Do it Better The Next Time

As famously proven by Columbus among millions of others, sometimes you just can't comprehend everything on impact. 

I'm having the side effects in the first week of treatment that most people don't experience until their 4th or 5th week of treatment. I'm feeling those effects with all the whoosh and fuss of a new drinker taking their first shot of harsh whisky. It does suck, and it strikes me as massively unfair, but there it is. This is how it's going to be. 

In my last post, I have to admit to feeling as if I was being defeated quickly by those things. Mucous, so thick that Buckminster Fuller might have coveted it, produced by a guy struggling to breathe. Stomach roilings when I'm struggling to stay above 140. Indeed it's not fair. Cancer, however, would really like me to think that way, because the more I pout about the relative fair or unfair of it, the less work it has to do to defeat me. 

I received two of the least expected and yet most effective shots in the arm that I could receive this week. Of course Scott came home from Europe and that was wonderful, and needed. There was a part of me that instantly happier and more at home, and importantly, calmer. 

But my shots came from two doctors, as different as could be from one another. One, my radiation oncologist is Dr. Yom. She's about 4'8? Hard to judge, but she's short--however, such is merely a physical reality. This has no bearing upon the authority with which she carries herself, which is definitely NBA style height. 

Dr. Yom and I had a confab after my return to radiation yesterday, and her concern about me, and determination for me, were things to behold. I'm not certain I'm used to that from much of anyone, let alone a radiation oncologist with a literature Ph.D., a woman whose reputation for incisiveness is on a par with her reputation for blunt and forthright. And there she was, sitting on a stool, looking at me with a bad of sadness, and telling me how much she wants me to succeed, to go forward with treatment as she had planned, and how few options she thought I might have to do otherwise--but as a person, as a fellow traveler, someone I like. 

As I'm writing this, I'm at my weekly chemo session with the folks at Dr. Kramer's office, sitting in a lazy boy style chair, looking out at the sun hitting the hillsides of lower Pacific Heights. Before infusion started today, I had my follow up with Dr. Kramer, who came into the exam room with the apprehensive aspect that a well-trained dog might have who nonetheless stole dinner from the table. Inevitable punishment seems certain....

Dr. Kramer was afraid that i'd want to dial back my Cisplatin regimen, which he felt would be decisively unwise...and the idea that I might wish to seemed to oppress him. 

I suppose the two of them don't know that I'd pretty much rather cut off my right arm than stop this treatment, aware as I am of what position I'm in, and where things stand, but more importantly--that's it's being supervised by two people that I respect so much. 

So, I told Dr. Kramer my honest assessment of the situation: I fucked up. Simple as that. I've spent my life just sailing through things by force of will. Bad news? fuck it. Adverse situation? Too damn bad. Depression? Get over it. You get the picture.

But now I've met something for which that devil-may-care attitude simply won't work. So I'd like to introduce you to a new reality, which I'm meeting myself.

Hi. I'm Mark A. Price. I'm 52 years old, and I'll be 53 this November. I was misdiagnosed by my doctors and treated incorrectly for what turned out to be tongue cancer. I have an aggressive and nasty type of that cancer that is fast growing and ruthless. To defeat it, my first act was an 18 hour surgery. I presently can't eat food or speak normally, and I don't look exactly normal as a result of that surgery. The surgery was radical, and likely, final--given the amount of reconstruction, it's unlikely I can have other surgeries to resolve any future problems I may have with cancer in this area. 

The surgery I had, too, was difficult, physically and emotionally. The functions I've lost are difficult to lose, physically and emotionally. l was fortunate to come through that surgery with relatively minor complications to date, and to recover from it quickly. 

What I'm doing now is a fight for the very best life I can have, and it comes with consequences. It comes with nausea, it comes with mucous (so much I can't believe it). Nothing about it is easy, simple or fast. I need to gut check every day, and several times a day...not because I'm so tough, but because cancer is...to think any less of it is to be stupid about lt.

So this is the basis of how I'll go forward--recognition and caution, a balance of acknowledgement and head-down hard work. l'll be proactive, and include more prophylaxis to thin out mucous, I'll pay carefully attention to dosing with anti-nausea medications. And more than that, I'll seek out whatever moment of the day I might be able to eat a bit more, so that I won't weigh less.

Why? Dr. Yom sitting forlornly on an exam stool, Dr. Kramer on a matching one, across town a day later. Two people who don't have to care so much but do. It's the least I can do. If it's been awhile since you've felt that your doctor cares about you, I have to tell you it feels good. Just don't follow me here to find it.