This post was supposed to be put up
last night, but due to some technological issues, I'm just getting on
here right now. So please adjust the days and tenses.
I have said a couple times in different
posts that I've been lucky through this whole process. I know that
it sounds ridiculous to say. I mean, saying I'm lucky and having
cancer is akin to standing in front of a five-man firing squad and
counting your blessings that one guy's gun isn't working properly.
But, like I explained, even though I
have cancer, it has turned out to be a manageable, curable form of it
and I've seen people who are way worse off than me. This has been an
inconvenience and certainly not pleasant, but I'm pretty confident
that I have a lot of time left on this earth, so yeah, I'm lucky.
I got another reminder of how lucky I
am the other day in the mail. Kelly and I have been trying to watch
our money, knowing that the bills are going to start rolling in. A
major abdominal surgery, an osteomy, a 12-day hospital stay at one of
the best facilities in the state, and every test known to man. Add
to that the minor things like supplies and meals and you just know
that you've got one whopper of a bill coming. We've gotten a couple
already, but small ones, relatively speaking. I went out to get the
mail a couple days ago and there was an envelope from Henry Ford
Hospital. I figured that it was another radiology bill or
something, but this turned out to be “the bill.”
As I looked it over, I was absolutely
stunned. I knew it was going to be expensive, but even so, it
floored me. The bill was 60 large. That's more than I make in a
year. Right now, I'm sure as a reader, you're wondering where the
word lucky comes into play here. When I looked at the portion of the
bill that was not covered by insurance (the amount that we actually
have to pay), it was $2,500. In my book that's pretty damn lucky.
How many people go through what I have and even more and have to do
it without insurance? Can you even imagine opening that envelope and
seeing a $60,000 bill, knowing that it's all on you? I would burn
that letter and move to a different country that doesn't extradite
for lack of payment. (I don't know if any country would bring you
back for that, but I'm sure that there might be a hit-man or two
employed.)
I'm no expert on Obama Care by any
stretch of the imagination, but I can't believe that someone who is
forced to pick up that insurance plan would be in any position to pay
for that. There should be a contingency plan for people battling
life-threatening issues.
Tomorrow is the day that the chemo
starts, so I am enjoying my last poison free afternoon by doing a
whole lot of nothing. Actually that's not quite true. I have done a
load of laundry and shaved. Needless to say, it's been a pretty full
morning. I'm pacing myself for the rest of the afternoon.
Today is March 17th, which
means it's St. Patrick's Day, but more importantly, it means it's
exactly two weeks until opening Day at Comerica Park. Looking out my
window here in the Sault, it seems pretty hard to believe that
there's going to be baseball played in this state in 14 days, but if
they can make it work, I'm all for it. Once the season starts, time
will be easier to measure for me. Eight treatments, four months, a
little over halfway through the baseball season. Once it all gets
started, hopefully the time will fly by.
I will post again in a couple days
after I have an idea of how the treatments are going to go. Nervous
but excited to get this stuff started so it can get over with.
I Will Win
What the heck, I guess this will be
kind of a bonus night or for those of you who don't really like to
read, I'm about to be a jerk. It's Tuesday night now and I've just
sat through the first round of chemo. We had to be there at 10:20 in
the morning and didn't end up getting out of there until 3:20. Not
really anybody's fault, just lots of prep to be done and forms to be
filled out. I suspect that the next time it won't take so long.
I was talking to my brother Clay
tonight afterward and he asked what it was like so I told him. He
laughed and said that for whatever reason he had imagined them
pointing some big laser at my junk for about 10 minutes and then I
was done. I suspect that this is retaliation for me teasing him
about only working 4 hours per day at the radio station instead of
the 12-14 that he actually puts in.
It's actually not too bad there.
There's a big room with a nurses' station and 5 recliners with one in
a private room. These are not ordinary recliners my friends. They
have extra padding and they heat up and vibrate if you want them too.
They also have TVs on long swinging arms that allow you to sit back
in your chair and pull the TV right up to your face so you can watch
it and not disturb anyone else in the room with loud volume. I also
got lunch. They had a pretty decent menu there and I chose the
chicken nuggets and fries. I also got a piece of pie. The meal was
ok, although they were a little stingy with the ketchup and I don't
know if I'll be ordering the pie again. The simple fact that there
was food there was pretty cool though. I ended up sleeping in the
chair a little bit and watching some pre-season baseball between the
Yankees and the Red Sox.
I expected a tomb-like atmosphere with
a room full of people getting chemo, but it was pretty much the
opposite. There was a lot of banter between the nurses and patients
and a lot of good natured insults. They left me pretty much alone as
I was the resident rookie, but I doubt that will last. One of the
patients came in and had a box of pink blow-pops that she was handing
out. When was the last time that any of you had a blow-pop? It's
been awhile I'll bet. I honestly didn't even know that they still
made them. I got another blast from the past as we left town and
stopped at one of the gas stations in St. Ignace. I didn't even know
that stores were allowed to sell candy cigarettes anymore, but there
they were.
So anyway, back to the process of the
chemo. As a patient, you sit in the chair and take some anti-nausea
medicine through the port, which was kind of weird. The port sits
just under my left collar bone and when the nurse comes at you with
the needle to stick in it, I kind of had the feeling that Nicholas
Cage must have had in The Rock when he had to stick the big needle in
his heart to counteract the effects of the chemicals. It was a
little creepy, but as it turns out, I didn't feel a thing. Of
course, I had my eyes closed and my head turned too, so I didn't see
anything either.
Once the chemo delivery process starts,
there is little to do but wait. Kelly didn't get to sit in a
recliner, so I'm sure that the time went much more slowly for her. I
had to get up to pee a couple times during the process and when I
came out of the bathroom, I found her sitting in the recliner. I
think everyone should be able to sit in one of those things, if only
for a few minutes and preferably not getting chemo.
I am at home now and am still connected
to the pump. I'll have it on until Thursday afternoon then I'll have
a week off and we'll start over next Tuesday. One of these bitches
down and seven more to go. I think it's gonna get worse before it
gets better, but it will get better. By August, this is going to be
nothing more than a story and a memory.
I Will Win
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