Chronicles of a
Cancer Patient

I received an e-mail from WikiCancer.org a few days ago. They are a website that posts information for cancer patients and survivors. The information is geared more toward describing experience of cancer, rather than the science of cancer. In that regard, it’s much like this blog, I guess.

And that’s probably why they asked me to be a part of it. WikiCancer.org, like other Wikis (Wikipedia.org for example) is a website created by it’s users. Any website made democratically (wikis, forums, community blogs) needs to be moderated, and WikiCancer.org has been looking for people in the cancer community that would like to become a moderator for the site.

That’s what they asked me to do. Which is flattering. Their site presents informations very professionally, and has a very clean look to it. It’s not like some guy running an off-the-cuff cancer site out of his basement (…ahem…).

But I told them no. I didn’t even think about it. I don’t want to do it.

Which is weird, maybe, because I’ve spent so much time in the past 7 months, contributing to the online cancer community. This will be the 142nd entry in this blog. During chemo, there were whole days, especially in the beginning, where I’d just sit and write all day. I think if I hadn’t, I don’t know how I would have kept it together sometimes.

But now I’m over it. And I don’t want it be a part of my daily life anymore. Cancer, that is. I think it took enough away from me, and I don’t want to give it anymore. I want to move on.

Some people are different, though. When they go through something like this it gives them something to live for afterwards. They want to volunteer, or give speeches about early detection, or be a shining example to others. Or moderate cancer websites.

It’s not that I want to forget about cancer altogether. I learned a lot from having cancer. I’d like to take those lessons with me – but not the disease. The disease doesn’t interest me.

I learned a lot back in school, and I’m glad I went, but not everything in school interested me. I’m not hoping to make chemistry a part of my everyday life anymore than I’m hoping to make cancer a part of my everyday life.

On the other hand, I hope that this journal I’ve kept helps patients and survivors if they find it. For people that dedicate their lives to cancer, I hope that it helps them understand what it’s like for a 24-year-old white kid from the ‘burbs to have to deal with it. For people that moderate cancer websites, I hope it gives them some material to use in their discussions.

And I enjoy it when patients or survivors, or others in the cancer community, contact me and we talk about cancer, and chemo, and living with it.

But I’m not going to acknowledge my survivorship anymore than I need to. People ask me now what’s been going on with me, and I say, “nothing.” I don’t wish it to be a part of every day anymore.

www.WikiCancer.org

I went in to see Shakey McShakerson again on Saturday. For those of you who haven’t been studying for the passing exam at the end of this blog, Shakey McShakerson is the fellow that runs the PET scans at my local hospital. He’s about as good with a needle as I am with a mider saw. The difference is that I don’t work in a mider saw for a living.

I don’t know why he shakes. I can only assume it’s a tick he’s had for awhile. Perhaps stabbing another human with a sharp needle makes him nervous, and makes him start to shake violently right as he’s about to put it in, and makes him inevitably miss the vein he was looking for, and makes him shoot the radioactive dye into your tendon, or your muscle, or your whatever, and makes him ask “does that burn?”, and makes you scream “YES.”

Maybe. Or maybe it’s something much more complicated than that. Maybe he’s been cooped up in that little semi-trailor behind the hospital for too long. Maybe he makes him think of the foxhole back in ‘Nam that he jumped in right before they put that steel plate in his head.

I’m just guessing now.

Anyway, I think he would have liked to have been a musician, rather than the PET scan operator in the semi-trailer at the back of the hospital. But more on that later.

His assistant came to the waiting room to bring me out to the trailor, like she always does. Except, this time, she looked different. Her clothes fit a little snugger. And her eyes seemed to have a dull film over them that hid the gleam they usually have. And that big rock as no longer on the ring finger of her left hand.

“Hi, nice to see you again. How’s things?” I said. I was digging. Right off the bench, I was swinging for the fences.

“Oh. Ok.” She replied.

“Just ok? That doesn’t sound convincing.” What? Was I expecting her to pour it out for me right there on the way to the trailer? That her fiance had cheated on her, or had become a jerk, or they moved in together and she found out he was a slob? Or worse, that he was dead, or ran away with his boyfriend? Or simply that they didn’t have anything in common?

She didn’t take the bait. Which I’m now sort of glad for. I mean, I got the story from Shakey later anyway.

