Chronicles of a
Cancer Patient

Sickness comes on horseback, but goes away on foot. ~ William C. Hazlitt

I Was So Nauseous That I Ate Everything

I went in for treatment #9 yesterday, despite not having any cancer to put it towards. The doctor said that I was in complete remission, so we would do 2 “consolidation” treatment cycles to make sure. That means 4 more treatments, which has me done with this crap on January 9th, 2006, assuming all goes well.

My blood counts are still high and my hair is sticking around, and in a lot of ways, you wouldn’t know I’m a chemo patient unless I told you.

And speaking of, I suppose I should be more careful about when and where I tell people. When we went out Wednesday night to celebrate the PET scan, I told every person that would listen, or was at least in ear shot. The people that knew about my diagnosis were happy to hear it, but those friends of mine that hadn’t heard were a little taken back.

“You got what?” They would shout over the music.

“I beat cancer!”

“You’re being transfered?”

“No,” I’d shout back, “I BEAT CANCER!”

Then their face would go blank and sheet-white and they’d mouth, “You had cancer?”

“Yeah, but I beat it!”

Still shocked, they’d say mouth again, “You had cancer?”

Anyway, it was probably kind of a buzz-kill for those who hadn’t heard, but maybe they had just missed the point of the good news.

So. 4 more treatments. I’ve decided that now that I’ve beat cancer, I’m not going to take these treatments John-Wayne style. I walked right into the chemo room and before I even sat down I was asking the nurse to just put me out. Just give me some of that sedative stuff and wake me when you’re done. I don’t want my brain to have anything to do with it this time. And while you’re at it, I want some pain relievers, and some laxatives (believe me), and some fiber (again, just believe me), and I want more anti-hiccup stuff, and antacids, and the strongest anti-nausea stuff you’ve got. Give it to me now.

The session was pretty easy, being asleep and all. William was there, and so was Shirley. The two old guys down the way were talking about not being able to taste their morning coffee anymore, and their wives were talking about how their husbands can’t taste the morning coffee anymore. Shirley told me she was “really praying” for me, although I can’t help but think that there are others that could use it more. I heard William give out a growling scream from one of the rooms about half-way through – probably something with needles, that guy hates needles.

I woke up and went to the bathroom and turned the water red – that was how I knew they’d already put the drugs in. It was kind of a surprise, but I was glad that I slept through it. Like I said, forget that John-Wayne, take-it-like-you-want-it nonsense, I’ve been through enough.

Because I’ve gained 40 lbs since the beginning of treatment (yeah, I know, it feels like a lot to me too), they had to up my dosage of chemo. That means more of everything – Bleomyacin, steroids – everything. By the time I came home, I was so nauseous, I could hardly wait to eat everything in the house. (It’s a hard feeling to explain.) I had a chicken stirfry, and two chicken sandwiches, and chocolate and then, later, a whole spread of Kentucky Fried Chicken dinner. I reeeeeeally hate steroids. I swear I’ll be 2 bills by the end of this nonsense.

3 more treatments to go. Take it Elvis:

I’ll a-have a b-b-Bleo Christmas with chemo
I’ll be so bloated, just taking that drano.
I’ll be doin’ alright, by January 9th,
but I’ll have a Bleo-o Christmas.

Tito was the big black thing on left that’s not there anymore on the right. Good riddance you worthless freeloader.

I walked outside the hospital and sat on the bench that people sit at when they wait for the bus. I read the report and I cried.

“The current PET study is unremarkable. On the prior study the patient had marked abnormal increased uptake in the mediastinum, right paratracheal and right hillar regions. On the current study, this has resolved completely and is no longer visualized.”

I want to run and jump and scream and climb a tree. No, I want to take a plane ride once all the way around the world, waving out the window as I go. I want a goddamn ticker tape parade right down 5th Avenue!

I’m tough as nails. I’m a cancer survivor.

I AM A CANCER SURVIVOR!

This may be hard to read if you don’t like needles.

By the time I finally got to sleep last night it was way later than I should admit, and I had almost forgotten entirely about the PET scan I had to go to this morning. A PET scan is a test that scans your body for cancer. Back in the day they used to have to cut a cancer patient open and conduct “exploratory surgery,” where they would take a little piece of every organ and test it for cancer. My Aunt had to go through that and I understand it’s unpleasant, so we’re awfully lucky these days to have PET scans.

