While music was definitely important, there were a handful of other small comforts that went a long way in helping me get through treatment. If you know someone going through chemo there are plenty of absolutely awesome and very affordable small pleasures you can offer that go a long, long way.
Here's a list in no particular order.
* Gum. Chemo can leave a nasty taste in your mouth that tastes like the Tin Man's underwear after a week of landscaping in New Orleans during the middle of August. There's this weird, inescapable metallic contingent that's hard to avoid. Gum can really, really make a difference. I'm not kidding.
* Sparkling water. It doesn't really matter what brand you buy, whether it's a well-known global brand or a store knock-off. Carbonated water really helps settle the stomach (ginger ale's a good go-to if you can't find it) and it's a low-calorie option that can help with bloating. At least it did for me.
* Popsicles. I will happily and eagerly shill for Edy's Fruit Bars (though I stick to the non-Splenda versions). There's something about their cooling ability and the feeling that you're getting at least little nutrition from the fruit. Chemo patients often have hot flashes and even fevers, and a water-based option like popsicles or fruit bars really help cool you off. Smoothies are another great choice.
* Netflix. I went on an epic movie-fest when it looked like I might go blind, but a gift subscription to Netflix is a terrific gift. They don't have to leave their house and can manage their queue from all over the place, and can watch whatever, whenever they want.
* Goals. Victories are small when you're in the middle of chemo or radiation treatment. You're exhausted, uncomfortable and feel like shit. Set small goals and try to meet them. It can be as small as getting out of bed and sitting in a chair for twenty minutes, or as big as taking a walk in the park. Make sure they're realistic, but also make sure you hit them.
* Friends and relatives. This is really the most important one of all. You need to have a support system, but be flexible. People you think you can count on will fail you, while folks you never expected will be absolutely awesome. Accept the positive and ignore the negative. There are a million reasons why people distance themselves, but they don't have anything to do with you. That's shit they have to deal with. It's not your problem and it's not you. Be open to meeting new people. You'll be suprised at the connections you form with old and new friends.
* Perspective. Even though it feels like it, this is not forever. Yes, the days are long, but treatment will end. And chances are that you'll still feel like complete shit when it's over. It takes a lot more time than it should to get better. But remember, you've had extremely toxic chemicals pumped into your system. You might have had colossal doses of radiation as well, but with none of the awesome superhero side effects. But the majority of the side effects will slowly fade. Really.
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Gimme Toro, Gimme Some More
Once the date was set, things went pretty fast. My wife's mom and sister, who are a hell of a lot of fun and completely wonderful, said they'd come up while I went into the hospital. My folks, who were equally excellent, offered to take me out for a meal at a restaurant of my choosing before I went in.
Since I had surgery and chemo ahead of me, I opted for sushi. I wouldn't be able to eat raw fish for a while, so off we went. I knew that neither of my folks were all that thrilled with sushi (they ended up going with some baked fish and rice), but it was a heartfelt show of support.
A few days later my mother and sister-in-law arrived. The night before the surgery, neither I nor my wife could sleep. We got up around three and went downstairs to talk.
At this point I thought there was a ten percent chance that I'd die on the table. My wife later told me it was closer to thirty. Regardless, we went over a few things. I wrote down all the usernames and passwords for our assorted online accounts and we talked about my final wishes.
That didn't take long. Mainly because I didn't have any elaborate or dramatic wishes other than "let people take whatever they want to remember me by." To me, it seemed a little pompous to put all this weight on possessions that ultimately didn't mean anything. I thought it'd mean more to my friends and family if they could pick something that reminded them of me. When my grandma died, the one thing I took that reminded me most of her was a funky TV tray with bongos on it. I'd eaten many a Thanksgiving meal off that tray and it was something I always associated with going to Grandma's. I didn't want to deprive someone else of that opportunity to take something.
