Chronicles of a
Cancer Patient

Chemo Rookie

Hi friends,

A few of you wanted me to let you know how things went today, on my first day of chemo. I appreciate your support more than I can explain. I thought I’d let you know how things are going.

It was long. 6 hours. But most of that was just sitting and waiting. There are a lot of paperwork and procedures on the first day, and it certainly wasn’t the hospitals fault. I expected it to be long, and I brought some entertainment. And anyway, it’s certainly not like I had anything better to do.

The Cancer Center at Sherman Hospital was really great. Because it was my first time, they put me in a private room with one of those snazzy hospital beds and spent a lot of time explaining things to me. I received 9 kinds of drugs today, and the oncology nurse sat with me and my parents for the whole process, which I felt was really extraordinary, even if it might be standard.

The only thing I had trouble with was the one drug that was probably the least of my worries. They gave me some regular ol’ Benedryl to compensate for any allergic reactions I might have had to the chemo and the stuff couldn’t have been more annoying. Maybe it was an extra high dose or the fact that it was an IV drip. My head couldn’t stay awake, but my legs couldn’t stop moving. Picture Sleeping Beauty as a sprinter, or a cross between the Tryptophan-like tactics of poor John Kerry’s speech writers and the body of a dancing Napoleon Dynamite.

I came home drowsy and slept it off. A friend brought us a fantastic dinner, and since then I’ve felt – to my sincere surprise – really well. The nurse said that this would happen, that the steroids would make me feel spunky for awhile, but that I would drop after a day or two (so I figure I better get this e-mail out while I still got some spunk! Note: for evidence of “spunk,” see John Kerry joke, paragraph 4, line 4.).

The best news of the day is that the bone marrow test came back today and it showed that my bone marrow is completely clear of cancer. Had the cancer spread to my bone marrow, my chances of survival would have considerably dropped, so I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know that these bones of mine are clean.

To be honest, I was really anxious about today. There’s a lot of discordant information about chemo therapy – how it’s terrible, or how it’s not-so-bad, etc., etc. – and especially about the first day. I believe this dissonance is due to the fact that chemo therapy is a distinctly individual experience, and that each person is effected mentally and physically in decidedly different ways, even by the same drugs. As it turns out, today was a relieving, giant step toward getting rid of this dumb thing.

That being said, I understand the more difficult parts of chemo therapy are still to come, so I’m not counting my chickens quite yet. Nevertheless, I’m indescribably consoled by having experienced the chemo process firsthand and to have seen the immediate reaction my body takes to the drugs. I also feel very confident that I’m in good hands at the Cancer Center at Sherman, and that comfort, you can imagine, feels priceless.

Thank you again to all of you for helping me through this. Being the social person that I am, I’ve found that it has been the concern, affection and humor of my friends and family that has given me the most strength during the past weeks.

Future Cancer Survivor,
Dave Hahn

I will be going to chemo every two weeks for six months.

The particular kind of chemotherapy I am given is called ABVD.

There will be a passing exam at the end of this blog. Study hard.

No Need To Be Alarmed

I was laid out on the table, stuck between the plastic mattress and the billion-dollar piece of high-tech medical equipment aimed at my heart when the fire alarm went off. Lights and sirens wailed through the hallways and all the doors slammed shut with a precision that can only be accomplished in a medical facility.

“No need to be alarmed,” the nurse said.

Sure lady, how about I pump you full of steroids, stick you in this machine, hook you up to the EKG, throw on all the sirens – and then see what your heart rate is.

Although the official results of the heart scan will not be back for a few days, I was able to glean some information on my own from the pictures. I have a heart and it is pumping. So, for all you girls out there that told me over and over that it wasn’t true – I now have medical proof that, yes, I do have a heart, and it is not made of stone.

Furthermore, I’m happy to say that my pulse is 72. 72! Prior to diagnosis, I was anxious that my heart rate was well above normal – often reaching past 100 while at rest. As it turns out, Tito the Tumor was trying to push my heart out of the way and making it difficult for the poor thing to pump blood. A lowered pulse could only mean that Tito has already begun to significantly shrink.

Tito was also competing for the best real estate with my lungs, which caused the cough I had for a year and a half or so. But now the cough is gone, and I no longer have to go coughing and hacking through life. What a relief.

