CHEMO STORY FROM THE MEMOIR WIP

One chemo story is not much different than another:

Cancer diagnosis, testing, further testing, test some more, then sign up for the juice.

Not much different until it’s you, and it’s your story.

So why not write it? Here’s what it looks like:

I dodged four sketchy, at least sketchy to me, ‘surgery center’ installed chemo port appointments.

Why? Surgery and hospital just sounds like a better match than a physician owned and operated one-stop operating room.

Of course it was nothing like that, I later discovered, but at the time I felt pushed by the cancer clock.

“Get it done, quit wasting time. This cancer isn’t going to cure itself.”

They were the experts giving me the business because of the way I started with them.

If you shit-talk the cancer industry doctors in the beginning, they take a different tone.

I wanted them to know I wasn’t marching unconditionally to the chemo beat. Or the radiation heat.

Call me cancer story scrappy.

Doctor: We will proceed with this avenue of treatment.

Me: I don’t want to end up on a dead-end road with no room to turn around.

Doctor: I don’t know what that means.

Me: I interviewed a doctor in a different company who prescribed three different varieties of chemo and a chemo pump. And you prescribe one chemo? Sounds fishy to me.

Doctor: My research and clinical results indicate the most effective treatment for the best outcome.

Me: Wouldn’t more chemo be more effective?

Doctor:

 

As it often happens when you learn more, when you commit to the process, the doctor was right.

If I’d gone to the first place that offered three chemos and pump I would have been fried to hell.

Am I exaggerating? Well, I felt fried to hell with one chemo, one big-ass black bag of fuck me for now chemo.

And it worked the way it was supposed to work after three stops.

 

Three Chemo Stops

The first promised too much chemo; the second was just right.

But on the way to my first infusion I made one last insurance call and discovered my insurance was canceled.

Not what anyone wants to hear, but I followed mental health guidelines and let it ride.

Apparently cancer grows with anger and agitation like the episode of the original Star Trek when the Enterprise was invaded by aliens who grew stronger by fulminating hate and anger.

The infusion clinic had my insurance as good, but to avoid any confusion I opted for the first chemo at the sure thing insurance place: Providence hospital St. Vincent for Providence insurance.

But my wife had dropped me off before work so I called friends for a ride. They were all busy, proving my wife right when she says, “You don’t have any friends.”

My chest port was accessed at the clinic and the tubes were under my shirt when I got into a taxi, wondering what the EMT’s would think of we crashed and died.

Besides, accessed port tubes looked like something out of Iron Man. If I accidentally pulled one out I’d bleed to death? Maybe?

The insurance problem was solved by the end of the day, which I spent in a busy city hospital cancer ward instead of a cozy suburban clinic.

From the over-chemo clinic, to the hustling hospital, I was in my sweet spot for the next dose.

I showed up, got the access tubes hooked up, all set to go with a bare chest.

Me: Where are the gowns.

Nurse: We don’t use gowns. Follow me.

So I followed behind her, down a hall and into the big room with ten blue lounges, nine filled up.

She didn’t look back until we passed the nurses’ station and heard confused sounds.

Okay, I was shirtless, flexing, sucking my gut in, and it was odd?

Nurse: You can put your shirt on.

Me: Naw, I’m good.

After I got in the chemo chair and hooked up, she asked, “Would you like a warm blanket?”

Me: Thank you, but no.

Halfway through I got a chill and asked for a warm blanket.

Nurse: We were wondering when you’d ask.

 

Engage With Fellow Patients’ Chemo Story

Eventually you get the picture: Everyone in the chemo clinic has cancer.

That’s your cohort. Go ahead a mix it up with them.

The nurses may have had it, their family members may have had it.

I had questions, like:

Me: What’s the best way forward? I’m a strong guy. Will I get weak?

Nurse: You need to surrender to the process. And wear a shirt.

Me: Surrender?

Nurse: We know what we’re doing. You’re not the first person we’ve seen. You’re in good hands here.

 

One of the guys, an older man, had what looked like his Coos Bay tuxedo and ironed jeans with shined boots.

I asked him what size they were when I passed on the way to the bathroom. He told me.

Well, I said, just my size. You’d better not take a nap or I might have new boots.

He gave me a scowl and watched me navigate the floor with an IV stand and not step on the hoses.

Once I was settled back in my chair and tucked in I saw he was still watching.

I pulled the blanket up so my feet stuck out and wiggled my toes and pointed to him.

He laughed. On the next toilet run I stopped and talked with him about his chemo story.

 

Later on a woman finished for the day and made some noise.

Lady: I hate this place and everyone in it and hope I never see any of you again.

Sounded like a good plan for a cancer patient on her last day.

I asked the nurse if everyone spouted off.

She said no, but some do have a more difficult time adjusting to their new normal.

The ladies had a routine they used to do before their patients started returning later.

They used to sing ‘Hit The Road Jack.”

They called me over on my way out and started singing. I joined in.

“We know you won’t be back. We can tell.”

But I went back. Not to add another chemo story, but for dehydration.

Like I’ve heard, if it’s not one thing, it’s dehydration.

In the end we hit the road, a long and winding road, and it’s filled with marvel.

Sometimes you have to look harder than others.