The struggle of life is one of our greatest blessings.
It makes us patient, sensitive, and Godlike.
It teaches us that although the world is full of suffering,
it is also full of the overcoming of it.
- Author: Helen Keller
You know you are losing your hair to chemo
when your kids buy you baseball caps for Father's Day..
- Author: Rich Reith
Now that things are falling more into a normal routine I have taken a little
longer to finish this update. For those asking why I was taking so long, thanks
for letting me know that you enjoy them.
OK, it has been 11 weeks since I was diagnosed with malignant Hodgkins
lymphoma nodular sclerosing type (formerly known as The Malignancy Formerly
Known As Prince).
People have asked how I keep my sense of humor. Actually, it is a big part of the fight -
besides, the whole concept of cancer is worse for those around you. There is such a feeling
of helplessness among caregivers, but humor and strength are uplifting. Besides, my dry
sense of humor has been part of me forever. There is no reason to stop it just because of
that nasty "C" word. And the doctors and nurses seemed to enjoy it too. When I first
went in to the Emergency Room and they started setting up tests, the doctor asked me
when I last had my prostate checked. Since I never had, I tried to convince him that it
wasn't necessary because I didn't have one, but he wasn't buying that. Now, I didn't really
understand the extent of that check... EGAD! After a while, I turned back to him and said
"I think you have mistaken me for a PUPPET!!!" One thing I learned is NOT to tell a
doctor a joke when you are in that position... But he might have had to change his
underwear after he left me...
Yes, I am losing hair - something I was hoping to avoid. Since my hair was so thick it is
taking longer, but it is thinning rapidly. They say that before long I will have no hair on my
body - which means that in another month or so I will no longer qualify as a mammal... I got
a couple of baseball caps for Father's Day, a sure sign that everyone has noticed!
Yesterday I took a quick shower and dried my hair by walking out of the bathroom quickly
enough to create a breeze. But there are GOOD things about losing your hair:
1) I will save wear and tear on the hair dryer
2) I will spend less money on shampoos and haircuts
3) I will get to wear a white shirt and a gold earring, and tell everyone "That is MR. Clean
to you!"
4) Neighborhood kids can play Tic Tac Toe without messing up my driveway with chalk.
5) I now have an array of new conversational items. For example, good conversation items
include:
a) "Does the glare bother you?"
b) "Have I shown you my biopsy scar?"
and my favorite :
c) "Stool softener anyone?"
Anyway... Enough about "the part of my body formerly known as hair." Chemo day goes
something like this. I get up at 5 AM, leave for the hospital at six and get there around
seven. First I have to go have blood drawn. There are so many people there for the same
thing that you have to take a number and wait - like being at the deli, except they are
taking, not selling. Then I go check in at admitting and wait for a triage nurse to take all
my vital signs. They have all been good. Then I go back to the waiting area, watch more
of the Today show, and wait for the cancer team to come get me once the blood count
results are in. If my red or white blood cell counts were too low, they would cancel chemo
that day, but the counts have been fine. Then I go to oncology and get ushered down a hall
to the chemo room - the only things missing from "The Green Mile" analogy are Tom
Hanks and the mouse... I sit down and immediately am given some antinausea and blood
thinner medication, then they quickly hook me up to the IV through the "port-a-cath" (not
to be confused with "port a potty.) in my left arm. I have to wait an hour or so while the
pharmacy mixes the chemicals and gets them up to oncology.
The chemicals come in a bag, mixed, plus four syringes - one for each chemical. Now, the
syringes are about 1 1/2 inches in diameter, filled to about four inches. In my minds eye,
they use smaller syringes to tranquilize elephants than the ones they use on me... They
pump one of the syringes into my IV tube and then wait ten minutes to see if I have a
negative reaction to that particular chemical, then repeat the cycle with each of the other
three. (They have a list of things to look for that goes something like this: "1) Patient
shows tremors or other involuntary movement. 2) Patient shows flushing or rash at head,
neck or arms. 3) Patient starts talking about voting for Ralph Nader......) After they have
ensured that I won't have a bad reaction to any of the chemicals, they hook up the mixture
and let it drip for an hour or so until the bag is empty. ("In my arm they find that mound,
and the chemo goes 'round and 'round, wo wo wo wo wo wo, and it comes out here...")
