Ain't Dead Yet

The author, during the ever-so-brief Good Hair Years.

Twenty-one years ago today I sat in a blue, vinyl chair while a nurse, I think her name was Kathy, administered several cc's of IV Vincristine into the radial artery of my right arm and, with that, I was given the last dose of chemotherapy I hope ever to receive. It wasn't the last time that I'd set foot on the Oncology ward at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center, one goes for many follow-on visits after a course of chemotherapy, but it was the last time I'd be there to receive my Alkaloid of the Week.

I remember it as a quick trip. Vincristine was my "easy" chemo drug, which is to say that its potential side effects are relatively benign: peripheral neuropathy, hyponatremia, constipation, and hair loss. Compared to the three days of puking that followed a dose of Cytoxan, Vincristine had all the effect of Flinstones Chewables.

More than 2 decades later, cancer is integral to how I view myself. There is no version of me that I can wrap my head around that doesn't include Burkitt's lymphoma. Which is a weird thing to say. But weirder still is how OK I am with that. My cancer is a bucket of cold water that never stops hitting me. It's helped me discover things about myself that I might never have tumbled to otherwise.