At the Chemo Lounge

Wednesday, Feb. 24^th, 2010

I’m sitting in the Boom-Boom Room at the Chemo Lounge. It’s quiet now, but it was noisy when we came in.

The patients are resting, lounge chairs pushed back, feet in the air, some under blankets. Their partners (accompanists?) are reading, munching on snacks.

The medicine poles remind me of a ragged row of telephone poles down a country road.

In contrast to some of the patients, I’m feeling pretty good. I had my last treatment on Dec. 30^th, and I’m here only for a small bag of Zometa for my bones – fifteen minutes and I’m gone. They don’t look as happy as I feel. They have that look of resignation. They look tired – tired in body and mind. I’ve been there.

Tired of having to come every so many weeks for so many hours – knowing that the next week will be painful, debilitating, mind numbing. But, as my wife kept reminding me: “It beats the alternative.”

It’s been seven weeks since my last treatment, and my strength is slowly coming back. My brain is starting to function better. But, I’ve got to lower my brain drive – lower it from my brain to my hands and feet.

The Cancer Chronicles – Part XII

 

♫ My beard’s coming back and there’s gonna be stubble.

(Hey la – day la, my beard’s coming back.) ♫

Wednesday, January 13^th, 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. 30^th, 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 6^th, 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 27^th 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!

The Cancer Chronicles - Part XI

This space is reserved for the Part XI which is being edited for public distribution. (Whatever that means!)

The Cancer Chronicles - Part X

This space is reserved for the Part X which is being edited for public distribution. (Whatever that means!)

The Cancer Chronicles - Part IX

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The Cancer Chronicles - Part VIII

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Cancer Chronicles - The Prequel

This space is reserved for the Prequel which is being edited for public distribution. (Whatever that means!)

The Cancer Chronicles – Part VII

                                            ♫ Gloom, despair and agony on me,

                                                Deep dark depression, excessive misery.

                                                If it weren’t for my bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.

                                                Gloom, despair and agony on me. ♫*

Sunday, September 27^th

The Clouds Begin to Form

So back on the first of September, a Tuesday, when I got my usual four week dose of Zometa and Decadron, Nurse Holly called in to my pharmacy for some Decadron tablets, saying to me: “No Decadron the night before, no chemo the next day.” (The dosage was five 4mg tabs, please remember that.)

Guess what? That night the shoulder pain comes back¹. Now, the shoulder and lower back pain that caused the oncologist to question the efficacy of the Tarceva and order a CAT scan, had dissipated after a week, but for some unknown reason the shoulder and upper back pain returned the night after the Z&D. This is very confusing to my little brain because the Decadron is supposed to deal with that pain, or so I was told by the APRN. As usual, I start with Advil – nothing doing. So I move up to Vicodin. That’s good for three hours, but if I want to sleep it’s time for Percocet. Now, Percocet and Vicodin are good stuff except they cause constipation, so I also have to take Senakot, which tastes awful and really doesn’t help. What a pain. Pun intended. And so it goes – Vicodin every four hours, Percocet at bedtime.

Okay, Thursday, the 3^rd, I’m at St. Mary’s, bright and early for the insertion of the Porta-Cath. I knew that I was going get some stuff, so I held off on the Vicodin. It was supposed to be an easy in and out. I was with Toby where she had her’s installed, and it was quick and easy. We’ll even have the same surgeon. But, that little black cloud was floating over my head. I’m lying on the bed in the prep room, looking cute in my hospital pajama bottoms and scuffy anklet socks, when the nurse comes in to start me on an IV. So, she decides to use the back of my left hand for the port, and three sticks later she gives up and goes to call someone who’s better at this. (And this is just the beginning, folks.) The next nurse comes in and seeing the bandage on my left hand very cleverly decides to try the right. Lo and behold, she did know what she was doing and got it first try. Where the hell was she in the first place?

