Quest for Fiber

Between the steroids, painkillers and God knows what else, cancer treatment can, for lack of a better phrase, issue a cease and desist that cannot be overruled. Despite all the Lifetime Movies of the Week that offer a melodramatic take on cancer, you never see a cancer patient emerge triumphant from the bathroom with a wide smile on their face, haoled by beams of sunlight as harps and the chorus of a thousand angels herald a successful BM.
But there is hope. After a few weeks of torture, one becomes intimately familiar with fiber in all its forms. There's the Metamucil approach, in which you simply drink a glass of odd-tasting water. There's the uptake in vegetable consumption. There's exercise. There's laxatives. There are fiber-rich foods. You can eat as much fiber as you and all your respective bystanders can handle.
And then there's Fiber One.
I don't know who came up with the concept of Fiber One, but it's a good one: pack as much fiber as you can into whatever cereal-based carrier you can find, coat it in chocolate and call it good. It's not bad. It works for a while. For a brief, shining moment, I almost considered applying for a job as spokesman.
But it offers diminishing returns. After the honeymoon period, I was on the hunt for something more reliable, something that didn't require the rental of a power washer after the proverbial smoke had cleared.
That search ended after a short conversation with a nurse. Her recommendation: Senokot.
That might not seem like a blog-worthy post, but believe me, it is. This was just one of the many small but crucial details that never make it into all those magazines in the waiting room or the vague pamphlets they give you.

Water, Water Everywhere...

After a few weeks of chemo, Smokey Joe was the last of my worries. I usually felt okay immediately after treatment, which was Monday through Wednesday, from 10am or so until 3 or 4. I'd feel a little tired, but not that bad in the grand scheme of things.

By Friday the side effects would start to kick in. Often it'd be mild discomfort in my stomach and a low grade fever. By Saturday I'd often feel bloated like I'd never felt before. Imagine that "full" feeling you get after stuffing yourself at Thanksgiving, but three times worse. I couldn't burp, fart or go to the bathroom to relieve the pressure. Just roll around in bed and wait for it to subside.

They'd told me to drink as much fluids, particularly water, as I could in order to help speed the chemo through my body. It was around this time that I discovered the most wonderful item sold in grocery stores: carbonated water. Words cannot describe how symphonic that first sip of sparkling water truly was. Canada Dry, you are forever in my heart. The carbonation worked wonders for the nausea and bloating, helping deflate me while the water did its thing.

There were two other elements I could not (and now cannot) live without: the constant availability of gum and Edy's Fruit Bars.

Chemo leaves an awful metallic taste in your mouth, and sugarfree gum -- I opt for Extra and would happily endorse it -- works wonders to mask it. Though the chemo taste never really leaves, some minty gum goes a long way toward minimizing that chalky, alkaline chemical flavor and taking your mind off it, even if it's only temporary.

As for the Edy's fruit bars, they're less sugary sweet than popsicles and have at least some nutritional value. There's something soothing and comforting about a popsicle, and the cool, somewhat gritty texture of the bars (they use real fruit in them, so some of the texture of strawberries, for example, is retained) helped to keep me hydrated and offered a slightly healthier option than a traditional popsicle.

These may seem like minor things, but when you're feeling like you've been beat up, pumped full of air and have a raging fever, a bottle of carbonated water and a popsicle are worth their weight in gold.

Whine, Cry, Bitch, Moan and Complain

One day, Smokey Joe added a new topic to his repertoire. Entitled "Everything Sucks," he'd go on and on, bitching and complaining about the nurses, the chairs, the weather, and the general state of things. I didn't say anything for a while, hoping he'd get the hint and shut the hell up. Of course he didn't.
He'd just found out that he had an estimated six months to live. That sucked. That was unfair. And so on.

I usually start my days by watching the morning news. On this particular morning, there was a story about a young father of two that was working on some electical lines that fell to his death. It was terrible -- he'd just started the job, and now his two kids would grow up without a dad.

I told Smokey Joe about this. He didn't really have a reaction other than 'what's your point?'

"The point," I began, "is that this guy didn't have a chance to take his kids to the zoo one last time, to go fishing with his buddy, to kiss his wife one last time or settle his affairs. He didn't have a chance to tell people how much they meant to him."

"You, however, do. You have at least six months to get the gang together for one last poker night. To call your kid and tell him how proud you are of him. To watch the Three Stooges. To eat nothing but Doritos all day. You have time. This guy didn't. You can spend those six months pissing and moaning about how unfair everything is or you can make the most of it."

I wanted to add that I could probably speak for the rest of the room by saying that it'd be great if he'd start now by shutting the hell up, but I didn't. I don't know if he was stunned, hurt or shocked that I'd spoken more than two words to him. But he shut up.