15 YEARS AGO, as this blog has made abundantly clear, I went through chemotherapy. And chemo has side-effects.
So, did I experience one of the more well-known and visible effects – hair loss? Sorta.
This was obviously a concern when we first started treatment. Not that it would have stopped us from proceeding, it was more of a question of how much I would lose, for how long and if and how it would grow back.
And I actually had quite a bit to lose. The hairline at my forehead had already started to recede (a genetic gift) but I had stopped getting haircuts for a couple of years and had a longish ponytail and a full beard.
Still, I was told, I was getting the half-and-half chemo of two different compounds. One was known to cause hair loss, the other wasn’t. Plus body chemistry and individual genetics come into play, so it was impossible to predict how or if I’d lose hair.
As it turned out, the chemicals wrecking my veins and killing the malignancy had an odd sense of humor. I got to keep the hair on my head – I’d be losing that naturally in the years to come – as well as the beard. Everything from the neck down, however, was gone.
Slick arms and legs are OK, and loss of chest hair made that area easier to mark when I started radiation treatments. But I didn’t really feel I needed a chemical bikini wax.
The fact that I was losing hair “down there” was a source of endless amusement for my female friends. Not that anyone but Gwen saw the results. It was more a schadenfreude on the part of those who felt compelled to trim or shave or wax or otherwise maintain their “area.” They knew I would learn what they had found when they had allowed hair to grow back.
“It’s gonna ITCH,” they would tease.
And they were right.
TODAY the hair on my head is kept very short, which helps make the thinning less noticeable. The beard has been reduced to a trimmed goatee. But otherwise, I’m fairly hairy. On my arms, legs, chest, nether regions – could do without it spreading to my back, but what can I do?
Having gone through the itchy days, I would not ask anyone to remove body hair unless they truly wanted to.
And I don’t mind that I became a source of amusement for my friends. Especially since I may have just done so again.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Been there, done that, got the T-shirt
TODAY, if I’m not mistaken, is Cancer Survivors Day.
Appropriately, yesterday I participated in a local Relay for Life, walking the Survivor Lap. I’ve done this several times.
Over a decade ago I attended my first one, in Stuttgart, Ark., where I was living and working at the time. The town calling itself the “rice and duck capital of the world” also had a higher-than-average cancer rate, I have heard. Could just be a statistical fluke, maybe the agricultural chemicals sprayed over nearby fields was a factor, maybe it was the almost-nightly spraying of insecticides throughout the town in what felt like a vain attempt to control the mosquitoes (rice fields require standing water, and the bugs were already very much part of the local ecosystem). Since it didn’t seem to faze the insects, I referred to the spray trucks activities as “feeding the skeeters.”
Whatever the cause, if any could be assigned as cancer is a tricky multifaceted devil, the disease touched many around town, including the great-great grandson of the town’s founder (and my landlord at the time) whose wife is a survivor. So the town embraced the American Cancer Society’s “Relay” program, and put out a big effort, with walkers on the track all 24 hours, lots of business sponsors, and tents and booths around most of the high school track.
I’ve seen places with much bigger populations put on smaller events, which is surprising and disappointing.
Fortunately, Greenfield, Ind., does a fairly good job with theirs, and instead of having the Survivor Lap start the event on Friday evening, it was set as a “Victory Lap” on Saturday morning. I guess it was easier to get survivors to come out then than to fight the evening rush-hour traffic the day before. The local state senator is a survivor, and she gave a brief speech before we walked. Afterward we had a Survivor Brunch under a big tent.
And, as with every Relay I go to, after signing on as a survivor, I get the Relay survivor T-shirt.
I have mixed feelings about these shirts I’ve collected. I am proud to support the ACS effort, but often the shirt will say something like “I’M A SURVIVOR” in big letters on the back. Being one who doesn’t like wearing his survivor status on his sleeve metaphorically, I couldn’t help but have second thoughts about doing it literally. Fortunately, some shirts – like the one I got yesterday – don’t make a big deal of it. Reflecting the optimism of the recent successful Obama presidential campaign, the Relay has a “Hope” theme this year. I don’t mind wearing that across my chest.
