Look Out!

I hate long breaks.

For some reason, and this is partly my own fault for thinking this way, I was under the impression that radiation therapy would happen immediately after chemo was over. As you can probably imagine, I was dead wrong. After nearly an entire month from the Final Confrontation, conversations (yes, conversations) about my radiation treatment has begun with the promise that I will begin getting zapped come Monday.

Things to note about rads:

1. It needs a better name than that. I'm leaning toward "Radical Throwdown," but it's a work in progress
2. To prepare you for getting bombarded with power beams, not unlike a certain Dr. Banner, one must be aligned on a table. Sounds kind of anticlimactic, right? Well, it is, and it takes two separate hospital visits for to get it right. I'm not even joking.
3. Supposedly, they can get you in and out of the office within 30 minutes during sessions. Except when one of their machines is down; in which case it's anybody's guess.
4. You get tattoos. Don't be alarmed: they're simply freckle-sized dots for table alignment. Having no previous ink on my body to begin with, this also felt anticlimactic because no tequila was involved. Ho hum.

And thus, the next phase has begun. The really good news is that it's only going to be 2.5 weeks of treatment (5 days/week) instead of the originally projected 4-6, which is all kinds of gravy.

The downside? Well, the effects of chemo are starting to wear off (which is nice), but I finally had to suck it up and shave my noggin a few weeks ago because I was starting to pull clumps of hair out of my head (unsightly!). Combine this with the fact that my eyebrows are now almost completely gone and imagine walking down the street. Or through your office. Or in your larger place of work as a whole. Nobody will recognize you. Now, I'm kind of an outgoing cat but when half of the people that you walk up and say hi to basically give you the "who the fuck is this guy" look, it get's a little awkward for them and off-putting to you. Nobody's to blame, here, but it almost makes me feel like it's less worthwhile to speak to anybody. That's a little conflicting for a guy that more or less talks to people for a living.

I guess this is what they mean by the psychological effects of treatment. Be sure to bring your copy of the DSM IV for our next meeting so we're all on the same page.

The Final Confrontation: A Story in Pictures

And Then There Was One

Cancer keeps you from updating blogs. It also keeps you from beer, but not for long. That's right; in T minus 4 days I will be through with chemotherapy (assuming all goes according to plan, and like my dude Hannibal Smith, I love it when a plan comes together) and ready for the next phase- radiation.

This means one thing: in a few weeks when my body recovers and starts to agree with what I want it to do, I'm going to get turbodrunk. Why? Because that's how you kill cancer. Don't argue with me.

So the last chemo session was not a red letter day for manhood. As evident by my last couple of updates, I am so disconnected from reality that I may as well be an Erasure song. But sometimes timing the medication to coincide with getting drugs blasting through your veins just doesn't jibe, and things get a little sickly. Pukey, in fact; and that's exactly what happened for the first time thus far in my Cancer Odyssey. I took it like a man, though, even telling my nurse to just keep pushing that shit into my system in between vomitous hurks into a trash can. Let's hope Chemo: The Final Fight (which we may playfully call this Friday's last confrontation) goes a little better.

Anyway, hope things are well, suckas

The Worst Jokes Are The Ones You Have To Explain

So, it seems that in my incoherent state that I left out a crucial detail from last time. Here goes:

In Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan -by and large the Moby Dick of science fiction flicks- Latin Lothario Ricardo Montalban plays the eponymous Khan with a tube sticking out of his arm throughout the entire movie. Somehow, this speaks to me.

There.




And Kyle Massey, you're a champ. So let it be written.

Th Wrath

I have to do this fast because I'm sure how much time I left in coherence. Meaning, I took some meds that are making me feel a bit buzzed (something I've actually begun to miss) to keep me calm enough for the rest of today's battle with the Enemy. But the truth is that I'll be loopy pretty darn soon, so we have to make things clear:This is the arm of cancerous persecution. An image I had sworn I'd seen before. But where? Who would have gusto, the chutzpa, and most importantly the physical presence to have something like this protrude from your meat and veins? A formidable query for a lesser intellect, when it comes to asking questions like this, you should only have one answer. The only answer.