The deal, though, is that you can’t do any repetitive movement for 12 hours before the scan, and you must fast for 6 hours before coming to the hospital. Repetitive movement includes things like reading and chewing gum, not just lifting weights and flexing in the mirror (I don’t know why these are the ones that come to mind…).

Anyway, when the lab assistant came to get me in the waiting room she said she liked my shoes. You may not appreciate the triumph in those words if you haven’t ever been shopping with me. Especially shoe shopping. The last time I went shoe shopping, a week ago, I sat in the store for nearly 2 hours staring at the shoes like they were speaking in a foreign tongue. I finally picked out a pair – a disgusting, puke brown pair of Euro-trash. I got into the car and put them on and realized that somehow between the 2-hour debate, the cash register and the parking lot, I had bought an pair of puke brown, Euro-trash shoes. And they didn’t even remotely fit. Seriously, not even close. At what point in the store did I say to myself – “Yes, these are the ones!”? Was it the 45 minutes I spent walking around in them, seeing if they were? Was I training to be a geisha? What is wrong with me?

Like a shoe-buying idiot, I went back into the store and returned the shoes that I had just bought and tried again. This time I picked out two different shoes, one pair brown and one pair black. I paid quickly and left. The cashier gave me a funny look. I would have too.

Naturally, only one of the pairs of shoes I bought fits, the black pair is clearly too small (no, I’m not kidding, I’m that bad at buying shoes). But the brown pair! Oh yes! These were such a good pick that the PET scan girl needed to comment on them. I thought about telling her this story, but it’s bad enough that I wasted YOUR time telling the story, let alone some helpless lab assistant that was just looking for something to say during the long walk to the trailer.

They keep the PET scan machine in a semi trailer and drive it around from hospital to hospital because no one hospital can fork over the $2.6 million it costs to own one. The lab techs travel with the machine and spend their days cooped up in the trailer with sick people, commenting on their shoes.

They sat me down by the machine. The lab technician – an older guy with a violent case of the shakes, the likes of which I’ve only seen in alcoholics and Parkinson’s patients – prepared my arm for an IV while the assistant asked me questions and checked things off on her check board.

“Do you have diabetes?”

“No diabetes.” I said. The lab tech rubbed my arm with the alcohol swab. I’m used to getting stuck with needles now, I’m actually bothered more now by the smell of alcohol and gauze than anything else. I can’t stand the smell of hospitals.

“Have you ever had chemotherapy?”

“Yes, I’ve had four months of it now.” I said. The lab tech lined up the needle in his shaking hand.

“Did you have it recently?” And he stuck me in the arm. But he missed the vein, I could tell right away (I’m getting good at that). I think he knew it too, because he started sliding the needle around under my skin, trying to dig into the right place.

“Eh…What?” I was trying to pay attention to the girl asking me questions, but when I looked at her, I saw she was staring at the needle, too. She didn’t have the look of surprise or terror that I had on, though, her look was more like ‘Oh, here he goes again.’

“When was the last time you had chemotherapy?” She looked at me.

“Oh, uh, it was Monday. The last time was Monday.” I said, and looked over to see Mr. Shakey McShakerson trying to pull a sample of blood out of the needle he had stuck in my arm. No blood was coming though, so he pushed it in further. I was wearing my look of horror by now, I’m sure.

I think the lab assistant left for lunch then. I don’t know. I was starting to be pretty occupied with this dude that was stabbing me in the arm. He brought over a small syringe that was encased in a half-inch thick tube of protective metal.

A PET scan is an interesting thing. The first thing you have to know is that cancer loves sugar. Cancer eats up sugar like crazy. I seem to remember even craving sugar back before I was diagnosed, but that might be something my mind made up for me. Anyway, in a PET scan, they basically inject you with radioactive sugar water, and then record where it goes in your body. If you have cancer, the sugar will go straight there and your tumor will light up on their monitor like a light bulb.

Shakey started to push the radioactive sugar water into my IV and I tried to look away.

“Does that burn?” He asked.

“No. …Wait…YES. YES, oh, yes, that burns.” He took out the needle and put it and it’s casing back where he got it.

“Is it supposed to burn like that?” I asked. I knew the answer was no because I’d done this once before and I didn’t remember my arm catching fire that time.

“No, it’s not supposed to. The IV must not be in your vein, or it’s leaking out. We’ll have to start another one.”

Oh God. You mean the radioactive material that you keep in a 1/2 inch thick lead casing has leaked out of my vein and is burning the tissues in my arm? And you want to do it again?