Dave 3, Cancer 0

See, what cancer doesn’t understand is that I’m the home team, and I’m undefeated. Furthermore, I’ve got the best oncologist in town pitching, and the best chemo nurse anywhere who’s catching. My brother is at first, my other brother at third, my parents are sharing shortstop and second, and the WHOLE rest of the family is covering the outfield like a volleyball team. I’ve got friends in the stands, friends in the dugout, friends on the street, friends on the rooftops. I’m kicking the crap out of this cancer. It doesn’t even have a chance.

Tito has got to be so sorry he climbed in me. He’s getting one express ticket to Tumor Heaven. The loser better enjoy the ride, too, because the ticket set me back more than he’s worth.

It just goes to show, you can’t be friends with a tumor. You invite him over to dinner and before you know it – the guy’s living with you, eating your food and using your hemoglobin without asking. Sooner or later you’re paying some professional to evict this pathetic excuse for an organism. And it’s sad, ’cause the guy can’t even live on his own, he’s just totally dependent on other people. But you can’t blame yourself, you can’t take responsibility for his inadequacies. You just gotta let him go. I mean, what a loser, right?

Treatment #3 was good. They even gave me my own private room – how sweet is that? Like I was Liza Manelli looking for the VIP seating or something. The nurse is still cute, and again, I had no complications. They took my blood, and then I even went out for lunch while they did the labs.

The results of my blood test are miraculous. I have better results on my blood test now, after 4 weeks of chemo, than I did before I started. I’m happy to announce that I am no longer anemic. Before chemo, I had enough platelets for two people, but no longer. My white and red blood cells are right where they are supposed to be. Plus, I’ve gained 14 pounds since the beginning of treatment.

I guess its starting to be clear how sick I was. Man.

The nurse sort of squints and pauses for a minute…looks at me again…smiles, “You know, I’m sort of surprised you’re doing so well, too.”

I’m the HOME TEAM, baby! Bring it on!

I’ve found out something about myself during all this – well, I’ve found out many things, but this in particular: I am awesome in adversity, it’s monotony that kills me. Strap me up to the chemo IV, I’ll take the pain and the fatigue and I’ll keep smiling, but put me in a cubicle with a pile of paperwork and I’ll never live.

I slept through the Benedryl this time, and surfed through my classical music when I awoke. My parents came and read the news. News about people on the Gulf Coast that are so much worse off than me.

I was out of the Center by 4 and off to play piano by 5. Now, in all honesty, while I may be feeling particularly cocky tonight, I am not feeling particularly good. Chemotherapy is exhausting, and as I’ve said before, I feel like a truck ran over my soul. But I went to two rehearsals tonight anyway. And it’s probably because of the steroids, but my mind is blaring out of my mouth at Michael Schumaker speeds. I’m like a revved up little boy before bedtime. I don’t want to go to bed! Just ten more minutes!

I had a fantastic talk with a fellow member of the Cancer Club tonight, someone who is clearly a kindred spirit – someone who is totally on the same page as me. It was energizing to talk with her. She had an rare form of cancer, and the docs gave her 8 months to live. A year ago. This woman has some fire in her, and she blazed down her treatments. She says the chemo tore her apart, and she adds, quietly – so that, I imagine, other people won’t think she’s a nut – that cancer might be the best thing that ever happened to her. (Might be.) Amen. The air smells sweeter, the the sun shines brighter, etc., etc. I’m so glad to be alive.

So, I don’t expect to be feeling well on Thursday, Friday or Saturday. And part of me hopes that I lose my hair this time so I can just get it over with. I expect bone pain by Monday, and my immune system should fall by next Saturday. I’m ready to tank if that’s what happens. My head’s in the right place.

The echocardiogram results are in, and they say my heart is healthy.

It seems that there were some problems with my heart at first, but they seem to have been due to the placement of the tumor, and not problems with the heart itself. Now that Tito seems to have shrunk considerably, I no longer have those problems.

So, actually, that sounds like two good things to me – my heart is healthy and normal, and the tumor has shrunk.