Aside from the ACS Relays, I’ve also gotten free T-shirts from the Northwest Arkansas Radiation Therapy Institute. (I’ll be getting into the radiation therapy memories soon.) Every summer they host a Survivor Luncheon with free T-shirts and an inspirational speaker. I’m a long ways from Springdale, Ark., where NARTI is and the event is held, but I can still have them mail me the shirts. These have different themes from year to year. My favorite was the one that was modeled on the logo of the TV show “Survivor.”
Talk about going through some challenges to be declared the ultimate Survivor. But then, our Tribe doesn’t want anyone’s fire to go out.
Postscript, and follow-up to my previous posting: Things went surprisingly well on my journey down to see my son graduate high school. Kathy* and her husband were gracious hosts, the lad was glad to see me and to help my little niece discover the ocean (my mother, sister and brother-in-law also came along). After commencement Kathy told me that my son’s grade average was just shy of Honors, and that he was already enrolled in the local community college. Life goes on.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
*Not her real name
(NEXT)
Appropriately, yesterday I participated in a local Relay for Life, walking the Survivor Lap. I’ve done this several times.
Over a decade ago I attended my first one, in Stuttgart, Ark., where I was living and working at the time. The town calling itself the “rice and duck capital of the world” also had a higher-than-average cancer rate, I have heard. Could just be a statistical fluke, maybe the agricultural chemicals sprayed over nearby fields was a factor, maybe it was the almost-nightly spraying of insecticides throughout the town in what felt like a vain attempt to control the mosquitoes (rice fields require standing water, and the bugs were already very much part of the local ecosystem). Since it didn’t seem to faze the insects, I referred to the spray trucks activities as “feeding the skeeters.”
Whatever the cause, if any could be assigned as cancer is a tricky multifaceted devil, the disease touched many around town, including the great-great grandson of the town’s founder (and my landlord at the time) whose wife is a survivor. So the town embraced the American Cancer Society’s “Relay” program, and put out a big effort, with walkers on the track all 24 hours, lots of business sponsors, and tents and booths around most of the high school track.
I’ve seen places with much bigger populations put on smaller events, which is surprising and disappointing.
Fortunately, Greenfield, Ind., does a fairly good job with theirs, and instead of having the Survivor Lap start the event on Friday evening, it was set as a “Victory Lap” on Saturday morning. I guess it was easier to get survivors to come out then than to fight the evening rush-hour traffic the day before. The local state senator is a survivor, and she gave a brief speech before we walked. Afterward we had a Survivor Brunch under a big tent.
And, as with every Relay I go to, after signing on as a survivor, I get the Relay survivor T-shirt.
I have mixed feelings about these shirts I’ve collected. I am proud to support the ACS effort, but often the shirt will say something like “I’M A SURVIVOR” in big letters on the back. Being one who doesn’t like wearing his survivor status on his sleeve metaphorically, I couldn’t help but have second thoughts about doing it literally. Fortunately, some shirts – like the one I got yesterday – don’t make a big deal of it. Reflecting the optimism of the recent successful Obama presidential campaign, the Relay has a “Hope” theme this year. I don’t mind wearing that across my chest.
Aside from the ACS Relays, I’ve also gotten free T-shirts from the Northwest Arkansas Radiation Therapy Institute. (I’ll be getting into the radiation therapy memories soon.) Every summer they host a Survivor Luncheon with free T-shirts and an inspirational speaker. I’m a long ways from Springdale, Ark., where NARTI is and the event is held, but I can still have them mail me the shirts. These have different themes from year to year. My favorite was the one that was modeled on the logo of the TV show “Survivor.”
Talk about going through some challenges to be declared the ultimate Survivor. But then, our Tribe doesn’t want anyone’s fire to go out.
Postscript, and follow-up to my previous posting: Things went surprisingly well on my journey down to see my son graduate high school. Kathy* and her husband were gracious hosts, the lad was glad to see me and to help my little niece discover the ocean (my mother, sister and brother-in-law also came along). After commencement Kathy told me that my son’s grade average was just shy of Honors, and that he was already enrolled in the local community college. Life goes on.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
*Not her real name
(NEXT)
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Responsibilities and obligations
TODAY I’m packing and planning for a long weekend on the road.
