Elixir Me This

I gazed on the mellifluous mixing of 

crimson and amber filling the ingress. 

Then she pushed and I plunged far 

away and floating. In an instance of 

feeling infinity, a life is from then 

on altered and saved so they say.

Eyes half closed, blissing and kissing 

my elixir bag, I flew far away and oh so 

very high above my old life, lying deep 

in pocket of dreams gone dry, being 

dripped with a poison I must learn to 

love or die, so they say.

Never hungry, I shrank thin and grew to 

loathe my once loved muscled manliness. 

I knew I could stop when the treatment

hurt me more than helped and I held on. 

So deeper into the conscious coma I slipped 

over time after time until time had no 

hands to hold on to.

Every clock tick-tock ticking time passes 

dead slowly while my fingers hum

drummed the rhythm on the 

medicine table next to my 

cheek of napping drool.

Take me to bed and my pulse. Hold me 

lightly until no light shines in my eyes 

while floor curling and hurling. 

The needle point piercing pretty pink 

pulchritude to age away into the fray 

of my vacation days finally 

feeling my decay I said

no way to more.

The loss desperately remains within my 

hollow frame, where tempest tattered 

heart strings pulled too hard to 

ignore and tears were 

swallowed while 

losing me. 

The noxious odor from my gastronomic 

effusions will be in the depths of my 

salient mind and dreams for longer 

than I fear. Now in complacent 

comfort I see how fast the 

years of me are 

screaming.

Just Like The Movies

I had the "PEG tube" (the belly feeding tube) surgically inserted into my stomach.  At the time I still felt like it was premature if needed at all because I was still managing to eat solid food. But over the next week or so I found out just how wrong I was. A little less than a week after getting the belly tube, swallowing and even chewing food became difficult. Placing tasteless food in my mouth became like trying to chew and swallow wet paper towels. In the fifth week of radiation treatments my neck looked like one of those Hirodshima atom bomb victims. My chemo and radiated system began to reject anything solid that I put in my mouth and I instantly would hurl when I tried swallowing. 

I could still drink water and cold black coffee but swallowing solids became impossible. So I made several attempts figuring out how to fill syrenges with the supplied baby-formula without spilling it, inserting said syringe into the belly tube nozzle and injecting my empty stomach with the liquid nutrition that I desperately needed. Figuring out how to use the PEG tube syringes to feed myself mostly involved learning how to contain spills and leaks. The chilly feeling in my stomach when blasting a full syringe of formula was also a little traumaticat first but I became accustomed to that fairly quickly. I was starving. It all seemed like I was watching myself as a character in a movie. . . not real at all, just something I managed to move through mechanically. Survival works in wonderful mysterious ways. 

In the last week of radiation. I used the PEG tube in my stomach as my only source of nourishment. Two weeks since my last round of chemo and the fits of nausea stopped except usually after a radiation treatment I spend a few minutes dry heaving before I can drive myself home. Funny thing, despite my aversion to food, I went on a cooking binge – making food for Ciara when she's here and the neighbors (Tyler and Madison) – a very nice couple who live down the hall. 

Still Ok

 

My birthday this month began with my Android phone singing Happy Birthday to me. My phone sang in that oddly pleasant sounding electronic voice that also bids me greetings whenever I power up my phone. Of course later in the day I got happy birthday well wishes from my lovely princess Ciara, Tracy, Mark, and a few of my very dear friends. But my Android is the only one who sang to me. That's a good thing. I feel weird when real people sing Happy Birthday.  I'm sixty-four and feel like I'm still twelve, despite my having begun radiation and chemo therapy for the residule horrors that the surgery could not excise. I opted for the chemo schedule that includes one 6-hour treatment every 3 weeks as opposed to a 2-hour treatment once a week, mostly because I didn't want to do the extra driving but also because with the weekly treatments they suggested putting a "port" in my chest -- yet another hole drilled in me. . . no thanks. As of this writing, I have had my first chemo treatment and five days of radiation and I have yet to excperience any neausea or other noticable side effects --  quite the opposite actually. I have been ravenous and eating voraciously and have gained eight pounds. The only notable side-effect has been from the chemo drug (Cisplatin) which notably affects certain nerve endings, particularly audidory nerves, I was told. So far I have noticed that the normal age related tinitus ringing in my ears has become louder. Also, I feel a little queasy in the mornings, but that's all. I was warned that the Cisplatin treatments may affect my hearing. Hence the pre-chemo hearing test and my upcoming post-treatment hearing test. 

Ciara stayed the night and we had a steak dinner a few nights ago. She woke primed and ready for school and I'm made her breakfast – eggs over easy, hash browns and trailer-park toast. For dinner I made Thai coconut-curry chicken and veggies. Yes, she used chopsticks. She is so wonderful -- staying with me while I do the chemo and radiation shit and I relish every second I have with her. But I know it's difficult for her to spend time with me and keep up with her school work so I promised her that I'm doing fine and that she should go back to th blue house (her mom's house) and attend to her real business which of course is her  schooling. 

