It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life by Lance Armstrong Page A
Authors: Lance Armstrong
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my own stitches. I looked at my mother–and she immediately volunteered to take care of the paperwork. While I was having blood tests done, she filled out the stack of forms the
hospital required.
I was in surgery and recovery for about three hours. It seemed like an eternity to my mother, who sat in my hospital room with Bill Sta-pleton and waited for me to come back. Dr. Reeves
came by and told her that it had gone well, they had removed the tumor with no problem. Then Och arrived. True to his word, he had gotten on an early-morning plane for Austin. While I was
still in surgery, my mom filled Och in on what was happening. She said she was determined that I was going to be okay, as if the sheer force of her will could make things all right.
Finally, they wheeled me back to my room. I was still foggy from the anesthesia, but I was alert enough to talk to Och as he leaned over my bed. “I’m going to beat this thing, whatever it is,” I
said.
The hospital kept me overnight, and my mother stayed with me, sleeping on a small sofa. Neither of us rested well. The aftermath of the surgery was very painful–the incision was long
and deep and in a tender place, and every time my mother heard my sheets rustle, she would jump up and come to my bedside to make sure I was all right. I was hooked up to an IV, and
when I had to go to the bathroom she helped me out of bed and wheeled the pole for me while I limped across the room, and then she helped me back to bed. The hospital bed had a plastic
cover over the mattress, and it made me sweat; I woke up every couple of hours to find the sheets under my back were soaking wet, but she would dry me off.
The next morning, Dr. Youman came in to give me the initial results of the pathology reports and blood work. I was still clinging to my notion that somehow the cancer might not be as bad
as we’d thought, until Dr. Youman began to tick off the numbers. He said it appeared from the biopsy and the blood tests that the cancer was spreading rapidly. It was typical of testicular
cancer to move up the blood line into the lymph glands, and they had discovered some in my abdomen.
In the 24 hours since I’d first been diagnosed, I’d done as much homework as I could. I knew oncologists broke testicular cancer down into three stages: in stage one, the cancer was confined
to the testicles and patients had excellent prognoses; in stage two, the cancer had moved into the abdominal lymph nodes; and in stage three, it had spread to vital organs, such as the lungs.
The tests showed that I was stage three, with three different cancers in my body, the most malignant of which was choriocarcinoma, a very aggressive, blood-borne type that was difficult
to arrest.
My chemo treatments would begin in a week, via a Grosjean catheter implanted in my chest, and they would last for three months. I would require so many blood tests and intravenous drugs
that it was impractical to use standard individual IV needles, so the Grosjean catheter was unavoidable. It was frightening to look at, bulging under my skin, and the opening in my chest
seemed unnatural, almost like a gill-
There was another piece of business to discuss: I would be at least temporarily sterile. My first round of chemotherapy was scheduled for the following week, and Youman advised me to bank
as much sperm as possible before then. It was the first time the subject of sterility had come up, and I was taken aback. Youman explained that some chemotherapy patients recovered their
virility, and some did not; studies showed about a 50-percent return to normalcy after a year. There was a sperm bank two hours away in San Antonio, and Youman recommended I go
there.
That night, before we came home from the hospital, my mother went by the oncology unit and picked up all the supplies for my catheter, and my prescriptions for anti-nausea medications, and
more literature on testicular cancer. If you’ve never been to an oncology unit,
hospital required.
I was in surgery and recovery for about three hours. It seemed like an eternity to my mother, who sat in my hospital room with Bill Sta-pleton and waited for me to come back. Dr. Reeves
came by and told her that it had gone well, they had removed the tumor with no problem. Then Och arrived. True to his word, he had gotten on an early-morning plane for Austin. While I was
still in surgery, my mom filled Och in on what was happening. She said she was determined that I was going to be okay, as if the sheer force of her will could make things all right.
Finally, they wheeled me back to my room. I was still foggy from the anesthesia, but I was alert enough to talk to Och as he leaned over my bed. “I’m going to beat this thing, whatever it is,” I
said.
The hospital kept me overnight, and my mother stayed with me, sleeping on a small sofa. Neither of us rested well. The aftermath of the surgery was very painful–the incision was long
and deep and in a tender place, and every time my mother heard my sheets rustle, she would jump up and come to my bedside to make sure I was all right. I was hooked up to an IV, and
when I had to go to the bathroom she helped me out of bed and wheeled the pole for me while I limped across the room, and then she helped me back to bed. The hospital bed had a plastic
cover over the mattress, and it made me sweat; I woke up every couple of hours to find the sheets under my back were soaking wet, but she would dry me off.
The next morning, Dr. Youman came in to give me the initial results of the pathology reports and blood work. I was still clinging to my notion that somehow the cancer might not be as bad
as we’d thought, until Dr. Youman began to tick off the numbers. He said it appeared from the biopsy and the blood tests that the cancer was spreading rapidly. It was typical of testicular
cancer to move up the blood line into the lymph glands, and they had discovered some in my abdomen.
In the 24 hours since I’d first been diagnosed, I’d done as much homework as I could. I knew oncologists broke testicular cancer down into three stages: in stage one, the cancer was confined
to the testicles and patients had excellent prognoses; in stage two, the cancer had moved into the abdominal lymph nodes; and in stage three, it had spread to vital organs, such as the lungs.
The tests showed that I was stage three, with three different cancers in my body, the most malignant of which was choriocarcinoma, a very aggressive, blood-borne type that was difficult
to arrest.
My chemo treatments would begin in a week, via a Grosjean catheter implanted in my chest, and they would last for three months. I would require so many blood tests and intravenous drugs
that it was impractical to use standard individual IV needles, so the Grosjean catheter was unavoidable. It was frightening to look at, bulging under my skin, and the opening in my chest
seemed unnatural, almost like a gill-
There was another piece of business to discuss: I would be at least temporarily sterile. My first round of chemotherapy was scheduled for the following week, and Youman advised me to bank
as much sperm as possible before then. It was the first time the subject of sterility had come up, and I was taken aback. Youman explained that some chemotherapy patients recovered their
virility, and some did not; studies showed about a 50-percent return to normalcy after a year. There was a sperm bank two hours away in San Antonio, and Youman recommended I go
there.
That night, before we came home from the hospital, my mother went by the oncology unit and picked up all the supplies for my catheter, and my prescriptions for anti-nausea medications, and
more literature on testicular cancer. If you’ve never been to an oncology unit,
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