weakness of my voice when it's time to go back to bed. I walk slowly, pull myself up creatively to avoid using my core, and grunt like my dad used to grunt .. when he was 82. I am not driving, and walk the dog for 20 minutes twice a day. Other than that, I am home or being taken around to shops by Helen or great friends like Rick Scicluna (R). We shopped for our wives on Valentine's Day. It's kinda nice, a forced vacation.

Q: Speaking of forcing, how are your, um, functions? You had 18" of colon yanked and they were darn near your rectum.

A: Well as anyone who's been in a similar position knows, the wind section is more than just the butt of our jokes, fluffing is one of the first things we want new-born babies to do, and one of the signs of good health post-surgery, especially when you've had your colon under the knife. It took me 36 hours to express myself in that fashion, and it was the middle of the night, lying in a ward-bed between two other cancer patients, Terry and Leo, both older than me, both from northern-Ontario. It was about 3:00 AM, and you never really sleep with all the noise and nurse-visits, so, when my shotgun started getting loaded for a series of shots, I just cringed, knowing the boys and their sleep-over wives would hear it all. Well, laughter was what I heard "Way to go, Frank!" "That all you got? You can do better than that!" It was very rich sharing real life, laughs, fear and pain with those gentlemen and their families.

Q: And the other part? Sausage factory production?

A: That took a week. But all is great. Titanium staples are keeping the sections tethered. Amazing.

Q: Now what? Chemo?

A: Well I'm not fully in the clear. Questions remain as to whether or not the cancer spread to my lymph nodes (which were removed during surgery) and elsewhere. So on February 22nd, Dr. Smith will reveal the results of the pathology to us (a third drama-filled appointment thus far, this is not a path for the anxious) and an MRI will eventually follow to confirm that earlier negative findings on our CT Scan were indeed accurate. As for chemo, we'll learn on February 22nd if, and how much, will be required to fully fuck this cancer.

Q: Who do you love?

A: Helen L Crouch (a post will soon follow about my incredible wife) and Rosemary Phelan, the only two people I wanted near me at hospital. Although I am public about this, I am proud; Johnny Gowns and farting are not the kind of images I like to put forth live, in person. Rosemary's nursing background was a huge comfort. I also love Rick Scicluna for keeping the business-fires burning with three shoots and lots of editing in my absence, and David Newland, for making this recovery stress free. I will be introducing him at Hugh's Room Thursday night at his CD release party. Time to close the circle. Hope to see lots of you there, and if you can't be there, watch on line at 8:30 PM EST at http://rootsmusic.ca

Don't Salute Me

2012-02-09T09:49:00.000-05:00

Things have gone remarkably well for me this week at Sunnybrook Hospital in Toronto. There has been a clean removal of the alien and 18" of his housing. (One friend wrote: My dad had colon cancer ten years ago. Rectum? Damn near killed him!) There has been no major scarring, no stoma (shit bag). I should be home Friday, all being well, but discharge, I've observed, can be a tricky business.

Meanwhile, a lot of wonderful folks have been sending us good wishes and have been performing deeds that we will never be able to repay. To all of you, please consider this one of your thanks - there will be other more formal, private thanks for donations and Raise The Roof participation once I am a little better, and no longer popping these wonderful, but distracting, percocets.

I have also been receiving a lot of praise for displaying courage or other such virtues, and while I genuinely appreciate them all in the spirit they are offered, I must say the following:

The real heroes in stories like mine are Tommy Douglas, his generation of socialized-medicine visionaries, those who have upheld medicare ever since, science, devoted workers, and supportive Canadian taxpayers. The care I have received in Toronto this week could only be equalled by US or UK private hospitals, but could not be surpassed. I can't even imagine what this ordeal would "retail" for. I also can't imagine today's generation of leaders ever imagining something so great for all of its citizens, and that saddens me.

The good news is compassion, kindness, love and generosity are alive and well in individual citizens, and I vow to practice more of those virtues in the future. There is nothing else that matters.

Sx Day is Here

2012-02-06T21:17:00.001-05:00

Well the mercifully brief wait is over. Tuesday morning, February 7th at 6:00 AM, a mere five weeks post-cancer diagnosis, this hard bod will be in the good hands of Dr. Smith, oncologist to the stars. Despite my previous mild rant about the frustration of not being to predict anything about this whole ordeal, the care I've been receiving at Sunnybrook Hospital has been worthy of any private hospital in the US or UK. However, we've only just begun, the next 3-7 days will really be where the scalpel meets the colon.

