CHEMO: NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT IT, EXCEPT …

My wife drove me to my first chemo, one of three on the schedule, twenty one days apart.

It was part of the program, mixed in with thirty five hits of radiation, for HPV16 neck cancer.

It was something I dreaded. Why? The name chemo even sounds bad.

We were in the car, and on the way, when I called my insurance company to confirm approval.

That’s when something funny happened. The insurance people said I had no insurance they could determine. Something happened on the way to chemo that I don’t recommend: I was heading to an infusion clinic with an insurance snafu. (Situation normal, all fucked up.)

I got the chemo I was scheduled for, just not in a peaceful suburban clinic. Instead I went to the sure thing, where my insurance wasn’t in doubt, which was the cancer floor of a local health care giant.

It was a very sobering experience to see the entire spectrum of cancer patients.

That was the first dose.

For the second I went to the original clinic three weeks later. The insurance problem was cleared up this time.

Part of the chemo deal is the port, the appliance that is surgically installed so chemo won’t burn smaller veins.

I was in a treatment room with my shirt off so the nurse could hook up the extra hosing to attach the chemo bag. After she finished I asked where the gowns were.

“We don’t do gown here,” she said on the way out the room. “Follow me.”

No gown with a bunch of stuff taped to my chest? I wasn’t going to put my shirt over that mess, so I followed her down the hall shirtless and walked into the main room with ten chemo loungers and a full staff tending them.

Since I’d just seen the Magic Mike movie about male dancers, I channeled my own magic by sucking in my gut and marching in like I owned the place. It wasn’t an expected entrance by the response around the room.

I passed the nurses’ station and flexed my gym-toned triceps and smiled.

One of them said, “I don’t know what’s going on out front, but I’m going to check it out.”

I flexed again and pointed the direction so she wouldn’t get lost. She laughed.

Then my nurse turned around.

“You didn’t put your shirt on,” she said.

I acted like it was a choice.

“Nope, no shirt,” I said.

“Well, you can put it on now.”

“I think this will work just fine,” I said.

The room was full of cancer patients in different stages of treatment. No one looked thrilled to be there. I was thrilled. The hospital visit three weeks earlier made me realize how lucky all of us were to have a clinic instead of a hospital room.

I found the right chair and settled in.

“Would you like a warm blanket,” the nurse asked.

“No thanks, I’m feeling hot enough already.”

Since it was a six hour deal, I got the chemo chill in about an hour and asked for a warm blanket.

My nurse said, “We were wondering when you’d ask.”

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This, and unexpected episodes like it, are the reason I’m writing the ultimate memoir on the cancer treatment experience.

And believe me when I say, “I hope no one reading this ever has to submit to the cure for HPV16 neck cancer.”

Dear Readers: There is a vaccine for this stuff. Get one for loved ones.