Chronicles of a
Cancer Patient

On the mondays between chemo session, such as today, I go to the hospital for blood tests. They want to check my blood to make sure that I’m not tanking too quickly. If my white blood cells were to fall too low, they would put me in isolation in the hospital to prevent possible infections. And that would be no fun.

But I don’t have to worry about any of that right now. In fact, according to the results of my blood tests today, I’m getting healthier and healthier as I go through this process (aka: the opposite of what is supposed to happen). They didn’t even give me a booster shot today.

This past week was, even so, more difficult that previous weeks. It’s starting to get harder to keep up with life. I was really exhausted Thursday through Saturday. People asked me how I felt, and I just didn’t have the energy to feign fortitude.

Today was the first day that I dreaded going into the Cancer Center. I like the people that work there a lot, but I’m getting pretty sick of seeing them. Every time I go there they stick me with something, or fill me with something, or rough me up in some other way.

I met a lady there today named Shirley. Shirley has lung cancer and no hair. She was very friendly. It’s funny how cancer patients will tell each other the most intimate details, even if they are total strangers. She took her hat off to show me her bald head. She was old and feeble, but it was kind of beautiful in a way. I pulled out some of my hair to show her that I’m losing mine, too. She told me about her hysterectomy and I complained about steroids. I reminded her of a National Geographic photographer that she used to know, and I told her that he must have been a very dashing young man. She told me that, yesterday, she prayed to die. I’m glad she didn’t, though, because we had a good talk.

This is a picture of the thing they implanted in my chest to make chemotherapy easier.

Except my “port” is not orbiting in space, above a beautiful blue earth and purple nebula, as the picture suggests. My port is located under my skin, about an inch south of my left collar bone. A tube connects it to my heart, by way of a big vein in my chest.

It is also *not* the size of the earth. (The earth was, seriously, just not a good backdrop for this promo shot. I guess it’s probably hard to make this thing look cool, though. You gotta throw a nebula or an icecap or something like that in to hip it up.) It’s maybe 1/2 inch in diameter. It’s part of me now.

I also sort of doubt that mine is stainless steel like the picture, I believe they told me it was plastic – although I surely don’t know what the thing looks like under there.

If I didn’t have this port, they’d have to put the cocktail straight into my arm. Getting chemo in the arm is the Dirty Harry, “Go ahead, make my day,” psychopathic way to get chemotherapy, from what I hear. The nurses cringe when they talk about it, as if they don’t like giving it like that anymore than people like getting it like that. Something about blood clots, burned skin, melted veins…let’s not talk about it…

I suppose I’m grateful, then, for this funny looking thing sticking out of my chest. It looks pretty stupid, though. They tell me I’ll have to keep it in for quite awhile after chemo is all over, in case the disease comes back and we need to do this again…let’s not talk about it…

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 had another port flush on Monday.

Shirley was there. Getting chemo, I think. She told me she loved me. I told her I loved her too, but I sort of mumbled it and had trouble looking at her when I said it. Sometimes I do that. Cancer patients are quick to tell anybody that they love that they do, but I guess I’ve retreated back into the alternative. Maybe I’ve forgotten that life is short. I guess I have.

The hospital has asked me to speak at a survivors function in June. It’ll be held in a ballroom in Elgin and attending by survivors, doctors, nurses, maybe patients, too.

What on earth can I say to a roomful of survivors, oncologists, and oncology nurses that they don’t already know?

I’ll imagine I’ll skip the clinical-speak. Surely they know all the statistics. And I’ll go easy on specifics of my chemo. I suppose they don’t need to know what kind of anti-anxiety meds they filled me with, or how many mL of Bleo they put in me.

I told my doctor about the speech and his only advice was that I, under no circumstances, should talk about him.

So I definitely have to come up with something about him.

I’ve got plenty to say about the shoddy shape of the American health insurance system, but I think I’m supposed to be inspirational, and there’s nothing inspirational about health insurance in America.

I could talk about being a pianist. With a CD out (by then, hopefully). Who needs more piano students. And is available for private parties and restaurants. For $75 an hour. Then I could hand out my card and free demo CDs. And maybe put a bumper sticker on my back that says “HIRE THIS MAN”. I could put up a copy of my resume and rates on a projector. Hand out coupons or something.

Which would be shameful.

No, it’ll need to be something personal. About how I got through chemo and planned on going on a great, inspirational trip to the California mountains. But then I got offered money to stay home, so I didn’t go on the trip, and instead worked 7 days a week to make about 1/2 the money one would need to live comfortably, and then had trouble looking people in the eye when I told them I loved them. And I stopped watching the seasons change, or relaxing long enough to see a movie with my girlfriend, or go to dinner with a friend. And I only replied to e-mails that related to making money. And I ignored medical bills, and racked up my credit card, and ruined my finances, and mostly just became a small person, with small ambitions, and a short wick, who never went anywhere except work and bed.

But that wouldn’t be very inspirational.

Maybe I’ll say how I decided after being diagnosed that I’d never lower my ambitions to anything ordinary, and instead, I’d live an extraordinary life as a musician, and an author, and a friend, and a lover, and a traveler. And even though it is never easy, I know that life is too short to forget my intentions.

But which version is true?

Both.

Maybe I’ll just try not to talk about myself. Maybe I’ll talk about Shirley or Courtney. Courtney – maybe after your surgery today you can do something inspirational, or funny, or cute, and I can talk about anecdotally in June? Just waking up will seem pretty inspirational to me, but we’re talking about a roomful of oncologists here, it might take more than that.

By the way, Courtney, I’m worried about you today.