Me and My Friends

I had asthma and allergies as a kid, so I never had a pet. I did have some fish, but they don't really count. You can't really bond with a goldfish or an angelfish. For as long as I could remember, I wanted a dog.

I finally got one in 2005. Bosco. Though his photo on the rescue web site pointed to trouble, we drove the two hours it took to get to the shelter to meet him. Everyone there was surprised we wanted to meet Bosco. "Really?" they asked. "Bosco?"

We bonded immediately.

A short while later we got Alan, a terrier of some kind, from the same shelter. Though it's taken years, they're starting to get to be better friends.

They say dogs can smell cancer. I don't know if that's true, but Bosco could definitely tell I was sick, and he knew I was getting chemo. I'm sure my scent changed. Regardless, he was stuck to me like glue. If I was watching a movie on the couch, he was on my lap. If I was in bed, he was laying on the floor beside me. And no matter how far I could walk, he and Alan were always up for a trip outside, whether it was to the end of the street or around the block.

I do not doubt they played a key role in my recovery. Though you can't measure it, the support, love and friendship you get from dogs (sorry cat people) cannot be measured or overemphasized. There's a cameraderie there that can't truly be replicated. As any dog owner can tell you, there's an unspoken connection with them that is unlike anything else.

The Wolfman

Once the chemo got rolling, I quickly came to loathe the weekends. The side effects would start to peak on Saturday morning, and by that afternoon I'd be miserable. Fever, intense stomach aches, nausea, the whole bit. Depending on what they gave me, it would taper off until the middle of the week. Even then it wasn't ideal. I'd just start to feel somewhat normal again and then it'd be time for another dose. Time to ride the wave.

I did my best to keep the stuff moving. Lots of water, juice, smoothies and popsicles to stay hydrated. I didn't have much energy, but when I did I'd take the dogs for a walk. Sometimes I wouldn't make it any further than the end of our block before I'd have to turn back. Sometimes I'd be able to go around the block.

It was during one of these walks that I noticed another strange side effect of chemo: I had developed a superhuman sense of smell. I first noticed it when a car drove by with the windows down. The car was probably going about twenty miles an hour, yet I could clearly smell the guy's cologne. It wasn't overwhelming or anything, but if I'd had an encyclopedic knowledge of men's colognes I know I could've identified it immediately.

My curiousity piqued, I tried to pay more attention to what I could suddenly smell: fresh cut grass that had been mowed days earlier. Food cooking. Old leaves. The coffee someone was brewing. And on and on. Yeah, unpleasant smells were also amplified, but other, more subtle ones I'd never noticed were as well.

Turns out this is a fairly common side effect of chemo. Other senses like taste and hearing would also be affected, though in much less awesome ways.

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.

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.