Save Sparkplug

Sunday, March 12, 2017
2pm

St. Matthew Lutheran Church
10390 SW Canyon Road
Beaverton, OR 97005

Please keep in mind that daylight savings time begins the same day.

Reading departure signs in some big airport
Reminds me of the places I’ve been.
Visions of good times that brought so much pleasure
Makes me want to go back again.
If it suddenly ended tomorrow, 
I could some how adjust to the fall.
Good times and riches and son of a bitches, 
I’ve seen more than I can recall.

These changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes, 
Nothing remains quite the same.
Through all of the islands and all of the highlands, 
If we couldn’t laugh we would all go insane.

Dad passed peacefully in his sleep early this morning. We’ll share details about his service when we have them.

___

Mark Wallace Dahl, 62, a longtime resident of Beaverton, died March 7. He had cancer.

Born June 3, 1954, at West Seattle Hospital to Bernt and Vivian Dahl, he was a lifelong resident of the Pacific Northwest. After growing up in Everett and Spokane, Wash., he graduated from Spokane Community College with a degree in electronics technology. He married Judy Ann Handegard on July 10, 1976, in Spokane.

The newlyweds briefly lived in Sunnyvale, Calif., as Mark built missiles for Lockheed Martin. He took an engineering job at Tektronix and the couple settled in Beaverton, where they began their lifelong endeavor to build a family and a home.

Over the next decades, he and Judy had three children and hammered together a house that remains under their perpetual construction.

An engineer through and through, he was fascinated with the way things work, often dragging his kids on tours of dams and bringing home spare electronics parts to putter around with in the garage. Friends called him MacGyver for his ingenuity to fix anything, anywhere.

Mark volunteered in many capacities at St. Matthew Lutheran Church in Beaverton, particularly with Boy Scout Troop 124, for which he was the webmaster. He was a representative of Lutheran Men in Mission.

He loved road trips around the West, seeking out back roads and markers of bygone days. His favorite way to travel, though, was on a bicycle. He participated in Cycle Oregon, a weeklong tour of the state, for 26 years, and would say of every small town in Oregon: “I’ve been there on my bike.”

Survivors include his parents and younger brother Steve in Clifton, Texas; his wife, Judy; children Tracy Dahl and Keith Knipling of Alexandria, Va., Katie and Scott Dai of San Leandro, Calif., and Peder and Lucy Dahl of Hood River, Ore.; grandchildren Simon and Cecily Dai; and countless friends.

Memorial donations can be made to the Cycle Oregon Fund at the Oregon Community Foundation.

First off, you should know that this entry is being written by Katie. We’re not quite at the finish line, but it’s within sight. So, how did we get here?

On Wednesday, February 22, Sparkplug spent the night in the ICU. To be honest I don’t know all the medical details, just that the calcium in his system had reached dangerous levels. He mentioned in his last entry that he had a bladder biopsy scheduled–that came back positive, and a scan at the hospital revealed that the cancer had spread to his bones. Still, his oncologist was optimistic about alternate cancer treatments, and the physicians here were able to get his calcium levels and kidney function back to a state where they were comfortable sending him home. He was discharged on Tuesday, February 28, and slept in his own bed that night.

We spent Wednesday figuring out what the new normal was going to look like for Dad as he regained strength and prepared to resume cancer treatments. I asked him if he wanted to dictate a blog post and I’d type it up for him. He said he’d been thinking a lot about what to say to folks, and in very Sparkplug fashion, he made a math analogy. “I expected this to be a slow decline, like a battery running out. Instead it’s turned out to be more like a step function–I was holding steady up here, then all of a sudden, THUNK.” Imagine the facial expressions and hand gestures that accompanied this conversation. He chuckled and admitted, “Thunk hurts.”

Wednesday evening, he sat down at the dinner table and shared a meal with Mom, Peder, Lucy, and me. And then he had a stroke. The ambulance was there within minutes; he would have appreciated the speed run and flashing lights.

They removed a blood clot. Bleeding in his brain continued. Treating the cancer is no longer possible. Tracy’s here now. He’s mostly sleeping.

