Limbo

I woke up this morning to find my underwear on the kitchen table, right next to the bottle of tequila.

But Seriously, Folks...

Here’s something you don’t want to hear while waiting for your daily dose of radiation:

There’s something wrong with the machine.

24

August 15, 12:45 p.m.
Philadelphia
Last Day of Radiation

A Day at the Beach

Radiation beachwear versus Caribbean beachwear.

Whirrr! Click! Zap! Holy Radiation, Batman!

"What fresh hell is this?"
--Dorothy Parker

The entrance to Jefferson’s cancer center is on the street level, on the southwest corner of the hospital, at 11th and Sansom Streets. To get to the place where they do radiation, you get into the elevator and push B. According to the elevator buttons, there is only one level between S(treet) and B(asement)—a staff floor, full of offices and off-limits to patients—but it takes forever to get to The Basement. This is, I imagine, because there are several other levels of (unmarked) hell between the street and my destination at the final, bottom rung.

The first time I was ever in this place, Dr. X tried to tell me that the reason all the scary radiation equipment was located well below sea level is that it is all extremely heavy, but I am smarter than this. Did he think I didn’t notice all the warning signs, and the no-children-beyond-this-point message, not to mention the ghostly appearances of all the patients walking out of the restricted areas. Surely the fact that these machines spit out toxic amounts of radiation daily has something to do with their location.

When you get to The Basement, hereafter referred to as Hell, the first thing you do is scan in at reception. The technicians who made the mold for your head and the plastic mask that fits over your face and chest two weeks ago also snapped the most hideous digital photo of you imaginable. This will be used to identify you every time you visit Hell, which will be daily, Monday to Friday, for the next three weeks. As this is shorter than the average stay in Hell, you are reminded to count your blessings.

The Bitch Advocate (Formerly Known as the Squeaky Wheel)

My friend Ellen has threatened to stop reading my blog if I don’t start mentioning her again. “From now on, I’m not going to read any stories or articles that aren’t about me,” she informed me one day. “I just don’t have that kind of time.”

I was about to tell her that she should be more supportive because, you know, I have cancer, when I remembered that she has been the person most often reminding me that I have cancer. “You have CANCER!” she would console me, when I worried about slacking off at work. “YOU have CANCER!” she would repeat, when I was upset about another sick friend.

You hear a lot about how you need to be your own advocate in our modern health care “system.” What you really need is someone who follows you around like a faithful, bomb-sniffing dog, constantly prowling for little threats to your health and safety, ready to pounce when necessary: SHE HAS CANCER! LEAVE HER ALONE! ANSWER HER QUESTION! GET HER WHAT SHE NEEDS! STAT! GRRRR!!

A sailing buddy who recently spent six weeks in the hospital after “routine” surgery has another term for this: The Bitch Advocate. In his case, it’s his wife. Respected surgeons apparently run for cover when they see her coming down the hall. Clearly, I need a wife.

Know Thyself

Here is a philosophical question: If one goes to see the Dalai Lama speak at a sold-out Kimmel Center appearance, but scams her way in by asking old co-workers to spot her a ticket, does that cancel out the spiritual value of the pilgrimage? Does playing the cancer card give a person bad karma? Do Buddhists even believe in karma?

Karma seems more up the alley of the yogi whose meditation class last Monday night was attended by a woman who had never been there before. The intense but welcoming Yogi Shanti wanted to know what the woman was looking for, which was a very good question indeed, even if somewhat horrifying when asked in front of everybody else in the room. The seeker didn’t have a good answer, but she had ponied up the $18 fee for this one and wasn’t about to wimp out so she mumbled something about “stress relief.” This appeared to be the wrong answer.

Absolutely Hilarious

Image courtesy of the artist, Buck Cash. For more cancer cartoons, visit his website HERE.

Is That All There Is?

Dr. R thinks it’s time we start seeing other people. In stereotypical bad break-up timing, he delivered this news on a Friday, just before the weekend, after making me wait an hour to see him.

No, he informed me, he didn’t want to keep that PET scan date we had been planning for a month, and he thought it best to cancel our weekly blood test rendezvous. Better just to finish up the chemotherapy and then go our separate ways for awhile.