I have precious little in the way of comparisons to offer between this care and that of any other personal experience. My only other surgery happened on the morning May 15, 1976. It was at Ste. Justine's Children's Hospital in Montréal, across the street from College Jean de Brébeuf, the school that turned out many of Québec's intellectual élite, including the PM of the era - and my personal hero - Pierre Trudeau.

The Habs won the first of four-straight Cups that weekend, the Summer Olympics were two months away, The Rolling Stones sang "Fool to Cry"on AM radio, and I, at age 16, was working night shifts at a KFC (then known as Villa du Poulet Scotts), several months removed from my high school expulsion. I had been throwing up buckets of the Colonel's secret recipe the night before my hospital admission, even left a trace of my DNA on Chemin de la Côte Ste. Catherine by hanging my head out the taxi's window. It was a ruptured appendix, and it was followed by two weeks of Jello and soup.

I recall receiving a different kind of customer service back then, but an equally positive one. The surgery was quickly executed and successful, and the "experimental" technique left just a tiny scar (I'd need a mirror to see it now). I asked for, and received, a small black and white antenna-powered TV just in time to watch Yvan Cournoyer lift the Cup.

However, the one service I don't expect to see replicated at Sunnybrook was my favourite touch. About 24 hours after surgery, and with my eyes barely open, I asked a kind-looking young nurse for a cigarette. And an ashtray. Moments later, she handed me a Matinée King, and like Florence Nightingale, she even lit it for me, all while I lay in bed, in a room with a 5-year-old neighbour who was struggling with an ear infection. That was life in Québec 36 years ago, just another day at a children's hospital, featuring a sweet, compassionate nurse.

I eventually resumed high school, graduated by the skin of my appendectomy scar, and (thankfully) quit smoking some fourteen years later. Tomorrow, I'll do it all again, armed with a bathrobe, PJs, my iPhone, and Keith Richards autobiography, a book which I find is most apropos, given that for much of the rest of this week, I'll be high on morphine. Good times!

Note: UBC Masters of Journalism candidate Kate Adach caught the Raise the Roof concert on the live stream last week, and wrote a great story about it. Read it here.

Another note: Helen will be updating my Facebook friends and others by post & email tomorrow. If you wish to connect with her, she can be reached at hlcrouch (at) gmail (dot) com. We are discouraging hospital visits, there are strict rules in place as it is, and, well, who wants to see me as Keef Richards anyway? But I'll be surfing the iPhone just as soon as I can!

My Secret Agent

2012-02-02T15:33:00.000-05:00

In less than one month of living with the awareness of colo-rectal cancer's presence in this-here carcass, I have learned a great deal. The first thing I've learned is that nothing I have ever been told by others, be they animals, vegetables or minerals, is of any direct relevance to me or my case. Nothin'. Zippity-Do-Da, Zippiti-De-Day.

It's not that anyone is maliciously lying or spinning, it's just that your cancer is as unique to you as your DNA is. This makes the art of predictions utterly useless. Still, we're curious, we seek a pattern, a strategy.

For example, I had one doctor tell me chemo was a certainty. I've had two doctors tell me it wasn't. I was told I needed an ultrasound before surgery. Then it became an MRI. Now, it seems it's surgery first, everything else second, if at all. A nurse thought a blood test could wait. Moments later, it became urgent that I have one immediately.

One doc said they could do surgery laparoscopically (with a scope). Another said they had to cut me in half like a bull. One said I wouldn't ever need a colostomy bag (eewwwww). Another said I might. Another said I'll need one for a few months.

What is one to do? I ain't The Amazing Kreskin. It's all very confusing.

rosemary phelan

Since January 3rd, many kindhearted folks have come forth offering "anything I can do", and I'm not shy, I'll cash those crunchy chips if the circumstances justify them. And one such angel is Rosemary Phelan. Singer-songwriter, poet (see her recent Hugh's Room performance), writer, craftsperson, chef, cancer-survivor and long-time community nurse, Rosemary is above all else a friend.

Another angel lives farther away; Nancy is also a survivor and a nurse, and the night before Helen and I were to meet with the doctors to get the "curative/palliative" verdict and a volume of new-to-us information, Nancy emailed to suggest I bring someone along to witness the info session, and to ask the questions we may forget to ask, or not know to ask.

So we decided to invite Rosemary to the session with very little notice. And the following beautiful text is what Rosemary observed (takes you to her lovely website).

Liver Schnitzels

2012-01-30T15:47:00.001-05:00

artwork: rick scicluna

Well the verdict is in: it looks like Helen's Freedom 55 plan will have to wait, I will still be a pain in her ass five years from now, and then some. That is, of course, unless I get attacked by the dreaded Liver Schnitzels.

