Three Years and Counting


March 31st, 2003. It's the beginning of a horrible, yet important four-month period of my life. It's the day I started chemo - a process I don't recommend. Unless, of course, it can help save your life.

Three months earlier, I was diagnosed with testicular cancer at the ripe old age of 35, which is very much on the high end of the scale for this disease. Sad to say, the diagnosis didn't come as a complete surprise, as the little bump I thought I felt in my left nut a few months earlier steadily grew into a painful, marble-sized tumor that I could no longer ignore. So, a trip to Dr. Sacks (and really, could your urologist have a better name?) at Cedars Sinai and, five days later, I was on the table having the growth - and my nut - removed.

Surgery wasn't such a big deal, other than the fact that I had to come to terms with the fact I was losing a part of my anatomy which, to tell the truth, I was rather fond of. Still, considering the options, I have no doubt I made the right call. The surgery did also lead to what is probably the most bizarre conversation I've ever had in my life. I mean, how many times are you going to find yourself talking to your surgeon about whether or not you want a prosthetic testicle?

Surgery started at about 7AM, and was over within 90 minutes. By 3PM, I was slowly and painfully climing the stairs to my apartment. I'll spare the grizzly details, and just say the recovery was shorter and easier than expected, and subsequent visits to Dr. Sacks showed the hormone levels that had been completely knocked out of whack by the cancer had dropped to normal levels. Things were looking good, and I expected that I'd have to go through a short, two-round course of chemo to knock out any potential bad cells that were still lurking in my system. I wasn't looking forward to the prospect any more than I relished the thought of surgery, but again, it seemed a small price to pay for some peace of mind.

And then, I got the x-ray.

I had an x-ray taken before my operation, and it showed some small spots on my lungs that my doctor chalked up as scarring from a past infection. They didn't appear to be anything to worry about, especially since my bloodwork looked so good. Still, before the chemo, they had me take another x-ray just to be sure and - son of a bitch - the spots had multiplied. The fucking cancer had managed to spread to my lungs and lymphnodes. No more short course of chemo for me. I was getting four rounds of the juice to thoroughly kill all the ugly little buggers floating around in my body.

Oh joy, oh bliss.

The first day of chemo was pretty scary, to say the least. I was ushered into a large room filled with sick people hooked up to all sorts of differnt colored IVs. Some were sleeping. Some were listening to music. Some chatted with the nurses and other patients. And all of them looked like they wanted to be anywhere but sitting in the collection of ratty La-Z-Boys that cluttered the floor.

My friend Fawn sat with me as my nurse, Summer, told me what I was in for. I'd be coming in for five straight days and would be there for at least six hours at a time, as the chemicals had to enter my system slowly to prevent them from burning my veins. Yikes, indeed. The following two weeks would be "considerably" easier, as I only had to come in once a week for a single - yet large - shot. Assuming that all went well, this routine would last for 12 consecutive weeks.

To say I was overjoyed by my situation would be an over-statement. But still, my options could be a whole lot worse.

The first couple of days went by without too much discomfort, but I was amazed at how quickly the drugs had an impact on my system. I'd come home from the treatment center and try to go for a walk, only to find I was short of breath by the end of the block. Damn, that shit was strong.

By the end of the first week, I didn't even have the energy to do anything more than fall into bed by the time I got home. And food? Forget about it. I had no appetite, which is not conducive when you've been told that you have to eat in order to keep your energy up. Energy? Hah!

Still, I made it through the first round without too much undue stress or discomfort.

And then came round two. One day in, and I knew I was in trouble. I mean, vomiting is one thing, but spending hours sitting on the floor just wishing you could puke is truly misery. Oh - and my hair started falling out. I'm not talking about a few hairs, either. I'm talking about clumps. On the pillow in the moring. Clogging the shower drain. Flying down the street in a stiff breeze. The damn stuff was leaving my head faster than George Bush runs away from a reporter.

Of course, I did the only reasonable thing and shaved my scalp and what was left of my beard. (I am a very ugly bald man, by the way.)

Still, I soldiered on, dragging my ass to the chemo center each day, and dragging it home each night. My system, as it turned out, was very receptive to all of this tortue in the fact that I was responding to the poison very well. The spots in my lungs and lymph nodes were shrinking faster than expected, and my prognosis was deemed "excellent." Yea for me.

Two more short weeks and I was ready for round three. Almost. I had become anemic, which meant that I got a week's respite from my treatments as my red and white blood cells needed some time to recover. To help the process, I got a shot of something called Neulasta, which spawns the growth of red blood cells in your bone marrow. It also hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, and left me immobile in bed for two days as my bones felt someone was pounding on them from the inside.

Still, after a couple of days and a shit-load of Advil, I felt almost human. I even managed a ride to Santa Monica one afternoon to meet my friend Steve and his fiance for lunch. I didn't really eat, but I went to lunch. A victory in my book.

Of course, my respite was short lived, as I was back in the La-Z-Boy just a few days later for next batch of poisoining. And let me tell you, as bad as round two had been - this was worse. Much worse. Not only did the drugs wipe me out faster than ever, but I developed a hacking cough that got so bad it would cause me to throw up.

Think about that for a second. Coughing so hard that your body decides to upchuck whatever food you had in your system. Or, if you have no food, the acid and other crap that's floating around in your stomach. At this rate, I didn't think I'd survive round four, let alone get there.

Thankfully, however, round four never came. By the end of round three, there was absolutely no sign of cancer left in my system. I was clean and, more importantly, I was done. Eleven weeks after I started, it was time to let the recovery begin.

Slowly, my stamina - and my hair - started to return and, by the end of the year, you'd be hard presed to tell I had been through chemo. Even better, my check ups continued to look good, which meant that within another 18 months, I would officially be considered cured.

Looking back now, nearly one year after passing that landmark, I can recall parts of my ordeal with astonishing clarity. Other days - and weeks - are nothing more than a fog. Still, I got a lot out of the experience, aside from life. When I first got diagnosed, I was amazed at the number of people who offered to drop everything and fly to LA to help me out. I didn't take anyone up on their offers (aside from my family members), but my friends' phone calls, letters, jokes, and general support throughout the course of my chemo made a huge difference in my recovery.

I've thanked them all before, but at this time of year, I feel it's only right to say it one more time.

Thank you.