(But, wait there’s more.) In comes the technician to take my vitals for the hospital charts. She looks young, too young. And, she’s with an orderly. She tries to take my temp with one of those ear thingies, only I have my hearing aids in, and she’s confused and doesn’t know what to do. She must have thought it was in there permanently or something. I, of course, forgot I had it in. So, Toby, the only one with brains in the room, tells me to take my hearing aids out and give them to her before I lose them or swallow them or something. Anyway, cutie pie then takes my temp, and proceeds to hook me up to the BP machine. She was going to try to put it on my right arm when my wife told her she can’t and has to use my left arm what with the IV and all – duh! Well, the cuff doesn’t reach to my left arm and ten minutes later she and the useless orderly have the machine moved over to the left side, and that’s when we find out that it’s the first time she’s ever done this. [Stee-rike twooooo!]

So finally, I get taken to the pseudo-OR where they are going to do the insertion. The doctor says hello and stats prepping the right side of my chest. I told him that I purposefully shaved the left side of my chest (hairy beast that I am) because that’s where my wife’s port went. And he asked if her breast cancer was on the right side; I said yes, and he said that’s why. So they shave where he’s going to make the incisions and does not shave where they’re GOING TO PLACE THE ADHESIVE STUFF. [Stee-rike…]

A young fellow says to me that he is going inject a twilight drug into my IV, I should say something if I should start feeling pain. And, before I could say, okey-doke I was out. The next I know is that I start feeling some pain on my chest and remembering his parting words I hear my self saying, ow, ow, ow.

And, I hear a voice in the distance say; I’m just removing the tape. AND, MY CHEST HAIR!

[…THA-REEE!]

I’m taken to the room this all started in, and there is my waiting wife and a lunch tray with apple juice, milk, a turkey sandwich, coffee and that ubiquitous hospital staple GREEN JELLO. YUM!

Anyway, I now have a semi-permanent IV docking port in my chest – no more fishing for veins.

 

Thunder Rumbles

That Saturday, Toby went to the pharmacy to pick up my Decadron prescription, because I was too far under the influence of painkillers. She was gone a while longer than I thought it should take. In the meanwhile I received what I thought was a very strange phone call.

The phone rang and the caller ID read “St. Mary’s Hospital”. I answered and the voice said with a rising inflection indicating a question: “Dr. Rigby?”

I replied: “I’m sorry; you must have the wrong number.”

To which he replied: “Dr. Rigby? I was told to call this number.”

“Well I’m afraid there’s no Dr. Rigby here. You must have the wrong phone number. Sorry.”

A few minutes later the phone rings again with the same voice and question and I’m still not catching on. “No, I’m afraid there’s no Dr. Rigby here and I can’t imagine why St. Mary’s would be calling this house at all. I’m sorry I can’t help you.” All the while the voice is still not intelligently making his case and is stumbling on about being told to call this number but not the reason and sounding just a little impatient.

Well, my friends, perhaps you are catching on; it took me awhile yet. But as I waited for Toby’s return I didn’t really expect her to have the meds she went for. It slowly occurred to me that Dr. Rigby, although his name was totally unfamiliar to me, might have been the on-call weekend doctor for the Cancer center and was working out of the hospital, but why the confusion on his part?

Presently Toby arrived and without the unexpected medicine. So I call the answering service and I get this women’s gravelly voice. (She sounded like she would rather be watching a NASCAR race drinking JD and coke than answering the phone.) And she sounded irritated when I told her who I was. I said I knew what the problem was and could I speak to the doctor. Now, the doctor calls back and he’s irritated. (Of course!) I explained to him that I didn’t know my wife had called, that I had no idea why anyone from St. Mary’s would call and that I was loaded with Vicodin and my head was in a very uncomfortable position right about then. Well, he seemed to calm down and asked what dosage Holly called in. Now, I remember she said five tablets and 20 milligrams, so I said I thought it was 100 mgs.

He said that’s not right because it only comes in 1, 2, 3 and 4 mg doses. So five times four would be twenty. And so he orders five 4 mgs tablets for the night before and five tablets the morning of. Sunday, the 6^th, I drove to the pharmacy to pick up the pills. Anyway, I think I drove. I got the pills – that much I know.

[Are you detecting a theme here, you know, with me and painkillers and such? Oh, Baby, believe it! Gimme the drugs! Yeah, yeah, I know: take it like a woman.² Hah! Does the word epidural ring a bell? As in: “Gimme the f****n’ epidural!”]

