Ox Fall Down

Matchday 17: John Cougar into David Bowie. Two doctors from China observe. Afterwards one helps you down from the tray. They're surprised when you speak to them. Happy New Year, they reply.

Matchday 16: tired. You fall asleep on the tray. You could sleep all day now.

Matchday 15.

Matchday 14: 9th sessions in 10 days. No wait, right up onto the tray. Overhead the Pogues sing the best Christmas song ever. Followed by Jose Feliciano. Out the door and into the car. Driving helps ease the stomach. Anticipation is the key.

Tired all the time now. You can sleep at any moment. All you need is a pillow.

Matchday 13: back and right fields accessed. Meeting with Delaney afterward. Next scan scheduled for January 8th. 32ish days of treatment predicted.

Matchday 12: more evidence of the construction workers. The old tv sits in a new console. The whole room is neater now and feels larger. Kids crowd the new tv waiting for a turn on the Finding Nemo video game. The graphics look like the movie not a game.

It's open mic night in the waiting room. The usually reserved crew is entertained by the aperture machinist. Heavy Boston accent. Late 50's. Patriots fan. He's passing around photos of his trip to Key West. He lost a bet, presumably, and had to wear a dress. Got enlisted to perform in a cabaret but turned them down because they wouldn't let his friends in for free. He once sent a case of Sam Adams to a patient from Stuttgart. The patient from Stuttgart, he was German, and he loved Sam Adams. The guys at UPS said it was exporting and therefore illegal. So they removed a bottle. He sent 23 bottles and it was ok. It cost him $80 but he didn't care. It was the idea of it. He says goodbye and then you realize the three audience members aren't together. At the table next to you sit a couple from Ontario. You may assume they went oot on Newbury Street last night. At the table next to them sits a blonde woman from Nashville. Oh, really? We have friends in Athens. Georgia? Yes. My daughter went to school in Athens, Georgia. She crashed her truck there, ran into a cow. The cow just slipped the electric fence. No brand. We had no way of knowing who it belonged to.

The machinist crossdresser comes back for his second set. "I've got handmade Christmas cards for you." He hands out sheets of paper with capital L's and the circle-and-slash forbidden sign. No response. "Look at it." Blank stares. "Look at it." Crickets in the background. "What's that?" An L? "Get it? No-L. Get it?"

He leaves again. They talk of housing and fatigue. The blonde has met somebody. They've had the best time together. It's the first time she's seen anyone since the divorce. Oh, that's wonderful. Boston men know how to treat women. Nobody holds the door for you in Nashville. You climb into the truck on your own.

Phil comes out to retrieve you but the Canadian woman rises first. Phil points at you and the woman sits back down.

You offer her your dose.

She doesn't want it, Phil chimes in.

Walking down the hallway he continues, And you don't want hers.

Up onto the table. X-rays. Back and left fields accessed again. No pattern anymore. Phil and his brother-in-law are making applejack in CT over Christmas. He'll save you some.

Matchday 11: 08:45 on the Orange Line platform at Mass. Ave. Weak winter sun. Empty train. Empty Cambridge Street.

Full waiting room. The constuction workers converting the jail into a hotel raised $15,000 for the hospital. New toys for the kids. New tv and videos for the kids. New Playstation 2 and Frogger. A bunch of six-year-olds crowded around the video game. Half of the group wear eye patches of gauze taped to their faces. Picking up the case for Frogger draws the attention of one of the kids. You eye him right back. You think you're tough stuff making it to level 2, Barney? I was playing this game when your parents were in high school. You want a piece of me, Wiggles? Oh, didn't see that snake did you, Elmo? That's right, go cry to mom.

More Marie Claire. You read for a second time about Katie Holmes' great loves. Pinot grigio and comfortable pants. Ron calls you in 20 minutes early. Good sign.

Back and right fields accessed. Very quick. Back to the subway and the South End. Can't keep the eyes open. 3 and a half hour nap. Ugh. There goes the day.

Matchday 10: what happens when you're late to treatment? Phil calls and asks where you are. "I'm at the Beacon Hill Pub. What do you guys want?" Phil orders a Bud Light and you can hear Ron in the background ordering Heinekens. You're late because at noon you could barely keep your eyes open. And your short-cut behind the Christian Science Center turns into a long-cut. And you stop on Boylston to talk to Kenny about his trip to Tokyo.

