The Cancer Chronicles, Part 3

This wasn't supposed to be a series

Cancer happens

If you're familiar with me, you may know that I was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer on December 2.

I've written two stories about the experience: "When The "C" Word Is About You" and "Preparing For Chemotherapy." Thus, we'll call this Part 3. I hope there aren't too many more parts. Maybe it will just go away. But writing about it makes it a little less scary for some reason.

Quite frankly, I didn't think this would be a big deal. People shouldn't fuss about it. Since my first chemo session, I've been feeling fine. It's by far not the worst kind of cancer you can get.

I tried not to fuss and went about my days much like they were before. But I think I was in such a state of disbelief that I had already willed it away.

Until last night.

Gimmie Head with Hair

I went to bed around 3:00 am. (But hey, I'm a writer!) I'm also retired, so what does it matter what time I go to bed?

Upon learning the news, my daughter immediately sent me a book titled "Anticancer" by David Servan-Schreiber, MD, Ph.D. I opened it for only the second time in six weeks.

While reading, something kept itching me on the back of my head, so I used my left hand to scratch it. When I returned my hand to the left side of the book, it was full of hair.

That moment was the first outward sign that I had cancer and was in chemotherapy. Two weeks had gone by since my first session. I thought maybe I'd be one of the lucky ones and wouldn't be affected. I've had no nausea, but the oncologist gave me three prescriptions to fend it off.

Three more pills on top of what I was already taking for bipolar disorder, ADHD, and high blood pressure seemed over the top. I remember at first thinking, "I don't feel nauseous. Why should I take all these pills?" Then it dawned on me: maybe I wasn't getting sick because of the pills.

Listen, I know so many people are suffering and are in pain. Children are dying of starvation in Yemen! This morning's shower was a psychological pain. I really had cancer. And I cannot let all this hair go down the drain. But I didn't have a trap. Yet.

I was horrified. It wouldn't stop coming out. I rinsed off thoroughly, but I still couldn't get all of the hair off of my body. So I dried off, went outside to shake out the towel, and repeated. Yes, rinse and repeat.

I am afraid to scratch my head.

Since I use pomade on my hair, I figured that would kind of keep it glued in place, so I promptly slathered it on. Then I wanted to cry.

But on the positive side, I don't have to shave because my beard isn't growing. That's huge.

Youth is Fleeting

I’m 64 years old. I felt this was the end of the last vestige of my youth. Thanks to my parent's genes, I've always had a full head of hair and not much gray. It has made me appear at least ten years younger.

And I am vain.

I've always depended on my looks to help me get in the door of a company, talk people into things, or get dates (and hookups). But, unfortunately, I may not be able to do this anymore. So for now, I will have to get used to being an older bald guy, and I will have to accept it.

How will people who know me look at me? What will potential dates think of me? Will I ever have another hookup? This is bringing out all of my insecurities.

And so it goes

I haven't had much time to digest this, and I know I probably sound pretty superficial. I'm already impatient, but what if something else happens? What if I get really sick? What if chemo isn't successful? I had planned on hitting the road and camping by mid-May.

Significant adjustments are going to have to be made, and quickly. I need to reconsider everything. I need to change my diet, stop drinking so much (it's only a drink a day, but it's daily), quit smoking (I only smoke about eight cigarettes a day), but hey, I'm a writer! Oh, and exercise. (I know what you're thinking. I should already be dead.)

Most of all, I have to reconsider how I look at myself. I need to realize my friends and family like me for me and not because of my hair or how I look. Simply put, I need to treat myself better.

I've had a tumultuous life. The last two-plus years since my son's death have been excruciatingly painful. But I know that Alex would want me alive and healthy.

Tell me I'm going to be OK. I have so much unfinished business.

Here are a couple of my other articles from ILLUMINATION:

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