The Ballad of Smokey Joe

I was getting lulled into a false sense of security with the chemo. It'd been a couple weeks and I had two weeks of treatment under my belt and so far, not a whole lot in terms of side effects. I still had my hair (trimmed, though, so it'd sort of match the divot left from the biopsy) and my appetite was fairly normal. I did notice a bit of a decline in terms of energy level, but that wasn't too big of a deal.

I didn't really even mind the treatments, and I never did grow to dread them. The nurses were great and it was a pretty peaceful afternoon in the chair.

Except for Smokey Joe.

I don't know the guy's real name but that's what I called him. He reeked of cigarettes and talked a mile a minute. Most days he was accompanied by a short, plump, Midwestern-y woman who may or may not have had developmental disabilities. She rarely said anything. Her role was as a sort of Greek chorus for Smokey Joe, who would go on long-winded, circular rants about "our good gov'ment," the best route to get somewhere, and fishing. All at top volume. She would chuckle and laugh that wheezy, Smedley-like laugh. To her, he was the most entertaining raconteur in the world.

And for some reason he always wanted to sit by me. I tried switching chairs -- I'd get there first -- but none of it mattered. He'd come in, see me, say "back again!" and we were off. I did my best not to encourage him by making it a point to keep my head buried in my books. It worked for the most part.

Turns out Smokey Joe was a repeat customer. He was in for his third tour of treatment for lung cancer. Once, the nurse scolded him for continuing to smoke as she was hooking him up to his IV.

"I know, I know," he said. "I did pretty good last night, but I took off that patch so I could have just one and I ended up having eight!" For some reason he seemed proud of this, as he said it in an "aw shucks, ain't I a stinker!" kind of way.

But that was his way of whistling in the dark. Later, after the nurse left, the Silent Chuckler said something about the Night of Eight Cigarettes. He mentioned that he hadn't been able to eat much for the past few days. Everything came back up.

But the cigarettes worked just fine.

Needles and Pins

The first time you get chemo's like a staring contest between you and the IV. Who will win? That bag full of clear fluid seems intimidating. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Turns out you don't feel much of anything during the treatment itself. At least I didn't at first. The only issue I had was the overwhelming need to pee. First you get a bag of anti-nausea medicine. Then they bring out the liter bags of whatever chemo drug(s) you're going to get. Chemo's some nasty shit, so after those are done, they flush your system with a liter of saline to help speed the chemo along and out of your system. That's a lot of fluids and a lot of trips to the bathroom, all made a little more difficult with an IV stand attached to your hand.

But other than that it wasn't a big deal. I was expecting nausea, vomiting, all sorts of bad stuff and it didn't happen. It was just me, the recliner and the IV. Most of the time I brought books to read that I had to review, and I tore through many. A lot of them were either cookbooks or about food in some way, making for a strange combination at times. I was even able to eat lunch while I was there most days.

I was one of the youngest patients there. It was primarily me and an ever-changing cast of older people for the most part. Occasionally there would be a younger woman in her late 30s, early 40s, but most people were elderly. And nobody had longer treatments than I did, it seemed. Though I wasn't the first one in, I was often one of the last ones to leave.

And so is the chemo. You'd think the side effects would be immediate, since it's going straight into your bloodstream, but no. Oh no. It waits a few days.

Party: Started.

The new team was a complete 180 from Witch Industries. The doctor sat me down and went over the course of treatment. Instead of three six-hour days every week for six weeks, which the Wicked Witch prescribed, I'd have three solid days of chemo and then 2-3 weeks off. The sessions would probably last a little longer, but I'd have time to recuperate inbetween sessions. With that, we were off.

I felt like a kid on his first day of school. A whole new environment, new people and a room I'd be spending a lot of time in for the next few months. The room was about half full of old people, all tethered to IVs. I was easily the youngest one there. It was a little anticlimatic -- nobody was running for the bathroom or writhing in agony. They just sat there, working on crossword puzzles, talking to their neighbors, watching TV or reading.

The nurses welcomed me and helped me get comfortable in the pleather recliner. First I'd get a bag full of some anti-nausea medicine. Then the chemo, then a bag of saline to help flush the chemo out of my system. We were off to the races.

Any Port in a Storm?

The day I was supposed to get my port coincided with an update from my neurologist, whose office was across the street from the hospital. After we saw him, my wife and I began the walk across the street.

There are a handful of days that stand out like movie scenes in this whole ordeal, and this is one of them. It was a bright, sunny summer day. Clear skies. Not too hot, not too humid. A great day to be out for a walk. I remember the wind in my wife's hair as we walked toward the hospital. I turned to her and said "I don't know about this," and we started to talk about the port, which was really more symbolic of our faith in the Wicked Witch than anything else. Neither of us felt good about her. We stopped right on the sidewalk.

I don't remember who brought it up, but we decided to back and talk to the doctor about our misgivings. We did, oulining our reservations, fear and complaints with Wicked Witch Enterprises. It wasn't a bitch session so much as an airing of grievances, ending with a formal request for another doctor.

He didn't really react. I found this to be common. Doctors will recommend one another, but they'll never speak bad of one another. It's like a code or something. I wasn't expecting him to go on a tirade, but at the same time, if someone's doing a bad job, shouldn't they get called out on it? The best you'll ever get is "well, some people have great results." I'm sure they said the same thing about Mengele. "Yeah, there's that whole testing-without-anaesthesia thing, but the guy's always on time and he makes a terrific three bean salad."

We did end up getting a referral, though, and I never did get the port. The new team was on the north side of town. My appointment was in a week.

Thanks, Bob

The drive home was a whirlwind. There were so many things to digest, to discuss and decide. None of them good. I was really scared. So was my wife though she didn't show it.

Music had been a huge help for me through all of this. My car didn't have a CD player so I relied on my iPod for music for the most part. I went to a handful of sites to find out about new music and see what some of my favorite artists were up to. One blog I stumbled upon was http://www.fuelfriendsblog.com/, written by a woman in Colorado who frequently wrote about upcoming shows in her area and posted links to songs. One link was to a song called "Blow Me Back to You" by Bob Schneider. I knew nothing of Bob Schneider other than that he had dated Sandra Bullock at some point, but based on Heather's description, I downloaded the song.

For some reason it cut me to the bone, especially the second verse. I guess it's the proverbial space between the notes that do it. But the song was the closest I've ever been able to come to express to my wife how I felt at this point. I'd been putting up a front of confidence up to that point. I'd been confident and optimistic.

It's hard sometimes, especially for a guy, to put up thie fearless facade to everybody when you're scared shitless and utterly helpless to do anything to improve the situation you're in.

We sat and listened to the song in our car and cried. We were both really upset about the way things had gone at the Wicked Witch's office high in the tower. What to do, what to do.