 

Tuesday, the 8^th, Toby and I arrive bright and early for my 9:00 AM chemotherapy appointment. Early, because we were told it was going to be a five hour ordeal as the drugs needed to be introduced very slowly the first time around. This is to see if there’s going to be any adverse reactions, you know, like fainting, projectile vomiting, uncontrollable diarrhea, nose bleeds, or the combination of any or all four. And so they give me this bell to ring at the first sign of anything distressful. And I’m told to take this bell very seriously because at the first ding every nurse in the place will descend on me with a crash wagon, oxygen bottle and mop and bucket. I take them seriously, very seriously.

Okay, five hours is a schlep, so Toby and I come prepared with snacks, drinks, reading material, music (via CD’s)³ and plenty of quarters for the wonderful coffee maker downstairs that offers a myriad of flavors and roasts. (Toby’s favorite is the French Vanilla, while I prefer the darker roasts.)

After the necessary drawing of blood for their various and sundry tests and a consultation with the APRN, a port is attached to my Porta-Cath and it’s OUT TO THE BOOM-BOOM ROOM AT THE CHEMO LOUNGE.⁴

And lounge it is, as there are a dozen or more reclining lounge chairs with end tables and arm chairs for your partner. (Unless you’re a member of some ethnic group that requires at least six family members and friends, all of which talk at the same time and take up every available spare chair including the stool labeled Staff Use Only. But, the staff is so nice and friendly and smiley and helpful; it doesn’t bother them. I mean, consider the situation.) The chairs are all lined along a window wall so there’s plenty of light. They’ve got a TV set on one end, portable DVD players with some good DVD’s, magazines, blankets and pillows, hard candies and cracker snacks. I love this place!

I choose what turns out to be the most coveted chair in the lounge. It seems that two patients whose appointments sometimes overlap actually argue over who’s to sit in that chair. (I later discover it’s a very depressing location and don’t sit there ever again.)

The first question Nurse Holly asks is did I take my 5 Decadron tabs  last night, and  I said, yes, I did and 5 that morning. To which she says, no, I wasn’t supposed to, just the five at night. So I explained the whole Dr. Rigby thing to her, and she laughed and shook her head. I gathered she wasn’t too fond of him either. (Later on we shall see that sometimes too much Decadron might be a lucky thing.) And having answered the question correctly, almost, she proceeds to hook me up. She starts with the Avastin, because it takes the longest, and is the one that the body usually has trouble tolerating, more so than the other two bags of poison I’m getting. Avastin is supposed to attack the blood vessels feeding the cancer, but it seems to be a bit indiscriminate when it comes to the good blood vessels, so caution is in order. So what’s the worse thing that can happen to me? A nosebleed? When the pamphlet says internal bleeding and possibly death, my good friend the bio-statistician says that even if they’ve tested thousands of people, they have to report even one death. So, I should forget about it. Yeah, with my luck!

Well, anyway, the drip is so slow that poor, apologetic Holly has problems getting the rate right and three hours turns into 3 ½, almost four hours. The Taxol needs an hour and a half, and the Carboplatin needs an hour, plus there’s Decadron and Benadryl for the nausea, so five hours slowly becomes seven. But, hey, I got my tunes; I got my snacks; I got my quarters, so what’s another minute or two, give or take a couple of hours? And besides, I’ve got my dear sweet wife with me.  ♫Who could ask for anything more? ♫

(We’re becoming sort of a minor celebrity couple at the center. I was with Toby for all of her meetings and treatments, and she has always accompanied me with mine – we’re called ‘the two old love birds’. Hah! If they only knew. We’d be called “The Bickersons”.)

I shall report on my reaction to the chemo next chronicle, so ta-ta for now.

Rudy the Reactor

*© Roy Clark and Buck Owens

With a tip of the straw hat to Hee-Haw’s Archie Campbell and Gordie Tapp. Sal-lute

1. The type and severity of the shoulder and bone pain will be covered in detail in a chapter called, not-so oddly enough, the Prequel.

2. See the first Cancer Chronicle called, oddly enough, The Cancer Chronicles.

3. My taste in music is rather eclectic, so I brought some Mozart, some Bop – Dizzy, Bird, Coltrane – and some early Nat King Cole Trio.