Indeed, it appears that the large tumour in my colon did not send out any ambassadors to other organs. The great (!) docs at Sunnybrook Hospital's Odette Cancer Centre began the appointment by saying that my lungs and other sensitive organs like the pancreas were spared. That was the big news. It kept me in the curative playground rather than on the palliative clock.

In other words, I ain't gonna die soon. YAY!

However, the CT scan revealed some activity on my liver - and believe me, that's not the first time it's been active - spots that the doc affectionately called Liver Schnitzels. This is not to be confused with Kidney Sauerbraten, Pancreas Pfannkuchen, or Spleen Spätzle. Now the good doc says these spots are common, especially for older (ahem) people, overweight (hack) patients, and patients with poor diets (burp). An MRI or ultrasound is in my future just to be safe.

What is also in the future is surgery, as expected, hopefully just two-snips-and-a-smile, a straight-up plumbing job which removes the obstruction and sets us back on our merry poopy ways. At that time, they will scoop up all related lymph nodes and look at them under a microscope to ensure the wandering crab hasn't found its way to that lymphatic nest.

(Quick digression warning: speaking of crabs/cancer, why is it a full 8.33% of us are labelled with that astrological curse? I vote for a change of name. How about Hedonist or Slut? I mean look at our symbol! Can't let Scorpios have all the fun!)

BMI?

Meanwhile, the good docs took one look at my Body Mass Index (BMI) and decided a special liquid diet comprised of 800 calories a day beginning ASAP will help make the surgery a success. Since it is about two to three weeks off, they think I can lose 20lbs or so of torso-fat. Add to that the post-surgery culinary experience, and I'm thinking of renaming February 2012 to Ramadan 2012. (Oh fuck. It's a leap year.)

As Dr. Andy Smith cautioned, we must take treatment one step at a time. It flies in the face of our Google/Wikipedia universe, where instant answers to the most trivial of questions are a good search query away. He can't tell me what stage I'm in, what grade the tumour is in, nor can he predict chemo, etc.

So, patience, patient. Breathe through your nose.
Ohhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Raising The Roof

2012-01-30T00:01:00.001-05:00

Previously, I wrote about David Newland, the man behind the creation of a fundraiser concert at Toronto's legendary Hugh's Room. I call this plan TIED UP - The Independent Entrepreneur's Drastic Unforeseen Plan. I'll be tied up for a while; a benefit is a good - if humbling - thing.

Never did I think this event would be a virtual sell out (over 200 friends), nor did I think 300 people would watch it live via the www. Nor did I think that the same month that opened with my first cancer shock would feature the greatest night of my life. Yes. The finest.

The love in the room that night was something I had never previously experienced. Not just love toward me, but people's love toward each other in general. Nobody should experience cancer; everyone should experience a tribute.

Photos courtesy of David Sheffield, Sandy Stubbert, Vicki Ilgacs, Eric Thom, Shawna Caspi & Judy Wark

To single out people or highlights is almost unfair, because it means you don't single out other folks (or moments) for whom praise is equally worthy. So with sincere apologies to the overlooked, it is important to me to make mention of the following. Thanks go to the following people:

Helen L Crouch. That's my wife. What a woman.
David L Newland. My friend. He made it happen.
Rick Scicluna (and team). He shared the gig with the world with a PRO 3 camera live-stream.
Richard Carson. He allowed it to happen at Hugh's, and put my name on the marquee. HA!
Shawna Caspi. I don't know all she did, but it appears she did a lot. Of everything.
Emily Mitchell, Isobel Warren & Rosemary Phelan. They raised tons of money with the silent auction and raffles.
To all the wonderful contributors of prizes, and equally fabulous purchasers of same.
Michael Wrycraft for the great poster.
Gregg Lawless, John Sheard, Enoch Kent, Crabtree & Mills, Jay Aymar, Kirsten Jones, Jon Brooks, Suzie Vinnick, Bill Garrett & Curly Boy Stubbs, Janine Stoll, Jacob Moon, Treasa Levasseur, Grit Laskin, NLX, Rob Szabo, Layah Jane, and Dala. With support from Rob Poizner and Trevor Mills, plus surprise guests Brian MacMillan, Brian Kobayakawa and Sara Fitzpatrick.