Finally, seven hours after I arrived at the hospital, I am ready to go home. Actually, ready
to go to IHOP and get my celebratory International Omelet... Not a bad day, and beats
having to clean out the garage.
Rich's Theory of Cancer Treatment - What is the difference between a victim and a
survivor? A victim moans and a survivor laughs. I choose to laugh.
Rich's Theory of Alternative Cancer Treatment - After much research I have discovered a
cult that promotes a vegetarian approach to treatment. I have found that sticking
asparagus up my nose helps me focus those hidden primal forces, especially when I see the
expression on the faces of the other drivers, and the Highway Patrolman behind me.
Medications are a daily part of going through chemo, mainly because you have no immune
system during it. Minor infections could prove deadly, so they medicate ANYTHING that
could be an infection of any sort. I had picked up something at church, and the oncologist (a
person who studies uncles) opined that God wouldn't mind if I missed church during this
time, because I need to stay away from sick people. Now, think about that for a moment.
Stay away from church because there might be sick people there. Here I am in a CANCER
WARD, for heavens sake, in a hospital FILLED with sick people - and I should worry
about CHURCH?? What a hoot!!!
The two weeks in between treatments are pretty much predictable. Four days of no sleep
thanks to the steroids, then I wear down on Saturday and crash on Sunday and Monday. I
start moving back to normalcy on Tuesday, then Thursday through the next Chemo on
Tuesday are pretty good days. There are a number of side effects that have to be dealt
with, and at this time I would like to thank Mr. I. Buprofen for making such a wonderful
accompaniment to Mayfield's Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream as a major part of my
emotional and physical treatment.
Well, enough for now. More soon. My next chemo is on Tuesday, then a week later I get a
CT scan, and we will know for sure how effective this chemo has been so far. Wish me
luck, keep me in your prayers, and laugh whenever you can.
It makes us patient, sensitive, and Godlike.
It teaches us that although the world is full of suffering,
it is also full of the overcoming of it.
- Author: Helen Keller
You know you are losing your hair to chemo
when your kids buy you baseball caps for Father's Day..
- Author: Rich Reith
Now that things are falling more into a normal routine I have taken a little
longer to finish this update. For those asking why I was taking so long, thanks
for letting me know that you enjoy them.
OK, it has been 11 weeks since I was diagnosed with malignant Hodgkins
lymphoma nodular sclerosing type (formerly known as The Malignancy Formerly
Known As Prince).
People have asked how I keep my sense of humor. Actually, it is a big part of the fight -
besides, the whole concept of cancer is worse for those around you. There is such a feeling
of helplessness among caregivers, but humor and strength are uplifting. Besides, my dry
sense of humor has been part of me forever. There is no reason to stop it just because of
that nasty "C" word. And the doctors and nurses seemed to enjoy it too. When I first
went in to the Emergency Room and they started setting up tests, the doctor asked me
when I last had my prostate checked. Since I never had, I tried to convince him that it
wasn't necessary because I didn't have one, but he wasn't buying that. Now, I didn't really
understand the extent of that check... EGAD! After a while, I turned back to him and said
"I think you have mistaken me for a PUPPET!!!" One thing I learned is NOT to tell a
doctor a joke when you are in that position... But he might have had to change his
underwear after he left me...
Yes, I am losing hair - something I was hoping to avoid. Since my hair was so thick it is
taking longer, but it is thinning rapidly. They say that before long I will have no hair on my
body - which means that in another month or so I will no longer qualify as a mammal... I got
a couple of baseball caps for Father's Day, a sure sign that everyone has noticed!
Yesterday I took a quick shower and dried my hair by walking out of the bathroom quickly
enough to create a breeze. But there are GOOD things about losing your hair:
1) I will save wear and tear on the hair dryer
2) I will spend less money on shampoos and haircuts
3) I will get to wear a white shirt and a gold earring, and tell everyone "That is MR. Clean
to you!"
