Hayes Valley in the shade

San Francisco has micro climates which themselves are further split into micro climates. When Scott and I leave the apartment in Upper Market/Twin Peaks, we tend to feel the breeze and the chill and then slowly descend down 18th Street where--if the sun is out--it typically picks up 10-15 degrees. By the time we reach Castro at the bottom of the hill, the jackets are unzipped or, often, altogether off. All within 3/4 of a mile.

Our first appointment on the road to total cancer recovery took us to Pacific Heights, to see the oncologist, Dr. Kramer. His office is in a professional cube on a hillside bathed in sunlight, mocking the swiss sweater that I had on, making me regret that I was ever born with body temperature. Right now, by contrast, 45 minutes after said sun bath, I'm sitting on a bench in the shade on Hayes Street, Hayes Valley, freezing my ass off, glad of my sartorial choices. This is a lesson in SF living to the uninitiated. Never assume that the temperature that greets you will later meet you.

It would not be possible, here, to give you the entire flavor of my meeting with Dr. Kramer. Suffice it to say that he charmed me and gained every bit of my confidence he will need by his laconic and sardonic ways, which suit me, and soothe all anxiousness in my soul. While taking my family history I suggested that my father's biggest medical problem was that he was a jerk--to which the good doctor shot back in record time, "and I understand that problem is genetic...". This is exactly the person I want bathing me in toxicity.

It looks like, should my blood and hearing tests confirm my eligibility, that chemo will be a once every three weeks situation over a nine week treatment, 6 hours at a stretch. Something called CIS, or SIS (that's what it sounds like) platinum, which lingers in the system and apparently bitch slaps at 2 weeks after application. Good news? minimal hair loss. Bad news? Throat problems, a bit of nausea to fight, strong as Atlas' farts, apparently.

What also sells Dr. Kramer--and this is a lesson all doctor's would do well to emulate--is his staff. They are friendly and confident to a fault--and what I need right now, besides friendly, is confident. It's surprisingly difficult to know, coming from Indiana, if providers in California are actually considered "in-network"--no one would flat out answer that question, at least not from Anthem--and when a doctor's office does, one does well to be a bit spurious of their knowledge. But this office runs like a frigging top. Hallelujah! One down, and not bad, in fact quite good.

Tomorrow, I go to have a check of the tube I use to eat, hoping that they can alleviate some of the constrictions that I deal with using this tiny feed system. I'd like them to give me the feeding equivalent of a laundry chute, something I could stick a rotisserie chicken in, but I am still well within sanity and reality--but something that could bear at least some tiny chunks in a blend would allow me to vastly extend my range of edibles. My weight would love that, thank you very much.

The hearing test, by the way, is to establish whether this platinum stuff may compromise my hearing, which is a side effect of it. Seriously. Hearing loss. Who would have thought of that? If you see me with transistor hearing aids growing out of my ears you'll know what happened.

Also tomorrow, the radiation oncologist--and let's hope her sense of humor is as wonderfully engaging. After all, she's going to make a mask of me, and pin me down, daily, to burning beams of recovery. You have to love something like that, or it will never work out, that relationship between patient and doctor.

I plan to love anything that promises me life. Run toward it like a totem pole that I need to dance about--and they probably have one of those somewhere here. Let's hope it's on a south facing slope and the day is bright as it was in Pacific Heights!