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.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Drain the Blood
Every time I'd go in for chemo they'd do a blood draw. I'm not a big fan of needles, but I did okay. What began to scare me were the results. More specifically, my white blood cell count.
As the treatment went on, my white count got lower and lower. That's a problem, because white blood cells fight infection and disease. The lower my count got, the more important it was that I avoid infection and exposure to people who were sick. Luckily, I was undergoing chemo in late summer, so there weren't too many bugs floating around. No rampant flu outbreaks or anything like that. But I still had to wear a mask over my face when I drove home after treatment.
It came to a head in early September. I was at the tail end of chemo, but by then my white cell count was the lowest it had been, and I needed to get the doctor's okay in order to go see the Night Marchers - a band I really liked - in a couple weeks.
With cancer, your goals are often very minor ones. Being able to walk to the end of the driveway to pick up the trash cans on trash day. Taking the dogs to the end of the block, then eventually two blocks when I took them for a walk. All were small victories in the battle.
But the Night Marchers show in the fall was a huge one for me. The band's lead guitarist and singer is John Reis, who has been in multiple awesome bands that have been mathematically and ergonomically proven to be awesome by all sorts of experts. I'd been a fan of his bands for years, and when the Night Marchers -- his latest band -- came to town on their first tour, it was A Big Deal.
Unfortunately, that date coincided with my diagnosis of the brain tumor. So there was that. Still, the show was incredible and I had no worries, thoughts or concerns about the future at that point. It was a very uplifting and positive experience.
Now they were coming back. Even though I still had radiation treatment ahead of me, it was a fitting bookend to the whole cancer experience. But there was the white count to contend with.
As the treatment went on, my white count got lower and lower. That's a problem, because white blood cells fight infection and disease. The lower my count got, the more important it was that I avoid infection and exposure to people who were sick. Luckily, I was undergoing chemo in late summer, so there weren't too many bugs floating around. No rampant flu outbreaks or anything like that. But I still had to wear a mask over my face when I drove home after treatment.
It came to a head in early September. I was at the tail end of chemo, but by then my white cell count was the lowest it had been, and I needed to get the doctor's okay in order to go see the Night Marchers - a band I really liked - in a couple weeks.
With cancer, your goals are often very minor ones. Being able to walk to the end of the driveway to pick up the trash cans on trash day. Taking the dogs to the end of the block, then eventually two blocks when I took them for a walk. All were small victories in the battle.
But the Night Marchers show in the fall was a huge one for me. The band's lead guitarist and singer is John Reis, who has been in multiple awesome bands that have been mathematically and ergonomically proven to be awesome by all sorts of experts. I'd been a fan of his bands for years, and when the Night Marchers -- his latest band -- came to town on their first tour, it was A Big Deal.
Unfortunately, that date coincided with my diagnosis of the brain tumor. So there was that. Still, the show was incredible and I had no worries, thoughts or concerns about the future at that point. It was a very uplifting and positive experience.
Now they were coming back. Even though I still had radiation treatment ahead of me, it was a fitting bookend to the whole cancer experience. But there was the white count to contend with.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Me and My Friends
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.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
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.
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