Soon I’ll be making the 1,000-mile journey to coastal Mississippi, with an overnight stop with family in central Arkansas. At the end of that trek, I’ll get to meet briefly with my son, and watch him receive his high school diploma.
We are practically strangers to each other now. At best, I’m like a distant uncle. In past years he expressed resentment at being stuck with my last name, while his mother had that of his stepfather. I don’t know if he still feels that way, but since he is over 18, there’s nothing I could do to stop him changing his name to his stepfather’s, his mother’s maiden name or to Rumplestiltskin, for that matter.
A relationship doesn’t turn this way overnight. We struggled with staying connected, me being involved with his life, when we only lived a couple of hours apart. Since I moved northward several years ago, then he and the parents who raised him moved further southward, losing touch completely seemed inevitable.
Especially with the conflicts his mother and I so often had, starting just a year into the divorce.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, I thought we had an agreement.
When I told Kathy* about my cancer, and the treatment, and how while I wouldn’t lose my job the worktime I lost would be unpaid, I told her I would be unable some weeks to send child support.
She said she understood, and wouldn’t make a big deal of it. I could pay more once I was finally working fulltime again. Besides our son was living mainly with his aunt and grandmother (who were also very understanding of my situation) while Kathy and her husband were getting home and job settled after moving to the Memphis area.
Then the letter came.
I was being sued for back child support. Feeling betrayed, I called Kathy. She said she had no choice, that it came up while making a mortgage application or something. She hoped I’d understand.
As the state of Arkansas understood it, since I had no written agreement or court order to suspend support, I owed and had to start paying immediately – present weekly payments plus arrears.
Since I couldn’t afford to pay support, I certainly couldn’t afford a lawyer to fight this. And by the letter of the law, I really did owe and was completely obligated to pay. And, to be honest, I did feel obligated, and did want to pay. It’s just that my bank account with hardly anything in it wouldn’t let me.
So the order came down, from the Office of Child Support Enforcement. Child support plus an amount towards arrears would be deducted directly from my paycheck, week after week, month after month, for the rest of the boy’s childhood.
Between this and insurance and other regular deductions, I had to work at least three days a week to make any money for myself. This wasn’t always possible. On short weeks, the amount of child support paid was reduced to a percentage of what little I was making, with the balance of what I owed (the obligation never reduced) being added to the arrears amount.
I can still remember sitting there with my 20-30-something dollar pay stub while taking a call from Kathy berating me for holding out on her because she got a reduced payment. I don’t think she actually accused me of being greedy, but it was in her tone.
Even putting health issues aside, those were not easy days. Fortunately our hobbies were based on books that were inexpensive and easily shared among the group. Movies were bargain rentals and matinees. Name-brand soda, name brand any food, was a luxury. Ground turkey 1-pound chubs for 69 cents at Wal-Mart were about the only meat we could afford.
Between a doting aunt, two grandmothers, his stepfather's grandparents, and of course, his mother and stepfather, the boy wanted for nothing. I took comfort in this, in that while there was only so much I could pay, my shortcomings didn’t affect his wellbeing.
He has been well cared for in all the years since, in spite of his mother’s frequent insistence that I’m irresponsible and a failure in living up to my obligations.
Perhaps I have been. I think that final judgment will be in the mind and life of a young man who I may never see again after Sunday. I will live with the verdict.
I know this seems to go a bit off-topic, away from the cancer fight. But this was a major way that my struggle was with more than the disease. In spite of my life going on hold while I took time out for chemo, the bills kept coming in. Rent had to be paid, creditors didn’t care what my circumstances were. The ripples of this disturbance in my life flowed outward, taking years to dissipate. My child support obligation ended this month; as for my responsibilities, time will tell.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
*Not her real name
(NEXT)
Soon I’ll be making the 1,000-mile journey to coastal Mississippi, with an overnight stop with family in central Arkansas. At the end of that trek, I’ll get to meet briefly with my son, and watch him receive his high school diploma.
