♫ My beard’s coming back and there’s
gonna be stubble.
(Hey la – day la, my beard’s coming
back.) ♫
Wednesday,
January 13th, 2010
By the grace of God and the miracles of modern science – Better
Living through Chemistry – I’m done with chemotherapy and the prognosis is
pretty [expletive deleted]
good. So, return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear
when out of the past come the thundering hooves of the great horse Sil-ver
– Whoa! Not that far back. Let’s try Wednesday, Dec. 30th,
the day of my sixth and final chemo treatment.
It was a day like all days, filled those events that
alter and illuminate our times. And you were… [No, no, no! Now stop
that, radio brain. You’re no Walter Cronkite. Get on with the story.]
Actually, it was kinda different because of the Christmas
holidays. The place was packed. So, after the ritualistic blood-letting, the
taking of the vitals ceremony and the sadistic piercing of the Porta-Cath, Tammy
suggested to Toby that she take our stuff into the chemo lounge and reserve a
comfy chair and a seat for herself while we waited for the good doctor in room
3.
In comes the doctor, in comes the nurse, in comes the
lady with the big fat purse. [Now, cut that out!]1
Okay, okay. In comes the doctor, all smiley as usual, like
he’s happy to see me. Well, actually he is, because it means that his selection
of treatment is successful, otherwise he wouldn’t be seeing me at all. And you
wouldn’t be reading this [expletive
deleted]. And I’d be six feet under instead of six feet tall.
Speaking of six, Dr. S tells me that six treatments of this
protocol is optimal – meaning any more and the stuff will do more damage than
the cancer. So, after the usual Q’s & A’s and stethoscoping and poking and
prodding, we chat. He says we need to take a vacation, go to Arizona,
get away from the cold. I say we’re thinking of going to Kennebunkport,
Maine in March. There’s a beautiful inn
right on the ocean, very close to the Bush compound. (I’ll refrain from any political
comments.) He says why Maine in
March? And I say because there are no damned tourists. He smiles and says to
avoid, if possible, the hell-hole known as Kittery.
And we all laugh the laugh of the “knowing”.
[Kittery, once known as the first town on the way into Maine, with a fishing industry of some sort, is now known
as a town with the hugest collection of outlet stores in the country. Honest to
Pete, there’s over 120 outlets in 13 different centers, all next to each other
on both sides of old Route One. If you can’t buy it there, it’s not worth
buying. And the only fishing industry left is Bob’s Clam Hut, where they
do serve fantastic whole belly clams.]2
But, I digress.
Then, the good doctor tells us of this idea he had the last
time he and his wife and another couple were there. He and his friend decided
to open a sports-type bar as a sort of a Daddy Day Care while the wives go off shopping.
There’d be all these TV’s, all tuned to different sports and manly channels,
and through the miracle of electronics and computers, as long as the women were
shopping, the husbands would get a discount on their drinks. His friend calls
him a week later and says he’s got three investors already.
Now, this is from a guy whose wife e-mails their daughter:
“Help! I’m trapped in Best Buy with your father. He’s got a notepad and
a bunch of product reviews.”
Maybe I’ll open a Mommy Day Care wherever men gather to do
manly things. We’ll serve girly drinks like Pink Ladies and Grasshoppers and
Singapore Slings and all those wonderful fifties drinks. Okay, we’ll even serve
Cosmos, whatever the hell they are.
But, once again, I divagate.
Okay, to continue, a shake of the hand, a pat on the back
and we’re off to the Intravenous Chemotherapy
Application Center.
(Okay, okay, the Boom-Boom Room at the Chemo Lounge. Buddumbump-kishhh!)
And crowded it is. The only seats Toby could get were the
two next to the TV, in a section I really dislike, because the TV is usually
blaring, while the people there are yakking away. But today the TV is off, and I
hide the remote. While we’re waiting for the IV nurse to hook me up to
my four or five plastic bags of chemo-joy, I notice the room is pretty quiet,
which is surprising considering how packed the place is. And, I’m wondering
where the next person who comes in for treatment is going to sit. I can see it
now…
“Mrs. Jones, are you about done?”
“Well, there’s still half a bag to go.”
“That’s okay. You’ve had enough.”
“But, but…”
“Off you go.”
“But, but…”
“Bye, now.
Susan, bring in the
next patient. I’ve half a bag of tetrahydraclorozine here.”
“But the next patient gets protodemazutinol.”
“Close enough, send him in. Rudy, you about done?”
“No! And don’t even think about rushing me. This is my last
chemo, and I want every last drop – [expletive deleted]!”
So, anyway, Holly is out so Marlene hooks me up to my juice du jour, and I settle down and
open my book. I started reading a biography of Mozart when chemo started, and
I’ve got four chapters to go. Maybe I’ll finish it before they unplug my last
chemo bag. Ha!
