Yeah, you're going through chemo, but it's the same kind as Lance!

"You know, this is the same type of chemo treatment Lance Armstrong had," my oncologist said with a hint of pride in his voice.

Since being diagnosed with testicular cancer, every single doctor I've seen has gone out of their way to mention Lance Armstrong with me as if I'm desperately seeking a one-nutted hero to relate to. They tell me "This is the same type of cancer Lance Armstrong had," as if I was given some sort of an honor. "This is the same treatment Lance Armstrong took," as if I'm being served the fanciest meal at the fanciest restaurant. "Your testicle is the same size as weight as the one they removed from Lance Armstrong's sack," said my surgeon.

OK, that last one was made up. (Mine was way bigger)

I can get why some people may be given hope being told they're receiving the same treatment Lance Armstrong was given. They're freaking out thinking that chemo is going to mess them up physically or mentally, and it's nice to have a pseudo-celebrity to point to and say, "Look at that dude. He's healthy and got to date Sheryl Crow."

That's great, but I'm just not that into Sheryl Crow. And for someone who's about to go through chemo, this is strange to say, but I would never put poison like Michelob Ultra in my body.

The guy's healthy, he's famous and the organization he's founded has raised millions for cancer research, which is admirable (although don't get me started on those rubber wristbands). But it's weird when doctors talk about him as if he's their son who just bought a respectable chiropractic clinic in downtown Cleveland. Taking the same chemo as Lance Armstrong doesn't give me confidence...a 95+ percent cure rate does.

I had my oncologist appointment on Friday, and I'm shocked I wasn't given a dayplanner rather than the lengthy sheet a nurse handed me. This week I have a port put in my chest to make receiving the chemo easier (I was hoping it would be in my head like in the Matrix), I have tests on my lung and liver function to obtain a baseline to make sure the chemo doesn't mess with that, and I meet with my oncologist again just to make sure everything's good to go. I also have to find time to get to a spermologist (probably not a real word, but talk to somebody about freezing sperm) to get that taken care of. Lauren not only shot down my ice cube tray idea I talked about in my last post, but also using a cylindrical bag like an Ice-E-pop, so apparently I have to go the clinical route. When I told my dad I'm getting this taken care of this week, he offered, "Do you want your mother and I to come up for that?" I almost rolled me car into a ditch I was laughing so hard.

After giving me all the scary stuff first (chemo can mess with your liver, chemo can mess with your breathing, chemo can mess with your white blood cell count...just like Lance Armstrong!), my oncologist reassured me that he's never seen any of that personally (a great sign, considering he's been doing this forever) and started doing the paperwork to get everything set up.

While he was doing paperwork, my wife and I peppered him with questions...my wife asking him the technical questions, and me asking him questions about how much time I can expect to miss at work, if I can work through being tired safely and other similar questions. It wasn't until I told him I have to complete 32 hours of clinicals for my EMT class by December (around the same time my chemo treatment ends) and asked if I should wear a mask while in the ER and on the ambulance when he stopped typing and peered at me amused over his glasses.

"You're a pretty active guy, aren't you, Greg?" he asked with a knowing smile. I agreed with his assessment.

"Well, you're going to have to slow down," he said. "You don't want to burn the candle at both ends."

It was with that statement that I realized that chemo might be a little bit more than being bald, dizzy and throwing up now and again (essentially living the life of Billy Corgan, I assume). I'll be interested to see how this all works out.

So...chemo starts Oct. 3. The first week I'll have two-hour treatments each day, followed by two weeks of treatment only on Tuesdays. That's one round, and it will repeat for rounds two and three, ending my treatment after 9-11 weeks around the beginning of December. My hair falls out Oct. 17 (I'll likely shave it before then) and then everyone in town who doesn't already know will either know or think I'm weird. Likely both.

I'll update this blog during my first chemo treatment to let anyone that's curious to know what chemo feels like exactly what it feels like (while kicking it in my chemo dorm with the others. Based on their average age, I'll likely get some Scrabble going up there. Finally I can wear white pants with black socks and white shoes and use old-timey words like "hoity toity")

I had blood taken for some tests for a baseline, and if anything shows up (just like Lance Armstrong!) I'll share it. Prepare for pictures to be posted of me bald...it's going to be creepy (just like...nah, I've overused it. You get the idea).