#JohnPfeilSeason
Donation protected
Hi. My name is Blake. I am one of three children who was co-created by a man named John Moloney Pfeil of Lockport, NY. This is John:

... he's on the left. My father. To say that my father is the man would be one thing; to say that my father is THE (note the capslock and bold font) man is another, and the latter is far closer to the truth. I know that a lot of folks out there stake claims: "My dad is great, my pops is greater than yours, my papa is nothing short of the greatest!" I hear you. I'm glad you feel that way. I have to disagree. John Moloney Pfeil of Lockport, NY is the world's best father. He has never touched a cigarette. He's hiked Everest. He is an All-American athlete. He has not one but TWO US patents - I don't know what he invented, but it was something cool. He has a really wicked sense of humor. He's the kindest person I know. His heart is actually composed of pure gold. I've had so many friends tell me that they wish my dad was their dad, and I calmly reply, "He is. He's everyone's dad." That's a fact. My father's door is always open for the poor, wayfaring stranger. Everyone is worth something to my dad, even the liberalist of Democrats. (He's a registered Republican. We disagree there, but he sincerely loves and appreciates the art of musical theatre, so he gets a free pass.)
And it just so happens that, because of all his awesomeness, the past year or so has been #JohnPfeilSeason. I'm going to share a sorta-secret with you now. My father got sick last year, and it wasn't until very recently that we got a solid diagnosis: lung cancer. The ugly, ugly C word. Specifically, mesothelioma. We didn't want to hear it, but if you must know, we're glad to at least have a conclusive answer because first they said it was. Then they said it might be. Then they said it wasn't. And then they went back to the cancer answer. And so it went, round and round like this, for ten months. John was passed around for the past ten months, from doctor to doctor, none of whom could provide a solid answer as to what was happening with my dad until very recently when we got the answer, finally. This is the email my father sent our closest family/friends last week:
___________________________________
Guys,
I went to see a Dr. Takita this week. He is a thoracic surgeon who is 85 years old with a heavy Japanese accent. That would put him at about 14 at the end of WW2. Sadly, I suspect he knows what a B29 looks like. Beth looked him up, and reports he has an excellent reputation. His office staff tells me he still plays racquetball quite often. Ya gotta love it!
I guess the key info in that consultation was that the last PET/CT scan I had showed something on the lower lobe of my right lung (the one that has collapsed 9 times). The "brightness" of a hot spot on a PET scan is measured in "Standardized Uptake Values" (SUVs) which range from 0 for no uptake to 15 for maximal uptake. Most cancers are above 2 or 3. Sometimes, highly metabolic normal tissues can also be in that range. In my scan, the spherical structure, sorry to say, has an SUV of 7.8. High-SUV structures look very bright when one is viewing the scan. Mine looks like a spotlight. : (
There is another abnormality in that lung, namely an area of thickening in the tissue surrounding the lung. This seems concentrated in a small area (less than 1", is my guess). It has a normal SUV, so the doc is not worried about that one.
I have been scheduled for a May 24th surgery to remove the problematic tissue via a thoracoscopy, or more descriptively, a video-assisted thoracoscopic surgery (VATS). This will probably involve 2 incisions in my chest wall to insert a camera and the surgical instrument. After slicing and dicing, they will leave a thoracic catheter that allows the lung cavity to drain. I will probably be at Kenmore Mercy Hospital for three days. If surgery removes the cause of my lung collapses, the catheter will be taken out some day. If the cause persists, they will leave it in so that my monthly "oil changes", as Meg calls them, will no longer be necessary. After removal of the tumor, the lab folks check to see if further treatment is indicated (e.g., chemo or radiation therapy).
I remain optimistic, so no worries. : )
_______________________________________
"OK. An answer. Let's act," we all said.
Here's the thing, though. Leave it to John to retire and lose good health insurance altogether. The all-star athlete, non-smoker, healthiest dude alive got cancer, had super insurance for years that he never needed, retired, and a few months later got sick. Go figure.
I know you see these all the time - which is a terrible, terrible fact in the world. And it's a terrible, terrible fact that our country's health insurance system is in dire need of continued restructuring. My dad is unemployed, and he needs help to solve this issue. (Side note: the issue, aka cancer, was given a name: Clynton.) And it's our plan to kill Clynton. We're going to annihilate her in cold blood, but we need your help.
This money is going to help cover the cost of my dad's costly care. That's it. And if you've ever met him, you know that he would NEVER ask for help. In fact, I haven't told him that I'm doing this. He'd rather kill me for doing this than kill Clynton with the help of friends. It's part of his strange loveliness, but that's where we're at right now. If you've never met John, I can make that happen. We can sit down together and FaceTime him, and he can tell you all the stories about his incredible, valuable, wonderful life that he has lived fully and truly, enough that I don't think he should have to stop yet. This isn't the way that my father is supposed to leave this planet; it's not cool enough. He needs to leave it by saving a pile of puppies from a burning building or jumping in the way of a young chap or gal who almost steps in front of a bus or better yet? Peacefully. Not at the hand of his cancerous lungs.
Not on my watch. Or yours.
