Nick
It’s not so
easy to cherish every moment when those moments involve pain and sickness and
other forms of misery, as many of the ones in the hospital did that next
week. I was put through most of the same
tests I’d undergone in the days leading up to my diagnosis, including a spinal
tap and a bone marrow biopsy, before I started my next cycle of chemo.
When I
wasn’t being tortured, I was bored out of my mind. Howie and Kevin stopped by my hospital room
every afternoon, and even though I’d acted like I didn’t care if they came or
not, I really did enjoy their visits.
Brian and AJ called me daily, too, and their phone calls helped break up
the monotony. Still, it sucked spending
most of my days lying around in a hospital bed.
I realized
how good I’d had it on tour, when I could at least get my chemo while I played
video games on the tour bus or relaxed in a swanky hotel suite. No matter how upscale, a hospital room could
never compare. Neither could the
company. The nurses there were nice, but
busy. They didn’t have time to talk to
me, except for a few minutes of chitchat while they checked my vitals or
changed my IV bag. I missed having Cary
around to keep me company.
On my
fourth and hopefully final day in the hospital, as I was getting my last chemo
infusion, Dr. Submarine came in to go over my test results. Kevin and Howie were both there; they had
planned it that way, once they’d found out when the doctor would be visiting
me. I didn’t mind; it actually helped,
having them around. It made me less
nervous, more prepared to hear whatever Dr. Submarine had to say. If it was something good, they could
celebrate with me. If it was bad, they
could comfort me. And if it confusing,
they would know the right questions to ask.
I could
still hear Kevin saying, “I’ve been down
this road before, you know. I know a
thing or two about the journey.” He
was right, of course. (Kevin’s always
right.) He and Howie had both been down
this road with their dads; they knew a lot more than I did. It was stupid not to let them stay, and I was
done being stupid about this. It was
time to start making smart choices.
“Good
afternoon, Nick,” said Dr. Submarine in her musical accent, juggling her usual
pile of paperwork. She looked around at
the unusually crowded hospital room. “I
see you have support with you today.”
She seemed pleased to see Kevin and Howie there.
“Yeah…
these are my friends,” I replied, introducing the two of them.
“I’m Dr. Subramanien,” she said, shaking both of their hands
quickly, before turning back to me. “And
how have you been feeling?”
“Tired… a
little nauseous… a lot nervous,” I answered, being totally honest. I tipped my head toward the papers in her
hands. “So what’s the verdict?”
Her
normally serious face split into a smile.
“All good news, I’m happy to say.
Your tests came out clear. No
cancer cells detectable in your chest, bone marrow, blood, or spinal
fluid. That means the chemotherapy has
done its job, and we can now say that your disease is in complete remission.”
Howie and
Kevin reacted before I could even wrap my mind around what she had said,
standing up on either side of me and squeezing my shoulders. “Congratulations… that’s awesome, man,” Howie
said, and even without looking at him, I could tell he was smiling from ear to
ear.
I had
turned toward Kevin, who stood gripping my shoulder with his head bowed. “Thank the Lord,” he murmured, saying it like
a prayer.
I looked
from him back to Dr. Submarine, still reeling, and asked, “Seriously? So… it’s gone? Just like that?” I don’t know what I had been expecting, but
this good news seemed almost too good to be true. Even though it was what I had hoped for, I
had gotten so used to the idea of being sick, I couldn’t imagine being better all
of a sudden.
Dr.
Submarine’s smile wavered. “Well, no,
not exactly. The cancer is undetectable,
but that doesn’t mean it’s fully gone or gone for good. Unfortunately, while this form of cancer
responds well to chemotherapy, it’s also quick to relapse. The goal of treatment now is to make sure we
eradicate any abnormal cells still lingering in your body, in order to prevent
a recurrence.”
I
nodded. “Kick it while it’s down,
then. I get it.”
“Yes,
that’s right.”
“Does that mean
more chemo?” I asked, eyeing the bag of chemicals being pumped through my
port. After the last three days, I
wasn’t too excited about the idea of doing yet another cycle or two, even
though I’d always known it was a possibility.
I was tired of feeling like shit, tired of the upset stomach and grainy
eyes and sore mouth and puffy face and everything else I’d been dealing
with. I was tired of being tired. But if more chemo was what it took to get rid
of the cancer for good, then I’d do it.
I wanted to go on with my life without constantly worrying it was going
to come back.
“There are
two options to consider,” answered Dr. Submarine. “Both involve more chemo, but to different
degrees. You’ve finished what we call
the induction phase of chemotherapy, the goal of which is to achieve a
remission. One option would be to
proceed to a stem cell transplant, which means essentially destroying your
immune system with high-dose chemotherapy and then rebuilding it with healthy
stem cells, either your own that have been harvested prior or cells from a
closely-matched donor. We call that the
consolidation phase. It’s an intense
treatment, but it’s also associated with a higher five-year survival rate in
patients with your type of cancer.”