Dad always was exceptionally precise. He was diagnosed on March 3, 2016, and told the “statistical average” was 12 months. On March 3, 2017, his treatment was discontinued; he’s on compassionate care now. We move to hospice tomorrow.

Once he’s settled we’ll share the address and visiting hours, for anyone who might want to come say goodbye.

Pissin’ in the wind, bettin’ on a losing friend, Makin’ the same mistakes, we swore we’d never make again — while I’ve always enjoyed Jerry Jeff’s anthem to futility, it could have been my theme song for the past couple of weeks.

When we last left our protagonist he was having some mild urinary discomfort and his oncology doc had referred him to a urologist.  An appointment was set, but the issue advanced from discomfort to red hot lava-like pain; waiting for this appointment wasn’t an option.

I’m a happy Kaiser patient but sometimes you have to work the system.  So began a litany of phone conversations with appointment schedulers, oncology and urology advice nurses, multiple urinalysis and blood tests, a Sunday visit to the urgent care clinic, a rush appointment with my general practitioner and multiple proctology exams.  I was finally able to get a stat referral to my urologist two weeks earlier than originally scheduled.

Wednesday I had chemo, then Thursday morning I experienced an exam called a cystourethroscopy, a spelunking about in my bladder with a fiber optic scope through my … well men, there’s only one path from the outside world into your bladder.  About as uncomfortable as you might imagine.

The urologist saw some growth in my bladder that doesn’t belong there so I’m scheduled for a similar but more involved exam in a few weeks where he will do a biopsy and “scrape” my bladder?  Thankfully, I get anesthetized for that one.   Both my oncologist and urologist have said it’s rare for the cancer I have to migrate to the bladder, it’s probably a side effect of the chemo and not to worry.  Yeah, right.

Though multiple tests failed to detect a UTI, doc prescribed an antibiotic just in case.  I took it for a day and a half before having to kneel before the porcelain throne like an overindulgent frat boy.  Ironic that in 19 cycles of chemotherapy this was the first and only time I’ve been sick.

I recovered quickly on Friday once I stopped taking it (a sulfa based drug, they make Judy sick too) and was able to attend my 32nd annual St. Matthew Men’s Retreat at the coast.  Had a great weekend with Peder and some of my best friends and miracle of miracles, most of the pain is gone.  Maybe doc was on to something after all.  Yesterday I was prescribed a different antibiotic and so far, so good.  I have ultrasound and pre-op appointments this week prior to the nasty exam February 15th.

For a guy accustomed to seeing his doctor once every five years, all these appointments, prescriptions and procedures are beginning to take their toll.  Seems I’m visiting some medical facility about as often as work or church now.  Living with cancer, the fight goes on.

Saturday I had my fourth CT scan and today we were to meet with my oncologist  to learn the results, then have my 19th chemo cycle.  Well, things didn’t go quite to plan.  We’ve been having a crazy winter and for the second time encountered significant snow on a chemo day, making it a challenge to reach the clinic.  Intrepid explorers, we employed car, train, bus and some slippery hiking only to find the clinic locked up tight.  The smart folks stayed home.

My doctor called this afternoon and we shared a virtual office visit instead. The short story is that this CT scan looks about like the previous one, and the one before that.  The cancer hasn’t spread, the tumor hasn’t grown and we thank God for the good news.  Doctor is pleased with my status and said he’ll see me again in six weeks (maybe we’ll be thawed out by then).  He did note some “thickening” of my bladder (whatever that means) and since I have some occasional discomfort when taking a leak, he will refer me to the urologist I saw back in March when all this started.

Leaving all this snow / cancer drama behind, we depart for a long weekend in Honolulu tomorrow.  Keith is running one of his ultra marathons on Oahu and he and Tracy invited us to join them.  Well, why not?  Aloha my frozen friends,  I’ll have a Mai  Tai for you.

