Orientation, canser News, Theatrical Debut

Yesterday I went to the cancer center library to attend an orientation for new cancer patients. I thought it would be a lot more fun than it was.

One of our facilitators was an Asian female chemo nurse named Ed. Talk about setting me up for laughs. And yet, it was all business. I tried to infuse some humor at one point, but failed miserably.

You see, Ed had an interesting way of checking for comprehension. Instead of saying, “Any questions?” or “Do you get it?“ she would say, “Are you all okay?” After she said it several times, I couldn’t leave it alone anymore. She finished explaining how a chemo port works and then said, “Are you all okay?” I couldn’t help it, and I popped off “Yes . . . except we all have CANCER.”

Crickets. Chirping.

Everybody looked at me. Not a soul laughed. Talk about a tough crowd.


See, if I were running a meeting called New Cancer Patient Orientation, I would definitely try to throw some humor into it. You know, like when you have to take traffic school to keep points from going on your insurance? You can choose the informational, all-day, wish-I-could-stick-bamboo-chutes-up-my-nail-beds type of traffic school, or you can choose stand-up comedy traffic school. No brainer, right?

Why no such choice for New Cancer Patient Orientation??

This one was just the facts ma'am. I did get a lot of good information, though. Stuff I’ll need to know down the road a bit. Like that I’ll have to rinse my mouth dozens of times a day with a baking soda wash to lessen the chance of mouth sores leading to infection leading to dehydration leading to unnecessary hospitalizations.

I think I won’t list the rest of the things I learned. They can be dually filed under ‘Good to Know’ and ‘Let’s Not Go There.’


Eventually we went on a little tour of the infusion center. What a macabre experience that was: a little chipper tour guide named Ed leading us past a whole bunch of bald people being flushed intravenously with poison.

I need help thinking of some way I can make that a better experience when I’m the bald one in the chair and a group of scared orientees walks past me. A party hat perhaps? I’ll take suggestions in the comments section below (seriously!).

It’s all very weird.

At the end of the tour, I conversed with one of the other newbies. “So, what kind do you have?” I asked her. She told me she had lung, liver, brain and bone cancer, and that they had found it in stage four.

As soon as I left the building I burst into tears for that woman. I think it’s a safe bet she’s going to die not too long from now. Meeting her was such a bizarre mix of emotions for me. My first response was to reach out in compassion and see what I could do for her. This was immediately followed by a tempering impulse to not become attached, for obvious reasons, and finally a wave of horror, that what I have could put me in her shoes.

Sorry. I don’t mean to make you wish you had bamboo chutes handy.

On a brighter note, I learned that one of the many support groups my cancer center offers is based on writing as a method of coping. I might try that one out. Perhaps I could get some laughs out of them.

Because the following Venn diagram illustrates my strong belief:



Who’s with me?


Before the infusion tour, I had a chance to browse the shelves at our cancer library. I found a book called Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips by Kris Carr.

Believing it to be some kind of Chemo Sutra book, I checked it out immediately. Boy was I disappointed. It was just a bunch of tips about going through cancer from the perspective of a twenty-something gorgeous actress/photographer who lives on the wild side. 

There was one great take away from it though. One of her tips was never to whisper the word cancer, but also never to capitalize it in writing. If possible, she said, misspell it. I liked that idea. It resonated with me. So I think from this point on I will be calling my disease canser. Isn’t that just so anemic looking? canser seems like it’ll be a breeze to overcome.

(Not the Chemo Sutra)

By way of informational update, my kick-butt nurse navigator Barbara, my mighty canser buddy Nicole, my equal parts wise and hip surgeon Dr. Schrader, and I have all pulled our influence to get me onto the docket of an oncologist far sooner than was planned. I am scheduled to see Dr. Mazj on Monday morning, before my biopsies.

This gives me hope that on the 7th, when I meet again with Dr. Schrader to hear the results of my biopsies, there will be enough information and input to actually lay out a treatment plan and timeline.

I feel more eager than ever to begin something, because I can actually feel activity in my right breast. The original lump is very prominent, I can now feel the lump at the 1 o’clock position, and I often have pain in the nipular area. I’m also starting to have soreness in areas of my underarm, and all of this is screaming at me to lop, burn or poison something as soon as possible.

It is likely I will be the object of one of those verbs before the bruising from Monday’s biopsies fades. For that reason, I have scheduled a talented friend to come over for a photo session this weekend.

Clinically speaking, I want to document how my girls look so that when it’s time to rebuild, I can show the picture and say, “Just like this, except higher.”


Emotionally speaking, Dave and I want something to remember them by.

Practically speaking, I need to go get a spray tan. No wait. Clean my bedroom. Wait. Bedroom? I can’t have a photographer in my bedroom! Okay, clean the living room. Wait. I’m going to be topless in my living room?

Didn’t I tell you it’s all very weird? Oddly, my photographer friend has experience with this strange mix of memoir and topless photography, so I guess I’ll rely on her.



In ENTIRELY UNRELATED news . . . I had, by happenstance, my Chico theatrical debut tonight. One of the cast members (in fact, Kathryn Main, who gave me my courage necklace) was absent tonight, and I was able to fill in for her on fairly short notice.

I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.

I had no speaking parts and no singing parts, but I got to dress up as a 1930s aristocrat at a lavish party, 



 

and an Austrian singer in traditional garb, including tied up braids and clogs. I was the one at the end of the festival who couldn’t stop bowing. 



In yet another happy coincidence, my mom had flown to town to see the reds in tonight’s performance, and she got to see my limited time engagement as well. Likewise, my brother-in-law, nephew, nephew’s new girlfriend (way to go, Cody!), niece, grand-niece, husband, daughter and BFF Suzie’s whole family got to see the show tonight. I’m quite high from it still.


Back at home, Dave commented that I ought to do more theater, since it made me so happy. “Yeah, between cycles of chemo,” I oozed with sarcasm.

His response made me feel, without any doubt, that I am married to exactly the right person at exactly the right time. With all the cheese of a Broadway announcer, he said, “You’ll just have to audition for . . . CHEMO the MUSICAL!”

I love that man!


Okay. I'm reminding you now that I have asked for your help with ideas on how to make that horrible infusion tour more pleasant once I'm part of the freak show. I'm also accepting plot and song ideas for Chemo the Musical.


Go.

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