What's more it still seemed abstract and surreal. I felt like I was watching a movie. I was a little nervous about the operation, but there really wasn't anything to do. There was nothing I could do other than go forward, and crying or worrying wasn't going to make things any better.
Since I had surgery and chemo ahead of me, I opted for sushi. I wouldn't be able to eat raw fish for a while, so off we went. I knew that neither of my folks were all that thrilled with sushi (they ended up going with some baked fish and rice), but it was a heartfelt show of support.
A few days later my mother and sister-in-law arrived. The night before the surgery, neither I nor my wife could sleep. We got up around three and went downstairs to talk.
At this point I thought there was a ten percent chance that I'd die on the table. My wife later told me it was closer to thirty. Regardless, we went over a few things. I wrote down all the usernames and passwords for our assorted online accounts and we talked about my final wishes.
That didn't take long. Mainly because I didn't have any elaborate or dramatic wishes other than "let people take whatever they want to remember me by." To me, it seemed a little pompous to put all this weight on possessions that ultimately didn't mean anything. I thought it'd mean more to my friends and family if they could pick something that reminded them of me. When my grandma died, the one thing I took that reminded me most of her was a funky TV tray with bongos on it. I'd eaten many a Thanksgiving meal off that tray and it was something I always associated with going to Grandma's. I didn't want to deprive someone else of that opportunity to take something.
What's more it still seemed abstract and surreal. I felt like I was watching a movie. I was a little nervous about the operation, but there really wasn't anything to do. There was nothing I could do other than go forward, and crying or worrying wasn't going to make things any better.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Point and Click
After all the tests and back and forth, my neurologist and oncologist agreed that they'd need to do a biopsy on the tumor so the oncologist would know exactly what he was dealing with. They'd been reading up on my special snowflake of a tumor, which was remarkably rare. Par. In order to get that biopsy, they'd have to do brain surgery. The date was set for a morning in June. I had two weeks to get ready.
Since the tumor was in such a delicate spot, they'd go in and get a small chunk of it for the pathologist to study. Then, they'd use that info to determine the best way to get rid of the thing. They'd literally be going through my brain in order to get to it. I would be awake the whole time.
Naturally, I had questions. Would this hurt? Would I be able to feel anything? Would I shit my pants whenever I heard a doorbell for the rest of my life?
Thanfully, the answer was 'no' to all these questions. The brain has no nerve endings, so there'd be no pain and I likely wouldn't feel anything. Your brain is more permeable than you'd think -- the fibers of the tissue have some give and would allow the needle/instrument to go right into my brain without cutting or puncturing any of the surrounding tissue. It'd be like when you insert your hand into a tree or bush -- you can touch the center of it, but when you remove your hand the tree's fine. It's in the exact same shape it was before you put your hand into it. It'd be the same thing with my brain.
However. There was a 30% chance I could die. On top of that, since the tumor was right up against my optic nerve, there was a chance I could go blind. Not the greatest odds, but I didn't have much of a choice. The tumor was growing by the day, and had shown no signs of slowing.
I had a lot of faith in the doctor who'd be performing the surgery, so we set a date. I had a couple weeks to get ready.
Since the tumor was in such a delicate spot, they'd go in and get a small chunk of it for the pathologist to study. Then, they'd use that info to determine the best way to get rid of the thing. They'd literally be going through my brain in order to get to it. I would be awake the whole time.
Naturally, I had questions. Would this hurt? Would I be able to feel anything? Would I shit my pants whenever I heard a doorbell for the rest of my life?
Thanfully, the answer was 'no' to all these questions. The brain has no nerve endings, so there'd be no pain and I likely wouldn't feel anything. Your brain is more permeable than you'd think -- the fibers of the tissue have some give and would allow the needle/instrument to go right into my brain without cutting or puncturing any of the surrounding tissue. It'd be like when you insert your hand into a tree or bush -- you can touch the center of it, but when you remove your hand the tree's fine. It's in the exact same shape it was before you put your hand into it. It'd be the same thing with my brain.