If you can toss a few dollars into the pot to help murder Clynton, I'll never forget it. Not as long as I live.

... he's on the left. My father. To say that my father is the man would be one thing; to say that my father is THE (note the capslock and bold font) man is another, and the latter is far closer to the truth. I know that a lot of folks out there stake claims: "My dad is great, my pops is greater than yours, my papa is nothing short of the greatest!" I hear you. I'm glad you feel that way. I have to disagree. John Moloney Pfeil of Lockport, NY is the world's best father. He has never touched a cigarette. He's hiked Everest. He is an All-American athlete. He has not one but TWO US patents - I don't know what he invented, but it was something cool. He has a really wicked sense of humor. He's the kindest person I know. His heart is actually composed of pure gold. I've had so many friends tell me that they wish my dad was their dad, and I calmly reply, "He is. He's everyone's dad." That's a fact. My father's door is always open for the poor, wayfaring stranger. Everyone is worth something to my dad, even the liberalist of Democrats. (He's a registered Republican. We disagree there, but he sincerely loves and appreciates the art of musical theatre, so he gets a free pass.)
And it just so happens that, because of all his awesomeness, the past year or so has been #JohnPfeilSeason. I'm going to share a sorta-secret with you now. My father got sick last year, and it wasn't until very recently that we got a solid diagnosis: lung cancer. The ugly, ugly C word. Specifically, mesothelioma. We didn't want to hear it, but if you must know, we're glad to at least have a conclusive answer because first they said it was. Then they said it might be. Then they said it wasn't. And then they went back to the cancer answer. And so it went, round and round like this, for ten months. John was passed around for the past ten months, from doctor to doctor, none of whom could provide a solid answer as to what was happening with my dad until very recently when we got the answer, finally. This is the email my father sent our closest family/friends last week:
___________________________________
Guys,
I went to see a Dr. Takita this week. He is a thoracic surgeon who is 85 years old with a heavy Japanese accent. That would put him at about 14 at the end of WW2. Sadly, I suspect he knows what a B29 looks like. Beth looked him up, and reports he has an excellent reputation. His office staff tells me he still plays racquetball quite often. Ya gotta love it!
I guess the key info in that consultation was that the last PET/CT scan I had showed something on the lower lobe of my right lung (the one that has collapsed 9 times). The "brightness" of a hot spot on a PET scan is measured in "Standardized Uptake Values" (SUVs) which range from 0 for no uptake to 15 for maximal uptake. Most cancers are above 2 or 3. Sometimes, highly metabolic normal tissues can also be in that range. In my scan, the spherical structure, sorry to say, has an SUV of 7.8. High-SUV structures look very bright when one is viewing the scan. Mine looks like a spotlight. : (
There is another abnormality in that lung, namely an area of thickening in the tissue surrounding the lung. This seems concentrated in a small area (less than 1", is my guess). It has a normal SUV, so the doc is not worried about that one.
I have been scheduled for a May 24th surgery to remove the problematic tissue via a thoracoscopy, or more descriptively, a video-assisted thoracoscopic surgery (VATS). This will probably involve 2 incisions in my chest wall to insert a camera and the surgical instrument. After slicing and dicing, they will leave a thoracic catheter that allows the lung cavity to drain. I will probably be at Kenmore Mercy Hospital for three days. If surgery removes the cause of my lung collapses, the catheter will be taken out some day. If the cause persists, they will leave it in so that my monthly "oil changes", as Meg calls them, will no longer be necessary. After removal of the tumor, the lab folks check to see if further treatment is indicated (e.g., chemo or radiation therapy).
I remain optimistic, so no worries. : )
_______________________________________
"OK. An answer. Let's act," we all said.
Here's the thing, though. Leave it to John to retire and lose good health insurance altogether. The all-star athlete, non-smoker, healthiest dude alive got cancer, had super insurance for years that he never needed, retired, and a few months later got sick. Go figure.
I know you see these all the time - which is a terrible, terrible fact in the world. And it's a terrible, terrible fact that our country's health insurance system is in dire need of continued restructuring. My dad is unemployed, and he needs help to solve this issue. (Side note: the issue, aka cancer, was given a name: Clynton.) And it's our plan to kill Clynton. We're going to annihilate her in cold blood, but we need your help.
This money is going to help cover the cost of my dad's costly care. That's it. And if you've ever met him, you know that he would NEVER ask for help. In fact, I haven't told him that I'm doing this. He'd rather kill me for doing this than kill Clynton with the help of friends. It's part of his strange loveliness, but that's where we're at right now. If you've never met John, I can make that happen. We can sit down together and FaceTime him, and he can tell you all the stories about his incredible, valuable, wonderful life that he has lived fully and truly, enough that I don't think he should have to stop yet. This isn't the way that my father is supposed to leave this planet; it's not cool enough. He needs to leave it by saving a pile of puppies from a burning building or jumping in the way of a young chap or gal who almost steps in front of a bus or better yet? Peacefully. Not at the hand of his cancerous lungs.
Not on my watch. Or yours.
If you can toss a few dollars into the pot to help murder Clynton, I'll never forget it. Not as long as I live.
Organiser
Blake Pfeil
Organiser
New York, NY