Archive for the 'Side Effects' Category

Bloated From Chemotherapy

Two days out from my fifth treatment and I am an overblown beach ball. My hands, my arms, my belly, my back…everything is just so…expanded. Part of me wishes that my nausea would finally come to fruition and it might deflate me. But the little pink pills I take twice a day make sure that I will never deflate with such a vulgar technique. Bulemia is probably not a good habit to stack on top of cancer anyway. Ugh, somebody beach this whale.

The Man in the Mirror is Back

This is the day after my 6th treatment. The man in the mirror is back. He looks a little bit like me, but he’s bloated and red, and he’s got these hiccups that make his whole body shake. There’s this funny patch of dry skin between his eyebrows. It seems funny that such a localized side-effect would be so squarely localized in the middle of his face, poor guy.

I might look like that if I put on a bunch of weight and had something SERIOUSLY wrong with me.

Chemo Face

Dad’s going to be in the paper in a couple days for being such an extraordinary accountant, etc., so the photographer came to the house today to capture the essence of Rick Hahn in his natural environment. Somehow Mom and I were convinced to be in the picture with Dad, too. That might have been alright, I’m not shy, but in the past few weeks I’ve developed this unfortunate reaction to the Bleomyacin (chemo drug #2). The nurse calls it a rash, but I call it my face.

Fair enough, I suppose, Bleomyacin is known for it’s skin reactions – but couldn’t it be somewhere else? Like on my arm? Or my ankle? Or, for god’s sake, ANYWHERE that’s not going to be plastered all over the local paper? Come on now, my face?! Is that necessary? What kind of bad karma have I gathered that makes the noticable side-effect of this treatment located on the one patch of skin people look at?

I’m not a pretty boy or anything, and I’ve never spent enough time on my looks to invest much emotional attachment to them, but, by design, they are sort of…noticable. So it can be difficult to restrain an identity crisis everytime I look in the mirror and I’m either 10 lbs heavier, 10 lbs lighter, karma-faced, puffy, or basically – staring at somebody I’ve never met.

Visit to the Doc

I visited the doc today. He said that the hiccups, the dry skin, and really, every side-effect I’m having is from one particular drug in the chemo cocktail – the one called Bleomycin. He’d never seen hiccups before (it’s the overachiever in me), but they were ‘described’ as a side-effect of the medicine. He told me to go pick up a liquor from the local liquor store that would do the trick. And in case the 45% alcohol didn’t help, he also filled out a prescription for a muscle relaxant as a backup.

After sucking on a few alcohol soaked sugar cubes, as suggested, my hiccups had still not left, so we went with the backup plan. The pills chilled me out a bit, but every three hours the hiccups would be back. I have a stubborn diaphragm.

The doc also said that there’s an 80% chance that I won’t have to do radiation. I don’t know where he gets this statistic, but it sounds nice. In reality, we won’t know if I’m in the 80% that doesn’t or in the 20% that does until I get my CT/PET scan next month and we see how Tito’s doing. I’m encouraged, though, by the progress my body has made through this, and I’m crossing my fingers that I might be in the 80%. Cross yours too, ok? Radiation is a nasty process that I don’t want to go through (I guess the same could be said of chemotherapy…).

The Pinochle Brigade

Continuing my imitation of retirement, I went again to play pinochle with my Grandma and her friends today. Well, actually, I went so I could cream them at pinochle.

What? You think it’s a friendly game between the generations? A way to pass the afternoon hours? Think again, loser!

When I get a good card, I slam it down on the table and let out a “HOO-WAH,” and sit back with a sniff and glance around the table for approval. Seriously, I’m a big jerk. But it’s just a reaction to all the trash talk. I’m not kidding! Today one of the ladies (I won’t say who, but her name starts with “Josephine”) was like, “Hey Dave, do you need to go to a special camp or something to learn to play the game?” Oh, it was ON then. Last time I went, the dignified lady next to me distinctly let out a “…chicken…” when I quit bidding on a marginal hand. This is the only place I can hear the words, “Who dealt this? This is a crappy hand,” come out of my sweet Grandmother’s mouth. I love it.

In this particular room of pinochle players, there’s always the added obstacle of short term memory loss. This is something I’ve picked up since the start of chemo, so I’m really starting to feel right at home. Nevertheless, you know it’s bad when you’re in a room full of 80-year-olds and you’re the one drooling in the corner who’s forgotten his own name. Which suit is trump has to be reiterated every couple minutes during the game or we’d all just start roaming around, wondering, as you tend to in retirement communities, just how early you can line up for dinner outside the dining hall without looking too desperate.

What? Was I talking about something?

Anyway, I got schooled by the old folks today. ‘I got my ass handed to me,’ as an esteemed colleague of mine likes to say (I say “esteemed colleague,” because I can’t remember his “name”).

To those of my friends reading, I have been trying to teach you people how to play pinochle for years now. I want you all to learn so that I can beat you whenever I need a good laugh. Come on, don’t be a bunch of chickens. Do you need to go to a special camp?