However. There was a 30% chance I could die. On top of that, since the tumor was right up against my optic nerve, there was a chance I could go blind. Not the greatest odds, but I didn't have much of a choice. The tumor was growing by the day, and had shown no signs of slowing.
I had a lot of faith in the doctor who'd be performing the surgery, so we set a date. I had a couple weeks to get ready.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Tortilla Flats
As soon as they found the tumor I got started on a regular dose of steroids. It was a small orange pill I took times a day, and the dosage gradually increased. The theory was that it’d help to delay or slow the growth of the tumor.
What they didn’t tell me was that the steroids would screw with my sleep, make me ravenously hungry, gain weight and turn into a raging asshole at the slightest provocation.
I was effectively turned into Dick Cheney but with more hair.
All these things increased in severity as my dosage increased, but it was the sleep deprivation that was the hardest initially. No matter what I’d done during the day – exercised, read before bed, had wine at dinner, abstained from alcohol – and no matter what time I’d go to bed I’d wake up between 2 and 4 and be up for the day.
And as I was losing sleep I became more and more irritable. I wasn’t driving as much since my vision was getting worse. That was probably a good thing, since I’m sure I would’ve wound up in a fight or accident.
But as time wore on, the anger became harder to control. Sometimes I’d be angry for absolutely no reason at all – just a black mood. Other times I’d fly off the handle at the smallest thing. Scariest of all was the loss of control I felt when it would happen sometimes. At its zenith it was like an out-of-body experience; I felt as if I was watching myself behave like a two year old.
Even on a good day, I’ve never been a fan of the public. Factor in the steroids and it made for a bad combination.
One afternoon my wife and I were at the grocery store, looking for tortilla chips. She’d mentioned that we should swing by the health food section of the store. I was tired, feeling lousy and cranky as usual. A young woman was busy stocking chips, and smiled and asked if she could help us. Most of the chips in the bags I picked up had been smashed to bits. My wife said “Oh, we’re just looking for some tortilla chips” and I interjected “Yeah, do you have any bags that haven’t been sat on yet?”
Now, in my defense, the vast majority of the bags had been beat to shit, with small shards of chips clogging the windows of most of them. But still, this woman hadn’t done it. That gave me no right to act like a complete asshole, especially when she was trying to be helpful. As soon as the words left my mouth I felt bad about it, but let my wife do the apologizing. Needless to say, we wrapped our shopping shortly thereafter.
What they didn’t tell me was that the steroids would screw with my sleep, make me ravenously hungry, gain weight and turn into a raging asshole at the slightest provocation.
I was effectively turned into Dick Cheney but with more hair.
All these things increased in severity as my dosage increased, but it was the sleep deprivation that was the hardest initially. No matter what I’d done during the day – exercised, read before bed, had wine at dinner, abstained from alcohol – and no matter what time I’d go to bed I’d wake up between 2 and 4 and be up for the day.
And as I was losing sleep I became more and more irritable. I wasn’t driving as much since my vision was getting worse. That was probably a good thing, since I’m sure I would’ve wound up in a fight or accident.
But as time wore on, the anger became harder to control. Sometimes I’d be angry for absolutely no reason at all – just a black mood. Other times I’d fly off the handle at the smallest thing. Scariest of all was the loss of control I felt when it would happen sometimes. At its zenith it was like an out-of-body experience; I felt as if I was watching myself behave like a two year old.
Even on a good day, I’ve never been a fan of the public. Factor in the steroids and it made for a bad combination.
One afternoon my wife and I were at the grocery store, looking for tortilla chips. She’d mentioned that we should swing by the health food section of the store. I was tired, feeling lousy and cranky as usual. A young woman was busy stocking chips, and smiled and asked if she could help us. Most of the chips in the bags I picked up had been smashed to bits. My wife said “Oh, we’re just looking for some tortilla chips” and I interjected “Yeah, do you have any bags that haven’t been sat on yet?”
