Leukemia Cup Regatta Speech

Many have requested that I post my speech from the Leukemia Cup Regatta, so here goes. It's pretty long, so if you want a pdf instead, email me and I'll forward it to you. The speech went incredibly well, as did the entire weekend. We're exhausted, but thrilled to have had the opportunity to go have some fun before I go into treatment. Also, the indentation did not come through on the cut/paste, but should be pretty easy to follow...

For Now – Leukemia Cup Regatta Speech, August 22, 2008 Travis Wilhite

Thank you for participating in the 12th Annual Leukemia Cup Regatta. My name is Travis Wilhite, and I am a Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma Survivor. I am privileged and honored to be recognized as your Honorary Sailor this year. Privileged because it affords me the opportunity to share a little of my journey in the hopes of inspiring continued support for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and their mission to find a cure for blood cancers. Honored because there are hundreds of Lymphoma survivors in the Chicago area, and thousands across the country, who fight just like me for everyday.
I am so excited to be here tonight I feel like cheering. You see I have had three rounds of chemotherapy already this summer, which leaves most patients bed ridden. The reason I am able to stand here and share a bit of my story is that I have been blessed with an incredibly strong body which absorbs the blows of chemotherapy, shrugs them off and continues on about life. You are looking at one tough Texan, who’s not about to let cancer dictate the terms of his life. Don’t get me wrong, chemotherapy’s a bitch, but that’s only because cancer kills, and my cancer kills extremely effectively.
My story began four years ago, when I found a lump under my chin while shaving one morning. It turned out to be one of 14 tumors throughout my body. I had rare form of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma which was well on its way to killing me. Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is a white blood cell cancer. White blood cells make up the backbone of your immune system. They are so tough nothing else in the body can stop them. To protect our bodies from white blood cells taking over, they are born with chromosomes that cause them to self-destruct after 72 hours, which is why the common cold lasts 72 hours.
Four years ago, the chromosomes that stop my white blood cells quite working properly. My white blood cells wouldn’t die instead they collected in my lymph nodes and began taking over my body. Left unchecked, they would continue to grow and multiply, gobbling up my body’s energy and resources until I was no longer able to sustain them. With my diagnoses, I would have been dead in a matter of months had I not found that lump.
My doctor acted swiftly. Within days of the final diagnoses, I began 6 months of chemotherapy which led to another year in recovery. For the effort though, we were rewarded with remission. Sadly, my doctor told us my cancer is incurable. He strongly felt the first chemotherapy would give me 10 years of remission.
When it returned, my doctor assured me there were things we could do, including a stem cell transplant, which would slow the cancer’s progress. However, things will only get tougher, as each relapse leaves me with fewer and fewer weapons because many of the drugs and treatments only work once. Without research finding a cure, this will be a lifelong battle.
So, it was gone, but just for now. And with that, Honore and I returned to life with as much a sense of normalcy as we could muster.
In January of this year, we were blessed with the birth of our first child, Hope Elizabeth. We have had nothing but the time of our lives being parents. Those of you who already are parents, you know of what I speak. For those of you who aren’t, hopefully one day you will be blessed just the same.
Hope’s name sums up our outlook on life. We hope for a cure, but like good parents, we’re doing everything we can to support those who are working to find that cure. Thus, our continued support for the Leukemia Cup Regatta.
Life was great; we had everything going our way. Cancer in remission, a new daughter, and all the hopes and dreams a young couple like us could expect to enjoy. Then, on May 14th, a routine follow up exam revealed more lumps in my torso.
My cancer was back. The timing was awful, but cancer doesn’t care about timing. With one PET scan, everything came crashing back to earth. We were back in the fight.
The diagnoses caught everyone by surprise, even my oncologist. Although we hoped for 10 years of remission, we got four. The good news is we caught it early. The bad news is the treatment will use another bullet from our arsenal to buy more time. Treatment involves three rounds of high-dose chemotherapy, which I have already undergone this summer, followed by a Stem Cell Transplant, which should keep me down for 8-12 months. These treatments will be significantly tougher, but should give me 15-20 years of remission.
Three days from now, I embark on a journey only a handful of people have to make. On Tuesday, I am checking into the hospital to begin a month in isolation while undergoing a stem cell transplant. Stem cell transplants used to be called Bone Marrow transplants, but because of advances in medical research, they no longer involve removing stem cells from the bone marrow. Now, stem cells are harvested from the blood stream, making the procedure far safer for the patient.
An Autologus Stem Cell Transplant, which I will be undergoing, involves harvesting my own stem cells and freezing them. Then, doctors pump poisons into my body that are so powerful they will kill all of my bone marrow and all of my blood cells. All of my bone marrow will die, I will have no ability to make white nor red blood cells, no platelets, no leukegenes nor neupogenes nor any other cells related to my immune system. I will survive on blood transfusions, IV fluids and nutrition. This will take six days and occur in isolation as I will be at a tremendous risk of developing an infection, which could then be fatal.
On the 7th day, with my system completely destroyed, the doctors will re-introduce my stem cells, pump me full of antibiotics, antivirals and antifungals and then sit back and watch the drag race. Will my stem cells find their way back into my bone marrow, and begin to re-create my immune system faster than the bugs can wipe me out? This will take a month in the hospital, but that will only be the beginning.
My new immune system will be so delicate for the first year that I will have to take tremendous precautions to avoid infection, including no travel, no crowds, and limited going out in public. Additionally, my body will be so damaged from the chemotherapy it will take 6-8 months just to feel strong enough to begin returning to normal. My oncologist says after 12 weeks I will feel like I just have a really bad flu, and that will probably last another 6-8 months. And this factors in that I am so strong and recover so well, many who go through this process take up to two years to return to normal. Hopefully, I will be strong enough to return to racing next summer. I can’t tell you how much I hate having to watch the Mac on my computer. But right now, this is the best medicine has to offer.
Five years ago, this process had a fatality rate of 30%, meaning that 3 out of every 10 patients who underwent an autologus stem cell transplant died. Patients underwent the procedure despite the risks, because it is the last line of defense.
Today, it remains the last line of defense against many cancers, including mine. However, advances in research have lead to breakthroughs such as the use of apheresis to harvest stem cells from the blood stream, more powerful anti-viral medications and more targeted chemotherapeutic agents with fewer side effects. All of this has resulted in the fatality rate for the autologus stem cell transplant falling to 2%. Simply because of the dedication to research of groups like the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, and the support of caring people like the boating community, procedures are improving. And we are getting closer to finding a cure.
I will survive this treatment and regain remission, however, the cancer will only be gone for now. This process still will not cure me of my disease. To me, having to spend a month in isolation and up to a year in recovery, just to be in remission for now, is not good enough.
Instead, I dream of a day when I can take a pill that controls my cancer, or a transplant that will cure me. And, I don’t dream of this just for me, but for the hundreds of thousands of other patients diagnosed with blood cancer each year.
As a survivor, I have a responsibility to do my best to advance research so that I may be the husband Honore always wanted and that we can share our lives, our hopes and our dreams together, and make them all come true. I will do my best so that Hope grows up with a father to guide her, pick her up and dust her off when she falls, teach her how to sail, and one day walk her down the aisle. But more importantly, she and her generation will not have to face a lifetime of for now.
I am in the fight of my life, and I am going to win because of the support of caring people like you who take time out of their lives to do something for someone else. Cancer may kill, it may screw up the best laid plans, it may make light seem un livable, but it cannot take away my mind, nor overcome my heart and it will never break my spirit. There will be a cure, and thanks to your help, we will find it.
For now, let’s go have some fun racing on the water. And thank you again.