I stared
blankly at the doctor. She’d lost me at
“transplant.” That word freaked me out
enough, bringing to mind images of operating rooms and surgeons carrying little
coolers with hearts and kidneys inside.
I had no idea what a stem cell looked like or if a transplant of those
worked the same way, but I didn’t like the sound of it. “So what’s my other option?” I asked quickly.
“The other
option would be skipping consolidation for now and going straight to a
maintenance phase of chemo. The
maintenance phase is much less intense – lower dosages of drugs, usually taken
by mouth on an outpatient basis. The
goal of it is to target any remaining cancer cells and prevent them from coming
back.”
I knew
which one sounded better to me. “I’ll go
with that one,” I said right away, wondering why she would even bother giving
me a choice, if the choice was between having a transplant and taking a few
pills. If the maintenance plan was as
simple as she’d made it sound, I could do the last leg of the tour, no problem.
Dr.
Submarine laughed lightly. “Why don’t
you take some time to think about it?
I’ve printed some information for you to read so you can make an
educated decision.” She handed me a
stapled packet of papers. I glanced down
at it doubtfully; there were a lot of words on those papers. “Do you have any questions right now, or
would you like to call me when you’ve had a chance to review the research and
talk it over with your loved ones?” She looked
between Howie and Kevin.
“That
sounds like a good idea,” said Kevin, nodding.
I should have known I wouldn’t get off that easy with him around. He would want to read every word of the
information she had given me, while Howie compiled the pros and cons of each
option into a flashy Power Point presentation.
Oh well… if that was the case, I could just let them do all the work and
make the decision for me. No thinking
required.
They both
thanked Dr. Submarine, shaking her hand again before she left, making me feel
like I was a little kid with my parents there to do the talking for me, instead
of a thirty-year-old man who had done fine dealing with this on my own for the
past few months, thank you very much.
Once she was gone, I said, “Thanks, guys. I probably do need some time to just look at
this stuff on my own and figure out what would be best.”
There was a
hint in there, but neither of them picked up on it. “Yeah, this is not a decision you want to
take lightly,” Kevin said wisely, looking serious, while on my other side,
Howie couldn’t stop grinning.
“This is such a relief, Nicky,” he kept saying.
When he got to talking fast like that, with that goofy grin on his face,
he reminded me of a hyperactive chipmunk.
“You should call AJ and Brian right away. They’ll be so glad to hear the good news.”
“Yeah, I
will, after you guys leave,” I said, dropping sort of another hint. “It’ll give me something to do till I get
discharged.”
“Good
idea,” Howie agreed.
Still not
getting the hint, Kevin offered, “We can hang around till then, if you
want. One of us could give you a ride
home.”
“That’s
okay,” I replied, maybe a little too quickly.
“I drove myself in; my car’s here.”
“Will you
be okay to drive after chemo?” he asked, looking warily at my IV bag. I knew he was remembering the way he’d seen me
the other day, when I’d been sick and miserable from the methotrexate
I got on the first day of the cycle. It
was the stuff that always made me throw up.
But the stuff I was getting today wasn’t as bad.
“Yeah, I’ll
be fine. I’ll head straight home and
probably just go to bed. This stuff
makes me hella tired.”
He nodded,
eyeing me closely. “Maybe we should go,
then, so you can get some rest,” he said, finally catching on. “Will you call one of us later, if you need
anything?”
“Sure,” I
agreed, even though I knew I probably wouldn’t.
As much as I appreciated their support, the two of them were starting to
drive me nuts. I wished Brian lived
closer and AJ wasn’t such a pussy about hospitals; those two wouldn’t have
hovered over me like a couple of helicopter parents. “Thanks for being here.”
“Anytime,
Nicky.” Howie smiled and squeezed my
shoulder again. “Stay strong.”
I nodded,
even though I felt pretty weak. The
chemo really was making me tired. It’s just doing its job, I reminded
myself. It’s worth it as long as it’s working so well. “Bye, guys,” I said, as the two of them left.
Once they
were gone, I looked down at the pile of research in my lap. I did some skimming, trying to make sense of
it, but there were a lot of facts and figures, and all the statistics made my
head hurt. I felt like I was gambling
with my life, trying to go with the odds.
Dr. Submarine probably thought she was doing me a favor, giving me all
this stuff so I could make my own treatment decisions, but I sort of resented
her for it. She was the medical
professional; wasn’t it her job to decide what kind of treatment would work
best? I didn’t want to be the one making
that decision. What if I made the wrong
one?
After lying
there for awhile, looking through the articles she’d printed and feeling more
and more frustrated, I gave up and got out my cell phone. I thought I was going to call AJ and Brian,
but instead, I scrolled past their names in my long list of contacts and stopped
on another, the name of the one person who I knew could talk me through this,
help me unscramble all the information that was jumbled in my head and sort out
everything.
I pressed
the call button on my phone to dial that number, knowing that even if it didn’t
lead me to a decision, I would feel better after calling it. Because that’s what Cary did… She made me feel better.
***