Sweating and heart beating fast you lay yourself down on the platform. All business today. X-rays are finished without you knowing it. They finish the first field when you think they're just finishing the last x-ray. Machine is working well and the second field is finished lickety-split. Right on. You're done after 40 minutes. When you lower your arms they react like they did when you were a kid and forced them out against the door jambs for a minute. They take on a life of their own, floating away. You have no control and start laughing. Phil asks what's wrong? and your arms float up again to the ceiling.

Cyn and Alessia come down the hall to see the room. Because you were late and other patients are waiting you know the tour will be brief. Until Phil and Ron get a look at the girls. The boys drop the tour into a lower gear.

Key fact: the lenses are radioactive for three weeks after treatment finishes. The center stores them for a month before shipping them out to the recycling facility. They're melted down and recast for other patients. Hmmm. Didn't know that.

Matchday 9: They're a half hour behind so you flip through Marie Claire and learn about "Runway to Realway: 10 Ways to Flatter Your Figure." The 2nd way is "Look Taller." Time to switch to Cosmo. Since you can't figure out Who's That Guy Without His Shirt? you quit magazines for the day. ESPN News has a countdown going for the A-Rod-Garciaparra deal and Jason Stark says it's not looking good. Time to get rad as Phil calls you in. Left and right sides accessed. After three cycles the pattern has held: back and left side; back and right side; left and right sides.

Into an examination room and up on the scales. Funf und achtzig macht ein Mensch and you're past that at an even 100kg. 3,500 calories per day, indeed. Resting heart-rate is 60; blood pressure is 110 over 70. Or is it 140 over 70? In either case the nurse says you're fine. Any pain? No. Any nausea? Yes. Any burning? No. Let's see about that. She lifts up your shirt and shows you two pink circles with magic marker centers. One on the left and one on the right. You take her word for the one on your back. Aquaphor (petrolatum) twice a day should take care of it. No hot showers, though. Yeah, sure.

Eat or vomit. Eat. You're fine. Down Newbury Street. Hello, Petrea. Drop your bag off at Nate's. Aimee picks you up and fifty yards later you know it's a mistake to be in the car. She drives like she skies. Rush-hour traffic and cars become gates. You make it through the drive, Friends, and Will and Grace without throwing. She offers to drive you home. Thanks anyways, the weather's nice and walking is good for you.

Matchday 8: another fast session. Final treatment slot of the day and the waiting room is empty. Back and right sides accessed.

Afterwards Ron shows me today's x-ray image taken for alignment. Each vertebra is used against the final scan taken before treatment started. Today they were less than .1 mm off of perfect alignment.

Tired. Fell asleep for two hours this afternoon. I wonder if I'm a quarter through the regime. Is it too soon to start asking, "Are we there yet?" I told Ian today that the pace appears to pick up with each day. Like driving the same route everyday. After awhile it just seems shorter.

If you're in town and want to see the facility please let me know. I understand this is a hectic season so don't feel obligated. It's an offer, not a request.

Matchday 7: much smoother and faster today after yesterday's marathon. Back and left fields accessed. Overhead Tom Petty gives way to Peter Frampton.

It comes out in conversation that the radiation therapists treat to half a millimeter of perfect alignment. Any larger discrepancy and they realign. They use the same device to take x-rays as they do to deliver the proton beams. The tattoos and ink spots are used to fit you in the tray. Then they use spinal images from the x-rays to micro-adjust. Ron calls them, "bony markers." After the image is taken they just slide the snout over the x-ray hole, affix the aperture to the already-mounted lens and fire away.

Dinner in the cafeteria. Then across the river to the Kendall to get knocked around by the beautiful, little Irish girls in In America.

Matchday 6: the generator disconnects from the room in between the 1st and 2nd fields. You're stranded on the gurney for 20 minutes. Otherwise it's business as usual.

Meeting with Delaney after treatment. He predicts 32 days of treatment in total. Scan around the 25th day to decide on dose adjustment. If the tumor shrinks away from the stomach he will increase the dosage for the last week or two.

