Paul Pavao survived a rare form of leukemia and a stem cell transplant in 2011-2012. He is in remission and recovering from a lymphoma diagnosed in November 2014. He likes to write about his gratefulness to his wife/care partner, the doctors and nurses and to God, who allowed him to go through chemo fearlessly and with joy.

Paul Pavao

My wife and I are always amazed at the fond memories and warm feelings that rise up when we return to Nashville. To others, Nashville is Music City, the home of country music and a launching pad for rising stars. For us, it is the home of Vanderbilt-Ingram Cancer Center.

You would think that leukemia would have marked our Nashville memories with pain and perhaps even terror. We could flash back to my heart attack, to blood pooling in the crook of my elbow and running down onto a gurney as the emergency room nurse ran out of the room for help, or me passed out on the floor in front of a door the nurses could not open because I was laying against it.

As we crawl our way down 21st street, through the crowd of cars and past the hurrying and scurrying students, nurses, and technicians making their way to and from classes or labs or hospital wards, we feel the warmth in our chest, smiles cross our faces, and we talk about hot soup at Panera or Au Bon Pain, long conversations with my deep-south chemo buddy Jerry and his wife, and doctors with names like Watson and Halliday. We talk about the tuna sandwiches I became obsessed with after my marrow transplant, and we laugh about the things we experienced on 11 North.

The blood cancer ward has moved from 11 North to the 10th floor of the Critical Care Tower now. The rooms are bigger, and the hall is brighter. We only know a few of the nurses. Our teenage children who crammed into the two-bedroom apartment that charities provided have grown up and moved on to new homes. Only our baby girl is with us still, a teenager herself now. I don't spend weeks at a time in the cancer center anymore, just an hour or two, and I only see my doctors every six months.

We were on vacation for three weeks in June, and when we got back, I forgot about my six-month checkup with Dr. Reddy. I was disappointed, but I can go next week instead. She was the cheery doctor, always smiling. Our favorite memory of her was when she came in for her rounds one morning to find me writing on the computer. I was a little slow in closing my laptop, so in a pleasant, good-morning tone, she asked, "Do you have time for me this morning?"

Leukemia was a test for me. I am part of the leadership of my church. I teach people to believe and follow the teachings of Jesus and the apostles. One of those teachings is that all things work together for good for those who love God and are called by him. Another is that we should give thanks in every situation. I always wondered, if things got really bad, if I would be able to live out my own words. Leukemia gave me my opportunity to know. Not only is leukemia really bad, but I was hit with one of the most aggressive forms.

We went into treatment determined to face it with thanksgiving, faith and joy. I had no idea how difficult that might be, but I was pretty sure it would take a lot of effort.

I acknowledge the grace of God in the joy I had facing leukemia, of course, but what was really a surprise were the people. Nurses, patients, doctors, even janitors. They say people are at their best in group crisis, taking care of one another and banding together around the mission to set things right. That is certainly true in the leukemia ward.

When we return to Nashville, we don't remember pain. We remember people. We remember Doc Halliday in his cowboy boots. We remember Dr. Watson telling us that people don't poke at him with, "Elementary, my dear Watson." Instead, they typically get their doctors mixed up and quip, "Dr. Watson, I presume."

So I'm sad I forgot my appointment. I can't wait to go back next week and see the places where we hung out between the chemo treatments, while I was well. Above all, I look forward to seeing those wonderful, smiling people who shared the journey with us while I wasn't well. 

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My wife and I are always amazed at the fond memories and warm feelings that rise up when we return to Nashville.

When Cancer Makes a Hospital a Home

I am the father of six children. Four of those are boys, and three of those were teenagers at the same time.

Soccer turned out to be the sport of choice for my sons and their friends. They played in a couple leagues, but the majority of their play was pickup games in our neighborhood or at the local park. I loved playing with them.

In the beginning, my kids and their friends were twelve or thirteen, and I was a superstar. We had to be careful to put a couple of the best players on the other team to keep things fair.

Both my kids and their friends got older, faster and stronger. I just got older.

Slowly I moved backwards on the field. From playing striker and center halfback, I was moved first to the outside, then back to fullback, until I was finally consigned to goalie ... unless a really good goalie was on our team, in which case I returned to fullback. I went from always being one of the captains to being one of the last picked. I always got in because you can't tell Dad that he can't play just because he's in his 40s, has a potbelly, and is the slowest person on the field.

The other change was the direction encouragement went. In the beginning I gave encouragement and always led my team. "Play closer to the sideline so we can pass to you." "Great shot, Caleb." "Good play, Noah."

All those shouts of praise and guidance turned around as both I and the kids aged.

"Hey, that was a great stop, Dad." "Good try, Dad. Even the pros make that kind of mistake."

As I approached 50, it was getting bad. If enough kids turned out to fill two teams, the teenagers, some now graduated from high school, would kindly make a spot for me to play. I knew, though, that I was usually a detriment now, playing only because of the kindness of kids who had learned the game from me a decade earlier.

The doctor who diagnosed me marveled at my age.

