It Might Get Messy

Commander Cody got lost in the ozone…repeatedly. Eric Clapton could hammer the shit out of a Stratocaster, but never could figure out a mature and satisfactory approach to sexual relationships. Kurt Cobain was a lost-cause genius from the drop of the flags, as much as Einstein was an eternal genius who will be with us until we are no longer us. And me? I spend a lot of time in the hospital for various reasons ranging from the mundane to the truly quirky.

This week I’m here for several reasons. My breathing declined rapidly earlier, as fluid built up in the chest cavity around the lungs. For immediate relief, the fluid needed to be drained (simple process), but the source of the fluid, increased cancer growth in the lungs, had to be dealt with. Simultaneously, the feeding tube apparatus in my gut finally gave up its functional ghost and had to be removed and replaced—not a simple operation under any circumstances. And, as long as I was hangin’ at the hospital, the good doc figured we might as well go ahead and get me started on a new round of cancer-suppressing chemotherapy, on the theory that the last round bought me some nice months of comfortable and happy time with my family and friends, and another round could do the same. Particularly if we took the clues regarding drug cocktail contents in an attempt to reduce ugly side effects associated with the chemo infusion.

So. Here I am. Again. Probably well north of a dozen admissions in. Yesterday they undertook the painful effort to yank the golf-ball-sized feeding apparatus from the tiny hole in my gut, and replaced it with an easier-fitting alternative. Late last night (around 2 a.m.) they started the chemotherapy infusion. An hour later and I was pretty well zonkered. Stayed that way until nearly 10 this morning, at which point the nurse kicked me into gear and got me medicated, liquidated, and fed, and the technical assistant held me down for a thorough sponge bath and change of bedding. 

So, assuming my health doesn’t collapse any from here and I remain free of ugly impacts of the chemotherapy, I should be able to go home tomorrow to hang with my guitars and drum pads in the corner of the room. If I continue to feel this good, I might be able to rebuild some strength between every-three-week doses of chemo drugs. If the chemo drugs don’t pound my health (Dr. T made a substantial cut in the amount of the suspected culprit causing the repeated nausea in prior applications), this could be a real nice success story in the history of my cancer process.

We’ll see. For the moment, I’m alive, cogent, able to keep you somewhat up-to-date. You have my love and gratitude. Use ‘em while you got ‘em, everybody. Clearly they are not forever. But they’re all you get. Talk to you next week!