Magic Moments:

Seeing the best man from my wedding in the early 80s at the show, complete with sketchbook. We never had a falling out, life just does things, like take you to different places. You can see some of Jan's Skorzewski's drawings in the slideshow, he drew 'em on the fly, as they were played.
Seeing my old boss from one of my franchise-executive incarnations, John Deknatel of Ottawa. I haven't seen him in the 21st century. John was the first man to ever hire me for my brains, and mentored me in office life. I was 38, and could barely write a proper letter. You don't forget people like that.
Seeing Judy Wark from Calgary, my co-host of the 2010 CFMA broadcast, and a very close friend. She flew in for the event.
Seeing Natasha Alexandra, aka NLX, one of the first musicians I recall giving a boost. She came in from NYC.
Seeing her table-mate and mutual friend Tim van de Ven, wearing a Leafs jersey, in from Montreal just for the show. I don't know Tim well, couldn't tell you if he was married or had kids, or anything. But he's a mensch.
The poem. Anyone who was there knows what I mean. Go to the poetry page to see it, and catch an iPhone film of most of it.
The song. Jay Aymar wrote a song for me. It's pretty damn good. Lyrics also at the poetry page.
The sweater. Bill Garrett handed me a Habs jersey. I got to taunt Jon Brooks with it.
The music. All of it.
Jon Brooks. He was never, ever, finer, and sang his best two songs. World class. WORLD.
Dala. Juno bound.
Enoch Kent. 80 years old and kicking ass.
Hugging, kissing, and engaging in 100 conversations, feeling so special and so loved.
Not having to tear down the video set up. That might have been the best of all.

Healing Radio

2012-01-24T10:34:00.000-05:00

(just a quick update: I won't know my cancer's stage till Monday, Jan 30th)

Greg Nisbet, founder of Mediazoic, a movement of music lovers, is a super cool entrepreneur. His mission is to bring together like-minded people, both digitally (largely through Internet radio stations) and physically, with outstanding, highly-curated content. Greg has become an integral part of the great Toronto music community. Greg Nisbet is also a cancer-survivor.

This morning, I awoke to my own Mediazoic music channel, featuring healing music by favourite singer/songwriters from the community. It took me about twenty minutes to believe what I was seeing and hearing. It just came "out of the blue" with an email.

I have since learned that there are a few friends behind this idea, including the wonderful Shawna Caspi. You won't find a warmer, more generous heart than the one that beats loudly in Shawna Caspi (that's her with the cupcake). You'll see Shawna Thursday at the Hugh's Room benefit, performing and volunteering, gracing the venerable venue with her brilliant smile and sweet energy. Thank you, Shawna.

Our mutual friend Jon Brooks' latest CD, Delicate Cages, has among its themes the notion that the opposite of love is not hate, that the opposite of love is fear. I agree. Therefore, the opposite of fear must be love.

And as you know, cancer is all about fear, it is its greatest weapon. With all the love I have been getting since January 3rd, including acts like this latest gesture by Greg and Shawna, fear has been reduced from a giant feral wolf to a quivering chihuahua. It's mental chemotherapy. It's invaluable.

Speaking of treatments, I had my first post-cancer-discovery treatment yesterday at Sunnybrook Hospital. A CT Scan. Lots of pictures. First, an hour of drinking and laughter, featuring a delicious 1L clear cocktail. No olives, however.

Then, picture a giant, golden, gooey Tim Hortons honey-glazed donut suspended from the ceiling and dangling 3' off the floor (Shawna's cupcake inspired the analogy, if I may). Then picture a large beavertail pastry, shaped, of course, like a beaver's tail, positioned perpendicular to the donut, smothered in butter and sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar.

Now picture yourself, a giant banana, lying face up in the cinnamon/sugar/buttery goodness, with your arms stretched out behind your head, vulnerable, anxious, wanting, waiting. Imagine yourself - the slathered banana - slowly entering and exiting the donut hole, while warm sensations from an illicit IV drip tingle your every nerve ending. You breathe, you hold your breath, your exhale, and breathe again, and again, and again until - until, well, it's over. Just five minutes. "Oh that's good for you!" reminds my beloved Helen on the way home. Whatever is she talking about?

Some guy somewhere is gonna look at pictures of this decadence, and tell me what's what next week. Can't wait. Meanwhile, tune in below for some gorgeous music and get to know some of my friends.

click to listen (opens new window)

Radio Ga Ga

2012-01-21T19:48:00.000-05:00

Coming up on CFRB 1010 in Toronto, and on-line at http://www.newstalk1010.com/ at 8:00 PM EST, In Studio with Bob and Blair features David Newland and yo' truly talking about David's new record, crowd-sourcing, and the benefit concert for moi on Thursday, Jan 26. Repeats Sunday at 10:00 PM. It is also podcast.