4. In my nightclubbing days in the fifties, I actually went to a place called the Boom-Boom Room at some Lounge. I can’t remember if it was in New York City or Miami Beach, but I did save the swizzle stick – they gave out these wonderfully gaudy swizzle sticks in those days – and it’s in my Booziana collection down in my sad excuse for a wine cellar.

An Interchapter – The Mind as a River

Sunday, October 17^th, 2009

I’m sitting in my comfy leather chair trying to write part VII. I gaze across the room to an end table which has some books standing on it: “Equations of Motion”, which is really an autobiography, “Art Techniques”, everything you wanted to know about the different art media, “Watercolor Techniques”, everything you wanted etc., etc., and Hofstadter’s “Gödel, Escher and Bach”. The last, a book I’ve tried to read many times, but….

And I think about the one part I did understand which has to do with Johan Sebastian Bach and his phenomenal ability to improvise, invent and write Canons. The author talks about four part, six part and even eight part canons. A canon reduced to its simplest terms is like a round, you know, like “Row, row, row your boat”, except that each part doesn’t sing the same lines. In a canon each part is different, and the author explains how different and how inventive the composer can be. But, no matter how inventive, how musically complicated, each part must work with the others; they must be in harmony. Well, this is much too complicated for me, so, reducio ad absurdum, I go back to “Row your boat” to see how this actually works

The second line: “Gently down the stream,” must work with the first line: “Row, row, row your boat,” – Row with Gently, the second row with down and your boat with stream. Add the third line and you see that Row, Gently and Merrily must work together. They must harmonize.

It was then that I was struck by the words.                                           

Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream – gently.

Gently down the stream.

The song tells us to go with the flow, not to go against the current.

Gently and merrily – merrily is sung four times – it’s that important.

So we should row gently and merrily down the stream of life because:

Life is but a dream.

So row gently, my friends.

Row gently, but above all merrily,

For life

Is

But a dream.

Rudy the Dreamer

The Cancer Chronicles – Part VI

 

“Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head…”©

(With footnotes)

 

                        ♫ Raindrops keep fallin' on my head,
                          And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed,
                          Nothin' seems to fit,
                          Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'.♫

 

Wednesday, September 2^nd, 2009

Okay, so last time I told you that the lovely Karen told me to stop the Tarceva for five days, but not the dreaded Doxycycline, and she’ll talk to the big guy, Dr. S, when he gets back seven days later, on Tuesday, the 25^th.

Okay, so did I tell you that she calls that next Tuesday? I didn’t tell you that, right? So she tells me she spoke to Dr. S., and to stop the Tarceva, and that she’s prescribing a lower dose. I tell her about the pain. Oh wait, I didn’t tell you about the pain. Friday, the 21^st, I can’t fall asleep because my back and shoulder are bothering me. Advil does nothing, and I take a Vicodin about 3:30 AM, and finally fall asleep by 4:30. By Saturday I’m living on Vicodin in the day and Percocet at night, What that shit, along with the Tarceva and Doxycycline, is doing to my digestive system is not fit for sensitive ears. And now there’s a new pain, a sharp pain in my lower back, dead center on my spine. So, when she calls on the 25^th and I tell about her about the pain, she changes my scheduled appointment with Dr. S. from 9/1 to the next day, 8/26.

Dr. S is not a happy camper; the pain shouldn’t be there. So he schedules a CAT scan for the next day and tells me to stop the Tarceva AND the dreaded Doxycycline. Immediately my spirits soar, despite my pain, and my G.I. tract shouts “Halleluia!”  I feel so good I decide to celebrate with some ice cream. So, Toby and I go to the nearest Friendly’s, and I gets a small Swiss Chocolate sundae with one scoop of coffee ice cream and one scoop of chocolate, whipped cream, a cherry and crushed almonds on top. Living on the edge, baby!!!

                        ♫Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'.

