This Is How It Begins
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I've got enough of these bracelets to last a lifetime.
Without exception, that is how it starts. As soon as the diagnosis comes down from on high -- hell, maybe even before you get the news from someone qualified to be telling you if you're one of those people that likes to self-diagnose -- you go into full blown research mode. You want stats, survival rates, instances of diagnosis. You want to know what causes it, who generally gets diagnosed with it, and what improvements to treatments are being made. You want the best doctor in the best hospital with the best team of nurses for 'round the clock care. Most of all, you want your insurance company to back whatever treatment you need to save your life.
I can't tell you how much literature my mom printed out in those first few days after news came back that I was sick. She kept wanting to assure herself that everything was going to be all right, and somehow, she found solace in understanding what was happening to the best of her ability.
My dad, meanwhile, shut himself off and simply blamed himself. See, my dad survived prostate cancer back in '99, and he never really coped with his own illness. He had no idea how he was going to cope with his 17 year old son going through nearly the same ordeal. To be truthful, it was not the same ordeal. His cancer (prostate) was first treated with surgery. When his PSA started creeping up several years later, only then did he go through radiation therapy. From the get-go, I was told I would need both chemo and radiation.
Joy of joys. I didn't care about the literature. Reading up on pamphlets wasn't going to give me my health back. More than words on a page, I needed some kinda of miracle cure, and I needed it quick.
Why? Because I was going to go bald!
I can't tell you how much literature my mom printed out in those first few days after news came back that I was sick. She kept wanting to assure herself that everything was going to be all right, and somehow, she found solace in understanding what was happening to the best of her ability.
My dad, meanwhile, shut himself off and simply blamed himself. See, my dad survived prostate cancer back in '99, and he never really coped with his own illness. He had no idea how he was going to cope with his 17 year old son going through nearly the same ordeal. To be truthful, it was not the same ordeal. His cancer (prostate) was first treated with surgery. When his PSA started creeping up several years later, only then did he go through radiation therapy. From the get-go, I was told I would need both chemo and radiation.
Joy of joys. I didn't care about the literature. Reading up on pamphlets wasn't going to give me my health back. More than words on a page, I needed some kinda of miracle cure, and I needed it quick.
Why? Because I was going to go bald!
Locks of Love
Cisplatin Memories.
That was my biggest concern, that I'd be hairless as one of those freaky Dr. Evil cats.
"Don't you know how big my head is?" I asked, rubbing my hands across my skull as if to demonstrate to the doctor the monstrous size of my noggin. "I can't go bald, it'll make it look even bigger.
"Plus, have you SEEN my dad? Dude went bald at 22 from natural causes -- I could be next! Don't take away the last few years we have left, Doc," I ran my fingers through my hair, which had grown to six or seven inches in length over the winter.
I could already imagine it falling out in clumps. In the shower, it would clog the drain. In bed, it would cover my pillowcases. Every time I tried to run my fingers through it, a mess of tangles would curl around my fingers and peel away.
More than anything else, more than being nauseous, more than getting pumped full of drugs I couldn't pronounce, having to take other drugs by the fistful just to keep my body functioning at as-close-to-optimum-levels-as-possible-while-we're-killing-you-slowly-with-Cisplatin-and-other-crap, more than being isolated like a . . . well, like a cancer patient through the ongoing process of treatment (what? It's a good metaphor! You didn't think of it!) . . . I was going to lose my hair.
"What else are you taking away from me?"
"Because your white blood-cell count will ebb and flow during chemo and make you more prone to infectious disease, we're going to make arrangements with your school so that you don't have to go back," the doctor told me. I was a senior in high school and it was April. For a high schooler, that stretch of time is generally alloted to doing a whole lot of nothing and waiting impatiently for the semester to end. My semester was ending in a slightly different way, but at least I didn't have to sit through English 4A at Cherry Hill West while temperatures soared into the nineties.
"That's not, like, included in my Make-A-Wish package, is it?" I didn't want to waste my Wish on graduating early. I had big plans for that Wish, plans like a trip to Hawaii or a new guitar, or maybe a season tickets to the Phillies or a date with Mandy Moore. Something.
"No," the doctor laughed. "Make-A-Wish is something different, we'll discuss that later. This is just a precautionary method we do for all patients undergoing care."
So I could get a date with Mandy Moore and still get out of school early? My negotiating skills knew no bounds.
"Well," I said. "if that's true, consider me graduated. When's treatment start?"
"Don't you know how big my head is?" I asked, rubbing my hands across my skull as if to demonstrate to the doctor the monstrous size of my noggin. "I can't go bald, it'll make it look even bigger.
"Plus, have you SEEN my dad? Dude went bald at 22 from natural causes -- I could be next! Don't take away the last few years we have left, Doc," I ran my fingers through my hair, which had grown to six or seven inches in length over the winter.
I could already imagine it falling out in clumps. In the shower, it would clog the drain. In bed, it would cover my pillowcases. Every time I tried to run my fingers through it, a mess of tangles would curl around my fingers and peel away.
More than anything else, more than being nauseous, more than getting pumped full of drugs I couldn't pronounce, having to take other drugs by the fistful just to keep my body functioning at as-close-to-optimum-levels-as-possible-while-we're-killing-you-slowly-with-Cisplatin-and-other-crap, more than being isolated like a . . . well, like a cancer patient through the ongoing process of treatment (what? It's a good metaphor! You didn't think of it!) . . . I was going to lose my hair.
"What else are you taking away from me?"
"Because your white blood-cell count will ebb and flow during chemo and make you more prone to infectious disease, we're going to make arrangements with your school so that you don't have to go back," the doctor told me. I was a senior in high school and it was April. For a high schooler, that stretch of time is generally alloted to doing a whole lot of nothing and waiting impatiently for the semester to end. My semester was ending in a slightly different way, but at least I didn't have to sit through English 4A at Cherry Hill West while temperatures soared into the nineties.
"That's not, like, included in my Make-A-Wish package, is it?" I didn't want to waste my Wish on graduating early. I had big plans for that Wish, plans like a trip to Hawaii or a new guitar, or maybe a season tickets to the Phillies or a date with Mandy Moore. Something.
"No," the doctor laughed. "Make-A-Wish is something different, we'll discuss that later. This is just a precautionary method we do for all patients undergoing care."
So I could get a date with Mandy Moore and still get out of school early? My negotiating skills knew no bounds.
"Well," I said. "if that's true, consider me graduated. When's treatment start?"