Chronicles of a
Cancer Patient

Dad’s going to be in the paper in a couple days for being such an extraordinary accountant, etc., so the photographer came to the house today to capture the essence of Rick Hahn in his natural environment. Somehow Mom and I were convinced to be in the picture with Dad, too. That might have been alright, I’m not shy, but in the past few weeks I’ve developed this unfortunate reaction to the Bleomyacin (chemo drug #2). The nurse calls it a rash, but I call it my face.

Fair enough, I suppose, Bleomyacin is known for it’s skin reactions – but couldn’t it be somewhere else? Like on my arm? Or my ankle? Or, for god’s sake, ANYWHERE that’s not going to be plastered all over the local paper? Come on now, my face?! Is that necessary? What kind of bad karma have I gathered that makes the noticable side-effect of this treatment located on the one patch of skin people look at?

I’m not a pretty boy or anything, and I’ve never spent enough time on my looks to invest much emotional attachment to them, but, by design, they are sort of…noticable. So it can be difficult to restrain an identity crisis everytime I look in the mirror and I’m either 10 lbs heavier, 10 lbs lighter, karma-faced, puffy, or basically – staring at somebody I’ve never met.

Continuing my imitation of retirement, I went again to play pinochle with my Grandma and her friends today. Well, actually, I went so I could cream them at pinochle.

What? You think it’s a friendly game between the generations? A way to pass the afternoon hours? Think again, loser!

When I get a good card, I slam it down on the table and let out a “HOO-WAH,” and sit back with a sniff and glance around the table for approval. Seriously, I’m a big jerk. But it’s just a reaction to all the trash talk. I’m not kidding! Today one of the ladies (I won’t say who, but her name starts with “Josephine”) was like, “Hey Dave, do you need to go to a special camp or something to learn to play the game?” Oh, it was ON then. Last time I went, the dignified lady next to me distinctly let out a “…chicken…” when I quit bidding on a marginal hand. This is the only place I can hear the words, “Who dealt this? This is a crappy hand,” come out of my sweet Grandmother’s mouth. I love it.

In this particular room of pinochle players, there’s always the added obstacle of short term memory loss. This is something I’ve picked up since the start of chemo, so I’m really starting to feel right at home. Nevertheless, you know it’s bad when you’re in a room full of 80-year-olds and you’re the one drooling in the corner who’s forgotten his own name. Which suit is trump has to be reiterated every couple minutes during the game or we’d all just start roaming around, wondering, as you tend to in retirement communities, just how early you can line up for dinner outside the dining hall without looking too desperate.

What? Was I talking about something?

Anyway, I got schooled by the old folks today. ‘I got my ass handed to me,’ as an esteemed colleague of mine likes to say (I say “esteemed colleague,” because I can’t remember his “name”).

To those of my friends reading, I have been trying to teach you people how to play pinochle for years now. I want you all to learn so that I can beat you whenever I need a good laugh. Come on, don’t be a bunch of chickens. Do you need to go to a special camp?