Blair Packham, David Newland, Andy Frank

Bob Reid, Blair Packham

poster at Hugh's Room designed by Michael Wrycraft

Afraid

2012-01-19T20:46:00.004-05:00

latest head gear rendering by NLX

A week from tonight, numerous friends and I will be gathered at Hugh's Room, Toronto's finest folk/roots music venue, to raise money for - err - me. It's wonderful, but very, very humbling. For one thing, to take money from people is hard, nobody wants to be a charity case (I'll write later in detail about money, insurance, and the plight of the arts-entrepreneur).

More humbling will be hearing praise from those who will be performing and attending. The "community" will be turning the tables on me, a radio host, stage host and video producer who is accustomed to praising the person with a guitar or book or story in hand. I'm good at dishing it out, I'm not good at taking it.

And while a blog like this appears to be evidence of a crazy exhibitionist at work, there lives within me (and some others like me) a paradox, one that some might find perplexing: I have a powerful need to express, share, present and teach, but am quite uncomfortable with applause, recognition and praise. On the other hand, I love to watch (pardon?) or listen back to my good work. Bizarre, eh?

Perhaps my very favourite radio hour - one that I've played 100 times - was one of the live music shows I hosted on Tuesday nights at CIUT 89.5 FM. It was 2006, just after Valentine's Day. The guest: a Hamilton-born, NYC based singer-songwriter named Natasha Alexandra, aka NLX, playing songs from her then-upcoming CD Bitch Get Fit.

She played eight of her original sad songs, and we laughed like the oldest of friends. I fell in love with that girl that night, and we've remained friends through thick and thin since.

Today, in keeping with Emma and Sue's precedents, she tortured my already bloodied Habs soul by sticking her beloved Bruins hat on my photoshopped head, but then told me she'll be at Hugh's next week to support the cause of my wellbeing. I then impulsively asked if she would perform my favourite NLX song, accompanied by Hugh's Room's grand piano. She agreed.

The song is called Afraid, and I want to hear it again because, well, I am.

Monday night, I do the CT scan. Tuesday noon, the surgeon tells us what's up, and delivers the final pre-surgery prognosis. Has the cancer travelled? Am I fucked? Or will it be a quick snip, zap and BAM, right back at 'er. Or something in between?

Well at least by Thursday's concert, I'll know what to tell folks, and what stage I'm in - rather than on. So yes, I am afraid, looking in the mirror and facing your mortality is humbling too.

Note: I may produce concert videos and such, but I slapped this together in 10 minutes on iMovie - my first ever iMovie, had to learn it - just to have some images to go with the song. As always, it's about the song...

Ginger Snap

2012-01-16T15:10:00.000-05:00

From the delightful Emma Jane - in response to the previous post, Hair Today, ??? Tomorrow

"You truly do make a beautiful redhead" said the charitable Emma, as she applied her ginger locks to my craggy face.

I love my community.

The original Emma is below.
Much prettier, si?

Facebook comments from friends:

Sort of reminds me of that sword-fighting tart in the Liam Neeson movie about honour in the Scottish highlands.

how's your AxlRose ?

You should be a 19th century parliamentarian, Sir Andy II or better yet, Sir Andy the Turd.

ARRRRRGHHH! 80's Hair Band Flashback....get that boy some leather pants!

Emma, you give great head. (excuse me?)

No sooner did Emma's work of art appear on my Facebook page than did this photoshop wizardry from recording artist, TTC musician, Cameron House pillar and writer Sue Peters.

Just add water!

Hair Today, ??? Tomorrow

2012-01-15T17:04:00.000-05:00

self portrait

Waiting for tests and surgery while knowing there's an alien lurking around one's plumbing is not a sport for the anxious. Fortunately, I don't do fear, I have other fragilities. I am, however, insanely curious, not only about my ultimate prognosis (which will be revealed to us on January 30), but about the important things, like my hair.

"What hair?" laughs my beloved Helen.

True, my little bald spot is slowly becoming The Skydome, but it's behind me, you see, when I look in the mirror, I see hair, short brown beautiful soft-as-a-baby's-ass hair. The threat of months of post-surgery chemo, with its legendary side effects, bugs me.

Now it's true that not all chemo treatments have that effect, it depends on all kinds of variables, but it remains a major threat to my precious vanity (see: fragilities).

Perhaps it's too soon to worry about such triviality, after all, cancer is a life and death issue, and many men of my age have long proudly paraded their bald heads for all to rub like Aladdin's Lamp. I don't care. I wanna keep my damn hair for as long as I can; call me Samson, you can call them Al.

This thinking inspired me to do something I rarely do, however. I got a proper haircut. What constitutes a proper haircut?

actual shot of truefitt and hill chair and decor

Firstly, there is only one place in Toronto to visit, Truefitt and Hill (est. London, UK in 1805). This is located at Scotia Plaza on King Street, that's where all my overdraft fees go. Next, I get served by a 72 year old Verdi-loving Italian barber named Peter.

