Round-Two

Yesterday (Tuesday, October 23, 2007) was Round-Two of the dreaded anti-cancer “CHOP” chemo treatment at Wilmot Cancer Center in Rochester; CHOP being Cyclophosphamide, Doxorubicin (I don’t know where they get an “H” for this), Oncovin (trade-name for Vincristine), and Prednisone, a steroid.
Apparently treatment #1 was fairly catastrophic, although Linda survived it. #1 almost completely shrunk the tumor (Linda can’t find it), so any remaining treatments are mop-up — kill off any remaining cancer-cells.
Treatment #1 didn’t kill her, or even require calling 9-1-1.
But it did do certain things I wasn’t aware of until they were reported to the doctor: e.g. tingling and numbness in the extremities (along with fatigue and nausea).
Apparently chemo does nerve-damage, so extremities find themselves without feeling.
I don’t feel like I’m being intentionally tuned out of this. After all, I’ve lived with this woman nearly 40 years.
What’s happening is the old “tuff it out” syndrome. She’s just like me — no comments, just “tuff it out.”
I got to also make sure Linda hadn’t died (she’d be zonked out on the sofa).
Of course, I can’t possibly understand this kerreckly since I don’t have the proper HairCrafters’ glue-thug hairdo.
The treatment began with a visit from the doctor, Dr. Friedberg, who bubbles with positive enthusiasm.
“You’re doing very well, Mrs. Hughes,” he says.
Well, all I can do is hope so — of course, I’m selfish to even want her to continue to be around.
I also can’t possibly understand, since I don’t have the proper HairCrafters’ el-cheapo top-chop.
We were led into the treatment-clinic, but I left to buy a smaller belt from my old Transit uniform-store.
The parking-garage wanted $4 — almost the cost of a HairCrafters’ top-chop; exorbitant.
Then it was down-and-back on Elmwood Ave. in the pouring rain. The uniform-store is on Elmwood in Brighton, and Wilmot is on Elmwood in Rochester.
Took about 30 minutes — when I returned only the intravenous had been installed.
I began reading a National Railway Historical Society bulletin about the Santa Fe across Arizona, and we waited.
At least an hour passed before the chemo-nurse appeared — Linda had been getting saline all that time at room-temperature, and it was making her cold.
A hairless 98-year-old man was next to us also getting chemo, but glomming all the Oreos he could get. Apparently he asked for Oreos before his chemo even started. (I wonder if they have Cheetos?)
Finally after another 45 minutes the nurse appeared with all her paraphernalia which includes a throw-away gown to protect against toxicity.
“Here you are pumping all these toxins into me, and they want you to be protected,” my wife said wryly.
By then I had read the entire Santa Fe story, and was about to finish a Crown Point, Indiana story, also in the bulletin — which I hadn’t planned to read.
If I’d known it was gonna take this long I could have run another errand.
The chemo gets mixed on-site in the hospital’s pharmacy, then has to be verified before it’s administered.
We were out about noon — 9 a.m. until noon. I had run out of reading material.
So we went directly home, skipping the errand I was gonna run (although the Bucktooth Bathtub needed gas). We needed to rescue the poor dog.
Sometimes I feel like I’m all washed up; but when I see some of these people at the hospital — many younger than me — I think “I ain’t in that bad shape.”
The dentist erroneously claims hopper-cars were made out of stainless-steel, and instead of sheepishly agreeing, I took him to the cleaners.
I’m 63, and driving a mere pup absolutely nuts. (I think it’s because he’s beginning to feel old, and therefore has to have someone older than himself to castigate.)

“Linda” is my wife of nearly 40 years. She has lymphatic cancer. (It’s treatable.)

RE: “I don’t have the proper HairCrafters’ glue-thug hairdo......” My macho, blowhard brother-in-Boston has spent $55,000 for a classic 1971 454 SS Chevelle, $23,000 for a Harley-Davidson touring motorbike, but refuses to spend any more than $5 for a haircut — from HairCrafters’ top-chop mill. He has noisily declared I should do the same. He looks like a Mafia-don that poured glue all over his head. (“Ya get what ya pay for.......”)

“Brighton” is a suburb east of Rochester.

“Santa Fe” is the old Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad to Californy (via Arizona). As a railfan, I belong to the National Railway Historical Society (NRHS) and get their monthly bulletin. (ATSF is now part of Burlington-Northern Santa Fe Railroad [BNSF].)

My brother-in-Boston is always eating “Cheetos.” He weighs 287 pounds.

Quite a few railroads went through “Crown Point,” in Indiana near Chicago. Most are gone.

“The Bucktooth-Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub, and appears to have a bucktooth on the grill.

We have a dog, “Killian;” a rescue Irish-Setter. We had a second rescue Irish-Setter, “Sabrina,” who died in March 2007.

RE: “The dentist erroneously claims hopper-cars were made out of stainless-steel, and instead of sheepishly agreeing, I took him to the cleaners.......” My dentist saw coal-trains (railroad trains) out in Wyoming and surmised the cars, which were shiny, were stainless-steel. I corrected him; they’re aluminum.

RE: “I’m 63, and driving a mere pup absolutely nuts. (I think it’s because he’s beginning to feel old, and therefore has to have someone older than himself to castigate.)...... My brother-in-Boston is only 50. He noisily badmouths everything I do or say.