Now, in my defense, the vast majority of the bags had been beat to shit, with small shards of chips clogging the windows of most of them. But still, this woman hadn’t done it. That gave me no right to act like a complete asshole, especially when she was trying to be helpful. As soon as the words left my mouth I felt bad about it, but let my wife do the apologizing. Needless to say, we wrapped our shopping shortly thereafter.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Wind at Your Back
It's a cliche, but you really can't fight cancer by yourself. It truly does take a team. Not only of doctors, nurses and support staff, but friends and family. Their love and support can truly make a difference in ways you can't expect or even imagine.
But the most important person on your team, and one not everyone's lucky enough to have, is someone that's your advocate. Someone who will fight for you when the doctors are going down the wrong path. Someone to tell well-wishers that you've had enough for the day and need to rest. Someone who insists you need to rest. Someone to complain to. Someone to cry with. Someone who will make that midnight run for popsicles. Someone that will sit with you as you writhe in bed with a roaring fever from the fucking chemo.
In my case, that person was my wife.
More cliches: marriage is a journey. Marriage is a union. Blah blah blah. Yeah, it's those things, but it's easy to be happy and content and in love when things are going good. That's the easy part. That's coasting. The real test is when the shit not only hits the proverbial fan but keeps hitting it. That's when you find out what both you and your partner are made of.
I was extremely lucky. I married someone who's smart, strong, caring, empathetic and has a strong bullshit detector. Over the course of my treatment, all those attributes came into play. There were peaks and valleys. People I didn't expect anything from came through in ways that were unbelievable. Others I thought I could count on failed spectacularly. My wife was there for every small victory as well as every little defeat.
Not everyone has that. Keep that in mind the next time you hear about someone who's sick. A serious illness in not only a downer, it's a fucking grind for all involved. It gets old. It loses its novelty. The phone calls and cards slow to a trickle after a few weeks, but the illness is still there. Often worse than before. Having an advocate; a partner who stands by you is worth their weight in gold. They deserve just as much recognition for all the bravery you're saluted for as you do. Maybe more.
And so do your team of supporters. Their goodwill, positivity and smiles -- often the simplest things -- make a bad day bearable and a good day outstanding.
But that's a topic for another post.
But the most important person on your team, and one not everyone's lucky enough to have, is someone that's your advocate. Someone who will fight for you when the doctors are going down the wrong path. Someone to tell well-wishers that you've had enough for the day and need to rest. Someone who insists you need to rest. Someone to complain to. Someone to cry with. Someone who will make that midnight run for popsicles. Someone that will sit with you as you writhe in bed with a roaring fever from the fucking chemo.
In my case, that person was my wife.
More cliches: marriage is a journey. Marriage is a union. Blah blah blah. Yeah, it's those things, but it's easy to be happy and content and in love when things are going good. That's the easy part. That's coasting. The real test is when the shit not only hits the proverbial fan but keeps hitting it. That's when you find out what both you and your partner are made of.
I was extremely lucky. I married someone who's smart, strong, caring, empathetic and has a strong bullshit detector. Over the course of my treatment, all those attributes came into play. There were peaks and valleys. People I didn't expect anything from came through in ways that were unbelievable. Others I thought I could count on failed spectacularly. My wife was there for every small victory as well as every little defeat.
Not everyone has that. Keep that in mind the next time you hear about someone who's sick. A serious illness in not only a downer, it's a fucking grind for all involved. It gets old. It loses its novelty. The phone calls and cards slow to a trickle after a few weeks, but the illness is still there. Often worse than before. Having an advocate; a partner who stands by you is worth their weight in gold. They deserve just as much recognition for all the bravery you're saluted for as you do. Maybe more.
And so do your team of supporters. Their goodwill, positivity and smiles -- often the simplest things -- make a bad day bearable and a good day outstanding.
But that's a topic for another post.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Peter O' Drool
But first, more tests. Since my tumor was so rare, the doctors wanted to find out as much as they could before beginning treatment of any kind.
