The Big C
Well I went to the doctor
Said I'm feelin' kinda rough
He said lemme break it to you son
Your shit's fucked up
I said my shit's fucked up?
But I don't see how
He said the shit that used to work
Well, it don't work now.
-Warren Zevon
I'd much rather write about anything else tonight, and I do mean anything, but I suppose I should
face up to it and address the issue. Write about it for my own good and anyone else who reads it.
On 12/10/06 I was officially diagnosed with a medium-grade case of colo-rectal cancer. Merry fucking Christmas. They tell me it's trying to spread to my liver but they caught it early and they think
they can head it off at the pass, so to speak. The original diagnosis was prostate cancer,
but they've corrected and amended that.
Ain't that some shit? Just when I thought things couldn't possibly get any further off track,
here comes the Big C. I'm going in tomorrow to start the second round of chemotherapy. I
agreed to participate in a trial program for a new kind of chemo that is supposed to kick
the cancer's ass and leave everything else alone. Hopefully it won't make my hair fall out.
I'm kind of vain about the mane, knowhutImean?
The truly scary part is how it has almost completely sapped my strength. I never claimed to
be Charles Atlas, but something previously as mundane as walking out to the mailbox
leaves me panting like a big dog upon my return. Yesterday I sat down in the yard
to play with the neighbor's dog, who always comes running for a belly rub when she sees
me. I could not get up. I'd get about halfway to my feet and then go back down again.
I finally ended up crawling to the front porch where I could pull myself up on one of the
columns. Meanwhile, the dog shredded my mail. That really kind of hit home for me.
Those "I've fallen and I can't get up" commercials suddenly aren't funny anymore.
I spent four nights in the hospital the week before Christmas. That ruined my perfect
record of never having stayed in the hospital overnight except when my kids were born,
and that was a voluntary choice on my part. I had every high-tech test in the book: MRI,
CAT scan, ultrasound, and plain old X rays plus a few more whose names I forget right now.
Thursday I had a new bit of plumbing installed. Now I have this thing in my chest where
they can just plug me into an IV line and put stuff in without having to mess around with
needles. That was a welcome thing becauseI was getting sort of fed up with
being a human pincushion. Most of the nurses are excellent at what they do and
can draw blood in seconds flat. Some of the newer student nurses haven't quite
got the technique down though, and one morning I woke up with a horrendous bruise
on my elbow.
So what sayeth y'all? This is a completely new thing for your humble correspondent,
and I could use some feedback. It's not terminal, but I'd like to hear about other people's
experiences in similar situations.
GTT
Said I'm feelin' kinda rough
He said lemme break it to you son
Your shit's fucked up
I said my shit's fucked up?
But I don't see how
He said the shit that used to work
Well, it don't work now.
-Warren Zevon
I'd much rather write about anything else tonight, and I do mean anything, but I suppose I should
face up to it and address the issue. Write about it for my own good and anyone else who reads it.
On 12/10/06 I was officially diagnosed with a medium-grade case of colo-rectal cancer. Merry fucking Christmas. They tell me it's trying to spread to my liver but they caught it early and they think
they can head it off at the pass, so to speak. The original diagnosis was prostate cancer,
but they've corrected and amended that.
Ain't that some shit? Just when I thought things couldn't possibly get any further off track,
here comes the Big C. I'm going in tomorrow to start the second round of chemotherapy. I
agreed to participate in a trial program for a new kind of chemo that is supposed to kick
the cancer's ass and leave everything else alone. Hopefully it won't make my hair fall out.
I'm kind of vain about the mane, knowhutImean?
The truly scary part is how it has almost completely sapped my strength. I never claimed to
be Charles Atlas, but something previously as mundane as walking out to the mailbox
leaves me panting like a big dog upon my return. Yesterday I sat down in the yard
to play with the neighbor's dog, who always comes running for a belly rub when she sees
me. I could not get up. I'd get about halfway to my feet and then go back down again.
I finally ended up crawling to the front porch where I could pull myself up on one of the
columns. Meanwhile, the dog shredded my mail. That really kind of hit home for me.
Those "I've fallen and I can't get up" commercials suddenly aren't funny anymore.
I spent four nights in the hospital the week before Christmas. That ruined my perfect
record of never having stayed in the hospital overnight except when my kids were born,
and that was a voluntary choice on my part. I had every high-tech test in the book: MRI,
CAT scan, ultrasound, and plain old X rays plus a few more whose names I forget right now.
Thursday I had a new bit of plumbing installed. Now I have this thing in my chest where
they can just plug me into an IV line and put stuff in without having to mess around with
needles. That was a welcome thing becauseI was getting sort of fed up with
being a human pincushion. Most of the nurses are excellent at what they do and
can draw blood in seconds flat. Some of the newer student nurses haven't quite
got the technique down though, and one morning I woke up with a horrendous bruise
on my elbow.
So what sayeth y'all? This is a completely new thing for your humble correspondent,
and I could use some feedback. It's not terminal, but I'd like to hear about other people's
experiences in similar situations.
GTT