 

Life has been pretty normal, at least as normal as it can be when living with cancer.  NPR’s Fresh Air linguist chose “normal” as the 2016 word of the year, for a year that has been anything but.  I haven’t written a post for awhile, it seemed there wasn’t much new.  But you wouldn’t necessarily know that.  There’s probably a New Year’s resolution there …

Like all of you, we’ve been busy preparing for Christmas.   I’m feeling good, still able to do what I’ve always done, albeit a little slower.  We went out and cut our tree, I put up the lights as always (though wife was adamant about spotting me on the ladder) and enjoyed three Christmas concerts.

After 10 months and 17 cycles of chemotherapy I’ve no pain, am taking no drugs, just experiencing some neuropathy in my fingers and toes.  In my last post I mentioned the possibility of taking my chemo orally.  While there were a number of factors to consider, I’ve decided “don’t mess with what’s working”, at least for now.  So we continue to go into the clinic for infusion every other Thursday.  When I met with my oncologist two weeks ago he said since I wasn’t showing any other symptoms, I’d only need to see him every six weeks instead of four. We have a CT scan scheduled in a couple of weeks, you can expect an update then.

So, on this Christmas Eve, I’m thankful to be doing well.  I didn’t know when this journey began if I’d see this Christmas.  As we celebrate the birth of the baby Jesus and the gift his life represents, I’m confident whatever my future holds it’s all going to be OK.  Thank you for the prayers, love and concern for us.

Wishing you a blessed, Merry Christmas my friends,
Mark

The chemo treatments haven’t killed my cancer but they aren’t killing me either. So, we’re kind of at a stalemate for now.

We met with my oncologist today and he says I’m doing great, the results of my CT scan last week show the disease is in good control. Essentially the same situation as three months ago, the cancer hasn’t spread so call it very good news.  We will continue with chemo treatments though, I had cycle 12 today.

Doc suggested that we might be able to switch to an orally administered version of chemo instead of the bi-weekly intravenous routine I’m on now.   It could potentially simplify our lives as we wouldn’t have to go to the clinic for treatments.  However, there are new potential side effects to consider.  Also, strange as it might seem, in going to chemo and dealing with the infusion pump, etc. it gives me a sense that I’m doing something to fight this demon.  I’m not sure swallowing a few pills would feel the same and I’d miss the angels disguised as chemo nurses that care for me. Going to have to cogitate on this decision for a while.

I shared some Cycle Oregon pictures with my oncologist and case manager, they were happy I was able to enjoy the ride.  I’ve tried to get doctor to give me some sense of life expectancy based on his experience but understandably, he really can’t.  He does tell me I’m strong, in good health (other than stage 4 cancer) and I’ll very likely outlast the statistical prognosis.  Given how well I feel and that it’s been seven months so far, I interpret that to mean I have a year or more yet and who knows what new developments might be available in that time.  I’m still praying and expecting to be an outlier.  Doc even said who knows, maybe I’ll ride Cycle Oregon 30.  Challenge accepted  🙂

Thanks for dropping by, I really appreciate the continued prayers and support expressed by y’all.

Mark

Seems I’m past due for an update here, been too busy enjoying life.

I recently completed my 26th Cycle Oregon, a fantastic week for me and one I wasn’t sure I’d be able to experience.  When first told I had cancer I asked my oncologist if I was crazy to think I could do Cycle Oregon this year.  He told me it would be my body that decided, not him.  Well, Sparkplug’s body responded with a resounding yes.

Daughter Tracy and husband Keith came out from Virginia to ride with Dad, their first big bike trip.  The loop route featured southwest Oregon timber country, climbed over the coast range twice, ran down our gorgeous coast and up the Rogue River.  I rode the entire week, some 354 miles, including two hellacious hills, one 15 miles of +7% grade.  Tracy rode with me that day and when we reached the summit she shouted “the guy with cancer and the kid with no training did it!”  Judy wisely suggested I  try to have as normal a ride as possible and not make cancer the focus of my week.  While I did pretty well with that, cancer is part of my life now.   I talked with a number of survivors and people with family in the battle but didn’t meet anyone actively taking chemo like me.  The first photo below fairly captures my emotions for the week.  Being able to still do what I’ve done for nearly three decades and sharing it all with Tracy, Keith and my good friends Tom and John made this one particularly special and a ride I’ll never forget.