When I got to the hospital for chemo, the doctor found me on the exercise bike I had discovered in a hallway near my room.

"You don't look like a leukemia patient," he told me.

Both doctors and nurses told me to walk as much as possible. The chemo ward even had a map that compare the number of laps around the ward with the distance to local tourist attractions. I was obsessed with walking fifty miles during my four to five week stay. Because of a slow blood count recovery, I stayed 35 days and I reached 50 miles on my last day there, most of it walked pulling an IV pole.

I figured out early it was best to walk at 5:30 a.m. The lights would be turned on in the hallway, but the halls would still be empty. My goal was two miles walking followed by whatever I could tolerate on the exercise bike. I walked as fast as I could, and the nurses would joke about my pace, threatening to ticket me for speeding.

I loved it. Who would have thought that leukemia would transform me from the old, slow guy to the young, fit guy in an instant?

Most leukemia patients are men and most are over age 60. Though I ran across the occasional 20- or 30-year-old during my 10 months of treatment, almost every leukemia patient I met was older than me, sometimes much older.

Once again, I found myself being the one to encourage the others. It was like being on a team again.

"You're doing great, Mike! Keep it up!" "Wow, you sure did a lot of laps today, Ms. Parker!"

Who could have imagined that leukemia would restore my confidence and make me feel fit again?

One last funny story: My return to sports after leukemia was a softball game. At that point, I had been through multiple chemos and I had lost more than forty pounds. I could barely manage a slow jog. I had no idea if my arms remembered how to hit a ball with a bat.

Surprisingly, on my first swing, I hit a line drive between short and third. I was so excited I took off for first base, forgetting my condition. I leaned forward and pumped my legs, but my lower body couldn't even come close to keeping up with my upper body. I sprawled in the grass, frightening everyone watching ... except the left fielder. He casually threw the ball to first base, putting me out.

He got razzed for that and both teams gave me first base. Well, they gave first base to a pinch runner. It would be a couple months before anyone let me run the bases again.

Who could have known that leukemia would transform me from the slow, old guy to the young, fit one?

Recovering From Leukemia: From Old and Slow to Young and Fit in an Instant

I was invited to contribute to CURE several months ago. I was excited to do it, so I followed all the instructions to sign up. Then I sat on it ... and sat on it ... and sat on it. A CURE editor would remind me here and there that I hadn't posted yet, and I would assure him that I would soon.

I just couldn't come up with anything to write.

I had a good excuse, mind you. I was in the middle of a nine-month battle with neutropenia. My neutrophils, the most abundant cell in the immune system, didn't return after my treatments for lymphoma. I would find myself in the emergency room once or twice a month with a fever or vomiting. Often I was immediately hospitalized.

The real problem, though, is that I couldn't figure out how to fit in. I read the blogs in the CURE community of contributors and I read the articles on the CURE home page.

It dawned on me today that "fitting in" has never been a skill of mine.

I'm 54. I was diagnosed with leukemia about two weeks before my 50th birthday and I started chemo three days after my 50th birthday. I had quite an adventure during the six months before I received a stem cell transplant. Three and a half years later, my wife brought me to the hospital barely conscious and throwing up repeatedly. It turned out my intestines were blocked by a lymphoma tumor.

The doctors gave me four chemo treatments (R-EPOCH, for those who understand such things). I was supposed to get six. After the fourth, however, my white blood cells, primarily my neutrophils, didn't rebound. Doctors spent the next nine months making sure I was really in remission from lymphoma and trying to get my neutrophils to come back.

They came back in November. Ironically, they returned on the anniversary of my lymphoma diagnosis.

It's an odd feeling to return to health after a year of sickness. It's amazing how much I can get done when I get up every day, or almost every day, with an almost normal amount of energy and without daily doctor appointments.

My return to life outside the hospital coincided with the holiday season. I've never been one for New Year's resolutions, but for 2016, now that I've had a short break, it's time to decide what to do with the rest of my life.

I think I already know what I'll do ... the same thing I've always done.

Now's the time to tell you one more thing about me. I became a Christian at age 21, and I have never looked back. I read a passage in the Bible once that says, "The Lord wakens me morning by morning to learn like one being taught" (Isaiah 50:4).

I've spent my whole adult life getting up in the morning expecting to be taught and led by the Lord God Almighty. The path has been thrilling. I met and married the perfect companion for such a journey 28 years ago. We've had a business fail, gone bankrupt, had several children and lived "homeless" — at least by the U.S. definition of homeless. We've lived in an amazing Christian community where we learned about people and how to get along with them, and for the last four years we've had cancer as our constant companion.

Above all, we've accumulated stories, not the least of which have happened during the last four years.

I hope to tell you those stories in my future posts.

I couldn't figure out how to fit in before this post. I read the blogs in the CURE community of contributors and I read the articles on the CURE home page — nothing.

Paul Pavao

When Cancer Makes a Hospital a Home

Recovering From Leukemia: From Old and Slow to Young and Fit in an Instant

How Do I Fit In? Writing About Cancer as a Survivor

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