Tag: C

Real or Not?

stylyized view of EEOB from the former Caribou Coffee on 17+Penn

Today I am thinking about denial. Or maybe disbelief. Tomorrow I am having my surgery, and, for the life of me, I don’t know why.

I mean, of course I know why. There’s this cancer thing in my mouth. And the surgeon is going to cut it out. But I don’t really believe that I have cancer.

I’ve been through three rounds of chemotherapy. And I lost most of my hair. (Thank God I kept my brows and lashes.) But I kind of feel like I am in a cancer daze.

Like why do I have cancer? Okay, why questions are always stupid.

How come I don’t feel like I have cancer? Shoot, what does feeling cancer feel like?

The surgery should be the end of my cancer. I guess I’ll have to be monitored for the rest of my life. Even when this cancer is a distant memory–like my broken ankle that I can’t even remember how long ago–six years? Seven?–it will follow me.

So tomorrow I go to the hospital at 8 am. Surgery scheduled for 10 am. Should be done in about 4 hours. 3-7 days in the hospital. Then 6-8 weeks of recovery. A timeline makes it more real. There is something to do.

I don’t really believe that I have cancer, but I’m going to do the stuff as if I do.

Wish me luck.

Posted on by docthink 0

Bang a Gong

big ole gong

There is ritual at the chemo bar. Like any neighborhood joint.

You heard about the place. It has it’s own je ne sais quoi. The first time you walk in there are a bunch of regulars. You think they are looking at you, especially since you are obviously–in your mind–new. Do you go up to the bar? Sit down? It’s not a really big deal, but you hesitate.

Then someone always takes care of you, and you get an idea of the rhythm.

No idiots. No bombs. No shooters. No specials. No politics.
Relax. Drink. Be cool. Behave.

My chemo bar is full of alot of regulars, but the bartenders nurses do their best to make you at home.

There is never any rush at the chemo bar. You choose your seat and someone brings your specialty mix. People are lined up around the perimeter in their heated chairs, some with companions, some alone. Some come in to get a shots or advice. Those are the seats away from the windows.

At first, it seems like a melancholy joint. There’s sick people getting sicker to get better. (Yes, chemo is like being hit by a truck.) And while this is an exclusive guest list, nobody wanted to be waived in.

You wonder if you’re supposed to make eye contact? Nod? So you try it. You start to recognize other folks who recognize you. People nod back. Some smile. You see how the bartenders nurses not only support the patients, but each other. Folks cut up. A little. Okay, some folks cut up.

When you have your last chemo infusion at my chemo bar you can bang the gong. I have seen it done. There is a sense of #winning when someone who has been through grueling treatment is done. Some people are there every week for a few months. Many of them following surgery and maybe radiation.

My last of three chemo treatments was Monday. My former Vegas EMT and current biker chick bartender nurse said I could bang the gong. But I have surgery next. I am not done yet. I didn’t want to make the gods angry by taking an early victory lap.

But, I am glad to have the infusions behind me. I’ll be back for bloodwork for the next few weeks. But under my breath so as not to offend the powers, I will be singing this, since it somehow makes sense.

Well you’re dirty and sweet, clad in black
Don’t look back and I love you
You’re dirty and sweet, oh yeah
Well you’re slim and you’re weak
You’ve got the teeth of a hydra upon you
You’re dirty sweet and you’re my girl.

https://youtube.com/watch?v=TVEhDrJzM8E%3Frel%3D0

Yeah. Teeth of a hydra. Bring it on. Bang a gong.

Posted on by docthink 1

Almost Cut My Hair

A comb with a bunch of blond hairs. That used to be in my head.

I washed my hairs today.

Normally, I wash my hair. But I don’t have enough left to call it hair. Hair is a bunch of hair. Hair is a pony tail. Hair can be braided. Hair whips around your face when the windows are down in the car in the summertime.

Hair takes in and gives off the smell of shampoo, of a campfire, of the scent of your partner.

Hair is something you flip when you have an attitude. When you dismiss someone. Or when you’re flirting.

Hair is something I play with when I’m thinking. I tuck it behind my ears. I brush it away from my face. Not so much twirling it, but placing it. I’ve seen this annoyance on video. I bet the experts would tell me to stop.

Hairs is all I have left. The hair came out in huge swaths. It seems that everything in the house now has a clump of golden locks on it. It’s tiresome.

But it’s my mane. Was my mane. Is now in the trash.

Time for a clean sweep and a new beginning. I will miss my hair, but not so much my hairs.

Posted on by docthink 0

Tub Thumping

“Well Doc, I think this is it.”

So said my Loyal Reader, reduced to maybe 80 pounds, her hands looking more like a bird’s foot than the hand that held a champagne glass. Her breathing supported by both a tube to her nose and a mask over her mouth wasn’t labored, and she apologized for the getup being awkward.

Her blue eyes were ringed indigo and bored straight into mine. “I am glad you came. I wanted to say goodbye.”

My Spouse–away in NYC–had called the night before, telling me that she only had a few days left. I felt like I was hit in the stomach. It was dumb to be shocked–she had stage iv colon cancer, prognosis is lousy.

Except she had me totally fooled. She had me convinced that she was going to kick this cancer-thing. Even after she lost the month of August when she was sedated and intubated–she was mad that it took her so long to regain the strength and to relearn to walk. She had been back and forth with chemo and radiation and surgery for two years. She decided that she was going to do whatever she could to get better, and it was working.

I walked in to her postage stamp sized room and saw her kids and husband crowded inside were wearing yellow hospital garb. I retreated as instructed and donned the disposable gown. I clumsily kissed her cheek, then her hand, and then her husband who looked so so so sad. I was thinking about pork roasts at her house and burnt ribs and blue martinis at my house. And my crewe, who earned the reputation of always leaving their house as the last guests, very late.

And then the times when she would tell me to be less cynical (Doc, think!), tell me that the Republicans didn’t have it all wrong (she worked for the RNC as a designer–not a believer–long before my foray into a Republican administration), and, most importantly, remind me that when my kids were in trouble that my job was to love them.

She was a good role model. She loved her kids–they had the best birthday parties and halloween costumes. She nurtured their creativity and embraced each of them for who they are. She raised three of the best people I know.

She was my most normal friend–not a D.C. type who was driven in that Washington kind of way. She would sit with me and drink beers at Redskins games while we chattered through 4 quarters of football. What was that score? She would tell me that I did something stupid, or ask me “Why?” when nobody else would.

I am glad that I told her that I love her every time I saw her. I am glad that I told her I love her last week. And I am so glad, and so fortunate, that she loved me.

She asked that we celebrate her life and have a party. I miss her.

Kris, this is for you,

Posted on by docthink 3