So, on the cancer front, things are stable almost seven months after diagnosis and 11 cycles of chemotherapy.  I have no pain and take no pain meds at all.  Had my third CT scan yesterday, we will get the results when I meet with my oncologist next week. Praying for the same positive news we got last time.

Riding on …

For Judy, with apologies to Jimmy,

… Yes it’s been quite a summer, muscle cars and Hawaii bound planes.
And now I’m off on my bike again, somethin’ for which I didn’t really train.
And darlin’ you love me so, that’s the reason you just let me go.
Come Monday it’ll be all right, Come Monday I’ll be holding you tight.
I’ll have seven splendid days on the bicycle ways, but I just want to be back by your side.

Leaving for my 26th Cycle Oregon tomorrow.  Doc cleared me to go [“I know it’s important to you given you have a tatto. 🙂 “],  my cancer case manager is an avid cyclist which might have helped too, but most of all, Judy, my super caregiver is OK with it.  Daughter Tracy and husband Keith are riding with me for their first time.  I’ve been gone so much this summer my training is woefully lacking, cancer or not, but I’ll give it my best shot.  Our Team Rubber Chicken says “death before sag” and I’ve never had to ride the van of shame but I’m not going to abide by that this ride.  You can see what I’m undertaking here: http://www.cycleoregon.com

I’ve been living with cancer for 6 months now.  So far my only sense anything is wrong are the chemo side effects.  At my chemo session on August 25th my platelet count was too low but my oncology doctor decided I could have treatment anyway.  We did have to eliminate the Oxaliplatin from my toxic cocktail as my neuropathy is no longer transient. We don’t yet know if it’s permanent but my finger tips and toes are numb all the time now.  Makes typing weird.  Doc said this was inevitable but that I lasted longer than many chemo patients.  They let me skip my chemo cycle this week so I’ll be at my best for the ride.  I’ve completed ten cycles now and have a CT scan scheduled for the end of Sept.

Overall, I’m feeling great.  Finally done with the morphine withdrawal / insomnia after a month of struggle but I feel no pain and take no drugs now.

As they say, no matter what, a day on the bike is a day on the bike!

Aloha means hello, goodbye, affection, peace, compassion and mercy.  Our time in the land of limited consonants is quickly nearing it’s end, tonight aloha will have to mean goodbye.  We’ve had about a week in Kona with daughter Katie, son in law Scott and grand kids Simon and Cecily, celebrating their 10th anniversary and our 40th. We’ve had a fantastic time and experienced more than I expected, too much to relate here, just know it was awesome!

Some time ago Scott asked if he could record an interview with me describing my life for posterity, or at least my kids and grand kids.  He packed his recording gear from home and today we recorded about 3 hours covering my life from birth to birth of our kids.  Part 2 to come later.  Like most folks, I enjoy talking about myself so had fun with the process.

I’ve been feeling great — during the days.  For months now I’ve been on a low dose morphine pain pill.  Last time I saw my oncologist I questioned whether this was necessary given I have no pain whatsoever, haven’t really had any since I began chemo.  He told me I could try reducing my usage or change back to the hydrocodone I’d had before if needed. Just before we left I realized I wouldn’t have enough morphine pills for the duration but I thought, no matter, Doc said I can back off or use the alternative.  No one ever told me about morphine withdrawal.  Let me tell you, it’s misery.  Like a bad case of the flu and more.  Sleeping is the worst.  Though exhausted I can’t sleep, tossing and turning, just physically impossible to keep still.  Wife resorted to sleeping on the floor. Last night was day four and it was some better.  The red eye home tonight will be interesting.  I hate the idea of being drug dependent but this was a hellofa time to detox.  Hope to be rid of this demon soon.

Next chemo is Friday, back to the reality of living with cancer but with new memories I’ll carry forever.

Aloha