Chemotherapy Treatment #9

I Was So Nauseous That I Ate Everything

I went in for treatment #9 yesterday, despite not having any cancer to put it towards. The doctor said that I was in complete remission, so we would do 2 “consolidation” treatment cycles to make sure. That means 4 more treatments, which has me done with this crap on January 9th, 2006, assuming all goes well.

My blood counts are still high and my hair is sticking around, and in a lot of ways, you wouldn’t know I’m a chemo patient unless I told you.

And speaking of, I suppose I should be more careful about when and where I tell people. When we went out Wednesday night to celebrate the PET scan, I told every person that would listen, or was at least in ear shot. The people that knew about my diagnosis were happy to hear it, but those friends of mine that hadn’t heard were a little taken back.

“You got what?” They would shout over the music.

“I beat cancer!”

“You’re being transfered?”

“No,” I’d shout back, “I BEAT CANCER!”

Then their face would go blank and sheet-white and they’d mouth, “You had cancer?”

“Yeah, but I beat it!”

Still shocked, they’d say mouth again, “You had cancer?”

Anyway, it was probably kind of a buzz-kill for those who hadn’t heard, but maybe they had just missed the point of the good news.

So. 4 more treatments. I’ve decided that now that I’ve beat cancer, I’m not going to take these treatments John-Wayne style. I walked right into the chemo room and before I even sat down I was asking the nurse to just put me out. Just give me some of that sedative stuff and wake me when you’re done. I don’t want my brain to have anything to do with it this time. And while you’re at it, I want some pain relievers, and some laxatives (believe me), and some fiber (again, just believe me), and I want more anti-hiccup stuff, and antacids, and the strongest anti-nausea stuff you’ve got. Give it to me now.

The session was pretty easy, being asleep and all. William was there, and so was Shirley. The two old guys down the way were talking about not being able to taste their morning coffee anymore, and their wives were talking about how their husbands can’t taste the morning coffee anymore. Shirley told me she was “really praying” for me, although I can’t help but think that there are others that could use it more. I heard William give out a growling scream from one of the rooms about half-way through – probably something with needles, that guy hates needles.

I woke up and went to the bathroom and turned the water red – that was how I knew they’d already put the drugs in. It was kind of a surprise, but I was glad that I slept through it. Like I said, forget that John-Wayne, take-it-like-you-want-it nonsense, I’ve been through enough.

Because I’ve gained 40 lbs since the beginning of treatment (yeah, I know, it feels like a lot to me too), they had to up my dosage of chemo. That means more of everything – Bleomyacin, steroids – everything. By the time I came home, I was so nauseous, I could hardly wait to eat everything in the house. (It’s a hard feeling to explain.) I had a chicken stirfry, and two chicken sandwiches, and chocolate and then, later, a whole spread of Kentucky Fried Chicken dinner. I reeeeeeally hate steroids. I swear I’ll be 2 bills by the end of this nonsense.

3 more treatments to go. Take it Elvis:

I’ll a-have a b-b-Bleo Christmas with chemo
I’ll be so bloated, just taking that drano.
I’ll be doin’ alright, by January 9th,
but I’ll have a Bleo-o Christmas.

Will I Know When Chemo Brain Is Gone?

Its been a rough week. I tend not to mention things like that because it sounds like complaining. Somehow the words “pain” and “discomfort” sound like complaining no matter what other words you surround them with. But I’m not complaining.

I woke up on Thursday and I couldn’t feel the ring finger and pinky on my right hand. That was weird. They were all pins and needles like your legs get when you sit in one place too long. It would be a nuisance to most people, but for those few that make a living with their hands – like surgeons and, ahem, piano players – its more alarming.

I had a gig that day. I played in a trio for a local jazz choir concert. I played well, I think, but I missed a few notes up at the top – up where my fingers had been replaced with things that looked like fingers but felt like nothing.

The fingers weren’t really a problem, the problem was just keeping it together enough to perform. It had already been a long several days since the chemo struck me down on Monday. I hadn’t slept well, my muscles were empty and I couldn’t focus very long on anything worthwhile. It really took all my concentration to act normal during rehearsal and especially during the show. At one point I looked at the music and I thought, “Well shit, what do all these weird dots and lines mean?” Fortunately, that was only a passing thought, and by the time the song was counted off, I remembered how to read music and play the piano.

Here’s a funny one – right before the show this girl walked out onstage setting up chairs and my first thought was, “Wow, she’s hot.” A second later I realized that was my girlfriend (“Oh. Hey!”). So that one worked out really well for me.

Its not that I’m stupid, or amnesia-like, its just as if my brain needs a little de-fragmenting. All the information is disorganized inside my dome and it takes a while to untangle the cords and find what I’m looking for. It’s what my nurse calls “chemo brain”.

Sometimes I scratch my head and although I swear I’m scratching right where the itch is, I’m not hitting it at all. And I thought I saw a flash of light last night when I was laying in bed trying to sleep – at 3 am when all is still that there are *not* any flashing lights around. Weird.