Across from us is an older guy. (Now, I say older guy,
because he looks older than me. But, you have to understand, I still picture
myself as a youthful guy in his fifties. So, he might even be younger than me.)
And, next to him is his son, who looks to be in his late forties, maybe early
fifties – you know, like me. (Ah, vanity!)
To my left is a console and on top of the console is a white
Christmas tree with blue ornaments and garland – very tasteful. Behind the tree
is a curmudgeonly old lady, with a gravelly voice.
[While waiting to get our blood drawn, the phlebotomist called her name, but she
didn’t jump up and run down the aisle like a contestant on the Price is Right,
so she called it again with just a little edge to her voice, and Roselyn –
that’s her name – growled, “Give me a chance to get up, will ya. I don’t move
as fast as I used to.”
She growled a few other words I didn’t catch as she went
into the room. And I thought – my kind of woman – doesn’t take crap from anyone.]
As I was saying, I’m trying to read my book, but Mozart’s
life was so depressing, despite his beautiful music, that I’m having a hard
time concentrating and getting through it. So, I glance up at the guy in front
of me and he doesn’t look so hot. I look up at his meddy bag and see that it’s
just saline solution, so I suspect he’s just dehydrated and that’s why he looks
so tired. I have been there and know what he’s going though. His son is quite
affable though, and starts talking to Roz the curmudgeon, and pretty soon they’re
having a nice chat, with Toby interjecting every so often. (Speaking of
interjecting – I haven’t inter [Keep it
clean, smut brain.]) I give up trying to read and close my eyes and listen to
the chatter. I learn among other things that Roz is getting the same juice I’m
on – small world.
Pretty soon the gentleman is finished, and the nurse talks
to him about preventing dehydration. And because he’s still weak, they use a
wheel chair get him to his car. His son says goodbye.
Pretty soon Ros says goodbye.
And there I sit with one more bag to go – dexahexamexazonatolazine.
[Yes sir, folks – dexahexamexazonatolazine
– good f’r anythin’ wot ails ya. Guaranteed
to cure ague, boils, colic, and catarrh – apoplexy, catalepsy and excessive ecstasy
– miasma, pellagra, distemper, and dyspepsia – pips, thrips, dropsy and the
grippe – hare-brained cousins, half-deef uncles and old maid aunts – pleurisy,
leprosy, lumbago and neuralgia – shingles, chilblains, croup and artha-ritis.Yes,
my friends, for rheumatis, it’s the best there is.]
♫ But,
there ain’t no cure for the summertime blues.♫
Finally, the last bag is empty. As Marlene is unhooking me,
she asks if we were going to celebrate my last chemo. I reply that we’re going
to Katz’s for some great New York
deli. Being a New Yorker from the Lower East Side, I was
looking forward to giant triple-decker pastrami, corn beef and tongue sammich
with Russian dressing and mustard and some Cole slaw and half dill pickles on
the side. [My wife, on the other hand,
being a Jewish Princess from Detroit
will be having a watercress sandwich and a diet Perrier.] The nurse looks at me
kind of cross-eyed as if…and says, “That’s nice.” And then she says not to
forget to come back tomorrow for my Neulasta shot. “And, don’t forget we close
early.” (New Year’s Eve and all that.)
Ah, Neulasta! A tiny syringe with a needle so small I never
feel it. Neulasta – a drug to boost my white blood cell production. Yes,
Neulasta – three days of bone aching pain. So, you can see that it’s important
we celebrate today.
Okay, Thursday, the next day, I get the shot, and as we’re
leaving we see Roz coming in. And I ask if she’s there for a Neulasta shot and
she growls, “I don’t know what they’re gonna stick in me. I just come when they
tell me.” What a bundle of joy!
And home we go to prepare for the big party – Toby, me and a
bottle of non-alcoholic grape juice. Oh, yeah, we had some of those little
cocktail franks wrapped in a pastry – Costco’s finest party delicacies. Whoop-di-frickin-do!
I was even looking forward to watching Guy Lombardo and his
Royal Canadians play Auld Lang Syne. It’s amazing what pain can do to you.
Well, that, and those drugs.
Happy-frickin-New Year!
New Year’s Day 2010 and I have the usual hangover, only this time
it is not alcohol induced. But, I survived.
January 6th, a Wednesday, is my one week
follow-up visit, and I tell Karen that the bone pain was less than last time,
but the weakness was worse, and I was pretty tired right then. She says the
usual, my blood work looks good, that today is the low point, and I should be
picking up and feeling better tomorrow. Then she says with a big smile that
this is my last chemo, and I will now be considered “follow-up” instead of
“patient.”