Okay, so did I tell you about the motorcycle accident? No, right?  Okay, so we’re coming home from Friendly’s, and we go down this little side street that crosses the Rt.73 connector which is a four lane divided highway with a traffic light at this street. I get the green light and start to cross, but guys from the other direction are still trying to make a left turn in front of me. I slowly assert myself, otherwise they all go nose to tail and I don’t get across. Well, after the two cars in front of me (in my lane by the way) turn I start to go, when I look up and here comes this big fat motorcycle. I hit the brakes and stop; the motorcyclist sees me with shock on his face, squeezes on his brakes, but the Harley Fat Boy just slides and boom into my front bumper. Up goes the rear wheel, down goes the rear wheel, but shorty pants can’t keep her up, so down goes bike on its left side. The motorcyclist (Notice, I don’t call him a biker. Allow me to describe him. He’s about five foot five. His name is sort of Angl-ish, so I figure he’s of English-Irish-Anglo-something extraction. And, he had short curly sandy colored hair with a receding hairline and a similar beard. He looked like a shop teacher. You know, the kind that knows everything, and hardly a “biker” – lf you get my drift; if you get my meaning.) So anyway, he picks up the bike and immediately impugns my intelligence, my mother’s species and the legitimacy of my birth.

I, on the other hand, instead of exploding with rage and returning the complements in spades, sit there calmly, much to my wife’s surprise. He comes rushing up to my window and says, “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

I roll down the window and say: “The light looked green to me.”

“I don’t know how the hell that could be; I still had the green arrow.”

(Oh, buddy, that ship sailed a long time ago.) I don’t get the green light until his green arrow goes off. So he’s was poaching –  seeing as how I am in my lane and dead center across the highway, the median strip is athwart my beam, so to speak, and he hits me on the passenger’s side.

Anyway I don’t say another word to him. And he calls 911.

I’m blocking two lanes of traffic, so I move the car across the street where I’m out of the way.

Fortunately, there was an off duty state cop in the highway line of traffic, and maybe he sees what happens, so he pulls up and takes over until a Waterbury cop arrives along with a fire engine, an ambulance and a second patrol car.

In the meantime the statey and the biker are standing chatting. They are joined by the local PO-liceman, and they finally move his bike to behind my car. And the old state cop wisely decides that the accident happens on the street traffic lanes, so it’s Waterbury‘s jurisdiction and home he goes. The first cop deals with Mr. Biker whilst the second cop takes my “vitals”. The EMT checks to see if there’s any injury (and by the way:”Were you wearing your seat belts?” “Of course we were.” “Very good.”) There’s no damage.

Finally the first cop comes over to me and asks my side of the story, to which he replies: “That’s kinda what I thought.”

He goes back to “Operator #1” (He was driving “Traffic Unit #1” – police report legalese.) They chat some more and finally “Responding Officer” says to me that we can go. Hah! So it’s six o’clock and my ice cream pleasure buzz is gone.

            [Police report comes in and Operator # 1 gets a verbal warning for failure to yield while making a left turn, and I, Operator #2, am ex-on-e-ra-ted! It’s his fault. Hah! Mr. Smartass. Mr. Buzz kill.]

                               ♫ So I just did me some talkin' to the sun,
                                    And I said I didn't like the way he got things done,
                                    Sleepin' on the job,
                                    Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'.♪

 

Well, I get the CAT scan on Thursday, the 27^th, and they tell me that it’ll take 24 hours for the analysis. So, Toby and I wait all day Friday for the phone call and by 5:45 we decide to get some pizza. Of course the doctor calls at 5:46. The message says he’ll call back in the morning. Which he does – on a Saturday, for cripes sakes.

He says that he doesn’t like to use the phone, but that it’s better than keeping me waiting. The CAT scan showed no change in the cancer, and they found two new spots.

The Tarceva did nothing for me except make me intimately familiar with diarrhea and acute post-adolescent acne. So much for false positives. I guess I wasn’t Asian woman enough.¹

So, doctor says he’ll see me as scheduled on Tuesday, 9/1 and we’ll discuss a new protocol.

                               ♫ But there's one thing I know,
                                    The blues they send to meet me won't defeat me,
                                    It won't be long till happiness steps up to greet me. ♪

I met with the doctor on the first, and we discussed using a combination of three drugs that are found to be very successful and written up in the New England Journal of Medicine last year – Taxol, Carboplatin and Avastin. And, we’ll start on Tuesday, the 8^th.