Khan Noonian Sing. Ricardo Montelbon. The Latin Lover. By our twin IVs we enjoy a magical connection that transcends space, time, and the fact that I only know him through works of fiction. I feel his smooth talking, yet Machiavellian methods of seeing old acquaintense flow through me as these amazing, yet nauseating drugs work to make sure I'm cancer free. This give me strength. Cancer, from hells heart, I stab at thee. And it's coming, buddy. Sleep wihe one eye open

So back at the chemo ward, we are the beginning of the last 3 chemotherapy session before I get RADIOACTIVE. We are watching the Price is Right, and someone just won a trip to Barbados. He seemed happy, and so did I for him, until realized that I'm still sitting in a hospital room in a bit of pain, so the Wrath kicks in and i feel disdain. This won't last, but it does feel a bit punk rock. Perhaps if this feeling continues past just chemo, I'll play some Street Fighter and show those turkeys what PAIN IS ALL ABOUT.

The drugs are working. I am spacing out now. But feel free to offer me you KHHAAAAAAAAN!! screams when I see you.

The State of Things in Casa de Cancer

First, I want to give a quick shout (or yelp, maybe) to everyone out there that's been as supportive as they have during my time of cruddymuffins (which is a term I was thinking of using in reference to cancer, but I'm already over it). It sucks that it takes a pretty nasty illness for people to come visit you and stuff, but it sure is nice to see people. Now, you can go ahead and pat yourself on the back for calling a little more often or dropping by here and there or mailing me a very sweet -but not too sweet- "get well" card, but you ain't shit compared to this guy:

Yes, he came to Cleveland to wish me well and help baby me after a chemo week, even going so far as to watch this with me, but he showed more mettle than anyone that claims to be helping me by attempting to eat a 4 lb. cheese sandwich. Say what you want; he did it for cancer.

Anyway, we have good news and bad news about that whole cancer thing. First, since I just watched The Expendables, I'm no longer spin kicking cancer in the face, I'm stepping on its friggin' neck. That's really violent, but it'll pass. If Van Damme was in the Expendables, we may be back to jumping spin kicks in the unsuspecting, doughy face of cancer. But since he held out for a meatier role that didn't exist (thanks, Wikipedia!), we're going with the Sly Stallone, HGH version of c-word kickassery, and that involves neck stepping. And testosterone. Lots of testosterone.

Second is the bad news, but it ain't that bad. It turns out that I'm going to have to go through radiation therapy after the chemo has ended. The odds of me actually skipping radiation was nearly infinitesimal to begin with, so I'm not exactly crushed, but still. I'm boutsta get zapped come October; hide your women and children.

The good news? It turns out that the chemo isn't just working, it's working. The largest lymph node that I had was around 4.5cm x 4.5cm (roughly the size of an ice cream truck driven by a werewolf) and is now down to around 1.5cm in diameter. My doctor -whom I'll go ahead and remind all of you is the kindliest Englishman this side of Hogwarts- is very impressed with the progress I have made up to this point, even though we're going to go ahead with the radioactive blasting of cancerous evil.

This is actually really good news. I've felt like dirt for the past few months, but not half as bad as it could have been, I guess, which made my lady and I think that this whole chemo thing didn't take. Turns out the opposite is true. There are now three more treatments to go, and I'm to the point where I'm counting down the days until I start radiation so I can be rid of my 6 hour hospital trips. Now that the thought of my own urine makes me nauseated (that is not a joke), I want to be good and done with chemotherapy, like, this afternoon.

So, I guess I'm kinda through with the whole "sick with cancer" thing. I mean, it was cool in the beginning and all...

Hold the Phone

Everything's going to be fine. This whole cancer thing is now in the bag.