“And look! Your beard’s coming back,” she says as she tugs
my beard with its adolescent hairs. Then she tousles my hair and says, “And
you’ve got some hair.” And then, she gives me a big hug. Let me tell you, if
Toby wasn’t there, and I had any strength….
So, now I’m looking forward to Wednesday, January 27th
when I see the doctor and get some bone juice. Hell, maybe he’ll give me a hug
too – can’t wait. ☼
1. For those of you who are part of the
post-radio generation, there were references to the DuPont company ads, the
Lone Ranger, Walter Cronkite’s “You Are There,” a childhood jump-rope jingle,
and Jack Benny.
Oh, yeah, and some Watergate
[expletive deleted]’s thrown in for good measure.
2. Does it sound like I know Kittery? I know Kittery. Oh, I know Kittery.
Last March, after Toby’s
radiation treatments were finished, she and I went to Maine, and we drove through Kittery on the way home. We stopped at a Corningware store
because Toby wanted to buy some square dishes.
“What the hell do we need
square dishes for,” I say. “We already got square dishes.”
She says, “Those are special.
I want every day dishes.”
“We’ve got everyday dishes.”
“But they’re not square,” she
says. “I want everyday square dishes.”
“But, you’ve got Christmas
dishes, winter dishes, fall dishes, spring dishes. What do you need square
dishes for?”
“They’ll be summer dishes.”
“Summer dishes? What’s wrong
with paper plates? Those are great summer dishes. You don’t have to wash them.”
So we bought square dishes –
two six packs – service for twelve – like we invite ten people over for dinner
every day.
“The T’s had another one
of their candlelight suppers last night. Coffee was served. Mrs. T poured.”
Right next door was an Orvis
outlet. Now, there is absolutely no article of clothing that I need. I have
everything I need. But, I love their clothes. I love their catalog. I bought a
beautiful Harris Tweed jacket at their Vermont store years ago, but I’ve since out grown it, and it
has fed some very classy moths.
I just wanted to go in and
look – that’s all, just look. So, I’m looking at this winter jacket – lightly
insulated, weatherproof, water repellant, and it has a hood. Now, I don’t need
it. I’m just looking. But, my wife says try it on. I tell her I don’t need it.
She says I don’t have a weatherproof coat – try it on. But, I don’t need it, I
say. She says try it on, anyway. It’s half price.
So, now I own a black
weather-proof winter jacket.
“Rudy T was seen at his country
estate enjoying the white snow in a stunning black jacket by Orvis. Tres chic.”
“Oh, didn’t we pass a Villeroy
& Boch outlet,” she says.
“Yeah, it was back two
centers.”
“Do you mind if we go back
and look?”
“No, why should I mind? We’re
on vacation – what’s the hurry? I like their stuff. But, we’re just looking.”
So, I drive back to V&B –
just to look. Famous last words!
So, we go in, and they’ve got
some beautiful dishes, but we have dishes – now. They’ve got beautiful
bowls, but we’ve got bowls…“Rudy, could you come here for a second? I want to
show you something.”
Uh-oh! “And, what is it my dearest darling, the love
of my life, my essential pineapple juice, my most precious lamb chop?”
“I absolutely love this bowl.
Would you mind if we bought it?”
It’s a cabbage bowl! By that, I mean, it looks like it was made out of
large cabbage leaves. Not rounded like a soup tureen, the sides flare out. So,
I say, “Why do you want this bowl?”
“I just love it. Don’t you? Can
we afford it? I just love it.”
And in the back of my mind I
hear every father’s little daughter saying, “Can I have a kitty, please. I’ll
take care of it. I promise. Please, please, please.” Women just seem to have
that ability.
But, I’m a crusty guy, and I
make one last manly, but ultimately feeble, attempt to be tough.
“What the hell are you going
to do with it? It looks like a cabbage.” Oh, No! I played right into her hands.
“We’ll use it to serve your
Cole slaw.” I didn’t see it coming – the old appeal-to his-vanity-gambit,
successful since the time of Samson and beyond.
My Cole slaw! My Cole slaw! I
spent years trying to copy and perfect my mother’s Cole slaw. She didn’t have a
recipe – some mayonnaise, some this , some that, taste, add some more of this,
taste, add some more of that – she didn’t have a recipe. But I finally got it
right. Everybody loves my Cole slaw – Grandma Adele’s Cole slaw. And now I have
to make it for every special
occasion, every holiday, every family get-together.
She wants a
bowl for my Cole slaw? Ha! And I want a Ferrari to give her rides.
“The T’s had another of their fabulous get-togethers
and Cole slaw was served in a magnificent and unique bowl that actually looked
like a cabbage. Very trompe d’oeil.”
Do I know Kittery? Oh, I know Kittery. I hate Kittery!