We are practically strangers to each other now. At best, I’m like a distant uncle. In past years he expressed resentment at being stuck with my last name, while his mother had that of his stepfather. I don’t know if he still feels that way, but since he is over 18, there’s nothing I could do to stop him changing his name to his stepfather’s, his mother’s maiden name or to Rumplestiltskin, for that matter.
A relationship doesn’t turn this way overnight. We struggled with staying connected, me being involved with his life, when we only lived a couple of hours apart. Since I moved northward several years ago, then he and the parents who raised him moved further southward, losing touch completely seemed inevitable.
Especially with the conflicts his mother and I so often had, starting just a year into the divorce.
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, I thought we had an agreement.
When I told Kathy* about my cancer, and the treatment, and how while I wouldn’t lose my job the worktime I lost would be unpaid, I told her I would be unable some weeks to send child support.
She said she understood, and wouldn’t make a big deal of it. I could pay more once I was finally working fulltime again. Besides our son was living mainly with his aunt and grandmother (who were also very understanding of my situation) while Kathy and her husband were getting home and job settled after moving to the Memphis area.
Then the letter came.
I was being sued for back child support. Feeling betrayed, I called Kathy. She said she had no choice, that it came up while making a mortgage application or something. She hoped I’d understand.
As the state of Arkansas understood it, since I had no written agreement or court order to suspend support, I owed and had to start paying immediately – present weekly payments plus arrears.
Since I couldn’t afford to pay support, I certainly couldn’t afford a lawyer to fight this. And by the letter of the law, I really did owe and was completely obligated to pay. And, to be honest, I did feel obligated, and did want to pay. It’s just that my bank account with hardly anything in it wouldn’t let me.
So the order came down, from the Office of Child Support Enforcement. Child support plus an amount towards arrears would be deducted directly from my paycheck, week after week, month after month, for the rest of the boy’s childhood.
Between this and insurance and other regular deductions, I had to work at least three days a week to make any money for myself. This wasn’t always possible. On short weeks, the amount of child support paid was reduced to a percentage of what little I was making, with the balance of what I owed (the obligation never reduced) being added to the arrears amount.
I can still remember sitting there with my 20-30-something dollar pay stub while taking a call from Kathy berating me for holding out on her because she got a reduced payment. I don’t think she actually accused me of being greedy, but it was in her tone.
Even putting health issues aside, those were not easy days. Fortunately our hobbies were based on books that were inexpensive and easily shared among the group. Movies were bargain rentals and matinees. Name-brand soda, name brand any food, was a luxury. Ground turkey 1-pound chubs for 69 cents at Wal-Mart were about the only meat we could afford.
Between a doting aunt, two grandmothers, his stepfather's grandparents, and of course, his mother and stepfather, the boy wanted for nothing. I took comfort in this, in that while there was only so much I could pay, my shortcomings didn’t affect his wellbeing.
He has been well cared for in all the years since, in spite of his mother’s frequent insistence that I’m irresponsible and a failure in living up to my obligations.
Perhaps I have been. I think that final judgment will be in the mind and life of a young man who I may never see again after Sunday. I will live with the verdict.
I know this seems to go a bit off-topic, away from the cancer fight. But this was a major way that my struggle was with more than the disease. In spite of my life going on hold while I took time out for chemo, the bills kept coming in. Rent had to be paid, creditors didn’t care what my circumstances were. The ripples of this disturbance in my life flowed outward, taking years to dissipate. My child support obligation ended this month; as for my responsibilities, time will tell.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
*Not her real name
(NEXT)
Thursday, May 7, 2009
More of me to love
It occurs to me, a couple of months into this project, that I haven’t yet elaborated on the statement at the top of the blog. (You get to live, but you have to become fat.) I’ll rectify that now.
You wouldn't know that if you saw me today, but growing up I’d never been a particularly large guy. On the contrary, if I had grown up near a beach, I probably would have been that scrawny kid getting sand kicked in his face. My height topped out at around 5-foot-7 with a smallish-medium body, so while I wasn’t a rail, I wasn’t particularly muscular either.
I gained some muscle in the army, and was a healthy 140-ish pounds in college, but my last year of school was also the last year of my short-lived marriage. Not taking care of myself and what was likely a case of clinical depression dropped my weight to as low as 128, when I cinched my belt and felt it couldn’t go any tighter because of my hip bones. Kathy* (now my ex) even insisted I get an AIDS test.