That's it. Across the river to see Shattered Glass with Mark Brown.

Woke up this morning and knew something was seriously wrong. I called 9.1.1. but began throwing up blood before I could give the dispatcher any info. I ran to the bathroom and saw blood gushing out my eyes. Soon blood was flowing out my ears. Then I collapsed on the floor in the fetal position....

....just kidding. I'm pukey and tired. Eating helps with the former and sleeping helps with the latter. Watching a lot of movies.

Speaking of looking handsome in his new uniform, how about Keith Foulke?

Matchday 5: Groundhog Day. Back and right fields accessed. Overhead the Who give way to Bob Seger. One hour+. Off to the movies.

Week 1 is in the books.

Matchday 4: soaking wet upon arrival. No waiting. Phil hands me a pair of the karate/OR pants and hangs my sopping wet street pants next to the fan...Oh, are they? No music today. X-ray. Back and left portals accessed. One hour+. Street pants are dry now. Down Charles Street for pizza. Pants are soaking wet now. Across the Commons to the movies.

Doesn't Andy Pettitte look handsome in his new uniform?

Matchday 3: the machine is down so you wait with your parents and aunt for an hour in the waiting room. Once ready it seems the techs are trying to make up for lost time. Alignment takes only seconds. Is that John Cougar playing from the ceiling? Yes, it is. Not John Cougar Mellencamp. Definitely not John Mellencamp. John Cougar singing the very first radio song you ever loved. "Jack and Diane." Funny how quickly you can become twelve again.

No accessing the portal in your back today. The snout of the apparatus is in full view from start to finish. In three days they've used all three portals twice. Is this the rotating schedule?

Afterwards, with the family in the room talking to the techs you see behind the room. Half a geodesic dome of painted white iron supports the apparatus and the hamster wheel. A jungle gym for giants.

No time to waste. Off to the three o'clock appointment with the nutritionist.

You need 3,000 to 3,600 calories/day during treatment. At least three liters of fluids. You can manage the nausea for now just by eating every two hours. Eat before you get out of bed. Don't drink water on an empty stomach. Power bars are good and you can't eat too many. No carbs without protein. Lots of protein. Eggs and cheese, eggs and cheese. Flax seed and omega-3. Pizza is perfect: tomatoes, cheese and carbs.

Ok, you're done. Off to the movies.

One week has passed and you're now free to ask, How are you feeling?

Ask with impunity but be prepared to answer the same question.

To get you started: I am feeling ok. Little nauseous which is supposed to increase. Tired too. Otherwise fine. So far, so good.

Matchday 2: they pull you from the waiting room after 1 song. Almost right on time. "No need to change," you're told as you walk past the dressing rooms. Up on to the tray. Into the mold and braces. Shirt pulled up. Magic marker points on your stomach and sides are re-inked. The x-ray slides over your head to your chest. 10 minutes later the first portal is accessed from below. Then the entire room spins. To access the portal on your right side the device rotates over your head from the left. As it passes your stomach you reference Dr. No and Thunderball. The tech references Bond girls. 5 minutes later you're done. You just got rad for the second time and the whole process took an hour.

Matchday 1: leave your pants and shoes on but take your shirt off. Lie on your back on the tray in your hip mold and leg braces. Hands over your head on the two pegs. Thin, red lasers align against the tattoos. The techs lift your left side an inch. They make x's on your chest with magic markers. They place two lead blankets over your pelvis and leave the room for an x-ray. The Eagles play faintly overhead while you wait for them to come back. The tray slides to the back wall. Later it will slide to each compass point and rotate 360 degrees. After 5 minutes the first portal is finished. They slide you to the left wall. The device is now at your side, extended four feet like a metal, telescopic old camera. One of the techs slides a bronze lens over the device. It's shaped like the far, right edge of the tumor. You breathe normally. If it weren't for a slight pain in your right arm you would fall asleep. The entire room starts to spin like a hamster wheel. You think you're going to tip off of the tray before you realize the walls and ceiling are moving but the floor is static. You're brain knows you're not moving but your eyes still can't believe it. The lights go out for the second portal. Five minutes later you're finished. That's it. You just got rad.