He tied the rubber band around my wrist and told me to make a fist. He got out another needle and shakily held it above my clenched fist, like he was about to cut the wires on a time bomb, but wasn’t sure which wires he was supposed to cut. When he stuck it in he, I think, went to far and went clear through to the other side of the vein. It’s hard to explain what that feels like, but I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. I looked down and saw the white knuckles of my other hand clenching my seat.

How much more of this should I tell you?

There was a sharp pain, and I looked up to see him rooting around in my hand, still trying to find the vein. He finally found it, thank you JEE-zus. He brought over another vial of the radioactive stuff and pushed it through the new IV. I was probably emitting my own light by that point, if he’d of thought to turn off the lights I could have done my impression of Jessica Tandy in “Cocoon.”

The funny thing about the guy was just how likable he was, despite his tortuous incompetence with a needle. He seemed genuinely interested in what life is like as a musician, and we talked a little bit about how he’d like to go to the place in Ireland that was displayed on his calendar this month.

Once the stuff is in you, though, you have to just relax. Repetitive motion will attract the radioactive sugar, so if you’re talking it’ll look like you have cancer of the vocal chords or something. He left me in a different room for about 45 minutes and I think I even fell asleep for awhile.

As Shakey brought me in for the scan I walked by the old lady that had been scanned before me.

“Oh, are you next?” She asked. She looked especially interested, but I think that was because she had penned in her eyebrows a little too high this morning.

“Yeah, how did you do?” I replied.

“Oh, I did fine. But we had some trouble getting the IV in me…” Shakey coughed and looked away.

“Ok Dave, your turn.” He said.

The PET scan machine looks just like an MRI or a CT scan, if you’ve ever had one of those. There’s a small slab of a bed that you lay on, and it goes in and out of a big metal tube that surrounds your body and makes funny noises. You have to lay very still or the imaging won’t turn out right.

As Shakey was about to put me into the machine he said, “Do you remember? Was this a head and neck thing or what?”

If I understood him correctly, I think he meant to ask me what he was supposed to be doing. Next I thought he might ask me if I knew how to drive this thing. I said, “Well, I had this big tumor in my chest.” I hoped that information would be enough.

“Oh really? Wow, in your chest?”

“Yeah, a great big one.” I said. He seemed satisfied with that and went into the other room and closed the big, heavy door between us.

About 30 minutes later, when the scanning was done and I’d fallen asleep again, Shakey came in to pull me off of the slab.

“Did you get some good pictures?” I asked, hoping he might show me.

“Oh yeah, yeah. They turned out really well. I set them for an extra 15 seconds and they turned out really well.”

“Did you see a big tumor?” I asked, still digging.

Then, it was funny, he took me over to his computer. He told me that he couldn’t interpret any of the photos, and then he told me what all the photos meant. I saw a big black thing where my heart is, but he told me that that was my heart and that was normal. I didn’t see anything where the tumor used to be.

I didn’t see anything where the tumor used to be!

The images have to be turned over to a radiologist so that they can charge me another $800, but if the radiologist sees the same nothing that I saw, I’m going to start calling myself a cancer survivor.

As I left the semi, I told Shakey that I hoped to never see him again. He got the joke, but I was only kind of kidding.

I don’t have much to report this week about me. I had chemo on Monday, and it was a bad week, worse than the others. My hands went numb again, and I’m almost glad because that means the doc will take out one of the drugs for the last couple times. I played one gig all week, a choir concert for a good friend, and it just knocked the hell out of me to do it. It was on Thursday, and usually I’m ok by Thursday, but I guess it’s getting worse.

But whatever, it’ll be over soon. 2 more chemos, and at least I beat it. I guess once I heard that I beat it, my mind started to turn to future things and plans, and just getting on with my life. In that way, these last few chemos seem like such a nuisance. I don’t think I would have described them as a “nuisance” five months ago. Also, there are some other medical things going on in the family now that seem more important, and that’s saying something.

Life is rolling along, despite the cancer treatments. I can’t say much yet, but I’ve got my fingers crossed that I might get a short story published in the next year – more on that another time. I’ve heard from some people interested in becoming students, and once chemo is finished next month, I’m booked solid with gigs until April. (I’m booking May now, anybody want me for May?) And I’m still working out recordings for the coming CD.

