I've been using this blog for some pretty light-hearted stuff (If this is the first post you read, this isn't the norm...keep reading after this), but I just wanted to throw this out there as a major component of my cancer diagnosis, and while it may start off a bit depressing here, it's an interesting coincidence nonetheless and can be taken however you'd like to take it - spiritually, as a mere coincidence, intervention, etc. Well, this is an interesting disclaimer, isn't it?
My younger brother, Ryan, died just over three years ago from an accident, which has been tough on my family (that may be the biggest understatement ever!). He was only about 1-1/2 years younger than me, and we were very close growing up. While I'll never completely get over losing a sibling, I've come to terms with what has happened, and part of that involved figuring out what to do on the anniversary of the date he died each year.
The first year I skipped work and went fishing...something both of us enjoyed doing growing up (the fishing part...having my family own a small business, we didn't have much of a chance to skip work!). The second year, I reflected on his life at home. This past year, though, I wanted to start a tradition. I wanted to start doing something new on the anniversary of his death each year - something I hadn't done before. It could be as simple as trying a new type of food or something as dramatic as visiting a new country. I started making plans to skydive, but timing made that a bit of a challenge this year (I plan on it next year, however), so as a result I made plans for my wife and I to go on a full-moon canoe float. I had never gone canoing at night, and it seemed like a perfect way to spend a warm, August night...reflecting on my brother's life out on the lake.
Anyways, as the date started getting closer, I started second-guessing myself. The full-moon float was technically scheduled the night before the anniversary, and it wasn't supposed to last past 10 p.m. (it was a county conservation department sponsored event). As a result, I decided to add another "Neverdunnit" item to this year's calendar for that anniversary - horseback riding.
I've been horseback riding before, when I was young enough to be picked up and put on top of a horse, but they were always trail horses walking in a straight row and couldn't be steered, sped up or slowed down. In essence, I was placed on a smelly, hairy wagon and given a rope to hold until I was told I could get off. I wanted to actually steer a horse and make it go faster than a lazy walk.
The full moon canoe float was amazing...despite the full moon, we were still able to see some fantastic shooting stars in the sky (a meteor shower was peaking that night), and it was awesome, but like I mentioned before, it wasn't on the day of the anniversary of my brother's death, so I was really looking forward to horseback riding.
The following day, I went out to my in-law's farm (they own horses) and was finally able to mark something I'd never done off my list - ride a horse solo and make it gallop. I went out with my wife, Lauren, and my mother in law at first, learning how to steer the stubborn animal I had, and eventually had a chance to take it out on my own, steering it along a pasture, through their backyard and in-between grapevines they have on their property. I even got it going pretty fast, galloping, which jostled me like crazy up and down on the saddle as I mentally checked this year's item off of my list.
The next day was when I first noticed my testicle hurting. It went away the following day and reappeared a couple weeks later, but that jostling up and down on that horse was what first made me go, "Hmmm...that pain seems abnormal." It was that pain that subsequently lead to my testicular cancer diagnosis.
I've gone over the what-ifs since all of this occurred. What if I hadn't gone horseback riding that day? How long would it have taken for that pain to develop? How long would my TC have gone undiagnosed? How far could that cancer, which eventually progressed to my lymph nodes, have gone if left unchecked for another month? Two months? Six months?
I don't care if you're religious or not, something like that will give you pause and ponder the question of how mysterious, and awesome, life can be. For me, just thinking of that makes me shudder, as it rightly should.
Less Than Nuts: Laughing at testicular cancer.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Having cancer can cure TV movie limbo
Soon-to-be three days down, only 60 to go for my chemo treatment.
Today in the chair I brought along my father-in-law, Bruce, to accompany me for this chemo party. I can only imagine he wanted to come along because there's nothing more fun and upbeat to kick off a Wednesday than accompanying a 28-year-old to a chemo appointment.
So far, chemo hasn't been terrible, but I don't really know what to expect. The small army of nurses I've been dealing with are like presidential candidates with their candor. The first one said, "You're doing very well! The first few treatments are the worst, you should be fine!" This is precisely what I wanted to hear. The second one, the few sentences she did end up muttering to me, told me "The first week is a cake walk. You usually don't get an idea of symptoms and side effects until the end of the first week or early next week." Yikes...that's not confidence-inspiring, but I appreciate your directness in letting me know what to expect. The third one today took the middle road, saying that it varies. I feel like some sort of soon-to-be bald Goldilocks trying to read philosophical meaning into the three bears' porridge.
All in all, my side effects haven't been horrible so far. There has been slight nausea, but not anything that has had me close to being physically ill. My wife and I are taking two-mile walks together each night to gripe about our days (I currently have the distinct advantage in griping), and my hair has managed to withstand the first two days of chemo (although it's supposed to do so for 16 days before falling out...at which point I already have a new winter beanie ordered and should arrive at my house with plenty of buffer time. Of course, I'll only be wearing the beanie when my wig is dirty and I need to throw it in the washing machine).
Really, the worst side effect so far has been what chemo is doing to my taste buds. I'll preface this with a short explanation.
My wife, Lauren (I feel the need for explanation since there are a few people reading this blog that don't know me personally), and I are two of the most indecisive people I know when it comes to picking something to make for dinner or a restaurant to eat at. This has become such an issue that I have created a sort of philosophical question to try and elicit a response (it works with 5 percent success). I'll ask "If you had a box with a button on it, and you pushed that button, lifted up the box and the most appealing food in the world would be inside, what would be in it?" With chemo, if I had such a box, nothing would be inside. I wake up and force myself to eat something, and absolutely nothing sounds good. Everything tastes relatively the same (all chemo-y), I'm eating smaller portions and I'm starting to see how people base a lot of their food decisions on consistency...I've never eaten so much pudding, mashed potatoes and other soft foods in my life. Never being a consistency eater (I'm about as non-discriminatory when it comes to food consistency as a catfish), I'm actually looking forward to what this introduction into an "only-food-consistency" mindset will do to me once this chemo is all over. I assume I'll be deep-fat-frying all food from then-on-out in corn flakes just to get away from cottage cheese and whatnot, but who knows? Maybe I'll find a middle ground, like Macaroni Balls at Cheesecake Factory. That doesn't sound good to me now, but I think back fondly on how good that used to sound to me.
