Dave Matthews Can Go Fuck Himself

I was a little nervous on my first day of radiation treatment. I'd tried to find some answers on the Internet so I'd have a sense of what to expect but like chemo, the answers varied wildly. I had the ultimate trust in my doctor, but I was still a little anxious. I'd be doing this for a while. Would I get sick like some people? Would I get headaches? Would I be exhausted?

They ushered me into the room I'd be visiting every day for the next couple months. It was a dimly-lit room with a large machine in the center. It had a raised platform I'd be laying on, and a huge arm with a camera-looking thing at the end that reminded me a little of the X-ray machine at the dentist's office.

Here's how it would work: I'd lay down on the platform and they'd affix the mask by literally screwing it down to the table. That'd ensure that the right area would get treatment every time. I'd lay there incredibly still for the 10-15 minutes it'd take for the scanner to do its thing and that would be it.

Sounded easy enough. I got on the table and got comfortable. They screwed the mask to the table and told me not to move. Fine. Then, the nurse asked me if I wanted to listen to any music. I can take just about anything for a short period of time with the exception of Indian. "How's Dave Matthews?"

"Fine," I said. At that point I was still nervous and just wanted to get it over with.

I've never been all that fond of Dave Matthews. There's the country fiddle hoedown violin thing, the hippie/frat boy fans, but most of all, it's that yodeling yelp of his that sends shivers down my spine. It's what they play when you call Hell and you're put on hold. I'm sure the guy's totally cool and would be fun to hang out and drink a beer with, but that yodel. That yodel.

So the music starts and Dave's yodeling away. "Ants Marching." Here come the violins. I'm laying there patiently waiting for the treatment to start. It isn't. Meanwhile, Dave's fiddle player is really throwing his back into it and givin' her hell. Still no activity from the radiation arm.

After about four songs I see someone approach me from the corner of my eye. "We're having some problems with the machine," she says in a soothing voice as Dave brings it on home. "Are you comfortable? We'll start in just a minute." Then she leaves.

That's when it hits me: I am literally strapped to a table and being forced to listen to Dave Matthews and there's not a goddamn thing I can do about it.

Eventually the machine gets going. I don't feel a thing as it whines and whirs around me, clicking and clacking. It helps take my mind off the yodeling that launched a thousand hacky sacks plays in the background.

Finally, it's over. I'm released from my cage and I sit up. The first thing I ask is if I can bring my own CD next time.

"Sure!"

The Mask

While the chemo continued to course through me, it was time to prepare for round 2: radiation. The thoughts on my radiation treatment had evolved as the summer progressed. At first, the doctor was leaning toward one massive dose. But the more he read and learned about pineal tumors, it seemed as if a lower dose on a more consistent basis would be the best course of treatment. I'd go three days a week for thirty minutes for roughly 9 weeks.

The first step was to get me fitted for a mask. The purpose of the mask was to make sure my head was held in precise place during the treatments. Though the radiation can be programmed with precision -- they could trim the eyelashes on a gnat -- it was crucial that my head stay in a stable position while I was getting zapped or else I'd wind up shitting my pants whenever I heard a doorbell. Being a fan of Halloween, I agreed.

So, the mask. I laid on a table similar to the ones I laid on for an MRI. The attendant told me to get comfortable. "In a few minutes, another nurse will come out with the mask, which will be form-fitted to your face," she said. "I just want you to know that the mask will be extremely hot." I gave her a look. "It won't burn you, but the plastic is very hot."

She went on a bit, throwing in another couple "very hots" in there for good measure. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone emerge from a side door with what looked like a droopy white towel. They were walking towards me, and fast.

"Okay, here's the mask," she said. "And remember, it's hot."

I know. I know it's fucking hot. You told me ten times, lady.

The attendant was about a foot away.

I grimaced a little, expecting to feel roaring hot plastic coating my face.

"Okay, here we go. Stay still."

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.

It felt like a warm towel.

I was glad it didn't burn me, but in a way I felt cheated. I mean, here I was, expecting to get burned and it was nothing. I probably looked like Han Solo, mouth open and encased in Carbonite. How many masks looked like that, I wondered.

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.

Watch What Happens When I Press...Here!

The operating room didn't look like I thought it would. The predominant colors were white and gray, but I was expecting something...brighter, I guess. There were about six other people in the room that I could see, and all of them had a particular job they were getting ready for. The anaethesiologist and his student assistant gave me a shot to get things moving.

One thing you don't hear about very often is that you're going to be awake during the surgery. This is to make sure they don't do something that'll turn you into a country music fan or vote for Sarah Palin. So while I was getting anaesthesia, I wouldn't be out the whole time. They could and would be giving me something to make me forget about it though. So I had that going for me.

I got all warm and calm and they put a little tent up to cover my eyes. Probably for the best. There was classical music playing somewhere and we were off to the races.

They kept asking me questions. First, to make sure I was cognizant and second to check the progress of the anaesthesia. The questions were pretty basic -- stuff like "what day is it?" and "what's your wife's name" as well as whether or not I felt anything. I felt calm through all of it.

Because of the drugs, my memory of the actual surgery is a little hazy. One thing I remember quite clearly is the sound of my skull being opened. It sounds pretty much like you'd expect -- kind of a wet crunch and a crack. It didn't scare me and I didn't freak out. They were talking to each other and doing their thing. I could've been at the beach as far as I was concerned. I just kept talking and answering questions. Hopefully the line of questioning was on the up and up. I probably would've sung like a canary on all sorts of topics and had no memory of them afterwards. You could learn a lot about someone.

It took some time to get to the tumor, but when he did I remember there being some comments. Stuff like, "Here's the first sample" and so on. They sent it to a pathologist. I remember thinking that the fucking pathologist better be in the goddamn room next door and not across town. I also remember wondering how it would be presented to him/her. Would it be in a jar? Raced across town in an Igloo cooler? In some guy's hand?

I don't know how long it took for him/her to check it out, but the doctor asked me if it'd be okay for them to get another sample of the tumor for future reference and so students could study it since it was so rare.
Well, since you have the hood up, why the hell not? I said sure. If it would prevent anyone else from having to go through this, I'm all for it.

At this point the doctor reiterated that I should tell him if I felt anything. I did. It felt as if there was a thick string connecting my ears and someone was plucking it. It didn't hurt and it didn't make me piss my pants or anything, but it's not something you'd really like to experience if you can help it.

I said "Hey!"

Things got real quiet.

The doctor calmly asked if I was alright. I replied that it was fine, but it felt as if someone was tugging on the aforementioned string. He took a deep breath and said "okay." Things progressed without incident.

I don't remember much after that, but I do remember being wheeled out of the operating room, thanking everyone for doing such a great job. I have no idea if it was polite and classy or more like Motley Crue leaving the stage after a concert. Probably the latter. "Thank you! Goodnight Tulsa!"