4) Neighborhood kids can play Tic Tac Toe without messing up my driveway with chalk.
5) I now have an array of new conversational items. For example, good conversation items
include:
a) "Does the glare bother you?"
b) "Have I shown you my biopsy scar?"
and my favorite :
c) "Stool softener anyone?"
Anyway... Enough about "the part of my body formerly known as hair." Chemo day goes
something like this. I get up at 5 AM, leave for the hospital at six and get there around
seven. First I have to go have blood drawn. There are so many people there for the same
thing that you have to take a number and wait - like being at the deli, except they are
taking, not selling. Then I go check in at admitting and wait for a triage nurse to take all
my vital signs. They have all been good. Then I go back to the waiting area, watch more
of the Today show, and wait for the cancer team to come get me once the blood count
results are in. If my red or white blood cell counts were too low, they would cancel chemo
that day, but the counts have been fine. Then I go to oncology and get ushered down a hall
to the chemo room - the only things missing from "The Green Mile" analogy are Tom
Hanks and the mouse... I sit down and immediately am given some antinausea and blood
thinner medication, then they quickly hook me up to the IV through the "port-a-cath" (not
to be confused with "port a potty.) in my left arm. I have to wait an hour or so while the
pharmacy mixes the chemicals and gets them up to oncology.
The chemicals come in a bag, mixed, plus four syringes - one for each chemical. Now, the
syringes are about 1 1/2 inches in diameter, filled to about four inches. In my minds eye,
they use smaller syringes to tranquilize elephants than the ones they use on me... They
pump one of the syringes into my IV tube and then wait ten minutes to see if I have a
negative reaction to that particular chemical, then repeat the cycle with each of the other
three. (They have a list of things to look for that goes something like this: "1) Patient
shows tremors or other involuntary movement. 2) Patient shows flushing or rash at head,
neck or arms. 3) Patient starts talking about voting for Ralph Nader......) After they have
ensured that I won't have a bad reaction to any of the chemicals, they hook up the mixture
and let it drip for an hour or so until the bag is empty. ("In my arm they find that mound,
and the chemo goes 'round and 'round, wo wo wo wo wo wo, and it comes out here...")
Finally, seven hours after I arrived at the hospital, I am ready to go home. Actually, ready
to go to IHOP and get my celebratory International Omelet... Not a bad day, and beats
having to clean out the garage.
Rich's Theory of Cancer Treatment - What is the difference between a victim and a
survivor? A victim moans and a survivor laughs. I choose to laugh.
Rich's Theory of Alternative Cancer Treatment - After much research I have discovered a
cult that promotes a vegetarian approach to treatment. I have found that sticking
asparagus up my nose helps me focus those hidden primal forces, especially when I see the
expression on the faces of the other drivers, and the Highway Patrolman behind me.
Medications are a daily part of going through chemo, mainly because you have no immune
system during it. Minor infections could prove deadly, so they medicate ANYTHING that
could be an infection of any sort. I had picked up something at church, and the oncologist (a
person who studies uncles) opined that God wouldn't mind if I missed church during this
time, because I need to stay away from sick people. Now, think about that for a moment.
Stay away from church because there might be sick people there. Here I am in a CANCER
WARD, for heavens sake, in a hospital FILLED with sick people - and I should worry
about CHURCH?? What a hoot!!!
The two weeks in between treatments are pretty much predictable. Four days of no sleep
thanks to the steroids, then I wear down on Saturday and crash on Sunday and Monday. I
start moving back to normalcy on Tuesday, then Thursday through the next Chemo on
Tuesday are pretty good days. There are a number of side effects that have to be dealt
with, and at this time I would like to thank Mr. I. Buprofen for making such a wonderful
accompaniment to Mayfield's Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream as a major part of my
emotional and physical treatment.
Well, enough for now. More soon. My next chemo is on Tuesday, then a week later I get a
CT scan, and we will know for sure how effective this chemo has been so far. Wish me
luck, keep me in your prayers, and laugh whenever you can.
Journal Four - Becoming a Normal Routine
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