After the collapse of the marriage and change of home and companion, I recovered to a more normal weight. My job kept me fairly active, and I’ve never been into heavy snacking.
15 YEARS AGO, that all changed.
After diagnosis, and as they start treatment, the doctors advised me of the various side-effects. One, however, they did not warn me of: Rather than wasting away like many cancer patients, I was going to get a lot bigger.
And I was actually happy when the oncologist ordered me not to lose weight. No dieting for me (at least on cheese week), thanks, doctor’s orders! More pie? Don’t mind if I do.
Seems that if your weight stays the same or goes down, it’s a sign the treatment isn’t working. But if you’re being cured, you gain. Thus, the oncologist was quite happy that I progressed toward tipping the scales at 200 pounds. Yes, my weight went up 70 pounds in two years! And over the next decade it crept up so that for several years now I tip the scales at 250.
It could be said that surviving cancer changes a person, but I hadn’t expected this.
TODAY, I deal with finding XL and 2XL clothes, treating sleep apnea, and the endless disappointment of promising myself to “do something” about my weight but never quite getting around to it.
16 YEARS AGO: Can’t say I wasn’t warned, though. Back before I was diagnosed, Gwen showed me a video of the movie “Don’t Tell Her It’s Me,” a forgettable 1990 romantic comedy starring Shelley Long and Steve Guttenberg, who plays a Hodgkins survivor. The movie opens with Guttenberg’s character undergoing treatment and chubbing up, thanks to makeup and latex foam. Then Long, playing his sister who happens to be a romance writer, persuades him to come out of his shell (almost literally, eww) to woo Jami Gertz. Then, over a single lovely training montage, the fat suit peels off to reveal our handsome hero.
Wish I could do something like that. Heck, if it would make it happen, I’d even agree to do a Police Academy sequel.
- - - - -
*Not her real name.
(NEXT)
You wouldn't know that if you saw me today, but growing up I’d never been a particularly large guy. On the contrary, if I had grown up near a beach, I probably would have been that scrawny kid getting sand kicked in his face. My height topped out at around 5-foot-7 with a smallish-medium body, so while I wasn’t a rail, I wasn’t particularly muscular either.
I gained some muscle in the army, and was a healthy 140-ish pounds in college, but my last year of school was also the last year of my short-lived marriage. Not taking care of myself and what was likely a case of clinical depression dropped my weight to as low as 128, when I cinched my belt and felt it couldn’t go any tighter because of my hip bones. Kathy* (now my ex) even insisted I get an AIDS test.
After the collapse of the marriage and change of home and companion, I recovered to a more normal weight. My job kept me fairly active, and I’ve never been into heavy snacking.
15 YEARS AGO, that all changed.
After diagnosis, and as they start treatment, the doctors advised me of the various side-effects. One, however, they did not warn me of: Rather than wasting away like many cancer patients, I was going to get a lot bigger.
And I was actually happy when the oncologist ordered me not to lose weight. No dieting for me (at least on cheese week), thanks, doctor’s orders! More pie? Don’t mind if I do.
Seems that if your weight stays the same or goes down, it’s a sign the treatment isn’t working. But if you’re being cured, you gain. Thus, the oncologist was quite happy that I progressed toward tipping the scales at 200 pounds. Yes, my weight went up 70 pounds in two years! And over the next decade it crept up so that for several years now I tip the scales at 250.
It could be said that surviving cancer changes a person, but I hadn’t expected this.
TODAY, I deal with finding XL and 2XL clothes, treating sleep apnea, and the endless disappointment of promising myself to “do something” about my weight but never quite getting around to it.
16 YEARS AGO: Can’t say I wasn’t warned, though. Back before I was diagnosed, Gwen showed me a video of the movie “Don’t Tell Her It’s Me,” a forgettable 1990 romantic comedy starring Shelley Long and Steve Guttenberg, who plays a Hodgkins survivor. The movie opens with Guttenberg’s character undergoing treatment and chubbing up, thanks to makeup and latex foam. Then Long, playing his sister who happens to be a romance writer, persuades him to come out of his shell (almost literally, eww) to woo Jami Gertz. Then, over a single lovely training montage, the fat suit peels off to reveal our handsome hero.