So, physically I'm doing good. Mentally, I think, I'm doing even better. I think these horrible kind of experiences need to happen to everyone in medium intervals to just remind us not to be so complacent with our lives. It doesn't matter how much "Carpe Diem" stuff we read or hear...chances are, three weeks after being motivated to make every moment count, you're going to be right back on that couch watching "Jersey Shore" reruns and trying to pinpoint the exact moment that each character lost their mind. With regular, jarring events, I might be able to actually live a carpe diem life and start making the most out of every day. Of course, I'd also be jittery as shit...like a fainting llama owned by by someone with frequent night terrors. There's an extreme to trying to live every day to its fullest potential...my boss would likely get tired of me coming into work barefoot and trying to fly a kite in our parking lot for several hours each day in-between climbing trees. I think going through a cancer thing like this is going to give me that perfect balance...it will make me feel grateful to return to work and be able to work a full day, and it will also motivate me to do stuff on the weekend rather than watch "Shawshank Redemption" on television for 5 hours (because TNT has 5-minute commercial breaks) even though I own the DVD and I'm just too darn lazy to find it, put it in and watch it. That's one of the upsides to cancer...curing TV limbo habits.
The other upside to cancer? It is, no joke, the ultimate excuse for everything you can imagine. I show up to work yesterday 5 hours late wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Why? Because I've got cancer, dammit, that's why...and my co-workers commend me for coming in at all. I eat a bowl of mashed potatoes and my wife praises me for my dedication like I just ran a marathon. I'm pretty sure I could get out of any speeding ticket, talk my way out of any situation or get excused from doing any sort of work just by dropping the "C-card." My nurse, no joke, told me the first day that I needed to stay out of the kitchen while my wife was cooking or after she got done cooking because the smells could make me nauseous. To me, that sounds like permission to not cook or clean for three months (until my wife reads this and makes me empty the dish washer).
It would be really easy to get all bummed out about this "cancer thing" and milk it for sympathy, but that just doesn't seem reasonable. My cure rate with chemo is 95-98%. My hair will grow back, but I've always wondered what I would look like bald (now I just need to catch a disease that forces me to grow a creepy moustache...something I think would be hysterical, but my wife absolutely vetoes). I've always wondered what going through chemo would be like, and now I'm able to get a first-hand experience. I've never been given so many baskets of candy and cookies in my life, and I'm a huge fan of sweets. I'd have to say, if you're able to look past the nausea and uncertainty and fear and everything of cancer, there's a silver lining. And it's full of great excuses and containers of pudding.
Today in the chair I brought along my father-in-law, Bruce, to accompany me for this chemo party. I can only imagine he wanted to come along because there's nothing more fun and upbeat to kick off a Wednesday than accompanying a 28-year-old to a chemo appointment.
So far, chemo hasn't been terrible, but I don't really know what to expect. The small army of nurses I've been dealing with are like presidential candidates with their candor. The first one said, "You're doing very well! The first few treatments are the worst, you should be fine!" This is precisely what I wanted to hear. The second one, the few sentences she did end up muttering to me, told me "The first week is a cake walk. You usually don't get an idea of symptoms and side effects until the end of the first week or early next week." Yikes...that's not confidence-inspiring, but I appreciate your directness in letting me know what to expect. The third one today took the middle road, saying that it varies. I feel like some sort of soon-to-be bald Goldilocks trying to read philosophical meaning into the three bears' porridge.
All in all, my side effects haven't been horrible so far. There has been slight nausea, but not anything that has had me close to being physically ill. My wife and I are taking two-mile walks together each night to gripe about our days (I currently have the distinct advantage in griping), and my hair has managed to withstand the first two days of chemo (although it's supposed to do so for 16 days before falling out...at which point I already have a new winter beanie ordered and should arrive at my house with plenty of buffer time. Of course, I'll only be wearing the beanie when my wig is dirty and I need to throw it in the washing machine).
Really, the worst side effect so far has been what chemo is doing to my taste buds. I'll preface this with a short explanation.
My wife, Lauren (I feel the need for explanation since there are a few people reading this blog that don't know me personally), and I are two of the most indecisive people I know when it comes to picking something to make for dinner or a restaurant to eat at. This has become such an issue that I have created a sort of philosophical question to try and elicit a response (it works with 5 percent success). I'll ask "If you had a box with a button on it, and you pushed that button, lifted up the box and the most appealing food in the world would be inside, what would be in it?" With chemo, if I had such a box, nothing would be inside. I wake up and force myself to eat something, and absolutely nothing sounds good. Everything tastes relatively the same (all chemo-y), I'm eating smaller portions and I'm starting to see how people base a lot of their food decisions on consistency...I've never eaten so much pudding, mashed potatoes and other soft foods in my life. Never being a consistency eater (I'm about as non-discriminatory when it comes to food consistency as a catfish), I'm actually looking forward to what this introduction into an "only-food-consistency" mindset will do to me once this chemo is all over. I assume I'll be deep-fat-frying all food from then-on-out in corn flakes just to get away from cottage cheese and whatnot, but who knows? Maybe I'll find a middle ground, like Macaroni Balls at Cheesecake Factory. That doesn't sound good to me now, but I think back fondly on how good that used to sound to me.
So, physically I'm doing good. Mentally, I think, I'm doing even better. I think these horrible kind of experiences need to happen to everyone in medium intervals to just remind us not to be so complacent with our lives. It doesn't matter how much "Carpe Diem" stuff we read or hear...chances are, three weeks after being motivated to make every moment count, you're going to be right back on that couch watching "Jersey Shore" reruns and trying to pinpoint the exact moment that each character lost their mind. With regular, jarring events, I might be able to actually live a carpe diem life and start making the most out of every day. Of course, I'd also be jittery as shit...like a fainting llama owned by by someone with frequent night terrors. There's an extreme to trying to live every day to its fullest potential...my boss would likely get tired of me coming into work barefoot and trying to fly a kite in our parking lot for several hours each day in-between climbing trees. I think going through a cancer thing like this is going to give me that perfect balance...it will make me feel grateful to return to work and be able to work a full day, and it will also motivate me to do stuff on the weekend rather than watch "Shawshank Redemption" on television for 5 hours (because TNT has 5-minute commercial breaks) even though I own the DVD and I'm just too darn lazy to find it, put it in and watch it. That's one of the upsides to cancer...curing TV limbo habits.
