Print
E-mail
Comment
Rate
Perry: Counting on cancer
 |
By DAVE PERRY
The Aurora Sentinel
We’re celebrating this year’s end, happy that my wife, Melody, is still here, along with her hair and almost all of the breast that had cancer in it.
Cancer, what Americans are trained to fear most, was the bad news that came to us after Melody dutifully got her biennial winter breast-mashing at the Kaiser Permanente Breast Health Clinic and Book Binding Service. The good news is that the cancer was treatable, but there was lots of iffy news in-between. For those of you who have not played “You’ve Got Cancer!” I am happy for you. I am sad to say, however, that as you age, you or someone you care deeply about will get to play a game that comes with a million rules, many of which change even as you roll the dice.
Like most modern cancer victims and their families, we are now experts in all its complexities and nuances and happy to answer the important questions you might have, including:
• Does it hurt: Yes.
• Does the pink ribbon help: No.
• Is it as life-altering as one might think: Absolutely.
• Is it expensive: Oy.
• Is it the most scary thing ever: It’s to die for.
Melody got diagnosed in February as we were preparing for our annual winter vacation. Questionable mammograms, which end all restful sleep, led to a biopsy that resulted in a nurse having to climb on top of my 100-pound wife to stop a little incidental bleeding. Her takeaway: “The helpful DVD meant to reassure you is a damned lie. It hurts like hell.”
A consequence of this whole cancer thing has been a serious degradation in Melody’s language. She promptly gave her cancer a moniker that will net you millions in fines if you say it on TV.
Anyway, the nice man who harpooned Melody’s breast during the biopsy was also the only honest one of the bunch and told Melody right after her procedure that he was sure it was cancer, seeing how she asked. This isn’t how it works in the movies. There are no patting hands. There are no swelling violins. Only heart-pounding shock and then you get in your car and drive in traffic to get home. It was a surprisingly brief wait for biopsy results and the news over the phone that you never, ever want to hear.
This is where the term “good news” gets pretty twisted. The tumor was relatively small. The cancer relatively treatable. And the pain drugs relatively good. You feel weird being thankful for having a friendly little cancer that, hopefully, hasn’t made any new friends inside your body.
Dr. Hacker was right that the lumpectomy was no big deal, at least for him. He was able to carve out the cancer and a good sized chunk of flesh in just a few hours. It was his third carving that day.
We were giddy with Melody’s good prognosis, pain killers and cheap tickets to Europe.
Once back, she faced more of the music, now working to remain cancer free. That involved six weeks of daily radiation, or “hospital table dances,” as she called them.
At this point, it seems, breast cancer patients become nothing more than two mammaries begging for attention. Rather than shake hands, doctors, nurses, technicians and even the cleaning people fondle your breasts upon entering a room. If you have a problem with that, ask for leukemia or diabetes.
So Dr. Zapper set her up with daily radiation doses. There, you strip off your shirt, they chain you to a table and turn on a machine straight out of a Boris Karloff movie that even makes loud “bezzzzzzzzzzap, GACK, GACK, GACK GACK sounds as technicians laugh maniacally behind leaded glass windows. That’s a slight exaggeration, I’m sure, because I know these people are all caring professionals and would never laugh out loud.
From there, Melody went to see her oncologist, Dr. Demento. Demento is a gruff woman the size and shape of a large watermelon who talks like an angry Jersey cab driver.
“If the cancer comes back, it’s gonna kill you,” was her professional opinion of Melody’s dilemma. She would occasionally throw in other soothing advice, such as: “I’m not worried about how sick you might be. Puke all you want, I just want to make sure you don’t die from a blood clot.”
She’s a delightful woman who I’m sure would have a brilliant future at Guantanamo Bay if it were to remain open.
Anyway, they dissected Melody’s tumor, took a few gallons of blood and did her horoscope on the hospital’s Cray computer and decided she needed lots of radiation but no chemotherapy. Yay!
Instead, she now takes Tamoxifen every day, a toxic brew to discourage any new cancer. It’s a drug that Melody says is causing ADD because she is occasionally able to remember that she’s been forgetting things.
Before you know it, things are looking up and you sleep sometimes and even don’t think about cancer for a few minutes a day.
As it turns out, breast cancer is by no means a death sentence these days, although finding out you’ve got it will scare the life right out of you.
Melody’s advice to all of you with XY chromosomes is to pack up your girls and go get their pictures taken at your local, friendly mammography center. Early diagnosis is the key to life here. Then you can tell others how fabulous and entertaining cancer treatment really is and have a New Year’s celebration that really means something to you and even more to those who love you.
Dave Perry is editor of The Aurora Sentinel. Reach him at 303-750-7555 or dperry@aurorasentinel.com.