After he hangs up my coat and escorts me to the chair, the next 45 minutes are pure masculine bliss, from Sinatra music to back, neck and scalp massages to ultimately, the finest scissor haircut a man could wish for. My hair has never been shorter, but one would never know. Brilliance.

Cost? Less than my wife pays for her hair styling, and about 2.5 times what those lawn-mowing Supercuts charge. Value? Priceless, a scene right out of Downton Abbey, only I'm living upstairs for a change.

I will do this again at least one more time before I start getting those lethal injections in April or so. It's comforting to know that come what may, I have experts in the hair corner to help me through this.

I close with this little slice of dark 2012 Mayan-inspired humour.

Cancer? My Arse!! FAQ

2012-01-11T11:59:00.000-05:00

(Thanks to my good friend "Twitchy" (photo) of the UK for the title of this entry and of this blog. Yes, Twitchy.) There have been many phone calls, emails, lunches and such, and these are some of the questions I've been answering.

Q - Colorectal cancer sounds like a pain in the arse. What's the dealio?

A - It is the second leading killer-cancer in Canada behind lung cancer. Half of all new cancers this year will be lung, breast, prostate and colorectal. We talk a lot about the first three, the latter brings up the rear, so to speak. Yet some 8,900 CDNs will croak because of it this year, 12% of all cancer-related deaths, almost as many as breast and prostate combined.

Q - What are the odds of surviving 5 years after a diagnosis for colorectal cancer?

A - Overall, about 40% of us won't make it to 5 years. But it gets better based on how early in life it is detected- for a lot of crumblies, there ain't a lot of racetrack left, you know, five years is a long time to live when you're diagnosed at 85.

So for men like me between 50-59, for example, 970 out of 3400 cases discovered this year will be pushin' up daisies by 2016. That's a 30% chance of expiring before due dates. Compare, for example, with 910 out of 6,300 cases of breast cancer in the same age bracket (14%) or 120/4900 prostate cancer deaths (3%).

So move over, Movember! I'm creating a whole new awareness campaign: Jan-u-hairy, a gender-neutral nod to colorectal cancer known to only your intimates and locker-room mates, 31 bushy days of groom-free-groins. Think it'll work?

Q - So given those stark stats, shouldn't we be giving a shit?

A - I'd say so! But it's not a sexy cancer, it's not your tits or balls, it's THE ARSE!
(5 sec clip)

(I know, the prostate is not your balls, but my dad had his lobbed off as part of his prostate treatment, he became a late-blooming soprano in the senior-home choir.)

And while some breast exams can be a real drag, prostate exams usually only involve a quick gloved finger turn. Colonoscopies are a two day process involving fasting, a massive shit-a-thon, followed by a general anesthetic and exam. It costs a day or two of work, and a lot of hassle. I can see why it is largely avoided.

Q - So why did you go and get your arse examined via colonoscopy?

A - The first time, in 2005 at age 46, was because my new family doc suggested it might be wise to get a head start on it. See my granny had it when she was in her 80s (she lasted to 91). My sister had cancer, and ultimately, so did my late parents, but they got diagnosed in their 80s as well, it never did them any damage. This last round of colon-probing was just a routine check.

Q - Did you have any pain or any other signs of having cancer?

A - Nope. Colon cancer can be kinda like some of the products we occasionally emit from that region, silent but deadly. Hence, the need to test.

Q - Where is the tumour within the colon?

A - See the diagram (I modeled for it, worked pretty well, I thought, very accurate depiction of my belly). It found its way into the area adjacent to the appendix, into the Sigmoid colon, surely a Freudian slip. Ironically, my only other surgery was the removal of my appendix in 1976. I was Jung then.

Q - What stage is it in?

A - I like to think of my colon as Massey Hall, good acoustics, and there's nothing more amusing than Helen's disapproving nose-crinkle . But as far as the development of the cancer's nastiness, it's too soon to tell. Need some CT scans at least.

Q - What's the deal with your treatments? What are they? When do they start?

A - As of this writing, it's been a week since the good butt-doctor found the "large malignant tumour" in my left colon. Before they take out the tumour and reconnect the plumbing, however, docs want to examine the rest of me, you know, in case tests reveal any cousins hangin' around other organs and such, they just wanna do surgery once.

So, I await, in order, a CT scan, bloodwork, evaluations, surgery, and at least some chemo. It will be months in total with all the folks in the queue ahead of me, but what the hell, docs speculate this thing has been with me for at least five years (!), two more months won't kill me - hmm, maybe I'll rephrase that ..