This was good and bad. Good in that I didn't have to undergo surgery or chemo. Bad, because I was still on steroids, which made me surly and only able to sleep for an hour or two at a time.
It also meant more specialists. The next in line was a neurological opthamologist (try saying that one five times fast). Once again, I couldn't see him for two weeks. In the meantime, my left eyelid was beginning to droop, making it look as if I was either perpetually winking or about to fall asleep.
The sleeplessness was really getting to me, but I tried to make the most of it. Since the tumor was pressing on my optic nerve, there was a chance that I could lose some or all of my sight, either due to the tumor or treatment. Since I had some time, I decided that there was no time like the present to see as many classic movies as I could in the event I might be blind or have poor eyesight for the rest of my life.
I went on a tear. Citizen Kane (terrific), a slew of Hitchcock (Vertigo was overrated, North by Northwest was not, Frenzy is an overlooked masterpiece), Bullit (dated and weak), To Kill a Mockingbird, Sunset Boulevard and so on. Since I wasn't sleeping, not only did I suddenly have time for Lawrence of Arabia (amazing), I could also watch the commentaries. This crash course was one of the best things about that waiting period -- not only was I able to catch up on the classics, but I was able to learn about them as well. Netflix made it even better, enabling me to watch obscure movies or documentaries I'd always been curious about but didn't want to buy and couldn't rent at the usual physical outlets.
It was a welcome distraction from the discomfort and the drama that was about to come.
This was good and bad. Good in that I didn't have to undergo surgery or chemo. Bad, because I was still on steroids, which made me surly and only able to sleep for an hour or two at a time.
It also meant more specialists. The next in line was a neurological opthamologist (try saying that one five times fast). Once again, I couldn't see him for two weeks. In the meantime, my left eyelid was beginning to droop, making it look as if I was either perpetually winking or about to fall asleep.
The sleeplessness was really getting to me, but I tried to make the most of it. Since the tumor was pressing on my optic nerve, there was a chance that I could lose some or all of my sight, either due to the tumor or treatment. Since I had some time, I decided that there was no time like the present to see as many classic movies as I could in the event I might be blind or have poor eyesight for the rest of my life.
I went on a tear. Citizen Kane (terrific), a slew of Hitchcock (Vertigo was overrated, North by Northwest was not, Frenzy is an overlooked masterpiece), Bullit (dated and weak), To Kill a Mockingbird, Sunset Boulevard and so on. Since I wasn't sleeping, not only did I suddenly have time for Lawrence of Arabia (amazing), I could also watch the commentaries. This crash course was one of the best things about that waiting period -- not only was I able to catch up on the classics, but I was able to learn about them as well. Netflix made it even better, enabling me to watch obscure movies or documentaries I'd always been curious about but didn't want to buy and couldn't rent at the usual physical outlets.
It was a welcome distraction from the discomfort and the drama that was about to come.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
The Plot Thickens
About a half hour after I got back to work, Dr. Andersen called. They had some questions on the MRI and wanted to get another scan, this time with color. The dye would give them a better picture of what was going on in my head. Wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t take any more time than the last one did. I went back.
Same drill. I put my stuff in the locker, went into the room and got on the table. This time I asked for a rock station. The attendant took my hand and found a vein.
“Some people say they get a weird taste in their mouth when they get the dye injected,” she said. “But other than that you shouldn’t have any symptoms or a reaction,” she said as she injected me.
Sure enough, about sixty seconds later a strange, metallic taste bloomed in my mouth. It slowly subsided and we started the scan as John Mellencamp sang about pink houses for you and me.
There was an awkward silence as she unhooked me from the machine and we walked to the locker area, so I turned and asked her: “do you ever mess with people and tell them that everything’s going to taste like pepperoni for two days afterwards?” Either she didn’t see the humor in it or she was taken aback. She didn’t laugh. She just gave me this confused “what the hell was that about?” look and said “Uh, no.” I thanked her, got my stuff and left.
