Tommy Condon is the consummate optimist.
At 72, he has lived each day to the fullest and almost always with a smile. But his never-say-never perspective on life sometimes hides anxieties.
"Don't let this macho attitude fool you," Condon said recently at his home in Peru. "There's still a little boy in me that's scared."
Over the past five years, beginning with a diagnosis of leukemia, he has faced a trio of medical setbacks that have thrown him curves he's finding a less than easy task to hit.
"I find it difficult that in all my research, they don't give you insight into what it's like to have this kind of disease," he said.
There's a difference, he said, between learning about the technical aspects of an illness and getting a handle on the human side -- real-life experience. That's why he decided to accept an invitation from the Press-Republican to participate in a series of articles that will chronicle his journey over the next several months.
Condon says he is not a hero -- he won't be sharing details about his health to promote his own needs but to help others face the same kinds of fears.
GLARING EXCEPTION
Condon's personal odyssey into the world of medicine began innocuously during a routine exam four years and eight months ago.
"We were preparing to go to Switzerland for some hiking," said Condon, who owns Tommy Condon tours with his wife, Pat, and travels extensively. "It was the Friday before Columbus Day weekend, and I had my regular physical at Plattsburgh Health Center."
Tom Gross, a physician's assistant at the Health Center, suggested that they take a blood count from Condon to check everything out, and those results came back fine, with one glaring exception.
"My white blood-cell count was out of sight," Condon recalled. "Tom asked me if I had had an infection of some sort, and I said no, nothing at all."
Condon was referred to Plattsburgh oncologist Dr. Jan Duus, who diagnosed the problem as chronic lymphocytic leukemia (CLL), a type of cancer in which bone marrow produces too many white blood cells.
"I looked at him, stunned," Condon said, remembering the moment as if it were yesterday. "You're overwhelmed by a storm of emotions: anxiety, depression, bewilderment, anger, fear, isolation."
CLL is a slow-growing disease, and Duus told Condon that it could be several years before they started him on chemotherapy treatment. They would take blood counts every three months to monitor the disease's progression, Duus told him.
ANOTHER CURVE BALL
At first, Condon was very secretive about having leukemia. He would hide in the corner of the waiting room whenever he went to the FitzPatrick Cancer Center for check-ups and shared his condition with only his wife and closest friends.
But then, another curve ball came his way 2 1/2 years ago, and he once again flinched at a new view of his own mortality.
"I was out for a walk one day and felt what I thought was a little indigestion but didn't think anything else of it," he said. "Then, a couple of days later, I woke up and my heart was beating just 12 times a minute."
Condon went in to see Plattsburgh cardiologist Dr. Joel Wolkowicz, who informed him that he had suffered a heart attack a few days earlier.
"The next day, they put in a stent, and everything's been fine since," Condon said. "Two months later, I ran in the (Peru's Thanksgiving Day) Turkey Trot."
But those initial emotions, fear and anger, returned when he learned of the heart attack. He was determined not to let it get him down, though, and has, in fact, turned the setback into a positive as a regular volunteer for local American Heart Association activities.
And Condon also became much more outgoing about his leukemia, particularly as the possibility that treatment for the condition was growing closer.
"When I 'came out of the closet' (about the cancer), it was like a great weight had been taken off me," he said. "The support I have received has been wonderful since I've opened up."
TRIPLE WHAMMY
Doctors decided that Condon's chemotherapy should start this year, and they were looking at a possible start in spring. But then a routine blood test in March identified elevated levels of PSA in his blood -- that's the agent doctors use to recognize the possible presence of prostate cancer.
"Back came that flow of emotions -- sadness, helplessness, anger," Condon said. "Each time I was diagnosed, I had to tell my wife about it. We talked about it, we cried, and then she got out the champagne and said, 'Let the games begin.'"
Pat's positive attitude balanced well with her husband's anxiety, and the couple decided to move forward and take one day at a time.
His chemotherapy treatments for the leukemia began two weeks ago. He goes through a week-long regimen and then takes three weeks off to let his body recover from the treatment. Thus far, he has not noticed any of the side-effects that often accompany chemotherapy.
Condon is also still considering a choice for the prostate cancer: radiation therapy or cryosurgery, while he and his "team of doctors," as he calls them, weigh the factors of balancing his battle on two fronts: leukemia and prostate cancer.
"I'm going to stay as healthy as I can, both physically and emotionally, and we'll see what happens."
E-mail Jeff Meyers at: jmeyers@pressrepublican.com To see more of The Press-Republican or to subscribe to the newspaper, go to http://www.pressrepublican.com/. Copyright (c) 2009, The Press-Republican, Plattsburgh, N.Y. Distributed by McClatchy-Tribune Information Services. For reprints, email tmsreprints@permissionsgroup.com, call 800-374-7985 or 847-635-6550, send a fax to 847-635-6968, or write to The Permissions Group Inc., 1247 Milwaukee Ave., Suite 303, Glenview, IL 60025, USA.
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