I drove up to Madison last week to spend a few days with my brother and his wife. I ate their food, watched their TV and hogged the affection of their cat. I played a game with their cat, where I would sit on the couch with my computer, acting busy, and the cat would walk onto my face, shakily claw it’s way down my torso, and sit it’s butt on the “Send” key (or a similar key I wouldn’t want him to press with his butt). Actually, this game wasn’t fun for me. But the cat seemed desperate to play, and I figured I was a guest and all…

I came back to Illinois to catch a game of Pinocle with my Grandma and her friends at her retirement community. The ladies that play this game are very sweet, but they’ll bid you into the ground and steal your lunch money if you try to set them. (For those of you who don’t know the game, Pinocle is a game played with a minimum or three old ladies and a funny deck of cards, where you bet to see who has a gambling problem, then you try to “set” that person to prove to them that they are a poor decision-maker. The youngest person always has to eat a lot of cookies.)

There’s a mechanism in the human brain that makes you enjoy life in moderation, but cancer broke mine, so Saturday I went to Great America. It was half-price day, which meant that you’d have to also be half-insane to go, as the number of people in the small park was bound to exceed the population of Nevada. Nevertheless, the weather was crisp and sunny, and the rides were great (by which I mean they did not break while I was on them). The food, however, must have been made many moons ago by a sadist with a penchant for obesity. That was about as close to “Orange Chicken” as I am to Peking.

Great America has instituted a thing called the Fast Lane. For $15 you can buy 4 tickets that will allow you to go straight to the front of the line on (almost) any 4 rides you want to go on. One of two things will end up happening with this. Poor people will still have to wait in line, and rich people will never have to “associate” themselves with the squalor of those peasants waiting in the real line. Or, everybody will end up buying Fast Lane tickets and there will not be any regular line anymore, at which point they will need to create another level of line. Perhaps you could pay $50 and they’d blow you out of a cannon into Lake Michigan and put you out of your misery altogether. Either way, it’s an interesting mix of capitalism and classism that is touted as convenience.

Anyway, the day was an oppressive study in the sociology of crowds, but having, of course, purchased my Fast Lane tickets (hell yes I did), I didn’t wait long for any rides. As we left the park, I saw that the scrolling park marquee read, “Park crowded, please visit another day.” This is theme park speak for “ALL YE WHO ENTER MUST SUFFER! THE END TIMES ARE AMONG US! SAVE YOURSELVES!”

My fun was over by this morning. I woke up and dragged my feet getting to the hospital. They put me in the corner lazy-boy and hooked up the machine. It’s starting to get very routine. I think my body has adjusted to the steroids, so I don’t feel as antsy when I get them. The Benedryl knocks me out still, and I having an ever increasing disgust for the taste of the drugs. I was annoyed that I couldn’t steady my eyes on my reading after having the Benedryl. Out of obstinance I tried to fight the sleep, but it didn’t work.

There were less people in the Cancer Center this Monday. That means the regulars are either done with chemo, changed the day of their treatments for any number of reasons, or they are dead.

I weighed in at 182 lbs today. I started chemo at 149 lbs. Before cancer I was a constant 180 lbs. This session marks the half-way point in my scheduled chemotherapy treatments. Let’s hope the second half of treatment doesn’t beef me up like the first half has.

I’m working gigs all week. Like I said at the beginning, I’m going to keep playing as long as I’m standing. Cancer can’t beat me.

William

There’s a tall, thin man sitting in Room B, white and maybe 50 years old, adjusting his big glasses and thinking about trimming his greying mustache. He’s wearing a yellow-and-black flannel shirt under his red button-up sweater. His bony legs hardly fill his jeans, and he’s holding up his left wrist, but letting his hand fall. His body seems frail. He sits up straight on the edge of the bed, waiting. His bones hang off of him. His teeth are showing like he’s smiling, but that can’t be. His broad forehead is blanketed by the florescent lights coming from the ceiling of Room B, and I think he’s staring at me. His glasses are thick and round, so I can’t see where his eyes are, but I think they are fixed on me.

He scratches himself and lowers his wrist, looks around. He’s getting impatient, but he doesn’t seem like an impatient person. The nurses have left him there for maybe 20 minutes now. I wonder what he’s waiting for.

I’ve seen him before, sitting in a chemo chair, moving slowly and not talking. Baring his teeth like he’s smiling. Or a different time, with the white blanket pulled up to this chin, his mouth open a little, spilling it’s contents over his cheek, his eyes closed and his eyebrows raised.