This time the drive back to work was a little more stressful; a brain tumor was starting to sound like a strong possibility. I didn’t really know much about them other than the fact that they were bad, really bad, and that you could die from them. Whenever someone got a brain tumor on TV, that was it. They were dead within minutes. If I had one, was it the size of a grape? An orange?
I wasn’t really having too bad of a time, all things considered. I wasn’t having headaches or seizures, the two symptoms I most associated with brain tumors. I wasn't dizzy. Other than the eyesight issues I felt fine. Deep down I thought it’d wind up being something goofy, like I ended up with the wrong eyeglasses prescription or something equally minor.
I’d been back at my desk all of forty minutes when the phone rang. It was Dr. Andersen again. “Kyle, we looked at the second set of MRI scans,” he began in a measured, serious tone, “and it looks like you have a small tumor in the center of your brain. It’s in the pineal region.” He calmly explained that it was still relatively small – about the size of a gumball – but that its location explained why I was having vision problems. Essentially, it was taking up space normally reserved for optical functions and it was putting pressure on the optic nerve so things weren’t functioning the way they should.
Predictably, my next set of questions were along the lines of “how the hell are we going to get this thing out?”
“I’m going to refer to you to Dr. George Greene,” he said. “He’s one of the best neurologists in town. If I had to see a neurologist, he’s the one I’d see,” he said.
Same drill. I put my stuff in the locker, went into the room and got on the table. This time I asked for a rock station. The attendant took my hand and found a vein.
“Some people say they get a weird taste in their mouth when they get the dye injected,” she said. “But other than that you shouldn’t have any symptoms or a reaction,” she said as she injected me.
Sure enough, about sixty seconds later a strange, metallic taste bloomed in my mouth. It slowly subsided and we started the scan as John Mellencamp sang about pink houses for you and me.
There was an awkward silence as she unhooked me from the machine and we walked to the locker area, so I turned and asked her: “do you ever mess with people and tell them that everything’s going to taste like pepperoni for two days afterwards?” Either she didn’t see the humor in it or she was taken aback. She didn’t laugh. She just gave me this confused “what the hell was that about?” look and said “Uh, no.” I thanked her, got my stuff and left.
This time the drive back to work was a little more stressful; a brain tumor was starting to sound like a strong possibility. I didn’t really know much about them other than the fact that they were bad, really bad, and that you could die from them. Whenever someone got a brain tumor on TV, that was it. They were dead within minutes. If I had one, was it the size of a grape? An orange?
I wasn’t really having too bad of a time, all things considered. I wasn’t having headaches or seizures, the two symptoms I most associated with brain tumors. I wasn't dizzy. Other than the eyesight issues I felt fine. Deep down I thought it’d wind up being something goofy, like I ended up with the wrong eyeglasses prescription or something equally minor.
I’d been back at my desk all of forty minutes when the phone rang. It was Dr. Andersen again. “Kyle, we looked at the second set of MRI scans,” he began in a measured, serious tone, “and it looks like you have a small tumor in the center of your brain. It’s in the pineal region.” He calmly explained that it was still relatively small – about the size of a gumball – but that its location explained why I was having vision problems. Essentially, it was taking up space normally reserved for optical functions and it was putting pressure on the optic nerve so things weren’t functioning the way they should.
Predictably, my next set of questions were along the lines of “how the hell are we going to get this thing out?”
“I’m going to refer to you to Dr. George Greene,” he said. “He’s one of the best neurologists in town. If I had to see a neurologist, he’s the one I’d see,” he said.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Turns Out There's a Shitload of Words That Rhyme With "Outlaw"
I went to see my primary physician, Dr. Andersen. He asked me all the usual questions – how had I been, any illnesses, etc -- and we did the old “turn and cough” bit. Everything looked pretty good though he did want me to get a colonoscopy soon due to my family history. Fine. Then I mentioned the vision thing. He didn’t offer any conclusions or ideas about what could be causing it. He had me look left and right a few times, asked if I’d had headaches or dizziness, then paused for a moment and thought to himself.