Wish I could do something like that. Heck, if it would make it happen, I’d even agree to do a Police Academy sequel.
- - - - -
*Not her real name.
(NEXT)
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Cheese Week!
15 YEARS AGO I discovered how hard it is to live without cheese.
If you are lactose-intolerant or vegan, you probably have little problem with this. But I’m neither, and it wasn’t just cheese. My chemo and medications came with a whole list of dietary restrictions. Off the top of my head, I remember they included sausage, beans and beer. But the hardest to adjust to was cheese.
No pizza, of course — and it also threw a curve into making other meals on a tight budget. I never realized how cheese-dependent I was until then. At least I didn’t have a problem in doing without beer.
You can imagine how these restrictions would hinder going out for Mexican. But fortunately, the El Chico would run specials on fajitas. Leave off the cheese and sour cream, and I could manage all right.
And even with the restrictions, I was still gaining weight.
About the only bright spot in this was that I wasn’t under these restrictions the whole time. In each four-week cycle I had to adhere to them for the two weeks of chemo, then for the next week while the drugs worked their way out of my system.
The next week was Cheese Week.
I looked forward to it every month, a full week without restrictions. Pepperoni pizza, quesadillas and refried beans, cheesy casseroles, sometimes washing it down with a cool malted adult beverage.
I didn’t realize that others looked forward to it, too. “Is it Cheese Week yet?” I heard our friend Valerie ask Gwen one day. Seems it not only made cooking for our gatherings easier, but meant my other side-effects were lessened, making me easier to get along with.
While I wouldn’t want to deal with chemo again, or recommend it to anyone else, it was kinda neat having a sort of holiday every month.
(NEXT)
If you are lactose-intolerant or vegan, you probably have little problem with this. But I’m neither, and it wasn’t just cheese. My chemo and medications came with a whole list of dietary restrictions. Off the top of my head, I remember they included sausage, beans and beer. But the hardest to adjust to was cheese.
No pizza, of course — and it also threw a curve into making other meals on a tight budget. I never realized how cheese-dependent I was until then. At least I didn’t have a problem in doing without beer.
You can imagine how these restrictions would hinder going out for Mexican. But fortunately, the El Chico would run specials on fajitas. Leave off the cheese and sour cream, and I could manage all right.
And even with the restrictions, I was still gaining weight.
About the only bright spot in this was that I wasn’t under these restrictions the whole time. In each four-week cycle I had to adhere to them for the two weeks of chemo, then for the next week while the drugs worked their way out of my system.
The next week was Cheese Week.
I looked forward to it every month, a full week without restrictions. Pepperoni pizza, quesadillas and refried beans, cheesy casseroles, sometimes washing it down with a cool malted adult beverage.
I didn’t realize that others looked forward to it, too. “Is it Cheese Week yet?” I heard our friend Valerie ask Gwen one day. Seems it not only made cooking for our gatherings easier, but meant my other side-effects were lessened, making me easier to get along with.
While I wouldn’t want to deal with chemo again, or recommend it to anyone else, it was kinda neat having a sort of holiday every month.
(NEXT)
Friday, April 10, 2009
Pillow for a bitter pill
15 YEARS AGO I was incredibly thankful for marshmallow fluff.
On some odd whim – hey, it’s on sale for only pennies a jar! – sometime in the previous year we had bought several containers of marshmallow fluff. Perfect for desserts or fluffernutters or whatever Gwen thought we might someday make. Naturally, we put them to the back of a kitchen shelf and forgot about them.
Until I started on chemotherapy.
Part of the regimen was taking pills, and that included a daily dose of prednisone. This medicine is a wonder-steroid used in the treatment of dozens of diseases, disorders and complaints. And you’d think that with it in such high demand, someone would make a prednisone tablet that was coated, or otherwise masked the fact that the pill tastes AWFUL.
Sure, it’s only in your mouth for a moment, but that’s all it takes for you to want to retch. And feeling like you want to vomit is not conducive to getting necessary medications to go down and stay down. And I got to look forward to this ordeal day after day, two weeks on, two weeks off, for six months.