My hopes are up that they might back down on some of the drugs when I tell them about the numb fingers. But what if they back off on the drugs and then the drugs don’t do the job?

And just how long am I going to have to walk around with this tangled brain? Sometimes I’m afraid I’m going to start hanging out with my cat because he’s suddenly so smart. (Note: Our cat, Charlie, likes to go outside so he can come back in so he can go outside so he can come in so he can go outside so he can…etc.) And how, exactly, will I know when I’m not dumb anymore? I know a lot of idiots that have no clue that they are. I’d tell them, but its considered rude.

I would have had a gig tonight, but it got all messed up. See, I’d slept about 2 hours the night before (I don’t know, maybe it was the flashing lights or our genius cat that kept me up). I’d had a rehearsal for a gig that morning, and when I came home I was just exhausted. I took a Tylenol PM to try to get a nap in, and then they lady called me. She said that the piano player for their Christmas party had just cancelled and they needed somebody quick. It’d be a 6 hour gig at my solo rate (extra points if you know my rate for solo work) – so you do the math. Let’s just say that would have netted me more in one night than I usually get in a whole month from other gigs. But her boss wanted to hear a recording first – so I gave her the address for the homepage and waited for her to call back.

And waited.

And then I fell asleep. I can’t blame myself, I definitely needed it. But I missed the call, and by the time I woke up and called back, they’d already filled the spot with some other lucky schmoe. Damn.

Not that I would have lasted very well on a 6 hour gig. (That’s considered a reeeeally long gig in Cocktail Gigland. 6 hours is a long time to sit still in one position and move your fingers up and down.) But I would have done it! Damn.

Anyway, I’m going to go hang out with the cat.

I Should Make Up a Title But I Have Chemo Brain

I had another port flush this week. There are new people in the chemo center that I’ve never seen before. New people must come in all the time. Filling up the green recliners and drinking water from little, white, styrofoam cups.

I don’t know how the nurses and doctors manage to spend every day in that place. Don’t they ever start to feel like it’s all just too much? Don’t they ever want to leave all the disease and all the sadness in that place? Doesn’t it wear on them?

I don’t know. It felt good to be back there. I’ve had a hard time placing the emotion, but lately I’ve just been feeling…depressed. I can’t understand it. Spring it coming, and I’m working all the time, and I’m alive… I can’t understand why ending chemotherapy would be despressing. It isn’t. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t.

I moved out this past week. I never intended to be living off my parents at age 25. It’s time I moved things along. I’m working all the time now, it’s possible, I should. I live in a nice house with an old friend and his dog. It’s close to work. I might buy a bike and take that to work as it gets warmer.

My room is a very serious green color that I’ve tried to tone down with stock artwork I bought at Target. The bathroom is a pallid, Easter-egg green that makes me want to go invest in a step ladder, paint brushes, and some other – any other – color. I tried to put up a towel rack the other day, but in the end, I just made two holes in the wall that I’ll have to putty up and paint as soon as I learn how to do that. Don’t make fun, I don’t even know how to spell spa-kel, let alone sand it.

Sometimes it just occurs to me that my life is being filled with more and more things I’m supposed to do, and less with things that feel right. People call that growing up, and I call those people quitters.

And it occurs to me that being surrounded by nurses and blankets and little, styrofoam cups filled with water felt, somehow, safer than being surrounded by Easter-green walls and holes where there should be a towel rack.

I can’t remember things very well. My nurse says that’s normal, a long-term side-effect of chemo. That it’ll probably get better. But that doesn’t help me find my car when I walk out the door with an arm full of groceries. And that doesn’t help me when the person picks up my phone call and I realize that I’ve forgotten who I was calling. Or that I need to bring a goddamn pencil with me to rehearsal, or listen to that CD, or do whatever else. I can’t remember. Sometimes I just want to sit down right in the middle of that big, stupid parking lot, with all my heavy groceries around me, and cry about how lousy it all is.

And then I think that I’m 25, and a man, and a cancer survivor, and people like me aren’t supposed to get upset. So I do what I’m supposed to do. And I wonder how I got here instead of somewhere else. And I can’t understand why life scares me now. I can’t understand why traveling doesn’t sound like fun anymore. Why I shouldn’t be at home, but I don’t feel like being in the green room, and I don’t want to be in chemo, but I feel better in the room with the cancer patients. But I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.

Again – I don’t know. I remember having a plan before all this. Things I wanted to do, and places I still wanted to see. I meant to be on a beach right now. I meant to learn how to surf. I meant to live in another country. I meant to behave better, and look better, and eat better. And where, before, things all seemed so possible, now I just have to admire a guy that could have enough courage to dream up all that stuff.

It’s Spelled “Spackle”

It’s spelled “spackle”, for those of you keeping track, and if you get the right stuff, you don’t even have to sand it. There are no longer crevassed holes is the wall of my Easter bathroom.

But there is still a decided lack of towel rack.