. . . 

Despite my half-hearted objections, Ciara stayed over another night with me. For breakfast I made a ham/cheese/mushroom/onion omelet topped with Hollandaise sauce, hash browns and maple flavored sausages, coffee and orange juice. I love cooking. But  I mostly love cooking for Ciara. Oh hell, I love taking care of her in any way that I can. I spoil my princess every chance I get, When she is at her mother's house, I worry about her. Antonia can be difficult to say the least. And I don't think she understands Ciara at all. She definitely does not spoil her. 

. . . 

It's been a few days since Ciara went back to the blue house. Though I have lived alone for almost half my life, I think this is the first time I have ever felt lonely . . . when I don't see Ciara for a few days. But not just because of that, also because I am not working now while doing the cancer treatments and the workplace is and has been the greatest percentage of my social life for the past few years. I could work some I suppose, since I am feeling pretty good, but I would have to interrupt my work-day schedule every day with doctor appointments, chemo days and daily radiation treatments. I don't think having to accomodate my medical schedule is something that my boss should have to work around. So I'm taking a sebbatical from work and getting whatever state benefit money I can obtain for my living expenses. Unfortunately state funds are not enough to cover rent, living expenses, medical bills not covered by insurrance, and my beer money so I'm also using the proceeds from the sale of my house in Texas to pay for what the state cannot cover. Using the money from the sale of my house to live on and pay medical bills is depressing. I anticipated using the house sale proceeds to pay for Ciara's college tuition and other expenses. My life has become a very strange dream or something I might watch in a movie. It's not my life. Or not the life I ever imagined. But I'm still Ok for now . . .  I think. 

Before Chemo and Radiation

Phone calls almost every day now . . . nurses, health technicians, nutrition specialist, social workers, insurance company advisors, counselors and so on. Dr. Wahl said the chemo drug selected for me (Cisplatin) may affect aspects of my central nervous system, specifically my hearing. So I will be having hearing tests regularly before and during the time I have chemo treatments. 

Nancy sent me a book –  “Middlesex” by Jeffrey Eugenides. It's about an intersex person. I read it in two days. Not that I have had such an experience as Mr. Eugenides, but I am accepting that I may very well have some degree of intersex syndrome. Some day I'll have my hormone levels evaluated to substantiate the possibility but for now I'll just keep clutching the mask of manliness despite my boobs and girly butt. 

. . .

I met with specialty nurse Bhark and Dr. Spiegel about radiation treatments and went to the radiology clinic to have a mask made for my face that will hold my head still during treatments. Also, Dr. Spiegel told me to see a dentist before radiation treatments. My old peridontal bones will be compromised by the radiation and the resulting damage could lead infection and festering bone sockets that take years to heal.  Apparently I can avoid that horror if I have the weaker teeth removed before radiation. 

. . .

Had my pre-chemo hearing test and my friend Bunk took me to my belly-tube appointment but while I was there I asked Dr. Rama why I was having the procedure done six or eight weeks before I would need tube feeding. He agreed that it seemed premature and let me leave unmolested. So Bunk and I went shopping at the Value Village thrift store. I got a really cute top.

. . . 

September 28 - Dr. Brown (Keano Reeves) removed six teeth from my lower jaw that he felt would not survive radiation treatments. I cried myself to sleep when I got home. 

Surgery

My best friend Nancy drove all the way from Wisconson to be with me and take care of stuff for me during my surgery time. She brought me to Seatlle Swedish Cancer Institute and stayed with me during and after the surgery. Dr. Golden performed the lymphadenectomy, bilateral tonsillectomy,  and excised some tissue from the base of my tongue. The operating room was about the size of a one-car garage – much smaller than I thought it would be. I also thought there would have been more people in the operating room. But it was just Dr. Golden, a nurse and the anesthesiologist. Dr. Golden said “Are you ready?” and before I could answer the bright overhead lights faded to blackness.  

I woke up in my hospital room five or so hours later with a six inch stitched up laceration in my neck and a drainage tube protruding from the right side of my throat. The drainage tube was filling a bag near my bed with blood. . . . nasty.  Even with the drain tube, during the first hour or so of being awake I threw up at least two pints of blood. If Nancy had not been there I probably would have whined a lot. But she was there, got to see me vomit blood and make jokes about it. I held on to my macho comedian mask as well as I could. Dr. Golden came in later to tell me that he found more infected tissue than expected and removed tonsils, a small piece from the back of my tongue, and eight lymph nodes instead of the anticipated six.  The gruesome result of the surgery left me unable to swallow without choking. I stayed in the hospital for almost a week recovering and learning how to swallow. It all seemed surreal. Like I was playing a part in an episode of Grey's Anatomy. 

Nancy brought me home and stayed with me for a few more days. I wish she could have stayed longer. Not because I need help. I just enjoy her company. Well more than that, I love her. . . something we don't talk about. 