Maybe if we put the pill in something to mask the nastiness, we thought (hey, it works for dogs, right?). So Gwen hunted through the pantry and, with triumph, she produced a jar of marshmallow fluff.
In the coming weeks she became a master at enrobing the obnoxious pill in a pillow of white sweetness. Between the fluff’s tendency to melt in the mouth and the pill corrupting the flavor of the coating I still had to swallow fast. But it did go down a lot easier.
One day she absent-mindedly licked the fluff off of her fingers, and it had just a trace of prednisone residue in it.
“Ugh!” she exclaimed. “That IS awful. I’m so sorry you have to swallow that.”
From then on, she was extra careful to ensure the pill was completely covered, and extra careful not to accidentally taste it again.
We were so glad when I finally took my last dose of prednisone. As it happened, we were on our last jar of fluff.
That was fine. As grateful as we are to the stuff for helping us get through those months, it would be years before we would even consider eating that stuff again.
(NEXT)
On some odd whim – hey, it’s on sale for only pennies a jar! – sometime in the previous year we had bought several containers of marshmallow fluff. Perfect for desserts or fluffernutters or whatever Gwen thought we might someday make. Naturally, we put them to the back of a kitchen shelf and forgot about them.
Until I started on chemotherapy.
Part of the regimen was taking pills, and that included a daily dose of prednisone. This medicine is a wonder-steroid used in the treatment of dozens of diseases, disorders and complaints. And you’d think that with it in such high demand, someone would make a prednisone tablet that was coated, or otherwise masked the fact that the pill tastes AWFUL.
Sure, it’s only in your mouth for a moment, but that’s all it takes for you to want to retch. And feeling like you want to vomit is not conducive to getting necessary medications to go down and stay down. And I got to look forward to this ordeal day after day, two weeks on, two weeks off, for six months.
Maybe if we put the pill in something to mask the nastiness, we thought (hey, it works for dogs, right?). So Gwen hunted through the pantry and, with triumph, she produced a jar of marshmallow fluff.
In the coming weeks she became a master at enrobing the obnoxious pill in a pillow of white sweetness. Between the fluff’s tendency to melt in the mouth and the pill corrupting the flavor of the coating I still had to swallow fast. But it did go down a lot easier.
One day she absent-mindedly licked the fluff off of her fingers, and it had just a trace of prednisone residue in it.
“Ugh!” she exclaimed. “That IS awful. I’m so sorry you have to swallow that.”
From then on, she was extra careful to ensure the pill was completely covered, and extra careful not to accidentally taste it again.
We were so glad when I finally took my last dose of prednisone. As it happened, we were on our last jar of fluff.
That was fine. As grateful as we are to the stuff for helping us get through those months, it would be years before we would even consider eating that stuff again.
(NEXT)
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Games people play
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, I helped run a live-Vampire game at Fayetteville’s first all-games convention, Razorbattles.
Actually, Gwen did most of the work. Our role-players had the run of the common areas of the hotel, plus the room we used as game headquarters, which also doubled as the local vamp “prince”s lair and meeting place. Gwen, with the help of a couple others in our club, was roving Storyteller, keeping the action going and mediating disputes.
My job, since I had had chemo just days before, was to stay put at HQ and be the Storyteller there. That way I could help without exerting myself, and stay in one place since I didn’t feel like moving at all.
Feedback in the days and weeks that followed was that everyone had a great time and were looking forward to the next year’s event during Razorbattles 1995. To whatever extent I gave plot points and direction and handed down decisions, I must have done a bang-up job. Oh, the stories I must have told. Wish I could remember it.
Sometimes the side-effects are unavoidable. Doesn’t matter what you and your friends have planned for months to do on a certain weekend. I’m not upset that cancer and its treatment stole away the memories of that weekend, I have other good times to remember.
Exactly 15 years ago, on Monday, April 4, I wasn’t feeling too bad, but Gwen was under the weather (this may have been the Monday after Razorbattles, such events are taxing even for the healthy) so she and I both called in sick.