Cancer, what Americans are trained to fear most, was the bad news that came to us after Melody dutifully got her biennial winter breast-mashing at the Kaiser Permanente Breast Health Clinic and Book Binding Service. The good news is that the cancer was treatable, but there was lots of iffy news in-between. For those of you who have not played “You’ve Got Cancer!” I am happy for you. I am sad to say, however, that as you age, you or someone you care deeply about will get to play a game that comes with a million rules, many of which change even as you roll the dice.
Like most modern cancer victims and their families, we are now experts in all its complexities and nuances and happy to answer the important questions you might have, including:
• Does it hurt: Yes.
• Does the pink ribbon help: No.
• Is it as life-altering as one might think: Absolutely.
• Is it expensive: Oy.
• Is it the most scary thing ever: It’s to die for.
Melody got diagnosed in February as we were preparing for our annual winter vacation. Questionable mammograms, which end all restful sleep, led to a biopsy that resulted in a nurse having to climb on top of my 100-pound wife to stop a little incidental bleeding. Her takeaway: “The helpful DVD meant to reassure you is a damned lie. It hurts like hell.”
A consequence of this whole cancer thing has been a serious degradation in Melody’s language. She promptly gave her cancer a moniker that will net you millions in fines if you say it on TV.
Anyway, the nice man who harpooned Melody’s breast during the biopsy was also the only honest one of the bunch and told Melody right after her procedure that he was sure it was cancer, seeing how she asked. This isn’t how it works in the movies. There are no patting hands. There are no swelling violins. Only heart-pounding shock and then you get in your car and drive in traffic to get home. It was a surprisingly brief wait for biopsy results and the news over the phone that you never, ever want to hear.
This is where the term “good news” gets pretty twisted. The tumor was relatively small. The cancer relatively treatable. And the pain drugs relatively good. You feel weird being thankful for having a friendly little cancer that, hopefully, hasn’t made any new friends inside your body.
Dr. Hacker was right that the lumpectomy was no big deal, at least for him. He was able to carve out the cancer and a good sized chunk of flesh in just a few hours. It was his third carving that day.
We were giddy with Melody’s good prognosis, pain killers and cheap tickets to Europe.
Once back, she faced more of the music, now working to remain cancer free. That involved six weeks of daily radiation, or “hospital table dances,” as she called them.
At this point, it seems, breast cancer patients become nothing more than two mammaries begging for attention. Rather than shake hands, doctors, nurses, technicians and even the cleaning people fondle your breasts upon entering a room. If you have a problem with that, ask for leukemia or diabetes.
So Dr. Zapper set her up with daily radiation doses. There, you strip off your shirt, they chain you to a table and turn on a machine straight out of a Boris Karloff movie that even makes loud “bezzzzzzzzzzap, GACK, GACK, GACK GACK sounds as technicians laugh maniacally behind leaded glass windows. That’s a slight exaggeration, I’m sure, because I know these people are all caring professionals and would never laugh out loud.
From there, Melody went to see her oncologist, Dr. Demento. Demento is a gruff woman the size and shape of a large watermelon who talks like an angry Jersey cab driver.
“If the cancer comes back, it’s gonna kill you,” was her professional opinion of Melody’s dilemma. She would occasionally throw in other soothing advice, such as: “I’m not worried about how sick you might be. Puke all you want, I just want to make sure you don’t die from a blood clot.”
She’s a delightful woman who I’m sure would have a brilliant future at Guantanamo Bay if it were to remain open.
Anyway, they dissected Melody’s tumor, took a few gallons of blood and did her horoscope on the hospital’s Cray computer and decided she needed lots of radiation but no chemotherapy. Yay!
Instead, she now takes Tamoxifen every day, a toxic brew to discourage any new cancer. It’s a drug that Melody says is causing ADD because she is occasionally able to remember that she’s been forgetting things.
Before you know it, things are looking up and you sleep sometimes and even don’t think about cancer for a few minutes a day.
As it turns out, breast cancer is by no means a death sentence these days, although finding out you’ve got it will scare the life right out of you.
Melody’s advice to all of you with XY chromosomes is to pack up your girls and go get their pictures taken at your local, friendly mammography center. Early diagnosis is the key to life here. Then you can tell others how fabulous and entertaining cancer treatment really is and have a New Year’s celebration that really means something to you and even more to those who love you.
Dave Perry is editor of The Aurora Sentinel. Reach him at 303-750-7555 or dperry@aurorasentinel.com.
 |
||
| Cochran: Resolutionary Road revisited |
Reader Comments
The following are comments from the readers. In no way do they represent the view of aurorasentinel.com.
You must register with a valid email to post comments. Only your Member ID will be posted with the comments.
Registered users sign in here: |
Become a Registered User |
RSS