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.

Blow on those for good luck, wouldja?

This afternoon's visit to the doctor was the most sexual contact I've had in months. The good news: no growths on my testicles. The bad news: no happy ending. You win some....

An annual physical can be fraught with all manner of psychological baggage for a soon-to-be-39-year-old with a rather cancer-y past. As I mentioned to the doctor today, "I keep waiting for the next tumor to show up." Which is true, though it makes me sound even more neurotic than I already am. Some witty soul once told me that on a long enough timeline, we all get cancer. That may have been my oncologist, now that I think about it but, source aside, it's a piece of trivia that I'd have happily lived out my days not knowing.

Given my history, I think most people would forgive me if I was a touch over-the-top about my personal health and yet I just washed down day-old lo mein with a pint of Coke. I've also joined a gym and intend to drop at least 10 pound before I attempt to make a public appearance in a swimsuit. My sister-in-law, on the other hand, has recently been diagnosed with a mental illness called Being 50. It manifests as an inability to tell anyone your real age, a compulsion to work out obsessively and a tendency for one's hair to repeatedly change color, seemingly overnight. I quite like my sister-in-law but I have tremendous impatience for people who don't age gracefully. The alternative course is by far the more unpleasant.

The point that I'm gradually arriving at is this: somewhere between Kenny--my 250 lb., chain-smoking friend who's never consumed anything that wasn't deep fried, alcoholic and/or dunked in Buffalo sauce--and Jack Lalane--who lived by the mantras "if man made it, don't eat it", and "if it tastes good, spit it out"--there must be a happy middle ground. I'll let you know if I happen upon it whilst washing down my Cheerios with a large Turbo with cream from The Dunk.

Ed. Note: I glance up at the TV and it's the episode of The Family Guy called "Fat Guy Strangler"; the universe is trying to tell me something.