John R Ritter
for State Representative 187th
Blog
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Blog # 3 - A Different Kind of Campaign
Posted Jul 17 at 8 AM
My diagnosis and the subsequent treatments have most definitely changed my original campaign plans.
I intended to spend the summer and fall walking every part of the 187th, going door-to-door, introducing myself, and meeting as many of you as possible. While I still plan to do some of that, my treatment will limit what I can do. I’ve learned the treatments leave me with little ability to anticipate how I’ll feel from day to day. Chemo takes its toll on my immune system and energy level. Some days, I feel good and the next day my red cells crash and I feel like an old cell phone with no bars. At times I’m also susceptible to infection; then I must be very careful about everything from food to door knobs to handshakes. Suffice it to say that there are “good” days and “bad” days and just when I think I know which will be which, well, cancer and the side effects of curing it prove me wrong.
If a good match can be found, the doctors are now recommending a bone marrow transplant to provide long-term remission or a cure for the disease. A transplant will hospitalize me for a month and keep me homebound for two more. That’s the bad news: a transplant would alter any candidate’s campaigning because it will pretty much obliterate my immune system until transplanted cells reestablish all the stuff that normal bone marrow produces. In the good news department, the doctors assure me that, God willing, I will be close to 100 percent by or before January and ready to take office.
When I have good days and a high enough white cell count, I’ll knock on doors and hope to meet you personally. So, if a bald guy shows up on your doorstep with a “Vote Ritter” button, well, it will might well be me. I hope to talk to you soon.
Thanks, John -
Blog #2 - Why I am Still Running to be Your State Representative
Posted Jul 17 at 7 AM
Although an initial diagnosis came on primary day, the prognosis took a couple of weeks to emerge, and the treatment plan is still evolving. Had the prognosis been less encouraging, clearly, I would not have continued the race. (By the way, I now know many people from the cancer community, who, in fact, were issued death sentences but are enjoying life years past their sentencing.)
The attending doctor declared that, with treatment, I have a very good chance of a complete remission. So far treatment has been chemotherapy. Like so many life experiences, some aspects haven’t been as bad as I imagined; others have been unexpected and worse than I anticipated. The doctor told me, “If you win in November, you will be healthy and can take the oath of office in January.” The doctor does not seem to be one to “pull punches.” In any event I am running, I intend to win, and I will represent all members of the 187th district.
I remain committed to winning because I know, if you elect me, that we can make a difference together. For one thing, I have always believed that the first job of anyone elected to public office is to listen to and to learn from as wide a variety of people as possible. For now, I have assembled a team that includes lawyers, current public officials, small business entrepreneurs, a certified public accountant, and, of course educators. All of them are committed to the core mission of my campaign: politics in Pennsylvania must put communities and citizens first. So my team includes Democrats who want to work for me and for a Democratic win in November as well as Republicans who believe that my approach to health care, tax reform, and sustainability in energy and land use make me the better candidate. -
Blog #1 – Diagnosis, Treatment Plan, & Prognosis
Posted Jul 04 at 6 AM
On primary day, my wife, Lynn, and I left our campaigning for an appointment with a local oncologist to whom we’d been referred. Two previous tests had failed to yield a diagnosis that made sense given the results of other tests.
We were confident that whatever was going on could be resolved with a good outcome. No such luck. We heard the words “leukemia” and “rare” on that day and then waited almost two weeks for a final diagnosis, treatment plan and prognosis.
Suffice it to say that primary day was bittersweet; “surreal” is probably the better word for it. So many people had worked so hard for that day. After the doctor’s appointment, I went to Laurys’ Station to visit voters and Lynn went to the Schnecksville Grange. At home, later, friends and supporters arrived and turned on the TV to cheer at the results. Everyone was so surprised by the margins and excited about the future. I still keep wondering how that day would have felt without the dark cloud of mortality seemingly so black and low over my head. That night, I felt that a lifetime of experience that would make me a good legislator could be wiped out just when I was getting a chance to be an official candidate.
We set up an appointment with a specialist at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania (HUP). Although we pummeled her with questions (many suggested by my brother who is a research scientist), she remained noncommittal. She wanted more information before attempting to answer. She wanted to do a bone marrow and bone biopsy. When we asked when, she said Now! Faster than Lynn could respond, Lynn was invited out of the room, I was flat on my stomach, and the procedure began.