The other upside to cancer? It is, no joke, the ultimate excuse for everything you can imagine. I show up to work yesterday 5 hours late wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Why? Because I've got cancer, dammit, that's why...and my co-workers commend me for coming in at all. I eat a bowl of mashed potatoes and my wife praises me for my dedication like I just ran a marathon. I'm pretty sure I could get out of any speeding ticket, talk my way out of any situation or get excused from doing any sort of work just by dropping the "C-card." My nurse, no joke, told me the first day that I needed to stay out of the kitchen while my wife was cooking or after she got done cooking because the smells could make me nauseous. To me, that sounds like permission to not cook or clean for three months (until my wife reads this and makes me empty the dish washer).
It would be really easy to get all bummed out about this "cancer thing" and milk it for sympathy, but that just doesn't seem reasonable. My cure rate with chemo is 95-98%. My hair will grow back, but I've always wondered what I would look like bald (now I just need to catch a disease that forces me to grow a creepy moustache...something I think would be hysterical, but my wife absolutely vetoes). I've always wondered what going through chemo would be like, and now I'm able to get a first-hand experience. I've never been given so many baskets of candy and cookies in my life, and I'm a huge fan of sweets. I'd have to say, if you're able to look past the nausea and uncertainty and fear and everything of cancer, there's a silver lining. And it's full of great excuses and containers of pudding.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
The thrilling, fast-paced world of chemo...a play-by-play
Four hours in a freaking chemo room is long and unbelievably boring. Here's a breakdown:
9:12 a.m. - No side effects sippin' on bleo. Like a boss.
10 a.m. - I offer Lauren my chair so can she sleep. I tell her she can wear my cancer blanket, sit in my cancer chair. She declines (horrified) and instead takes some of my cancer candy. She looks more bored than I am.
10:30 a.m. - I remember http://www.nescafeweb.com/ and its collection of Old NES games and a good chunk of my morning is shot. On Tecmo Super Bowl I destroy Buffalo by 50+ points with the Giants (Lawrence Taylor is unstoppable), remember how much I hate Chip & Dale Rescue Rangers and get frustrated on Baseball Simulator 1000 after getting called out on a pickle because my runner on third won't move as the catcher runs up to me. He's just camping out on the bag there like a vapid zombie, oblivious to my hurried button-pushing. Like everything else for the next three months, I chalk it up to a side-effect of the chemo (Lessened Nintendo expertise, farting in bed, eating the last (row) of Oreos and not lowering the toilet seat after use are all side effects).
11:33 - Pop Up Video is back on VH1? This is the stuff I'm not made aware of having a normal 9-5 job. Side note: We are the only chemo room in the floor blaring Ke$ha from this pop-up video. I believe the rest of the rooms, given the average age here, are mad that it's blaring out the Glenn Miller coming from their record players they lugged in.
11:43 - With all the hubbub of fighting a disease that claimed my second-favorite testicle, I completely forgot that today is Tuesday, and new music comes out on Tuesday, which I can critique on Spotify. If I didn't have Spotify, I never would have known that Bush released another mediocre CD a few weeks ago (or that Bush has done anything since 1996).
11:47 - My nurse just emerged back in my room, this time covered in a splatter gown, gloves and goggles around her neck. If she's not spraying foam insulation in a room somewhere, I may drag my IV cart down the hall and hide out somewhere until this all blows over. It's sure dampening the chemo mood the Indigo Girls' new CD is putting me in.
11:50 - As usual, my musical maven friend Corey Munson is 100% correct - Feist's new CD is awesome. I may have to actually go spend money on this one. I could listen to this all....Jack's Mannequin has a new CD? Well nevermind, it's time to music hop.
11:52 - If I clamp off my IV tube, will the nurse come back in 25 minutes later and find me soaked in a pile of chemo?
11:53 - Nope. Machine beeps and I get reprimanded. Lesson learned.
12:10 - Holy shit. I can't feel my left testicle. NURSE, I CAN'T FEEL MY LE...wait, no, false alarm. Phantom nut.
12:15 - Even having cancer, watching Teen Mom just makes me feel better about my life. This should run non-stop in all chemo wards. "Yeah, you may have cancer, but at least you're not a 17-year-old parent that hates your significant other and will have documentation forever of a child being raised by its grandparents."
12:31 - CNN Breaking news...Chris Christie isn't running for president. I'm not sure how that's breaking news...I believe he's said that 12 times publicly now. Here's some more breaking news... pigs are made of ham. Also, I'm not sure I want a president named "Chris Christie." He sounds like he should be a DJ on a radio morning show. "Chris Christie and the Mad Max in the morning with the Zoo Crew."
12:37 - Daytime television sucks. I'm entirely convinced I could create any show on HGTV. Have somebody offer to renovate somebody else's home. Have them start this task with a shot of a petite woman swinging a sledge hammer into the wall. In the next five minutes, create a dilemma "This isn't the tile we ordered!" or "Oh no, there's mold behind this wall!" or any other problem that is fixable. Have them solve this problem through great adversity and then show several side-by-side pictures of the old and new room, with the host walking around with a shit-eating grin and his arm around the house's couple. That's it...sell the crap out of advertising to Lowes, Behr and whatever other advertisers enjoy picking off the easily persuaded.
12:45 - This chemo is making me ridiculously tired. They told me this morning that one of the drugs they were giving me was Benadryl. I laughed. "Like the over-the-counter medication I take for allergies that makes me exhausted?" The nurse nodded. "Yes, in IV form." Good...I'd much rather have it drip into my veins for the next 30 minutes over taking two pills with some water. Sigh.