In a way, I sometimes think that it’s been nice to have the past 5 – soon to be 6 – months to sit and reflect on life while in a semi-desperate situation. I mean, I’ve come up with a lot of good thoughts during this time, and – no doubt – grown up double quick. I’m infinitely closer to several people – my parents, my brother, my girlfriend – and that’s a really nice outcome from a terrible situation. When I first started I knew that cancer would teach me things, and I hoped that I’d be wise enough to find the lessons – and I think I have learned a lot.

I know not to take health for granted. I was good, before, about living life deliberately, but I’m even more set on that now. I know the value of a relationship, and what it really means to stick by somebody.

They say that cancer mellows people out, that survivors are pretty chill people. I’d say that I’m a lot more mellow about somethings and a lot more vehement about others. I’m a lot more uppity about living life on my own terms and not following the pack, I used to waver more on that subject before this. Now I know that life is too short to live someone else’s and call it your own.

Anyway, I know that a lot of other stuff and I can’t think of right now.

I’ve got two more treatments. Stick with me. I’m almost done.

…trouble if he had gone on his expedition with the compass I bought I eBay. This compass doesn’t point north. It points towards the closest source of electricity (my cell phone, a lamp, the south wall of my bedroom, etc.). Very useful.

I bought a compass the other day on eBay. Ok, well, two compasses, actually. I wasn’t sure about the first one, so I figured I should get a second. I got outbid tonight on something that was billed as the “complete desktop recording system,” although now I’ll never be sure if it actually was. That one upset me, too, because I only lost it by $2.50. I mean, I could have paid another $2.50, come on!

I bought a spindle of CDs. And a ceiling fan for my tent. Not that I can use my tent for the next 9 months. Or a compass for that matter. And what on earth do I need a compass for? Do I look like Magellan? The pocket knife I bought will probably be useful, but I’m glad I asked my father to talk me out of buying the over-priced keyboard I was eyeing today. I have a keyboard. Two keyboards, in fact. Actually, I already own the same keyboard I was thinking about buying today.

I started to read the “Jeans Style Guide” on eBay just now, and I realized that it was for women’s jeans. But then I kept reading. It was about then that I realized that I have a problem.

Somewhere between getting cancer and getting really bored, I started surfing eBay again. I say “again” because I believe I’ve done this before, where I start to roam around eBay, buy a few useless things – sunglasses, spatula – and then realize what I’m doing.

This time, though, I really, truly, have nothing better to do that pick through the yard sale crap on eBay (i.e., check this gem out), so it’s especially alarming.

Today I got tired of staring at my computer, so I pulled on my shoes and draped my coat over my pajamas and drove my car to our mailbox (driving to my mailbox will make sense to those of you who know where I live). See, two packages had already come to the house, and neither of them were for me – specifically – neither of them were the new Victronox Swiss Army Knife Picnicker Edition #53652 pocket knife that I bought off eBay that I don’t need. So I thought I’d take a drive up to the mailbox to see if anything came for me.

I didn’t find anything from eBay, but I did find a few more doctor bills. *Not what I was looking for.*

So I came back to the house and surfed a bit more, and that’s when I started to bid on this “complete desktop recording system,” which I desperately do not need.

Mostly, like I said, I’m just still sort of bored. I had chemo on Monday, and here it is Wednesday, and I can’t really go very far without having to lay down, and I’m sort of tired of seeing the people on CSI solve EVERY case (wow they are good), and I can only lurk so much on my own website waiting for comments before it gets obsessive.

I have, however, come up with a bunch of things to do. When I’m done with this, I mean. First, I thought I’d backpack in Sierra Nevada this April. And then travel Europe again – no, make it South America this time – oh, and include a language immersion program in there so I learn to speak Spanish.

And I thought I’d record my own CD of piano music. I would have my own recital, too. It’s about time I did something like that anyway.

And if I do any of that backpacking stuff, I’m going to need a compass, right? (You don’t even know how to use a compass.) And a Victronox Swiss Army Knife Picnicker Edition #53652 pocket knife? (You could probably manage without.)

Well, anyway, if anybody is interested on how to find the right pair of women’s jeans on eBay, just let me know. I have the link right here.

Update: I just got this e-mail from the dude I bought the pocket knife from:

Hello,

I greatly apologize we have indentified a large inventory and shipping mistake that effects your order. Unfortunately your item is unavailable. I have refunded your money plus $5 for the waste of your time and I again I greatly apologize.