Future Human

When I was eleven years old my parents took me to a doctor to see why their son was apparently growing breasts. My nipples were swollen way beyond what would be considered normal for an adolescent boy and I hadn't even reached male adolescence. It was the first time I heard the word hermaphrodite. The doctor jokingly said “You are becoming a girl.” A remark that stuck in my memory forever. But at the time, I didn't think it was funny. Neither did my dad. I was mortified. The doctor went on to explain to my parents that when my male hormones activate my breast development would likely stop. But maybe not. And if not, I could have surgery to “fix” my condition. As for why this was happening he told my parents how all fetal genitalia are female until the Y chromosome induces changes that result in the development of male testes. He said however that in some cases that ovarian tissue also continues to develop, resulting in “hermaphrodite syndrome” and that I may be one of those cases. 

The doctor went on to say that in most cases like mine, once the male hormones kick in, my breast tissue development would stop and he was right. I remained flat-chested for most of my adult life. But in my mid to late 30's when my testosterone levels started dropping off, my breasts started growing again. I spoke with another doctor about it who said my breast growth history is consistent with the presence of residule ovarian tissue (possibly an ovotestis) and I may be what is now referred to as "intersex." By the time I was forty I had developed the cute little A-cup size boobs that I have today, and honestly, I don't mind it. In fact I think being a man with female parts makes me kind of a futuristic human -  a jump forward in human evolution. 

But all joking aside, though I used to hate it, these days I do relish being different - being a man, but also part woman . . . what used to make me wear a t-shirt in any situation where toplessness was the norm, swimming or sexual encounters, I always kept my shirt on. Not anymore. These days I proudly exhibit my bigender attributes -- my righteous biceps and my adorable little boobies. I feel like an evolutionarily advanced human – true physical androgyny, with both male and female anatomical parts.

Cancer

The urgent care doctor sent me to a ENT specialist who sent me to an oncologist (Dr. Wahl) who ordered a CT scan and which lead to having a biopsy of the lump in my throat. Never having had such a procedure I was apprehensive to say the least. The doctor who performed the procedure was very kind and understanding and assured me that all I would feel was the initial prick of the anesthetic needle. He was right.  Based on the CT scan he felt it necessary to biopsy six lymph nodes. Me and my numb neck left the clinic and bought a six-pack of beer. 

I signed up to Swedish hospital's "My Chart" online so I could see the pathology report myself without having to make another appointment to hear the news. The pathology results: Right upper neck lymph nodes – metastatic HPV mediated (p16 positive) squamous cell carcinoma: p40 strongly positive, p16 strongly positive . . . in plain English – cancer. But it doesn't feel like reality. I don't feel anything except a sense of urgency about hearing the diagnosis from a doctor. 

Someone from the Swedish Cancer Institute in Issaquah called me the next day and scheduled a consultation appointment with Dr. Wahl to discuss my options. At that meeting she informed me of the seriousness of my condition but either couldn't or wouldn't give me a definitive prognosis. She made me an appointment for a positron emission tomography (PET) scan for better images of my lymph nodes and the rest of my body to look for other possible "mets". She also made an appointment with a radiologist.   

. . . 

I'm sure the PET scan results provided the doctors with details they need to procede but the jargon in the report didn't enlighten me any further except for one notation (not cancer related) -- I have bilateral gynecomastia . . . my man boobs are actual mammary glands!  I can't even begin to say how much I love that. 

I met with the radiologist (Dr. Spiegel) who explained in great detail what kind of cancer I have the various treatments involved. His description of the radiation treatment effects were graphic involving burns on the outside and inside my throat, severe enough to prevent me from swallowing food so a “feeding tube” would need to be inserted into my stomach. I asked about having the tumor surgically removed and he confirmed that was a definite possibility but I would still need radiation and chemo therapy. He was very blunt and scarry, but like Dr. Wahl, he couldn't or wouldn't comment on my prognosis. He only said if I didn't have the treatments that I would be dead in three or four years. He gave me the name of a surgical oncologist to see in Seattle. Driving in Seattle distresses me more than the whole cancer scare. 

. . . 

My friend Christie went with me to see the surgical oncologist in Seattle.  She drove, saving me the horror of driving and in Seattle traffic. The surgical oncologist (Dr. Golden, how perfect is that) was a hyper young fellow who enthusiastically told me that I needed surgery to excise my cancerous lymph nodes, tonsils and maybe other neck and mouth tissues. He also said that followup radiation and chemo therapy would still be needed to ensure the eradication of remaining cancer cells that surgery doesn't remove. Oh, and finally a doctor willing to give me my prognosis and status -- he said my cancer is nearly stage 3 and good thing I didn't wait any longer in seeking medical attention.  He said I'm "not going to die from this," citing a 90% survival rate with treatment for this kind of cancer and he said that Dr. Speigel was correct in saying that without treatment I would be dead in three or four years. Dr. Golden will be performing the lymphadenectomy, tonsilechtomy and cutting out whatever else he finds all in one surgical session about three weeks from today - August 23rd.