1:20 - Energy back. Went to the bathroom for the fifth time today (I'm still drinking water like crazy) and while going to the bathroom came dangerously close to spraying my IV tube on the cart I had to drag in there. I'm a coordinated 28-year-old guy standing without any problems, and many of the others in this department are far, far less coordinated. How many other times must this happen? Do they wash and sterilize these? I really wish I hadn't been joking with my wife yesterday about cutting the IV and sucking it out like a straw...that kind of makes me shudder now.
1:34 - My infusion pump has a beat better than 90% of rap songs on the radio these days. Of course, now that I typed that, T-Pain will sample it and ruin it forever.
9:12 a.m. - No side effects sippin' on bleo. Like a boss.
10 a.m. - I offer Lauren my chair so can she sleep. I tell her she can wear my cancer blanket, sit in my cancer chair. She declines (horrified) and instead takes some of my cancer candy. She looks more bored than I am.
10:30 a.m. - I remember http://www.nescafeweb.com/ and its collection of Old NES games and a good chunk of my morning is shot. On Tecmo Super Bowl I destroy Buffalo by 50+ points with the Giants (Lawrence Taylor is unstoppable), remember how much I hate Chip & Dale Rescue Rangers and get frustrated on Baseball Simulator 1000 after getting called out on a pickle because my runner on third won't move as the catcher runs up to me. He's just camping out on the bag there like a vapid zombie, oblivious to my hurried button-pushing. Like everything else for the next three months, I chalk it up to a side-effect of the chemo (Lessened Nintendo expertise, farting in bed, eating the last (row) of Oreos and not lowering the toilet seat after use are all side effects).
11:33 - Pop Up Video is back on VH1? This is the stuff I'm not made aware of having a normal 9-5 job. Side note: We are the only chemo room in the floor blaring Ke$ha from this pop-up video. I believe the rest of the rooms, given the average age here, are mad that it's blaring out the Glenn Miller coming from their record players they lugged in.
11:43 - With all the hubbub of fighting a disease that claimed my second-favorite testicle, I completely forgot that today is Tuesday, and new music comes out on Tuesday, which I can critique on Spotify. If I didn't have Spotify, I never would have known that Bush released another mediocre CD a few weeks ago (or that Bush has done anything since 1996).
11:47 - My nurse just emerged back in my room, this time covered in a splatter gown, gloves and goggles around her neck. If she's not spraying foam insulation in a room somewhere, I may drag my IV cart down the hall and hide out somewhere until this all blows over. It's sure dampening the chemo mood the Indigo Girls' new CD is putting me in.
11:50 - As usual, my musical maven friend Corey Munson is 100% correct - Feist's new CD is awesome. I may have to actually go spend money on this one. I could listen to this all....Jack's Mannequin has a new CD? Well nevermind, it's time to music hop.
11:52 - If I clamp off my IV tube, will the nurse come back in 25 minutes later and find me soaked in a pile of chemo?
11:53 - Nope. Machine beeps and I get reprimanded. Lesson learned.
12:10 - Holy shit. I can't feel my left testicle. NURSE, I CAN'T FEEL MY LE...wait, no, false alarm. Phantom nut.
12:15 - Even having cancer, watching Teen Mom just makes me feel better about my life. This should run non-stop in all chemo wards. "Yeah, you may have cancer, but at least you're not a 17-year-old parent that hates your significant other and will have documentation forever of a child being raised by its grandparents."
12:31 - CNN Breaking news...Chris Christie isn't running for president. I'm not sure how that's breaking news...I believe he's said that 12 times publicly now. Here's some more breaking news... pigs are made of ham. Also, I'm not sure I want a president named "Chris Christie." He sounds like he should be a DJ on a radio morning show. "Chris Christie and the Mad Max in the morning with the Zoo Crew."
12:37 - Daytime television sucks. I'm entirely convinced I could create any show on HGTV. Have somebody offer to renovate somebody else's home. Have them start this task with a shot of a petite woman swinging a sledge hammer into the wall. In the next five minutes, create a dilemma "This isn't the tile we ordered!" or "Oh no, there's mold behind this wall!" or any other problem that is fixable. Have them solve this problem through great adversity and then show several side-by-side pictures of the old and new room, with the host walking around with a shit-eating grin and his arm around the house's couple. That's it...sell the crap out of advertising to Lowes, Behr and whatever other advertisers enjoy picking off the easily persuaded.
12:45 - This chemo is making me ridiculously tired. They told me this morning that one of the drugs they were giving me was Benadryl. I laughed. "Like the over-the-counter medication I take for allergies that makes me exhausted?" The nurse nodded. "Yes, in IV form." Good...I'd much rather have it drip into my veins for the next 30 minutes over taking two pills with some water. Sigh.
1:20 - Energy back. Went to the bathroom for the fifth time today (I'm still drinking water like crazy) and while going to the bathroom came dangerously close to spraying my IV tube on the cart I had to drag in there. I'm a coordinated 28-year-old guy standing without any problems, and many of the others in this department are far, far less coordinated. How many other times must this happen? Do they wash and sterilize these? I really wish I hadn't been joking with my wife yesterday about cutting the IV and sucking it out like a straw...that kind of makes me shudder now.
1:34 - My infusion pump has a beat better than 90% of rap songs on the radio these days. Of course, now that I typed that, T-Pain will sample it and ruin it forever.
If I Google "BEP," I want chemo treatment info, not a song about lady lumps
I wasn't terribly happy when I tried to google BEP for additional info on my chemo cocktail (bleomycin, etoposide, platinum) and the first search result is Black Eyed Peas. I pity the poor soul that is legimiately worried about chemotherapy treatmetn and with tears in their eyes and a great deal of fear googles BEP and is inundated with Mr. Fergie and his rag tag group of Matrix characters putting together garbage music. (Fergie's a woman? No joke? She looks like she might smell like my shoes after running 5 miles without socks.)