Thank you,
David Harris
www.ABCKnives.com

Besides being really lame, and besides the fact that I no longer get my Victronox Swiss Army Knife Picnicker Edition #53652 pocket knife – this means that I just made $5 by buying things I don’t need on eBay.

My hair is just not going to fall out. I’ve mentioned before how totally unlikely this scenario is, considering the fact that my hair started to jump ship around age 15, but somehow I’ve managed to be the Richard Gere of chemotherapy and keep what was left of my hair.

Damn! I was really looking forward to seeing what I looked like without any hair. I’ve never had the guts to skin my own head, so I thought this would be a great opportunity to see what it would look like – and then if it looked really bad, I could just blame it on chemotherapy and triple the sympathy!

As that didn’t work out, I decided just to take matters into my own hands. While I used to be shy, or scared, of doing something as caustic as shaving my head, I am no longer scared of such silly things.

8 Bells and All’s Well

I found this boat I want to buy. Well, it’s more like a yacht. Like, a big yacht. And I was watching this travel show over at my girl’s place the other day, and I found this killer house I want. Ok, it’s a mansion. Ok, it costs $14 million. But the boat only costs $7 million, so maybe I’ll just start with that?

Well, I’ve got a long way to go from here if I’m planning on getting there. My total income last week was the $10.00 my grandmother slipped me when I wasn’t paying attention. And I’m looking outside at the damp weather and it doesn’t look like I’m going to be hacking away at that $7 million today either. Not that it needs to be sunny to earn a boat, but it provides the right inspiration.

Ah face it, I’d be lucky to just see the ocean these days, let alone commandeer it. But when I’m done with this mess, ooohhhh baby, I’ve got some traveling to do.

I was thinking about my $7 million yacht while I was at chemo this time. My brother was there and he brought it up, so it’s really his fault (I had sent it to him as my Christmas List). See, the boat seats twelve, so you all would have to take turns coming with me. But one of you would have to learn how to steer the thing, because I will be in the hot tub. Find some place nice so that I can go scuba diving when we drop anchor. And one of you would have to cook, unless you want to eat toast and microwavable hot pretzels for the whole trip (that’s all I can cook, sorry. Oh, and canned soup. I can make a killer bowl of canned soup.).

But at night I’ll play piano (yes, of course there will be a piano aboard, duh), so that could make up for the three meals of toast that you just had. And if whoever is steering manages to keep us away from pirates and reefs, we could last out there a very long time (lots of canned soup).

You notice that I don’t like talking about the actual treatments anymore? I’ll find anyway to talk about something else.

Chemo smells like alcohol swabs and it tastes like saline and it looks like a bunch of tubes and needles. I feel like writing a letter of complaint to the makers of “Chemotherapy” and giving them a piece of my mind. This is the most expensive product I’ve ever had somebody else pay for, and if you ask me, they could do a little more in the “customer satisfaction” category. The medical field has got to be the only industry that can charge such astronomical rates for products you’d rather puke on than buy. I’m in the wrong line of work, that’s for sure. I mean, what if I showed up at a gig and was all like, “hey I’m going to play a bunch of really terrible, screeching crap for the next four hours, and it’s gonna cost you $10,000.” If only I could convince people that it was good for them.

MY PIANO MUSIC WILL SAVE YOUR LIFE.

(It’ll cost you, though. And give you a migraine.)

Right, so the 8th treatment. It sucked. But the nurse, who is still cute, but smells like chemo (sorry baby, that’s one of my top 5 turn-offs), told me that the textbook treatment for Hodgkin’s Disease is 8 treatments of chemotherapy. Which would mean I’m done. In fact, the order for chemo that she has for me only includes 8 treatments. So I’m done. Yay! I’m done!

Riiiiiight. Fat chance. Everybody back on the boat, we ain’t finished yet. I’ll get a PET scan on Saturday and then go see the doc, who will most likely tell me that the cancer is gone, but we’re going to need to do 2 more months of this crap-o-therapy just to make sure I’m good and pacified before they hand me the final bill.

You see why I’d rather talk about my $7 million boat and your toast diet? They keep these yachts in Panama before people buy them. I imagine that’s so they can deliver them to the East or West coast, as well as stay away from hurricanes. (sigh)

4 more treatments I can do. I will be a bad ass when I get done with this. Go ahead, punch me in the face, I don’t care. I went through chemotherapy, you can’t hurt me. I’m unstoppable.

But you’ll need to excuse me because I need to go lay down. And microwave another hot pretzel.

8 bells and all’s well.