It Might Get Messy

Well. It’s been an all-singing, all-dancing, three-ring circus of nonstop fun here in Cancer Land (trademark, copyright) this week. If you’ll recall about a year ago, the radiation treatments had once again kicked my ass and had me in the hospital for several days of recovery. This time I’m on a short rotation—just 5 days of radiation, and a few minutes of high-dose treatment per. So, even though I’ve been mildly radiation sick, it hasn’t been too bad.

Fast forward to Tuesday last. As we’re walking in for the treatment, I suddenly get severely dizzy. Lower myself to the floor. Cathy races to the desk, who calls the Rapid Response Team. Who, to their credit, show up with a dozen elite EMT types with full gear in about 3 minutes. By which time I have vomited all over the hallway and am in very bad shape. They whisk me to ER, which whisks me back to the treatment floor I just left on Saturday. Where, today, the following Saturday, I remain. I will be getting out of here tomorrow. But it’s been both an uncomfortable and entertaining week.

First, a sequence of my “deep” doctors—surgeon, cancer specialists, radiation specialists, lung specialists, etc. come by. They (sensibly) aren’t too worried about the minor contretemps of a hospital stay for barfing in the hallway. They continue planning my treatment, which next week moves from radiation to chemotherapy. In this case, the chemo drugs are new—I haven’t been exposed to them before. Hope being, of course, that neither have my malignancies, and the new drugs will kick serious cancer ass. Given how aggressive this cancer is, I have my doubts. But anything is worth a try.

Now, they also manage to complete the diagnostics on my overall condition. This is not pretty. Turns out my posting last week was way over-optimistic. The 4 liters of fluid they drained from my lungs went to the lab for analysis. What came back is bone-chilling. The fluid is filled with malignant squamous cells from the mucous membranes of my lungs. In other words, the cancer is NOT confined to the pleura of my chest cavity. The cancer is rampant in my lungs. 

I assumed on hearing this that it was a rapid death sentence. Which it could be. But again, the senior docs aren’t overly perturbed. They haven’t changed their estimated time-to-death. Dr. H gives me 3 to 24 months. Which is in the ballpark of Dr. S’s 6 to 12 or 13 months. There is a lot riding on the chemotherapy. If it is successful, my time is longer. If it’s a bust, so am I. 

Meanwhile, here I am in a hospital bed with a huge sequence of doctors and doctors-in-training coming by multiple times per day to all ask identical questions, most of which they ask every visit—same day be damned. Note that I am hooked up full time to a very uncomfortable monitoring device that reads to a central computer on the therapy floor. This gives constant blood oxygen, EKG, and other information. They still send in technicians every couple of hours to take an EKG (separate hook-ups), read my blood oxygen (separate hook-up), take my blood pressure (separate…), etc. I don’t know where these data go. I suspect nowhere. 

As I still have two radiation treatments, I’m pretty nauseated. Can’t eat. This frustrates the crap out of the nurses and resident physicians (generally responsible for the floor, not specifically for me). They really, really want me to eat. I explain that the radiation sickness has to go away first. They cluck sympathetically. And try to get me to eat. 

The night technician reminds me of my Mom in the 1950s—totally wired on caffeine and nicotine. She talks a mile-a-minute. Wants something to make crab cakes “fancy” and a recipe for pineapple cole slaw. I make up a dill and yogurt topping for the crab, and bastardize an internet recipe for the slaw. She goes home happy.

Today, for the first time (last radiation was on…Thursday afternoon), I am NOT radiation sick. I eat a couple cans of U.N. Emergency Rations. Naturally, I fill up quickly. But at least I’m frickin’ eating, you know?

I get a new nurse for the day shift today. This one is incredibly detail-oriented and thorough. She carefully stacks all my unused cans of food neatly in a corner. Straightens my night table. Fills all my water bottles. When she sees me start to eat a can of food, she asks me to wait. Says she “just wants to check”. So she hooks a 60 cc syringe up to my feeding tube AND WITHDRAWS ALL MY GUT CONTENTS AND DUMPS IT INTO A BEAKER. I just look at her, and tell her nobody’s done that to me in more than 4 years of cancer struggles. She says she likes to do it “just to be sure” (sure of what, I’m not…well…sure…). Then she re-pumps the goop back into my gut and gives me permission to eat! Which I do. But this may have to go down as the weirdest-ass meal I’ve ever had. And believe me, my friends, I have had some weird-ass meals in my time!

Anyway. I will start chemo this week, on believe, maybe on Wednesday. I’ll give you whatever feedback I have next entry. I’m also going full-time on oxygen. The deterioration in my lungs is now impacting my respiration. I need oxygen to keep from becoming anoxic and, well, dead. 

Meanwhile, everybody, remember I love you all, and I’m living through you. Live ‘em while you got ‘em, my friends. As you know from my example, they ain’t forever. But they’re sweet as hell while we have them!!!