I'm back in the chair again today, doing my Bleomycin...bright and early at 8 a.m. After writing my post yesterday, I went back to work and finally experienced my first signs of nausea around 4 p.m. yesterday (I've started keeping a notebook full of side effects, keeping my fingers crossed for "Moon Face" or "Sausage toes.") Fortunately, I've come to the realization that I've learned more in college than I thought I had, and it transfers directly to my chemo treatment.
Have you ever had one of those nights where you just rage, say yes to every shot that's bought for you and end up falling asleep somewhere strange? Uh, yeah, me neither, but just for hypothetical sake, let's say I wake up in a canoe, shake the glitter out of my hair, wash the Sharpy moustache off my face and start going about my day. That feeling you have, where you constantly re-evaluate your body and say, "Do I feel like I'm going to throw up? Maybe I should just throw up. Is this going to go away? Am I going to throw up this morning?"...that's exactly what chemo is like. It's that feeling, but so far for me, it's been so moderate that I just take one of my anti-nausea pills and it's gone in about half an hour. If I hadn't spent time drinking in college and battling through the next morning, I wouldn't know where my limit was and my nausea chart would be in complete chaos. So, in a weird way, I owe some apologies to college friends that I yelled at the day after, accusing them of forcing me to drink too much.
I've got a new room today, this one facing a lovely brick wall on the other side of the hospital, where I'm sure other patients are excited to state at my window and brick wall. It comes complete with another non-dead plant (which gives me comfort) and all the coffee I can drink.
I also have a new nurse today, who isn't nearly as talkative as the one yesterday was. I tried to engage her in some light conversation, but she seems distracted (a frightening trait to have your nurse possess in my position). She came in and asked if I still had my port in. Having just had it put in last Thursday, I assured her that, yes, I had not dug it out of my chest prison-style. She seemed somewhat annoyed when she went to hook up my bag and noticed just a bump on my bruised skin. Apparently, she was referring to the needle with tube hanging off of it that had been stuck in me yesterday. I wasn't aware that some people keep that thing dangling out their chest when they leave each day, just begging to drip blood all over their bed when they roll over weird in their sleep. No thanks.
I had a new needle popped in and started sippin' on bleo.
So far, the chemo hasn't seemed to slow me down much. I got about as much work done yesterday as I normally do (although much of it was from the hospital), and I went to my EMT class last night and lasted OK. I found it was difficult to concentrate, mostly because I've started to pay almost constant attention to my body, surveying it for changing signs that I'm about to get sick. So far, the light onset of nausea symptoms I've experienced have been thoroughly slapped down with my prescription anti-nausea pills (where I imagine a "Ric Flair WHOOOO" being shouted as my body smacks down the urge to vomit), due in part to this constant monitoring. I'm worried about getting caught up in a lecture on stomach trauma and suddenly realize that I'm going to barf all over the hospital lecture hall. That doesn't inspire confidence in putting me in an ambulance for clinicals, so I'm trying to avoid that.
Other than that, chemo's going pretyy good so far. I'm still the youngest person in the chemo ward (thus the reason why nobody has taken me up on my offer for "flip cup chemo" or a race down the hallway dragging our IVs) and I'm kind of digging all this free time I can use to play video games and update blogs on my sperm and white blood cell count. Of course, it's kind of awkward when my mom tells me she printed out my blog post about me talking about my sperm (http://lessthannuts.blogspot.com/2011/09/testicular-cancer-excuse-for-people-to.html ) and shared it with people in her office. Having a mother proud of a son talking about sperm is, I imagine, is like having a kid that smears crap on the walls with a mother bragging about how much of an artist he is. It's nice setting the parental expectations bar low.
I'm back in the chair again today, doing my Bleomycin...bright and early at 8 a.m. After writing my post yesterday, I went back to work and finally experienced my first signs of nausea around 4 p.m. yesterday (I've started keeping a notebook full of side effects, keeping my fingers crossed for "Moon Face" or "Sausage toes.") Fortunately, I've come to the realization that I've learned more in college than I thought I had, and it transfers directly to my chemo treatment.
Have you ever had one of those nights where you just rage, say yes to every shot that's bought for you and end up falling asleep somewhere strange? Uh, yeah, me neither, but just for hypothetical sake, let's say I wake up in a canoe, shake the glitter out of my hair, wash the Sharpy moustache off my face and start going about my day. That feeling you have, where you constantly re-evaluate your body and say, "Do I feel like I'm going to throw up? Maybe I should just throw up. Is this going to go away? Am I going to throw up this morning?"...that's exactly what chemo is like. It's that feeling, but so far for me, it's been so moderate that I just take one of my anti-nausea pills and it's gone in about half an hour. If I hadn't spent time drinking in college and battling through the next morning, I wouldn't know where my limit was and my nausea chart would be in complete chaos. So, in a weird way, I owe some apologies to college friends that I yelled at the day after, accusing them of forcing me to drink too much.
I've got a new room today, this one facing a lovely brick wall on the other side of the hospital, where I'm sure other patients are excited to state at my window and brick wall. It comes complete with another non-dead plant (which gives me comfort) and all the coffee I can drink.
I also have a new nurse today, who isn't nearly as talkative as the one yesterday was. I tried to engage her in some light conversation, but she seems distracted (a frightening trait to have your nurse possess in my position). She came in and asked if I still had my port in. Having just had it put in last Thursday, I assured her that, yes, I had not dug it out of my chest prison-style. She seemed somewhat annoyed when she went to hook up my bag and noticed just a bump on my bruised skin. Apparently, she was referring to the needle with tube hanging off of it that had been stuck in me yesterday. I wasn't aware that some people keep that thing dangling out their chest when they leave each day, just begging to drip blood all over their bed when they roll over weird in their sleep. No thanks.
I had a new needle popped in and started sippin' on bleo.