So, I shook Dr’s hand and I was off to the Boom-Boom Room at the Chemo Lounge for some more Zometa and Decadron. (Yea, Decadron!)

While I’m there, doctor came by and asked Holly, my IV nurse, how my veins were. She said they’re horrible. So, he said that he’ll schedule me for a Porta-Cath. That’s a device that’s inserted just under the skin below the clavicle. From the Porta-Cath there is a long tube which they insert into a large vein nearby and run the tube into the jugular vein. I wish I could come up with something funny, so I could say: Buddumbump-kishhh! That’s humor in a jugular vein!²

But I got nuthin’.

So tomorrow I go to St. Mary’s to have the Porta-Cath inserted. And, I’m really looking forward to the 8^th, when I’m told to expect to be there at least five hours.

 

                               ♫ Raindrops keep fallin' on my head,
                                    But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red,
                                    Cryin's not for me,
                                    'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin',
                                    Because I'm free,
                                    Nothin's worryin' me. ♫

                                    © Hal Davids / B.J. Thomas

 

1. If this is too esoteric for you, refer to Chronicles Part I and Part III.
2. I’m sure this is too esoteric. Back in the day, way back, when Mad magazine was in comic book format, they used as a motto: “Humor in a Jugular Vein”.

The Cancer Chronicles – Part V

 

(No, the next part will not be Part W.)

 

August 18^th, 2009

I know you’re all dying to hear what agonies I’m going through now, so here goes.

I saw my GP, you remember, Dr. Phil, last Tuesday for a follow-up, but complained about a very dry mouth, roof and tongue (it felt as if I had burned it with some hot tea or pizza. My throat was rough and it hurt to swallow (water?). I was told earlier by the oncology APRN that this was a side effect, but it wasn’t this bad, and what the hell, I was there anyway.

So I stop Nasonex and Claritin because it could be drying out my throat and I see an ENT man, who sticks this damned camera thingy up my nose and down my throat and says he doesn’t see anything. My wife says: “Are you sure you went down his throat and not up into his skull?” [Ha! Ha! Very funny! Everyone’s a comedian.] [Just like the oncologist, when the MRI of my brain came back and he said: “They said: ‘Insufficient material’.” [Ha! Ha! Very funny! Everyone’s a comedian.]

So, he thought it could be the side effects or reflux laryngitis, so continue the Prevacid and watch what I eat.

So anyway, my cough is back, my throat’s no better and I went to see the APRN, the lovely Karen, this Tuesday, Aug. 18^th. And she quickly noticed that my rash has become “quite flamboyant”. So I said, if you think this is flamboyant, you should see me in New York City on Gay Pride Week. [Buddumbump-kishhh - Everyone’s a comedian!]

Karen decided that with the rash and the throat problems the side effects of the cancer drug (Tarceva, for those of you with short memory spans) can be doing more damage than good. So, she asked me to stop the Tarceva for five days and gave me a prescription for MORE STEROIDS!!! YOWZA! So, now I’m on some delightful little drug called Methylprednisolone. (“Or what the boys in the locker room call, methylpred”, he said with a swagger.)

Karen will converse with the oncologist, Dr. S (remember Dr. S?) when he gets back from wherever on the 25^th and I’ll converse with him on the 1^st. And then I’ll go see Holly and get some Zometa and Decadron (or what the big boys call dexamethazone). And on Wednesday I’ll mow my lawn, my neighbor’s lawn and paint the house. On Thursday I’ll go hit home runs for the New York Yankees. And on Friday... [The comic points to the audience, turn his head to the right, cup his ear with his left hand and hears:” The Rabbi Slept.”]

[Buddumbump-kishhh! Everyone’s a comedian!]

 

Well that’s the news from Lake Waybeyond, where the women are strong, the men smell strong and the kids smell each other. [Buddumbump-kishhh! Everyone’s a comedian!]

Rudy the Strong

Live strong.

PS. On a lighter note Toby, my sweet wife and love of my life, has had her first annual (anniversary?) mammogram and consultation and she is cancer free and doing well.