Monday: January 16, 2012 (Part Two)

My first day of chemotherapy had proceeded without tears until Kathleen, the social worker, sat down in the cheap plastic chair by my recliner and introduced herself. The last couple of weeks had produced numerous crying jags. Having a potentially fatal disease will do that to you.

The day at Kaiser had begun at 8:30. By early afternoon, with the “good stuff” finally filling my veins, I encouraged Mary Lou to go to work. I insisted that I’d be fine.  I had my iPod, David Copperfield and this small notebook that I’m filling at a feverish pace to entertain me for the next four or five hours.

                                                                                         

Mary Lou has more than 20 years' experience learning to read my confusing and conflicted moods. She knows when I need space and, I’m guessing, sensed I could use some. I wanted to be alone to wallow in the thoughts muddying my brain.

But here’s Kathleen, dressed in her white coat, talking to me in a soothing voice. The various drugs I'd been given had sent me into a strange fugue. Nothing seemed quite real, including Kathleen. She seemed, at that moment, an angelic creature who easily moved me to tears.

In a willowy voice, she told me that I would emerge on the other side of treatment a changed person, someone who I will have learned to love. That was not something I had considered since this all had begun. Okay. Better than the self-image I’d been whittling with the sharp-edged scalpel of guilt, self-loathing and pity.

My cancer is a self-inflicted wound. Nobody gave it to me. I didn't win some perverse lottery ticket that entitled me to a carcinogenic death. I sucked down the soothing menthol smoke of (how many?) Salems, the poisons collecting, polluting.

While Kathleen and I talked, Dr. Verma dropped off an envelope containing discs of my scans and my medical chart that I’ll need to take with me tomorrow for my first radiation oncologist appointment at the Cleveland Clinic. Dr. Verma informed me straightaway that my treatment protocol would include simultaneous radiation and made the arrangements with a friend and colleague at the Clinic.Things were moving so quickly.

I had not come to Parma convinced that I would begin treatment that day. We were prepared to say, "No, thanks," and leave.

Mary Lou had been treated for breast cancer at University Hospital 10 years earlier. While her experience was not perfect, it proved quite positive. She admired her docs and we got the outcome we so desperately wanted.

This time, we were both anxious about the lack of a diagnosis. Little did I know they were sending my tissue hither and yon to get opinions from other pathologists, which I acknowledge was prudent, but we were understandably anxious not knowing where we were headed.  At Mary Lou's urging, I made an appointment at UH that had been set for Wednesday, two days hence.
 
But then I met Richard and wonderful spirit. He oozed kindness. Then I had my first substantive discussion  with Dr. Verma. I liked his matter-of-fact approach. He impressed me as someone comfortable in his own skin.

After Dr. Verma left us, Mary Lou reminded me that we did not have to stay. I said I had made up my mind and stay we did.

After Kathleen stepped away, I opened the manila envelope and looked at the top sheet, a report about my cancer. I read near the top that the tumor had grown since it was first measured in early December. I put everything back in the envelope. Kathleen emphasized that I need to remain positive. I wish it were so easy.

I'm 90 minutes into my first chemotherapy treatment and I have not yet puked or spontaneously combusted. I guess those are both good signs.

During our conversation, I mentioned to Kathleen that I was considering writing about my treatment experience, but wondered whether the world needed another cancer journal. She encouraged me to do it, nonetheless. It strikes me as a bit self-indulgent for some reason.

If there really is a better person to be found on the other side of cancer, I really do want to meet him.

After the Cisplatin bag finally emptied, Richard hung another chemotherapy drug called etoposide. It emptied in less than an hour. After that, I received fluids designed to flush all the toxins out of my kidneys. I rolled my IV pole into the bathroom eight or nine times over the next few hours. Richard's smile seemed like a mental gold star each time I passed by his work station. I'd been toilet-trained all over again.

It was after 7 by the time I returned home, in a strange fugue of hyper-alertness and bone-tired weariness. It would prove to be a long, long night.