Except for this not entirely unexpected development, the last day of chemo—June 27—was utterly uneventful. After an anxious build-up, the 8th and final treatment went so smoothly, it barely registered. I had expected to write through most of it, raging about headaches and chemo farts and the creepy way my veins feel, like they’re just going to burst and send blood spurting all over. I thought I would detail every last minute, but once I was in the chair, it was too much effort to open my laptop. Maybe I’m suffering from chemo brain after all.

Circling the Wagons

I have a sneaking suspicion that people are being nice to me because they’re afraid I’m going to die soon.

People are cooking me meals, and sending me gifts, and offering to buy me plane tickets to fly all kinds of good places. My best friend from college, on her way to a family reunion last weekend, made a brief overnight stop in Philly, her three year old and all their gear in tow, allegedly to visit, but I’m convinced she just wanted to make sure I’m still breathing. She is suspicious of this whole Internet thing and probably thinks some poser is ghost writing my blog.

Don't Cry For Me

June 10, 2008

Fun Kim has just gotten off the phone with the mayor’s office in Pamplona. Her friend and assistant to the mayor, Ana, wants to know if las rubias americanas will be returning this July for San Fermin, the weeklong bacchanal immortalized in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises and best known for the daily running of the bulls. In a conservative city populated by dark-haired Spaniards, two American blondes were quasi-celebrities at last summer’s event.

Fun Kim, who spent a year in Pamplona studying Spanish and teaching English to the mayor’s little boy, can’t go. The youngest of my single girlfriends, she is back home in Oregon, wisely working on the master’s degree that will let her live and teach anywhere in the world when she is finished. Me, I can’t go either, for less impressive reasons, but passionate Spain in the sultry summer sure looks good from where I’m sitting, which right now happens to be the Little Infusion Room on the 13th Floor.

Sex and the City

"Miss Truvy, I promise that my personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair."
--Steel Magnolias
“Look at yourself right now and tell me you don’t feel sexy.” The order came from Captain Celia.

I turned around to face the mirror in the entryway of the hotel suite. Almost ready for bed, I had shed my dress and bra, but was still wearing heels, black and purple lace panties, and my wig. Long, dark tresses spilled halfway down my back and curled over my naked chest, covering just enough to keep the shot PG-rated. So far.

Moment of Weakness

I am awake but my eyes are still closed, sunlight angling to invade my throbbing head. My stomach is churning like the Mediterranean in a mistral. The bottle of Zofran is on the table, six feet away, but that's five feet too far. Anticipating the wave of seasickness that will wash over me the second I stand up, I choose to lie still where maybe I'll drown in my misery. I feel sick and tired and, irrationally, utterly defeated that I had to start taking the anti-nausea medication after this last round of chemo. Now I can't even reach the drugs. Humiliating.

A Flashing Insight Into Infinity

Although there are oceans we must cross
And mountains that we must climb
I know every gain must have a loss
So pray that our loss is nothing but time
--The Mills Brothers “Till Then”
Anyone who knows me knows it was only a matter of time before my weekly Wednesday posts started showing up on Thursdays.  Chronically late, I am the quintessential procrastinator, the reporter who never missed a deadline but always made the editor sweat, still writing, tweaking, making changes up until the last possible second.

Everything I read tells me I’m supposed to take it easy, not work too hard, don’t do anything I don’t want to do, but if I didn’t have a self-imposed deadline, I wouldn’t write at all. My original plan was to post on Wednesdays and Sundays, like my favorite New York Times columnist, but I accomplished that exactly zero times. It may not seem like much, but writing twice a week is a tough schedule, especially without the incentive of the Times paycheck.

The Big Casino

The morning of my 43rd birthday I woke up with a hangover. Sadly, there had been no party the night before.
Most days these days I wake up feeling hungover.

“I don’t get it,” I whined to a friend over the phone on one especially brutal morning. “I ate a healthy dinner, I didn’t drink, I got a good night’s sleep. Why do I feel like shit?”

“Maybe because they’re poisoning your body.”

Oh, right, I keep forgetting. Fucking chemo.

Voice of a Sailor

The great thing about editors is, when they're not busy chopping up your latest example of genius, they can be pretty good for the ego. Sometimes they even have good timing.