So far, the chemo hasn't seemed to slow me down much. I got about as much work done yesterday as I normally do (although much of it was from the hospital), and I went to my EMT class last night and lasted OK. I found it was difficult to concentrate, mostly because I've started to pay almost constant attention to my body, surveying it for changing signs that I'm about to get sick. So far, the light onset of nausea symptoms I've experienced have been thoroughly slapped down with my prescription anti-nausea pills (where I imagine a "Ric Flair WHOOOO" being shouted as my body smacks down the urge to vomit), due in part to this constant monitoring. I'm worried about getting caught up in a lecture on stomach trauma and suddenly realize that I'm going to barf all over the hospital lecture hall. That doesn't inspire confidence in putting me in an ambulance for clinicals, so I'm trying to avoid that.
Other than that, chemo's going pretyy good so far. I'm still the youngest person in the chemo ward (thus the reason why nobody has taken me up on my offer for "flip cup chemo" or a race down the hallway dragging our IVs) and I'm kind of digging all this free time I can use to play video games and update blogs on my sperm and white blood cell count. Of course, it's kind of awkward when my mom tells me she printed out my blog post about me talking about my sperm (http://lessthannuts.blogspot.com/2011/09/testicular-cancer-excuse-for-people-to.html ) and shared it with people in her office. Having a mother proud of a son talking about sperm is, I imagine, is like having a kid that smears crap on the walls with a mother bragging about how much of an artist he is. It's nice setting the parental expectations bar low.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Early bird chemo...I feel like I should be driving a Buick
I'm sitting here and they just started my Cisplatin, so I'm officially on chemo. Because I'm sure everyone wants to live vicariously through someone who has cancer, I'll fill everybody in on the process.
I arrived at 8 a.m. for the early bird chemo (I assume it's cheaper) with my laptop, several books and water bottles. It's like I'm going to be lounging at a very sick beach. After waiting in the waiting room, I was brought into a corner office (no big deal) by one of the nurses. She assured me this was the best room they had, with a large wall of windows overlooking a beautiful parking lot that's currently being torn up by construction. I've been told that if I stare long enough, I might be able to see a dog sniffing around one of the trash cans out there (nature!). Also, the nurses are able to accurately gauge the temperature outside based on the amount of clothing the construction workers shed throughout the day, so that's kind of interesting.
The morning began with my nurse coming after me with a needle...a much larger one than I anticipated, but since they just put in my port last Thursday, the swelling hadn't quite gone down (me poking it all weekend because I thought it looked cool apparently didn't help) so they needed this massive needle. I mocked fear, and the nurse actually seemed concerned that I was going to freak out. She poked the needle in me quickly with a look of fear on her face, and I laughed. She seemed half-relieved and half-scared that I'm a wacko.
Apparently chemo doesn't come in flavors. I requested "Wild Cherry," but found out the only flavor they have is clear. My nurse also requested that I not "taste" it and urged me not to cut the IV open and drink it out of the tube like a straw. I've found that oncology departments are somewhat strict with their rules.
After the anti-nausea IV, they put me on a saline solution for two freaking hours to hydrate me. During this time, I had to get up to pee something like 5 times, each time dragging my IV into the bathroom like some sort of metal drinking partner.
In-between, I tried to get some work done and talked with my wife, who made one of the most intelligent and humorous observations I've heard in some time. At one point, she was staring at a green potted plant hanging from the ceiling, and said to me, relieved, "Well, that's a very healthy plant. That's a really good sign." I accused her of really struggling for conversation topics this morning, and she denied the accusation, saying, "That shows the type of people they are. What would you think if you came into the chemo department and there were a bunch of dead plants." This made me laugh...a lot...but after I got done it made me think. The last thing you'd want to see anywhere, at any sort of business, would be a bunch of dead plants hanging in jars from the ceiling. I don't care what the job is...if you've got dead plants hanging around, you likely lack a certain level of dedication. I'm glad my oncology nurses have the level of dedication to water their foliage...hopefully they'll take as good of care of me as a leafy thing hanging in front of the window. Now I'm kind of hoping it isn't plastic and this metaphor hasn't gone to shit...you know what, I'm not going to check. It makes me feel better.
I'm 10 minutes in with the Cisplatin right now (Oh yeah, I'm a fast typer) and so far, no side effects. The nurse gave me several business cards with the side effects listed on them and the dates I began each medication on them, however I plan on dropping these into fish bowls for the chance to win a free lunch buffet (drinks not included), so fortunately I've got them memorized. I'm doing BEP - Bleomycin, Etoposide (VP-16) and Cisplatin (Yeah, I don't know where they got the "P" from on that either). They also gave me Dexamethasone (Decadron), which as one of its side effects includes "Moone Face." That might be the greatest side effect I've ever heard of, and sounds like some doctor with a sense of humor made it up and threw it on the card to see if his peers and nurses would make up an explanation for it on the spot. It makes me want to start warning other cancer patients of the side effect "Pickle neck."
So that's where I'm at...apparently the two hours they quoted me last week was way off, and I've got about 4-5 hours each day this week in the chair with a tube leading into my chest. I'm kind of digging this...with my job and part-time jobs and stuff, this is actually giving me a chance to relax and reflect on things.
I'll keep you all updated. If I find a different plant in this room tomorrow, I'm going to flip shit.
P.S. I'm going to try and get some "Flip Cup Chemo" going tomorrow in one of the public rooms. When the IV stops flowing and starts beeping, you try to flip that cup onto its top. Thoughts?
I arrived at 8 a.m. for the early bird chemo (I assume it's cheaper) with my laptop, several books and water bottles. It's like I'm going to be lounging at a very sick beach. After waiting in the waiting room, I was brought into a corner office (no big deal) by one of the nurses. She assured me this was the best room they had, with a large wall of windows overlooking a beautiful parking lot that's currently being torn up by construction. I've been told that if I stare long enough, I might be able to see a dog sniffing around one of the trash cans out there (nature!). Also, the nurses are able to accurately gauge the temperature outside based on the amount of clothing the construction workers shed throughout the day, so that's kind of interesting.
The morning began with my nurse coming after me with a needle...a much larger one than I anticipated, but since they just put in my port last Thursday, the swelling hadn't quite gone down (me poking it all weekend because I thought it looked cool apparently didn't help) so they needed this massive needle. I mocked fear, and the nurse actually seemed concerned that I was going to freak out. She poked the needle in me quickly with a look of fear on her face, and I laughed. She seemed half-relieved and half-scared that I'm a wacko.