I don't like my new job. My boss and colleagues are nice enough but the work is unrewarding.

Lovely final weekend before treatment recommences. Friday, the nice Christmas party. Yesterday, shovelling snow in Essex followed by tromping through more snow in Boston in the evening. Today I had breakfast with Nate and Christine. Then the lovely, nice and brunch ended as Vrabel, Bruschi and Harrison turned nastier than the wind and snow.

As Andrew says, We need a win. Going into MGH tomorrow at 11-2 makes treatment less daunting.

A month and a half ago I explained the growth and new treatment to Vigdis. She listened to the imperative for quick action with radiation. She listened to the different success ratios according to tumor size. She waited for me to finish and then I could hear her smile through the phone:

"Well, time to go back to work."

And that is exactly what is happening. For years I've considered this cancer vocational. It's what I do. It isn't unique or even unusual. It just is.

So tomorrow, with the rest of the world, we will pick up our hard hat and lunch pail and go back to work. That's not tragic or even dramatic. We all have to do it. Thankfully for those of us in New England we have Brady, Vinatieri and the defense to make Monday much more bearable.

Time to go back to work

After speaking with two friends in NY I want to apologize if my tone has been aggressive in some of the recent posts. I'm usually smiling when I write even when it's about morbid topics. Sometimes that smile doesn't make it do the page. So, sorry if I've been pushy.

I start on Monday afternoon. 12:45 arrival. 13:15 appointment. Great holiday party last night. Boston tonight to walk around in the snow. Hope NH is getting all this.

Skiing alone last February an instructor asked me to take three of her charges up the lift for her. Michael, 5 and a half, Colette, 6, and Daniel, also 6.

As we rose towards the first tower Michael said matter-of-factly, "I'm scared of heights."

Colette corrected him quickly. "No you're not. Don't say that."

"Yes, I am. I've always been afraid of heights. My whole life."

For a few minutes we talked about school in Cranston. Then Michael turned to me and asked, "Will you hold my hand?"

Sure. Holding hands with a five year-old over-dressed for a day of skiing is tricky. They almost don't have hands distinct from their arms. I ended up just grabbing his wrist.

"No. My hand."

So I readjusted and we held hands for the rest of the ride. At the last tower he asked, "Will you help me get off."

Of course. Ready? I'm lifting the bar now. Ok, here we go...

And Michael pushed off with both hands ignoring my help. He shot off like a luger and sang out over his shoulder, "That was easy!"

How does it apply? After the first 6 cycles of chemo I started to really dread going back for #7. And #7 was worse. #8 was harder still. #9 was so bad I thought it dangerous. I had read on the web about cytotoxic deaths and study-mortality-rates and was just freaking out in general. Doctors and nurses assured me they weren't killing me. Justin called before #10 and asked this week's forbidden question: how are you?

"I'm scared, Dog."

This was a difficult admission. One I had been avoiding for almost a year. Maybe I thought if I spoke my fear the situation would spiral out of control. Instead the opposite occurred. Verbalizing it got it out of my system. I still hated the chemo but was no longer carrying the added burden of silence. From then on I understood chemo as a suffer-fest. Not something to glean knowledge from. Not heuristic. Nothing Nietzschean; nothing from the back of a wrestling camp t-shirt. Only something to be endured. Now though I was free from my lying by omission. Speaking my fear erased it.

That was easy!

MGH called. Monday afternoon = Matchday 1 for proton radiation.

Be careful of what you ask for.

I'm soliciting theme songs for my final week of freedom. So far the entrants are the scores from Jaws and Mission: Impossible.

No news from MGH. A social worker called this morning to see if I had any questions. "Um, yeah. When can I start?"

I'll write as soon as I find out. In the meantime, you'll kindly stop asking how I'm feeling or doing. For one week. Although I've so enjoyed all the questions I fear I've neglected inquiring about your health. So, for the next week I won't answer. I will ask how you're doing. No, really, how are you doing? Maybe you're fine. Maybe you've made your peace with liposarcoma. Maybe you've answered the tricky questions of mortality. If you have not we can discuss. If you have we can move on to holiday shirt shopping.

Ok. It's 11:04 in NH. Starting...now.