Shakey was, I believe, happy to see me, and launched straight into the questions about where I was playing now, and how was that, and what kind of stuff to I play there, etc., etc., etc. I felt bad talking so much about myself whenever I go visit him, so I tried this time to ask how he was.

“Oh, can’t complain. Just…you know…can’t complain. We’re going around. Different places, you know. I’m, ah, getting my taxes together, you know how that is… Yeah… Can’t complain.”

He put the needle in, this time, without fanfare. I held my my free hand around my upper arm and squeezed my other fist good and hard, so that maybe a vein would stick out more and he could get it better. Without digging around this time. (I’m wincing as I write this, you should know.)

Maybe he shakes because he’s been doing this too long and he’s constantly subjected to the radioactive material that he’s shooting into us mice. I’m sure that they have a good deal of safety around him for the job, but if you’re around it, you’re around it, right?

Anyway, eventually they got me on the slab in the machine and took pictures of me, looking for cancer. I haven’t checked on the results, I’m sure it’s clean.

During the photos, though, Shakey actually came into the room and had a conversation with me. Shakey? Dude? Aren’t you supposed to be behind that big lead door over there? Away from the harmful rays? Why are we talking about the Olympics? Aren’t I supposed to remain absolutely still? Dude?

Anyway, he’s a good guy, regardless. On the way out I asked him about his assistants engagement ring. He said, yeah, she broke it off herself a couple months back, and hasn’t acted the same since. I bet there’s a sad story there. Poor girl.

Calling it a port flush makes it sound like some kind of cheap bathroom humor.

But that’s what they call it. I went into the Cancer Center on Monday and had my port “flushed.” To do so, they “access” my port (shove a needle in it), and “irrigate” it (push through some liquid that tastes like chemo).

I’m not 5 days away from the port flushing. Food tastes different today. It tastes like it did during chemo. I can’t explain it.

I saw Shirley at the Center. She’s dying. Faster now. She said her tumors are growing again. I didn’t react to it much then, but it makes me want to cry now. What a horrible, stupid thing this cancer is, that it attacks anybody it wants. Shirley’s husband was there this time. He seems like a nice guy. I can’t help but feel bad for him. And her.

I have found that it is very difficult to explain to people that I won second place in a english-speaking cancer blog contest in Chennai, India. Somehow that is a little too random for normal conversation. If I repeat it three-or-so times it starts to make sense. (I mean “make sense” in a relative way. Relative to “making absolutely no sense at all.”)

I e-mailed with the nice man, Muralikrishnan, in charge of the contest, and we worked out what to do with my free pizza. (They don’t deliver.) On Monday Muralikrishnan met with Dr. Rajkumar of the Adayar Cancer Institute and gave the good doctor my gift certificate for free pizza, as well as my free entrance card to the local cineplex. Dr. Rajkumar is going to give these gifts to one of his cancer patients on my behalf.

Muralikrishnan also told me that his wife would be saying prayers for me at the Tirmala-Tirupathi temple, which I’m told is the richest and most visited temple in the world.

Also, a condensed version of one of the posts from this blog, specifically, Happy Birthday To Me, will be published in the coming newsletter of The Wellness Place, which is a cancer support institute in Palatine, IL that I frequented during therapy.

My diet is going very poorly, thank you for asking. I’ve started walking daily, though, so maybe that’ll make some difference. (By “daily,” I mean “yesterday” and “once last week.”) I figure as long as I don’t give up altogether it’s not all bad, although I would like to fit back into my old clothes sooner rather than later.

I’d like to give some support to my new friend Marta, a Hodgkins patient who is having her 11th treatment on Friday. She has 12 treatments to complete. Hold on, Marta.

People keep asking me when my hair will start growing back. Ha. Except some of them aren’t joking, and are actually, seriously wondering. In those cases there tends to be an awkward moment or two where I have to explain to them that they have a foot in their mouth. People, I don’t have anymore hair than this. Leave the poor bald guy alone.

Also, there has been a lot of spam in the comments lately, you may or may not have noticed that. Again, I would ask the spammers that, if they are going to spam, at least use the right syntax for your links. Don’t be an idiot. You’ll sell your ViAgRa and synthetic pheremones much easier if the link to your online casino actually shows up.

I’m mostly back to work now. I’m accompanying 4 days a week. Next week I start teaching piano lessons with a handful of students. I find that I’m feeling stronger and not tiring as easily as before.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go take me “daily” walk. Maybe.