He asked what I was doing that afternoon. Did I have time for a quick MRI?
A couple hours later I was in a medical imaging facility in a strip mall. With the flat screen TVs, tasteful tile and coffee bar it felt more like an upscale salon than the place where they scanned you for all sorts of tumors, growths and other malignancies.
After about five minutes, my name was called and I was led to a little wall of lockers. I was instructed to remove my glasses, watch, and all other metal objects. I put my stuff in a locker and walked into the MRI room. I was greeted by a massive white machine with a donut-shaped hole in the center. In front of the hole was a long, rather narrow extension that served as a bed. Had I known this was going to be the largest MRI I’d ever get to experience I would’ve taken a mental note to enjoy myself more.
The attendant produced a mesh hockey goalie-type mask and some earphones. She put the earphones on me and attached the mask to the bed. She said the procedure would take about 15 minutes and asked if I had a musical preference. I said I didn’t really care. I was treated to 15 minutes of new country. Another mistake I would not make again. Or so I thought.
She left the room and I slowly slid into the MRI. I couldn’t see much through the mask and couldn’t move my head. I’ve never really had problems with claustrophobia and this didn’t really change that. But I could see how someone who was uncomfortable in tight or small places could have a hard time. I tried to relax and settle in.
The machine clicked and whirred. There was no discernible rhythm or pattern to it, but it wasn’t annoying and the music masked most of the sound. I tried to stay still and concentrate on Indian Outlaws and life on the Chatahoochee.
Then, I was done. I felt fine. I asked the attendant if she saw anything and she said she couldn’t really comment on the MRI. That was the doctor’s job. Fair enough.
Not thinking much of it, I went back to work. I mean, really, what are the odds that I’d get a brain tumor? Only people in melodramatic Lifetime movies on Saturday afternoons get brain cancer. Colon cancer was another story. Considering all the other health issues I’d inheirited from my father (allergies, asthma, etc) I figured that was pretty much a given. But a brain tumor? My dad was associated with the other end of the body.
He asked what I was doing that afternoon. Did I have time for a quick MRI?
A couple hours later I was in a medical imaging facility in a strip mall. With the flat screen TVs, tasteful tile and coffee bar it felt more like an upscale salon than the place where they scanned you for all sorts of tumors, growths and other malignancies.
After about five minutes, my name was called and I was led to a little wall of lockers. I was instructed to remove my glasses, watch, and all other metal objects. I put my stuff in a locker and walked into the MRI room. I was greeted by a massive white machine with a donut-shaped hole in the center. In front of the hole was a long, rather narrow extension that served as a bed. Had I known this was going to be the largest MRI I’d ever get to experience I would’ve taken a mental note to enjoy myself more.
The attendant produced a mesh hockey goalie-type mask and some earphones. She put the earphones on me and attached the mask to the bed. She said the procedure would take about 15 minutes and asked if I had a musical preference. I said I didn’t really care. I was treated to 15 minutes of new country. Another mistake I would not make again. Or so I thought.
She left the room and I slowly slid into the MRI. I couldn’t see much through the mask and couldn’t move my head. I’ve never really had problems with claustrophobia and this didn’t really change that. But I could see how someone who was uncomfortable in tight or small places could have a hard time. I tried to relax and settle in.
The machine clicked and whirred. There was no discernible rhythm or pattern to it, but it wasn’t annoying and the music masked most of the sound. I tried to stay still and concentrate on Indian Outlaws and life on the Chatahoochee.
Then, I was done. I felt fine. I asked the attendant if she saw anything and she said she couldn’t really comment on the MRI. That was the doctor’s job. Fair enough.
