It Seemed So Easy
Another chapter had ended, but I didn't expect the challenges to come; My cancer memoir, "Acknowledgments," continued
Host’s Note: There is a selectively blurred image of a catheter sticking out of my abdomen in the second part of this post. Consider this your trigger warning. As a counter, you may click here for a handsome picture of George Clooney.
For new readers: More than a year ago, at the beginning of 2025, I told myself that I would finally write my cancer memoir. I had saved my posts and notes from the 15 months I went through treatment, and I was going to put it together into a book, even if only to prove that I could.
As a way of pushing myself, I’m posting chapters on Substack. The goal is to have a complete memoir, eventually. Each chapter will begin with one or more posts I made during treatment, followed by commentary. You can find earlier chapters at blockheadchronicles.substack.com, though you may have to hunt a bit, because I’ve gotten lazy about continuing the cancer story, instead writing about music, movies, baseball, and politics. You know: things that matter.
(Also: Cats.)
As with any project of this type, the writing is loosely edited and baggier than I’d like (and I’m someone who writes lots of baggy parenthetical interruptions, like this one). In fact, consider it a … second draft. Or a 1-1/2th draft. Something to keep in mind if you’re expecting a polished reading experience. This is more like a crusty lump of coal.
II. Radiation, cont’d.
Update, 11/3 a.m. (Facebook, November 3, 2021):
And just like that, I’m done.
This morning was my last radiation session. As with many last things, it was anticlimactic. I get to the cancer center around 7:45 a.m. and go to the radiation waiting room. The system is down so I meet with Dr. S—, the radiation oncologist on duty, first. (No surprises; blood work looks good, keep taking the Carafate [a medication for ulcers and acid], book a follow-up for next month.)
Back to the waiting room and to the machine. Oldies music plays — “At the Hop,” “Hang on Sloopy” (the full McCoys version, with the second verse). The usual machine ballet: a buzz from underneath, a 180-degree turn, a delay as I’m re-centered, a buzz from the left side, another from the right, a couple from directly overhead. I’m told I can put my arms down. The nurse helps me get up. Goodbyes to everyone; best wishes in return from Maria, a 34-year veteran of this business.
I stop at the waiting room and book my follow-up. There’s a bell there. Dr. S— said I could ring it. Besides the receptionist, there’s just an older couple sitting nearby. I ring the bell three times. They clap.
And then I leave. S— has her coffee and we walk back to the car.
I’m wary enough that I won’t say “it’s over,” which seems even more final than “I’m done.” Besides the follow-up with a radiation oncologist, I’ve got a PET scan at the end of January and an appointment with Dr. B—, my primary oncologist, in early February. I’m still draining chylothorax fluid from my left side and the port on my right isn’t going anywhere until after I see Dr. B—. The signs are all good, but I’m not uttering the word “remission” until I hear it from a professional.
Still, this chapter is closed. About 10 a.m., I took the sticker with the green Sharpie-drawn cross off my chest. It had been on so long that the green ink had gotten on my skin. I scrubbed it off with some alcohol. The radiation has left a rectangle-shaped bare spot around it, but I expect that in a few weeks I’ll be as hirsute as before.
On to the next.
If I only knew.
It was, indeed, the end of a chapter. And as chapters go, radiation was relatively easy. Besides a mild loss of appetite and some esophagitis, I appeared to have no ill effects. I was still draining my chylothorax, but the amount of liquid was diminishing, giving my doctors and me hope that the hole in my lymphatic duct was healing on its own. The idea was that when I got the flow down to less than 100 ml per week for a few weeks, they could take the catheter out of my abdomen.
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t healing. In fact, things in general were about to take a turn for the worse. It was a good thing I was wary (which is my normal M.O.)
I’ll take care of this cliffhanger soon enough, but let’s just say that I was nowhere near the end of my hospital experience. Though years later Dr. B— would dispute my assertion that the complications from cancer can be worse than the cancer itself (and he would know, he’s an oncologist), my experience was that killing the cancer was only the beginning.
I don’t want to put the blame on the treatment for causing the ensuing complications. Yes, chemo and radiation weaken the body, but there are many who can quickly rebound and get back to their normal life. And it wasn’t like I would have refused the treatment to start with; I’d read the stories, I knew it was rough.
Still, I was caught by surprise. I was weak — I had lost weight and needed to get some exercise — but I felt like I could return to the golden glow of good health by, oh, Christmas, about two months away.
My body had different ideas.