The doctor comes to talk to him and hands him a piece of paper before leaving. Alone, the man reads the papers in his shaky hands. He slowly folds them, unfolds them and reads them again. He covers his teeth while he’s reading, and raises his eyebrows and peers out the door. Giving up, he folds them twice, into quarters, and puts them in his chest pocket, behind the red vest. He holds up his wrist again, like he’s looking for the time, but there’s no watch.

What a slow, thin man. He might have been a criminal, or a teacher, if he had the energy or the coordination. I think he might be homeless. He has large ears, and a reasonable nose that sticks out between his glasses and mustache like they are part of a set. He needs a shave.

He walks over, closer, and sits in the blood test chair. He’s staring at his wrist. Slowly, quietly, as if he were talking to rabbits, he says, “Oh, now don’t you hide. You were just there.”

The nurse turns to him, “What?”

“He was just here. I’m talking to this.” And he nods slowly to his wrist. I can see him better now, his eyes are dark and his hair is unkept. He is so tall and so thin, maybe if he didn’t move so slow his bones would break.

“Oh, you’re talking to it.” The nurse says, distracted. She’s preparing a needle to take his blood.

“I guess I’ll have lunch here. I’ll have lunch here.” And he shows his teeth, smiling.

“Yes, we all know how you like lunch here.” The nurse says back to him.

She ties up his arm and taps his wrist. “Are you still talking to it?” She holds the needle above his skin.

“Yeah. Come on.” He stares at his wrist.

He lets out a yell when she puts the needle in him, like a meow, but with too much saliva in the back of his throat. He looks away. I look away.

“William, did the doctor tell you about the chemo we’re going to give you? William, you’re going to lose your hair. William, did the doctor tell you that? Did he tell you that you’d lose your hair?”

William turns his head toward the nurse and covers his teeth. It barely gets out, “no.”

“Yes, you’ll lose all your hair.”

He is silent for awhile, but as he’s slowly wandering back to Room B, “I’m going to lose all my hair.”

“That’s right William. All of your hair.”

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.

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.

I’ll Tell You What Tough Is

I saw a guy in the chemo room today with tattoos all over his arms and neck. He was a slight, asian man, maybe forty, and with the exception of the tattoos, he looked pretty harmless. I understand it’s awfully painful to get a tattoo, and I always thought you had to be tough to get one of those.

And to ride a Harley – maybe wearing leather and a bandana. Those things can all make a guy look tough. Sometimes a goatee can make a guy look a little ornery, and definitely a shaved head. If he’s beefy, then I’d stay away, and if he’s got beefy friends, well, I wouldn’t even say hi.

But what a silly, stupid idea. A guy spends his mornings shaping his beard into some priggish pattern on his face and I start to shake? Another guy has enough money to buy a Harley and a two dollar bandana and that’s enough to make me cross the street in aversion?

Forget it. I’ll tell you what tough looks like.

She’s wearing a wig. It’s too big, and you can see the extra lining hanging over her forehead. Her eyebrows are penciled in with a color that doesn’t match the wig. She walks with a stuttering gait to and from the bathroom. Her clothes are too small, and cheap. A IV stand – one taller than her – is next to her chair. Three bags hang on the stand, and their tubes disappear under her brown, velour jacket. Her eyes are like hot bayonets.

She has a son sitting next to her. He nervously jerks his head up at her every time she makes a move. He stands up when she gets up to walk to the bathroom, and although he’d like to help, there’s nothing he can do. He listens attentively when the nurse talks, but he doesn’t really understand everything that’s going on. Like, what is it like to lose your stomach lining? Why is there a rash on his mother’s chest? What does she feel when her friends ask her how she’s feeling?

His mother comforts him when she returns from the bathroom. She puts her hand on his shoulder, says, “I’m ok” and “Sit down, it’s ok.” She has the nurse get her son a blanket.

Now THAT is tough. She doesn’t have a Harley, or a bandana. She’s maybe 5′ 2″, and she couldn’t beat anybody up. She’s dying, like everybody else, but the difference is that she knows it. Maybe she knows when. Maybe not.

But she doesn’t give up being a mother. Or a woman. Or a person. That’s tough.

I’m not that tough, maybe. But I’m tougher than I was before this. I know what it’s like to sit through something horrible, or to live with a body tortured by chemicals. I’m tough enough.

But I have good days, and I have hours that go by without a thought about chemo. Some people in this mess don’t have that luxury. I’m lucky.

One more treatment. Let’s end this.