Part 5

Part 5 The Chemo Room


I awake to a cold, beautiful morning. However, I am restricted from having my coffee (or even a glass of water, anything) prior to surgery to have my port-o-cath put in. Becah and I arrive at the Spring Surgery Center, where we are greeted with a smile and an outstretched hand waiting for my credit card and insurance card. The television in the waiting room informs me that plank exercises are better than crunches and that hand weights burn as many calories as a jogging. Soon I am escorted into the surgery area and am poked with a needle for the first of what will be countless IVs. The cool feeling running through my veins is, according to the nurse, a sign that all is well. I hate needles, especially when stuck in me, and I turn my head away each time (I can’t even watch someone getting a shot on a TV show). Dr. Br- comes in and discusses the procedure of placing a port below my shoulder, assuring me that there is only a one in one hundred chance of my lung collapsing in the process. Fortunately, the odds stay in my favor.

Riding over to the center where I would receive my chemotherapy, I feel the uneasiness of jumping right into this whole thing. I bring a smoothie to drink and take a seat by a window, where the sun streams through and lightens my mood a bit. I feel a little better, either due to there being fewer people in the room that day or simply from my being more familiar with the room. Then the big dilemma. What TV channel to watch? I can leave it on CNN, for a barrage of bad news. Or a talk show reviewing a book that proposes that lightly touching a person’s upper arm leads to a 30% increase in likelihood that the person will assist you on a project. Talk shows get so quickly boring, though. My other choice seemed to be HGTV, which at least is more upbeat than the news. I can lose myself in the trivial woes of the rich (whether to leave one’s Sanibel home for a residence in Cabo). If only I could have my own private room with a remote to change channels, volume, or just turn it off and read. Ah, “Dance with Juliette” on the program “Cardio Ballroom”, now that sounds exciting!

I’ve been told about a phenomenon called “chemo brain” where persons get increasingly forgetful during therapy. Now that’s what I need, an excuse!

A 19-year old young lady enters the room for treatment, greeted with “you’re too young to be here” from a nurse, a harsh reminder that this brutal disease will go after anyone, not just the older, more vulnerable crowd. I am determined though to stay positive and fortify my own experience with positive thoughts, prayers, and deep breaths. I also find that the enthusiasm of minister/author Joel Osteen and the calmly powerful wisdom and determination of Vietnamese Buddhist monk/activist/author Thich Nhat Hanh make a powerful combination. I also discover after sipping on my smoothie for one hour that I am getting a lot of mileage off that meal.

My moods, however, are shifting. I fall asleep and awake feeling somewhat grouchy and sad, and cold, but later after drifting off look out at the sunshine and feel more upbeat. I feel a soreness in my stomach from the newly inserted gastro-intestinal tube (don’t cough!) that will become both my friend and tormentor.

I begin to tune in more to the sounds in my environment. One patient complains about the rising cost of Luby’s Luann platter after the restaurant chain was bought by the Pappas chain. I hear people on TV remarking about the importance of effectively color splashing their walls. Valerie Bertonelli talks during a commercial about losing 20 pounds on her Jenny Craig diet. Why am I not concerned about these things now?

My wife attempts to fatten me by serving pasta, pizza, salad, and ice cream and cake for dessert at night. She probably does not want to look at me 10 to 20 pounds thinner (I would be a walking scarecrow).

The next morning during my chemo treatment Becah’s cell phone is overflowing with prayers and well wishes in what amounts to a rallying of a religious army intent on demolishing their enemy. The intensity of support is almost palpable, and I truly feel stronger with every soldier that enlists.

I find myself writing a journal, attempting to stay more focused on something other than just wallowing in my plight when not indulging in post-anesthesia sleep. Amazingly, time rushes by.

I should note that I am not enduring all this alone. I have my “luv ya bear” (my teddy bear dressed in Houston Texans jersey) at my side. I squeeze the feet occasionally, hearing “I love you” messages from each of my family members. Initially feeling the need to preserve my macho (it is a teddy bear, for crying out loud, though he does wear a football jersey) I explain the bear’s purpose to the staff, then decide that no explanation is necessary.