Apparently chemo doesn't come in flavors. I requested "Wild Cherry," but found out the only flavor they have is clear. My nurse also requested that I not "taste" it and urged me not to cut the IV open and drink it out of the tube like a straw. I've found that oncology departments are somewhat strict with their rules.
After the anti-nausea IV, they put me on a saline solution for two freaking hours to hydrate me. During this time, I had to get up to pee something like 5 times, each time dragging my IV into the bathroom like some sort of metal drinking partner.
In-between, I tried to get some work done and talked with my wife, who made one of the most intelligent and humorous observations I've heard in some time. At one point, she was staring at a green potted plant hanging from the ceiling, and said to me, relieved, "Well, that's a very healthy plant. That's a really good sign." I accused her of really struggling for conversation topics this morning, and she denied the accusation, saying, "That shows the type of people they are. What would you think if you came into the chemo department and there were a bunch of dead plants." This made me laugh...a lot...but after I got done it made me think. The last thing you'd want to see anywhere, at any sort of business, would be a bunch of dead plants hanging in jars from the ceiling. I don't care what the job is...if you've got dead plants hanging around, you likely lack a certain level of dedication. I'm glad my oncology nurses have the level of dedication to water their foliage...hopefully they'll take as good of care of me as a leafy thing hanging in front of the window. Now I'm kind of hoping it isn't plastic and this metaphor hasn't gone to shit...you know what, I'm not going to check. It makes me feel better.
I'm 10 minutes in with the Cisplatin right now (Oh yeah, I'm a fast typer) and so far, no side effects. The nurse gave me several business cards with the side effects listed on them and the dates I began each medication on them, however I plan on dropping these into fish bowls for the chance to win a free lunch buffet (drinks not included), so fortunately I've got them memorized. I'm doing BEP - Bleomycin, Etoposide (VP-16) and Cisplatin (Yeah, I don't know where they got the "P" from on that either). They also gave me Dexamethasone (Decadron), which as one of its side effects includes "Moone Face." That might be the greatest side effect I've ever heard of, and sounds like some doctor with a sense of humor made it up and threw it on the card to see if his peers and nurses would make up an explanation for it on the spot. It makes me want to start warning other cancer patients of the side effect "Pickle neck."
So that's where I'm at...apparently the two hours they quoted me last week was way off, and I've got about 4-5 hours each day this week in the chair with a tube leading into my chest. I'm kind of digging this...with my job and part-time jobs and stuff, this is actually giving me a chance to relax and reflect on things.
I'll keep you all updated. If I find a different plant in this room tomorrow, I'm going to flip shit.
P.S. I'm going to try and get some "Flip Cup Chemo" going tomorrow in one of the public rooms. When the IV stops flowing and starts beeping, you try to flip that cup onto its top. Thoughts?
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Are you ready for some chemo?
Chemo treatments start tomorrow...and thanks to fellow newspaper editor and EMT Mindy, I'm ready for it. Thanks for the wig.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
A chemo port sounds luxurious. Why can't you just use an ice pick and a rusty garden hose?
Guess who's got a port now? I'll give you a hint...he's got two thumbs, one ball and cancer.
Had a busy day at hospitals today. I started out at Mary Greeley, getting baselines for hearing and pulmonary function before heading back to the office for a solid 45 minutes of work before my surgery to have my port put in. You know what makes surgery even more fun? Having your insurance company not give you a clear A-OK on the procedure before starting...that's just a running kick to the nut. (Half-metaphorically)
I got a call last night from a nurse in my surgeon's office telling me she was fighting with my insurance company because they still hadn't given pre-approval for my port to be "installed." (Makes me sound like a robot). She said she'd get it taken care of this morning, and 1 hour before I had to show up for surgery she called back letting me know they had given her an answer of "maybe," but nothing definitive. "So, it's up to you at this point," she said. Great. How expensive is this? "Very. The device they're putting in you is two grand by itself, not to mention surgery and anesthesia."
A quick call to my HR head went unanswered...she was in a meeting. Another quick call to her secretary informing her, politely, to find her got her on the phone.
"I have cancer and start chemo Monday, for which I need a port. Our insurance company apparently believes this port is a luxury. Should I just skip the chemo and try to ride this out with some amoxicillin or something?" Ten minutes and a phone call to the national HR and I'm given the green light. "You do what you need to do to get better, don't worry about it," she said. Our HR head is actually pretty awesome.
I head into surgery, where I'm briefed by the nurses. I should use this opportunity to say how cool the nurses at BCH are (Boone County Hospital, for all you laypeople). Yesterday, one of the nurses called to confirm and mentioned, "I'm a cancer survivor myself. You actually interviewed me and wrote an article about me last year for Relay for Life. Maybe I should interview you tomorrow." Was that a cancer burn? I believe so.
They asked me to wear a button down shirt with no shirt on under it so the surgeon could get to my chest with ease. I found out quickly that they must have done this to mess with me, because as soon as I got there they made me get in one of those ridiculous gowns. I'm not sure why I thought it would be any other way...you don't often see television shows about surgery where the patient is on a table with a button-down shirt spread open like Scott Stapp.
More paperwork, questions about allergies, and an IV is started on me. I show her my veins, figuring she'll be impressed with how bulgy and visible they are through my pale skin. She is impressed. Win.
Lauren's hanging out with me in the room when my surgeon shows up, rocking jeans and a polo. He's visibly angry and starts going off on a tangent about how much my insurance company sucks and how I deserve so much better than that and compares the entire experience to beating a dog. That's no joke...I laugh genuinely, but I'm scared. I think about every time I've tried to assemble something when I'm pissed off. I'm not sure I want a pissed off surgeon's hands inside me trying to get a plastic tube into my vein. If it's anything like when I tried to put together my barbecue grill, he'll get to the end, notice an extra piece lying on the table and say, "To hell with it, it should still work." (Although, to be fair, my grill still works marvelously)
My surgeon calms down and begins joking with my wife and I like he did a couple days earlier in our meeting. He's hilarious and just a genuinely nice guy. He leaves, and returns five minutes later. I was at the hospital two days earlier taking photos and writing an article on a radiology doc that shaved his moustache for charity. One of the surgery nurses remembered which shoulder I had my camera bag on and suggested I get my port put in the other side of my chest. This is why small towns, and the hospitals they have, are awesome.