Since I am still not feeling well (not feverish--98.2 at last check--just not well), I was happy to discover that I don't have to write about me this week because my editor at Sail magazine did it for me.  He's not a bad writer, either...

http://sailmagazine.blogspot.com/2008/05/voice-of-sailor.html

Fever

April 29, 2008

Dr. R, I suspect, is not pleased. Since the day we started chemo, seven weeks ago, he has impressed upon me that I need to call him immediately if I have any signs of fever. Today I let slip that I don’t own a thermometer.

I have a theory that only three groups of people own thermometers:

The Ghost in the Room

A few weeks after my surgery, when I was busy shopping for an oncologist, is about the time I started making regular, unannounced appearances in an old lover’s living room. This would not necessarily be unusual except that we had not spoken for a very long time. Also, I was shopping in Philadelphia and he lives in the Midwest.

He does not believe in the supernatural but knows I do and so he, somewhat haltingly, told me the story, perhaps not quite believing all the details himself, of how one day, there I was in his house out there on the prairie. “A presence” is how he described it. I wasn’t an apparition, and I didn’t speak, I was simply, on more than one occasion, there.

“I must have been waiting for you to call me,” I said.

Dispatch from the Infusion Room

It is Tuesday, April 15, and I am stressing, not because it is chemo day (it is), or because of the tax deadline (got that wrapped up right on schedule early this morning), but because I’ve been obsessing for two days now that I don’t have anything interesting to write about this week. Half a dozen blog posts and I’m plumb out of ideas. And then it hits me: Of all the creepy aspects of this whole surreal cancer thing, the creepiest just may be that the creepy stuff is all starting to feel normal.

Doesn’t everybody go to chemo on Tuesdays?

Day 17 & $200 Martinis (Hair, Part 2)

For my second wig-shopping extravaganza, I chose a second TV reporter friend. Not having seen each other in a few years, we both gave a pre-rendezvous heads-up:

“After three years of island and boat life, I don’t exactly have TV hair anymore.”

“Well, I’m blonde now. About as blonde as a black woman ought to be.”

My journalist friend—let’s call her Beyoncé—arranged for us to meet with someone from the American Cancer Society’s free wig program. Having seen some of the ACS publications, with all their photos of (gasp!) CANCER PATIENTS wearing (ugh…) horribly outdated 80’s-styles, I was snobbishly skeptical about this. I was not one of those people.

The Chemo Versus Sex Ratio

“So... how often do you get it?” asked a friend in an e-mail.

"More often than sex? You better not have to get chemo more often than sex. (Now, remember, I’m middle-aged and married… so “more often than sex” to me means you can have chemo once a week—but NO MORE!)”

Here is her question posed as a word problem:

Wigwam (Hair, Part 1)

Quitting my job as a TV news anchor and reporter was the perfect opportunity to test my belief that life is not all about hair. Novice steps at first, of course—a few minutes less with the blow dryer each morning, a couple of months without highlights—but by the time I was living on boats full time, I was indoctrinated, hair spray and salons supplanted by salt water and sailors. For over a year, nobody cut my hair except the captains I crewed for. I was a master, completely liberated from hair cares just in time to discover…

...it really is all about hair after all.

Cancer is HILARIOUS

I have just one last question before we get started:  “Are you SURE I have this?” I ask the doctor.

Because I still don’t feel sick. And I don’t look sick. And the drugs they are about to push through my veins for the rest of this godforsaken afternoon are going to make me sick. And because this is the moment.

After two months of health care hell—the countless doctor visits, seven needle biopsies, two CAT scans, two mammograms, two Pap smears, heart tests, lung tests, blood tests, a skin check, consults with two medical oncologists, a radiation oncologist, and a fertility specialist, not to mention the PET scan that left me temporarily radioactive (“Don’t go near any babies or pregnant women tonight!”)—this is the one moment I can’t seem to handle. Every time I have tried to visualize the instant when they will stick a needle in me and start pumping poison through my body, I break down.

Fish Gotta Swim...

February 29, 2008

Between lunchtime and happy hour, the situation went from daunting to dire.

Over quiche and salad at the Caribou Café, I had been joking that I needed to find a boyfriend before my hair falls out. Now, apparently, I may have to secure a sperm donor by noon on Tuesday.

Maybe I should back up.

Things started going to hell six weeks ago, when a doctor in the U.S. Virgin Islands told me I was turning into a fish.