Chronicles of a
Cancer Patient

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…

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.