The nurse comes in and grabs my IV so I can shuffle past the entire nursing staff wearing a stupid gown and socks. This is exactly what a dog must feel like being taken on a walk.
I get to the surgery room and, like my orchiectomy (read: half-neutering), it's packed. I'm put on a table, given the good anesthesia, and just like last time it's like all of a sudden I'm in recovery.
When I had surgery to remove my cancer-infested ball, they gave me pudding. Now, getting a port put in me, they brought me pork chops and mashed potatoes. This is the greatest thing ever, and I tell them that. There must be a pattern here...lose a ball, get pudding. Get a port, get pork chops. I assume if I'm ever castrated I'll be given a "Fun Size" Hershey's bar, and if I'm ever given a prosthetic hip I'll get filet mignon.
So now I'm the $2,000 man with a port leading directly to my vein, sitting conveniently under my clavicle just under the skin like a weird lump. Man...I've got one nut, a lump under the skin on my chest and I'll be bald in two weeks from chemo. It's a good thing I locked down my wife when I did.
Tomorrow I've got one last meeting with my spermatologist, a meeting with my oncologist to finalize everything, and the chemo starts Monday. Five days of poisoning myself, throwing up and sleeping 14 hours a day...it's going to be just like college, only with less sleep.
Had a busy day at hospitals today. I started out at Mary Greeley, getting baselines for hearing and pulmonary function before heading back to the office for a solid 45 minutes of work before my surgery to have my port put in. You know what makes surgery even more fun? Having your insurance company not give you a clear A-OK on the procedure before starting...that's just a running kick to the nut. (Half-metaphorically)
I got a call last night from a nurse in my surgeon's office telling me she was fighting with my insurance company because they still hadn't given pre-approval for my port to be "installed." (Makes me sound like a robot). She said she'd get it taken care of this morning, and 1 hour before I had to show up for surgery she called back letting me know they had given her an answer of "maybe," but nothing definitive. "So, it's up to you at this point," she said. Great. How expensive is this? "Very. The device they're putting in you is two grand by itself, not to mention surgery and anesthesia."
A quick call to my HR head went unanswered...she was in a meeting. Another quick call to her secretary informing her, politely, to find her got her on the phone.
"I have cancer and start chemo Monday, for which I need a port. Our insurance company apparently believes this port is a luxury. Should I just skip the chemo and try to ride this out with some amoxicillin or something?" Ten minutes and a phone call to the national HR and I'm given the green light. "You do what you need to do to get better, don't worry about it," she said. Our HR head is actually pretty awesome.
I head into surgery, where I'm briefed by the nurses. I should use this opportunity to say how cool the nurses at BCH are (Boone County Hospital, for all you laypeople). Yesterday, one of the nurses called to confirm and mentioned, "I'm a cancer survivor myself. You actually interviewed me and wrote an article about me last year for Relay for Life. Maybe I should interview you tomorrow." Was that a cancer burn? I believe so.
They asked me to wear a button down shirt with no shirt on under it so the surgeon could get to my chest with ease. I found out quickly that they must have done this to mess with me, because as soon as I got there they made me get in one of those ridiculous gowns. I'm not sure why I thought it would be any other way...you don't often see television shows about surgery where the patient is on a table with a button-down shirt spread open like Scott Stapp.
More paperwork, questions about allergies, and an IV is started on me. I show her my veins, figuring she'll be impressed with how bulgy and visible they are through my pale skin. She is impressed. Win.
Lauren's hanging out with me in the room when my surgeon shows up, rocking jeans and a polo. He's visibly angry and starts going off on a tangent about how much my insurance company sucks and how I deserve so much better than that and compares the entire experience to beating a dog. That's no joke...I laugh genuinely, but I'm scared. I think about every time I've tried to assemble something when I'm pissed off. I'm not sure I want a pissed off surgeon's hands inside me trying to get a plastic tube into my vein. If it's anything like when I tried to put together my barbecue grill, he'll get to the end, notice an extra piece lying on the table and say, "To hell with it, it should still work." (Although, to be fair, my grill still works marvelously)
My surgeon calms down and begins joking with my wife and I like he did a couple days earlier in our meeting. He's hilarious and just a genuinely nice guy. He leaves, and returns five minutes later. I was at the hospital two days earlier taking photos and writing an article on a radiology doc that shaved his moustache for charity. One of the surgery nurses remembered which shoulder I had my camera bag on and suggested I get my port put in the other side of my chest. This is why small towns, and the hospitals they have, are awesome.
The nurse comes in and grabs my IV so I can shuffle past the entire nursing staff wearing a stupid gown and socks. This is exactly what a dog must feel like being taken on a walk.
I get to the surgery room and, like my orchiectomy (read: half-neutering), it's packed. I'm put on a table, given the good anesthesia, and just like last time it's like all of a sudden I'm in recovery.
When I had surgery to remove my cancer-infested ball, they gave me pudding. Now, getting a port put in me, they brought me pork chops and mashed potatoes. This is the greatest thing ever, and I tell them that. There must be a pattern here...lose a ball, get pudding. Get a port, get pork chops. I assume if I'm ever castrated I'll be given a "Fun Size" Hershey's bar, and if I'm ever given a prosthetic hip I'll get filet mignon.
So now I'm the $2,000 man with a port leading directly to my vein, sitting conveniently under my clavicle just under the skin like a weird lump. Man...I've got one nut, a lump under the skin on my chest and I'll be bald in two weeks from chemo. It's a good thing I locked down my wife when I did.
Tomorrow I've got one last meeting with my spermatologist, a meeting with my oncologist to finalize everything, and the chemo starts Monday. Five days of poisoning myself, throwing up and sleeping 14 hours a day...it's going to be just like college, only with less sleep.
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