We had spent the evening watching something on the VCR when suddenly we heard shouting and car horns and firecrackers outside. Puzzled at first, we suddenly remembered that it was the night of the NCAA men’s basketball finals, and that the hometown Arkansas Razorbacks were playing. Had they won? We switched the TV to live broadcast and sure enough, the Hogs had just won the national championship!
With us living just a few blocks from the U of A campus, you can understand the pandemonium.
We knew it wasn’t likely we would be in this kind of atmosphere often, so we ventured out and walked towards the University, ending up on Dickson Street, the kind of bar/restaurant/shopping street that most college towns have just off-campus, where students like to gather. There were so many people in the street that the police found it easier to put up barricades to traffic than to try to clear the pedestrians off.
We didn’t have money on us to buy a drink or anything, we just hung around a bit among the jubilant fans. There were also TV cameras there from local news and national networks. Since we were supposed to be “sick,” we avoided those – as did a couple of people from Gwen’s work she noticed. Seems “Razorback fever” had caused them to call in as well.
So we wandered back towards home. Feeling energized by all the excitement around us, we walked a little further to the house of Chris and Cheryl, friends we had met through the Camarilla (vampire club). They weren’t into basketball or native Arkansans, but they liked seeing everyone else around acting nuts. The four of us decided we could act out as well. Being fans of werewolves as well as vampires, we decided to howl.
So we stood out in their front yard, howling at the sky at the top of our lungs. And nobody noticed.
That was how we played our games, had our fun. And that memory I got to keep.
(NEXT)
Actually, Gwen did most of the work. Our role-players had the run of the common areas of the hotel, plus the room we used as game headquarters, which also doubled as the local vamp “prince”s lair and meeting place. Gwen, with the help of a couple others in our club, was roving Storyteller, keeping the action going and mediating disputes.
My job, since I had had chemo just days before, was to stay put at HQ and be the Storyteller there. That way I could help without exerting myself, and stay in one place since I didn’t feel like moving at all.
Feedback in the days and weeks that followed was that everyone had a great time and were looking forward to the next year’s event during Razorbattles 1995. To whatever extent I gave plot points and direction and handed down decisions, I must have done a bang-up job. Oh, the stories I must have told. Wish I could remember it.
Sometimes the side-effects are unavoidable. Doesn’t matter what you and your friends have planned for months to do on a certain weekend. I’m not upset that cancer and its treatment stole away the memories of that weekend, I have other good times to remember.
Exactly 15 years ago, on Monday, April 4, I wasn’t feeling too bad, but Gwen was under the weather (this may have been the Monday after Razorbattles, such events are taxing even for the healthy) so she and I both called in sick.
We had spent the evening watching something on the VCR when suddenly we heard shouting and car horns and firecrackers outside. Puzzled at first, we suddenly remembered that it was the night of the NCAA men’s basketball finals, and that the hometown Arkansas Razorbacks were playing. Had they won? We switched the TV to live broadcast and sure enough, the Hogs had just won the national championship!
With us living just a few blocks from the U of A campus, you can understand the pandemonium.
We knew it wasn’t likely we would be in this kind of atmosphere often, so we ventured out and walked towards the University, ending up on Dickson Street, the kind of bar/restaurant/shopping street that most college towns have just off-campus, where students like to gather. There were so many people in the street that the police found it easier to put up barricades to traffic than to try to clear the pedestrians off.
We didn’t have money on us to buy a drink or anything, we just hung around a bit among the jubilant fans. There were also TV cameras there from local news and national networks. Since we were supposed to be “sick,” we avoided those – as did a couple of people from Gwen’s work she noticed. Seems “Razorback fever” had caused them to call in as well.
So we wandered back towards home. Feeling energized by all the excitement around us, we walked a little further to the house of Chris and Cheryl, friends we had met through the Camarilla (vampire club). They weren’t into basketball or native Arkansans, but they liked seeing everyone else around acting nuts. The four of us decided we could act out as well. Being fans of werewolves as well as vampires, we decided to howl.
So we stood out in their front yard, howling at the sky at the top of our lungs. And nobody noticed.
That was how we played our games, had our fun. And that memory I got to keep.
(NEXT)
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