I'll Get You My Pretty...

After a review of all the tests, my neurologist informed me that not only was the tumor still there, there were now traces of it in my spinal fluid. That meant chemo. Next stop was a trip to see a very wicked witch who lived in the top of a tower, surrounded by a gaggle of inept harpies. (I'm not sure what you call a bunch of harpies so we'll just go with "gaggle" for now.)

I got there and did the usual -- name, birthday, filling out form after form. Did I have surgery? When? Did I have a family history of a thousand different illnesses? Did I have a pacemaker? Did I have change for a twenty? And so on. One would think that hospitals would share this information and keep it in a database, but one would be wrong. I answered this stuff every time I saw a new doctor.

I got ushered into a waiting room. In came two nurses. One old, one young, both stupid. The twentysomething kicked things off with "why are you here?" followed up with "have you seen a doctor?" and "are you allergic to penicillin?" I had already answered these and many, many more questions on the forms she was holding in her hand. After what seemed like an eternity, they left and another nurse came in. A black lady. Turned out Black Lady was the only empathetic, competent one in the office -- she would go on to interpret the strange questions and odd behavior for the rest of our visit. "She's new," Black Lady said of the young nurse. "No shit," I answered. Normally I have more patience for this kind of thing. We're all new at some point. But I don't think that Rare Brain Tumor is the time to let the newbie get her sea legs.

The best was yet to come. Finally, in strode The Wicked Bitch of the Midwest, my oncologist-to-be. A thin woman in her early sixties with the bedside manner of Joseph Mengele, she got right to the point, going over what I had and letting me know why chemo was the way to go. Like many evildoers, at first she made sense. Having endured the idiocy that had been displayed up to this point, my wife and let out a sigh of relief.

Then it got weird. She didn't ask me how I felt about things, if I had questions or how comfortable I was about the proposed treatment, the details of which we had yet to hear. Up to this point, all of my doctors had treated me as if I had a voice in my treatment; that I was part of the team. Not her. As far as she was concerned, it was all predetermined. We were just nailing down the details at this point. She acted as if someone had already explained all of this -- the logistics of treatment, possible side effects, what to expect, etc. -- prior to our visit.

She'd go in and out of the room for unexplained reasons -- presumably to look things up? Black Lady would come in intermittently to reassure us. The topper was when The Wicked Witch popped her head in and said, "oh, there's a good chance you'll end up sterile, so you might want to bank some sperm." How's that for an off-the-cuff remark?

My wife and I looked at each other with a mix of fear, anger and disbelief. What. The. Fuck?

The Wicked Witch came back and ran down the course of treatment, casually rattling off the chemo drugs they'd be pumping into me. Black Lady then took us on a tour of the facility where I'd be spending my time. A lot of time. At least three hours a day, every day, for weeks. I'd get weekends off, of course. It was an empty room of old-looking pink recliners lined up in a row, with the windows behind them. There were two TVs mounted on the wall at either end of the room. "Depressing" doesn't come close.

Next step for me was to get a port, a little device they implant in your chest that's continually hooked up to a vein. It makes it easier to get chemo and other treatments intravenously. They just attach the IV and away you go, just like gassing up the car. They'd already made an appointment for me.

Holy shit.

It's Alive! Alive!

Next up was an MRI to check my progress. They ushered me in and I got my cotton gown on and all that. First step was a blood draw. I got taken back into a room with many bays, all seperated by thin curtains.

So I'm sitting there waiting for the nurse to get whatever she needed to get, and I hear a nurse, mom and little girl in the bay next to me. I never saw them, but I'm guessing the girl was probably nine. She had to have an MRI and was clearly scared. I could hear the terror in her voice as she struggled not to cry. It was heartbreaking. I seriously considered going over there and telling her it wasn't a big deal; that I'd been through much worse and I was fine. Hey, just look at me! Here I am! It won't be a big deal!

I should add that at this point I had six big-ass shiny staples on the top of my head, keeping things together.

I reconsidered. If some strange man with mangy hair and a row of industrial staples in his head comes into your room when you're already shitting bricks, a well-intentioned word of assurance probably isn't going to mean all that much. I'd be thinking "Holy shit! What's next for me??" I stayed put and just tried to send her good vibes.

Mah Momma's A Good Kisser

A few days after the surgery they asked me to come back in to see how I was doing and get a few tests done.
First was the CT scan. It wasn't all that different from an MRI except for the fact that I had to drink this thick Slurpee-like concoction about a half hour before I went in. No biggie. I brought a book and was prepared to wait it out. Only problem was the Clampett family.

An obese, soda-chugging family of six, they all accompanied Grandma to the hospital for her CT scan. Every thought was spoken aloud, often simultaneously and at top volume. In the all-too-short time we spent together, I learned that Mr. Clampett was suprised to learn of a new $3.99 deal at Long John Silvers ("THAT'S A GOOD PRICE FOR WHAT YOU GET!"), that Dolly, the twentysomething with inappropriately tight sweatpants got to taste flavored coffee for the first time ("HEY DAD THEY HAVE FLAVORED COFFEE. I MIGHT TRY IT. IT'S GOOD!") and other touching, tender moments people feel compelled to share on Facebook.

At first it was mildly entertaining, but the charm wore off quick. I kept looking around to see if anyone else was annoyed by this tsunami of stupidity that had descended upon the waiting room, but everyone else acted as if it was just another Thursday.

I chalked my profound irritation up to the steroids I was still taking and soldiered on. I must've read that same sentence in my book ten times if I read it once. Mercifully, I got called back for my test, which turned out fine.

The B Team

While hospitals do offer round-the-clock care, it sure isn't consistent. I had great care across the board during the day. But after 5pm you get the B team, and that's being generous. You'd think that they'd mix the newbies in with the veteran nurses to help them get a grasp on things but you'd be wrong. I saw a number of nurses that night, and the one who knew what she was doing left around 11pm. After that you're in the hands of rookies and idiots.

Morning couldn't come soon enough. Once it did, the doctor came in to see me. He looked at my scar, which was held shut with some serious metal staples. I looked a little Frankenstein-y. He asked how I was doing and had me do a few exercises/movements to make sure everything was working properly and sent me on my way.

I hadn't done a whole lot of moving in the past 24 hours, so it was a little strange getting wheeled back into the world. The sun seemed really bright. It was surreal seeing all the people walking around. I got in the care and went home.