Picture this: If 22,200 CDNs get colorectal cancer every year, it means about 3,000 live in the GTA. That's almost 10 people per day that are experiencing what I am experiencing at this moment in Toronto alone. That's a lot of stress on the local health system. I'll get in sooner or later.

Q - You "cursed Jesus" and made rude Christ jokes in your last post about Leni. Are you anti-Christian?

A - Since early childhood, I've been leery of dogma, no matter whose. My mother had a passport with a swastika on it (among other passports), maybe that had something to do with it. Dogma carries with it limits and boundaries, followers and opponents. Dogma divides. Dogma cages the mind. And yes, sometimes I'm as guilty as the next guy about having a narrow view on something, it's one of the shadows I carry with me.

In Leni's case, her Christianity was entirely relevant to her story. She sang in a church choir. The minister was a zealot who refused to allow her to acknowledge her fate. It became a problem. It pissed me off. Helen reminded me, however, that we did in fact attend Handel's Messiah that Easter. One less regret ...

This Gal I Knew

2012-01-09T11:19:00.000-05:00

Statistically, it seems I have a 60/40 chance of surviving this colorectal cancer, which is coincidentally the amount of time I spend in both optimism and pessimism camps respectively.

Some loving, well-intentioned folks are encouraging me to ignore the 40% side, that somehow denial will make it go away, but that's just not realistic, and besides, I want to make sure that if indeed I do fall into that category, I don't waste a single delicious moment of what road is left.

I have reason to feel extremely grateful for the journey I've been on, these 52.5 spins around the sun. Most of us can - in a nanosecond - name someone we love who really got shafted by life's curious twists of fate.

In my case, the name that comes to mind is my beloved big sister Leni, aka Helene Monique Frank.

We were very good friends, bonded by genetics, and the need to shield ourselves from our parents' complicated, dark behaviours. I was the bratty little brother, and as kids, she routinely reminded me of that with (well-deserved) swift kicks to the shins, swats across the head, and well-timed trilingual curses. Believe me when I tell you I never returned any of those punishments in kind, for she had all of my respect in those years, more than any other being.

(photo) 1987 - Leni, Moi, Helen outside the family home in Ahuntsic, Montréal.
Leni also had a rare condition, neurofibromatosis, a genetically-inherited disorder in which the nerve tissue grows tumors (neurofibromas) that may be benign or may cause serious damage by compressing nerves and other tissues. They can also lead to the creation of malignant tumours, and sure enough, in her 35th year, that was Leni's fate.

One November evening, the resident doctor at the Montreal General Hospital greeted my wife and me in the corridor outside the recovery room where Leni lay post-op. Leni assumed she was having another benign tumour removed. What she didn't know was that the mess of organs that surround the stomach were smothered in cancer. The young resident shared his discovery with us in the corridor. Two hours later, we did the same for my old parents at the family home. Leni died within six weeks of the surgery, 21 years ago today. It was an ugly ordeal.

(photo: my life has gone to Helens - Leni and my sweet wife in 1990)
So when I got my news Tuesday morning, I immediately thought (again) of the last time I saw Leni, lying on her hospital bed in a body bag of sorts, mercifully detached from all the beeping machines that were her Christmas carols in 1990. Her jaw was held closed by a gauze bandage which was wrapped around her head like a chinstrap. One eye was partly open. I closed it and cursed her beloved Jesus.

Which reminds me of the last time I delivered one of my little brat lines to her. It was the previous Easter, and she'd invited us to attend her church choir's singing of Handel's Messiah. We both loved music and regularly shared our favourites from The Beatles to Beethoven, however, she knew that inviting me to a church event was utterly fruitless.

"Maybe this time I'll come" I suggested, much to her surprise. "After all, I've always been curious about the red erection of Christ."

I think it was a kick in shins.
I also regret not having attended.

My parents and many others denied Leni's prognosis, which had 0/100 odds of survival. Leni denied it too, which was her right, and we respected her point of view. But there were to be no miracles, nor were there honest conversations, expressions of gratitude, nor expressions of regret. And then it was over.
So yes, I remain very optimistic because my odds are 60/40 vs. 0/100, and other stats all point in the right direction. But I will not deny the fright, nor do I expect anyone else to do so in my presence. I consider myself a very lucky man.

This Guy I Know ..

2012-01-06T22:42:00.000-05:00

See, there's this guy I know, one David L Newland of Toronto, Canada. He's a can-dew kinda guy.

Check this out: he has a fine arts degree (photography), has collected business cards with his name on it from CBC, CTV, Sun Media (oops, well we all make mistakes) and Macleans for writing, blogging and production work. In 2009, David co-founded Roots Music Canada (avec moi). This was our 2011 New Year's Message.

