CHEMO COMEDY SHOW: WAS IT SUPPOSED TO BE FUNNY

In the final analysis, no, there’s no such thing as chemo comedy, just moments that surpassed some of the funniest things I’ve seen or heard.

It started with the first appointment with the chemo doc.

We’d met before.

In my role as caregiver for my in-laws, both were referred to this doctor after their cancer diagnosis.

For my failing father in-law’s stomach cancer he prescribed chemo, but didn’t call it chemo because, as his scheduling nurse said, “He doesn’t like to call it chemo.”

Years later my mother in-law was referred to the same doctor for breast cancer. He prescribed chemo, which is apparently what chemo oncologists do.

Since then, both in-laws have passed, but neither died of cancer, and neither agreed on chemo.

When I needed to interview a chemo guy, the chemo comedy started. I got the same guy my in-laws rejected, except I wasn’t in a ‘reject chemo’ place with HPV16 neck cancer.

The doc worked for a nation wide cancer treatment center. He and I talked about what to expect, me listening, him explaining things.

I’d forgotten that he spoke with what sounded like a speech defect; the man deciding my immediate future sounded like Daffy Duck’s cousin.

Yeth, he thertainly hath a way wiff wordth, but he was a professional medical person doing the job the best he knew how.

Long story short, since the long story is reserved for the book I’m editing, I sat face to face with the doc, not across a desk, but chair to chair, up close and personal.

I started with the questions. Would I lose my hair?

Yeth.

Would it change my voice?

Yeth.

He was funny to listen to, but the real chemo comedy began with the last question. My doctor said he could detect a speech defect in my voice.

“I have a speech defect?” I asked doctor.

“Yeth, and chemo may improve it,” he said.

We looked at each other silently, face to face.

“You hear a speech defect in my voice?” I asked.

Yeth.

Then he prescribed three different chemo drugs along with a chemo pump hooked up to keep the levels high all day and all night.

I was going to get lit by chemo. I knew I could decline, since both in-laws had declined, but my case was spooky to say the least.

And I accepted the whole menu, give me the juice, hook my up right now. I was pumped about the pump and whatever else it would take to kill cancer dead.

I will remember that moment forever, trying to understand a doctor explaining my speech defect and how chemo might cure it.

Then my wise wife scheduled a second opinion after doing more research and I ended up submitting to one chemo and no pump with the second guy.

“Why the huge discrepancy between treatment programs?” I asked.

“The best answer is a difference in philosophy.” he said.

One doc didn’t want to call another out, but I will. How did one guy in a for-profit cancer treatment load three chemos and a pump, and the guy from Knight Cancer Institute look at the same data and come up with his idea?

My goal was to kill cancer instead of getting killed, and not turn into a slobbering drug addict when I came out the other side.

I also wanted to stay in touch with my feelings. You know, feelings?

In between the first and second opinion I intentionally got the worst haircut I’ve ever had, planning to shave the mess once it started falling out.

Then I learned I wouldn’t lose my hair. The chemo comedy took a sharp turn right there.