Not thinking much of it, I went back to work. I mean, really, what are the odds that I’d get a brain tumor? Only people in melodramatic Lifetime movies on Saturday afternoons get brain cancer. Colon cancer was another story. Considering all the other health issues I’d inheirited from my father (allergies, asthma, etc) I figured that was pretty much a given. But a brain tumor? My dad was associated with the other end of the body.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Onetwothreefour
It started in the car.
When I’d look over my shoulder to change lanes I’d have trouble actually seeing what was going on for a second. It was as if there were two images and my eyes had to adjust – sort of like a Viewmaster the first time you try it. There would be two independent images at first, and then they'd slowly coalesce into one. I only noticed this phenomenon when I looked to the far left or right. When I looked straight ahead, whether I was driving or standing still, everything was fine. I chalked it up to the new glasses. We had a vision plan that I hadn’t taken full advantage of at work and I figured I could use a new pair. I’d gotten them a few months earlier. Oh well.
Except it didn’t get better. It was starting to get irritating. I finally mentioned it to Amy, a co-worker. “You better get that checked out,” she said. “That can be a sign of a brain tumor.”
“It’s not a tumah!” I joked in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger/Kindergarten Cop voice. I mean, come on, what're the odds of that? Only people on soap operas and cell phone users get brain tumors. I wasn't on a soap and I didn't have a cell phone. Couldn't be me.
Like most men, the only time I ever made a trip to the doctor was when something was really wrong – if it was a cold or flu or some immediate, obvious thing. I hadn’t had a physical in years. I mean, why? I was in my late 30's, ate a pretty good diet and worked out on a semi-regular basis. Why go if there isn't a problem?
But the potential for cancer was there. Two years earlier I attempted to reconnect with my biological father and over the course of our brief email exchange he'd told me about a litany of potentially heredity health issues, culminating with colon cancer, which had killed his mother. He was now battling it himself, along with pancreatic cancer.
“You really should get tested,” he had said in an email.
I blew it off, thinking I was too young to worry about any of this and that it wouldn’t happen to me.
But still, the eye thing was really getting irritating.
I made an appointment.
When I’d look over my shoulder to change lanes I’d have trouble actually seeing what was going on for a second. It was as if there were two images and my eyes had to adjust – sort of like a Viewmaster the first time you try it. There would be two independent images at first, and then they'd slowly coalesce into one. I only noticed this phenomenon when I looked to the far left or right. When I looked straight ahead, whether I was driving or standing still, everything was fine. I chalked it up to the new glasses. We had a vision plan that I hadn’t taken full advantage of at work and I figured I could use a new pair. I’d gotten them a few months earlier. Oh well.
Except it didn’t get better. It was starting to get irritating. I finally mentioned it to Amy, a co-worker. “You better get that checked out,” she said. “That can be a sign of a brain tumor.”
“It’s not a tumah!” I joked in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger/Kindergarten Cop voice. I mean, come on, what're the odds of that? Only people on soap operas and cell phone users get brain tumors. I wasn't on a soap and I didn't have a cell phone. Couldn't be me.
Like most men, the only time I ever made a trip to the doctor was when something was really wrong – if it was a cold or flu or some immediate, obvious thing. I hadn’t had a physical in years. I mean, why? I was in my late 30's, ate a pretty good diet and worked out on a semi-regular basis. Why go if there isn't a problem?
But the potential for cancer was there. Two years earlier I attempted to reconnect with my biological father and over the course of our brief email exchange he'd told me about a litany of potentially heredity health issues, culminating with colon cancer, which had killed his mother. He was now battling it himself, along with pancreatic cancer.
“You really should get tested,” he had said in an email.
I blew it off, thinking I was too young to worry about any of this and that it wouldn’t happen to me.
But still, the eye thing was really getting irritating.
I made an appointment.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
I Can't Feel My Head, But I Don't Miss It
I found out I had cancer -- a pineal germinoma to be exact -- in the spring of 2008. This blog is an attempt to help me remember that strange period and hopefully help someone else in a similar boat.
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