The doctor would have the results in a week she said—then we could discuss a definite diagnosis and treatment plans. We know now that both my local oncologist and the specialist were not originally optimistic. If the cancer was already in my marrow and spinal fluid, the prognosis might not have been as bright.
My brother had already divulged some of my diagnosis as he understood it. He will not spill his guts willingly but when pressed cannot lie or sugarcoat. My leukemia was rare, aggressive, and only relatively recently properly diagnosed and differentiated from other kinds. As little as two or three years ago, an incorrect diagnosis that resulted in the wrong chemo protocol could have killed me, not helped. As in so much of life, the upside is also the downside. As it turned out, the rarity of my brand of leukemia garnered a lot of attention and expertise among oncologists with whom my specialist works.
Many leukemias manifest themselves in bone marrow and blood, yet my bone marrow, bone, blood, and spinal fluid are all clean. My leukemia is targeting my skin cells but it hasn’t yet invaded other areas. That’s the really, really good news. The same doctor who was noncommittal the week before was ready with an aggressive treatment plan when we went back and she gives me a better than 90 percent chance of beating this thing.
So, on Monday May 5, I began the fight. First, a scan determined my heart’s capacity for chemo. It turns out that I’m remarkably fit for a 57-year-old who’s not a gym freak. The chemo began—I had a “line” inserted, I endured the constant questions about my medical history. I surprised them all when I said I take no medications. I spent 4 days becoming a cancer patient.
Possibly, the worst night of week 1 was Tuesday. I was in nicotine withdrawal and had been given steroids as part of the chemo program. “Roid rage” and nicotine withdrawal led to a long night for the nurses. There I was, being pumped full of five chemo drugs, steroids, antibiotics, and who knows what, and I’m being told that a cigarette was very bad for me. In any event, my plan to live to be 99 will have better odds without ciggies in the future. I had my last one May 5th at 7:30 AM before we walked into HUP.
Tuesday, Wednesday, and most of Thursday, were tough. I felt like the proverbial semi had run me over and then backed up—twice—for good measure. Then I was sent home just so I could report to Lehigh Valley Hospital for the final chemo of cycle I A. Lynn brought me home and, afterward, I slept until 4:00 PM. Officers from the Parkland Education Association visited. I slept again. But part of the treatment regimen today involved taking 40 mg of some steroid; now, I'm wide awake and don't feel tired at all and it's 2:00 AM. And so this blog has begun.
Tuesday morning, my uncle Martin H. Ritter died, at 99. I’m sure you saw the article in the newspaper—he was a mainstay of the Allentown Fair for years. His life was indeed singular and remarkable in many ways. Uncle Martin could spin a tale, but like the character in the movie “The Big Fish,” somehow narrative and reality were in fact one and the same. I saw him for the last time two days before beginning treatment. He was beginning to have serious pain; I'm glad his suffering wasn't too great. My present circumstance has also informed me of how incredibly brave and desirous of life Martin, my father, and my mother were. Their will and endurance model for me what I need to do to beat this cancer and to endure what has already been a difficult regimen. To come out the other end "healthy," I'll do whatever it takes. Martin, Dad, and Mom's battles and the examples they set will keep my worry and anxiety at bay. (Although I have to tell you that the steroids don't do much for anger management.)
Thus endeth the first blog. Let me know if you want to hear about anything in particular in the future. Just drop a line to citizens4ritter@gmail.com. Early on, I decided that I would not remake myself for the sake of winning political office. I believe, like Elie Wiesel, that questions unite us more than answers. People with answers to everything don’t need to discuss or seek. And if you have an answer, does it stand against real, rational scrutiny? I’m looking forward to hearing from you and will respond as the treatment ups and downs permit.
Thanks for your prayers, cards, well-wishes, and personal stories of encouragement. I hope to continue hearing from you. Since my diagnosis of leukemia, I have received many expressions of encouragement and caring as well as many questions. I am writing this blog to keep in touch with friends and constituents of the 187th district during my treatment and to answer questions anyone may have.