He recently got a well-deserved grant to write his first novel, co-founded the wildly successful Corktown Ukulele Jam, and has two live recordings of original songs (million-sellers, he'll tell you, he has a million of them in his cellar).

He's also the world's greatest one-man mover, and builder of anything that needs building, including a woodshed within a downtown office. You know that Dos Equis guy? The Most Interesting Man In the World? That's Newland, only David's better looking.

One prize that has thus far eluded him is the creation and celebration of a studio-recording. Well the creation part is done, all that was left was the celebration, the release of "Give It A Whirl" at Canada's leading venue for singer-songwriters, Hugh's Room in Toronto. David dutifully booked January 26, 2012 for the release, which features this delightful song.

Instead, David forfeited a prestigious Thursday night date at Hugh's Room, and turned January 26, 2012 into a benefit concert for Helen and me. Meanwhile, my frankcasting new media colleague Rick Scicluna will voluntarily webcast and record the event for viewers around the world via Roots Music Canada beginning at 8:30 PM EST. and lemme tell ya, having streamed our share of concerts over the past three years, this is a TON of work, and Rick deserves enormous credit for his contribution.

These are typical of the kinds of gestures and offers being made to us over the past 48 hours, and Helen and I are extremely touched by all of them. In the immortal words of one of my favourite singer-songwriters Rob Szabo, thank you for giving a shit. Come to think of it, in this case, it makes more sense than ever.

And yes, I would love you to be at Hugh's Room on Thursday, January 26, 2012 at 8:30 PM. Details are here. At the risk of being crude, I have been getting all kinds of messages of confirmation of attendance from friends far and wide, including people flying in from Calgary and the UK. Please book ASAP. Tix are $18 and the artistry will be WORLD CLASS.

I leave you with this poem submitted on my Facebook page by the wonderful crystal sculptor
Mark Raynes Roberts.

“From quiet homes and first beginnings,

Out to the undiscovered ends,

There's nothing worth the wear of winning,

But laughter and the love of friends.”

- Hilaire Belloc

You Have Cancer, Kevin

2012-01-04T22:31:00.000-05:00

Y'ever wondered what it would be like to be told you had cancer? Well now I know. A doctor told me so today. No suspense. No foreplay. Just this: You have cancer, Kevin - err - Andre - err, Mr. Frank.

BAM!!

Well, Happy New Year! Indeed, the holiday season had been pretty darn nice overall, even for a part-time scrooge, dyed-in-the-wool agnostic, smiling cynic like me.

There were good times with friends and family in Montréal, even more great late night dinners in Toronto, evenings chock-filled with my favourite thing: honest adult conversations about real, gritty life.

Upon our return to Toronto, a voicemail reminding me of my upcoming colonoscopy on Tuesday, January 3rd made me chuckle - WELCOME TO 2012 - TAKE THIS!!! Well my last probe five years ago was fine, just one of those things we around 50 learn to deal with, along with diminished eyesight, grey hair, and friends' grandchildren (whaaaa?? not yet!)

But today was different. For those who don't know, the way it works is you fast, then drink some nasty powdered stuff the day before, clog up the neighbourhood sewage system while reading the entire Sunday Times - including the classified - dress up in a johnny-gown and go to sleep for an hour. During that time, a garden hose with a 1976 Leica camera travels up your ass and takes holiday snaps of your spanky clean colon, so that doctors can see if you've got any, um, issues.

Seems as though I do. My snaps came back with delightful shots of a giant red/orange alien clutching onto the homestretch corner of the racetrack.

"Oh that's cancer for sure, believe me, I know cancer" said the veteran doctor, one who has spent way too many Tuesday mornings poking around strangers' rectums. "It's got to come out now."

Fucken Mayans.

(no, that's not my ass in the photo, not yet anyway, butt stay tuned :)

Who The Hell Am I?

2012-01-01T12:13:00.000-05:00

My name is Andy Frank, age 52, born and raised in Montréal during its 20th century heyday, and now live in the heart of Toronto.

My beautiful wife of 30 years is Helen, originally from the UK, and we have a smelly little old shaggy Schnauzer named Cinder, age 15. He's our only child.

Over the course of my professional life, I've been a radio and web broadcaster, video producer, restaurant-owner, middle manager and franchise executive.

Politically, I would be classified as a centrist. I've been an entrepreneur for years, and appreciate whatever rewards come with risk-taking, but believe strongly in judging a society by the way it treats its least fortunate citizens. And I believe in treating others the way I like to be treated, with respect and compassion.