Adventures in Cancerland - Episode 7 - Leaving the Port Behind Well that was fast, wasn’t it? I finished my 6th and final round of chemo on March 12th at 7:30pm. The hospital hangs a golden bell on the wall near the chemo ward that patients ring whenever they finish treatment. I’m relatively certain we were the only ones in the whole building, but ringing it felt like a great thunder of applause, just for me. I dealt with the usual bevy of chemo side effects for the week after my infusion. BUT. I did so from San Francisco, as Seth and I had traveled with a few friends to the Game Developer’s Conference. Apparently bald heads are a super trendy haircut for men in the games industry, so I fit right in. Though I was tired and ragey the conference and company did a great job of providing enough wonder that I was able to forget about my complaints for most of the day. Perhaps the worst of the trip was simply that Seth and I had to share a bed, which we haven’t done for nearly a decade, and he flips over in his sleep with the force of an alligator death-rolling a gazelle. It seems I’ve gotten so good at being poisoned over the past 4ish months that bed jiggling is now prioritized above the side-effects of chemo on my list of THINGS THAT ANNOY. The only novel experience from this time around was bone pain IN MY FREAKIN’ RIBS, which was interesting enough that it was still cool to me by the time it disappeared from my awareness. Neato. Jump to yesterday and I returned home to Grinnell and had my father, David Coster, cut open my chest and remove the port that was implanted there 4 months ago. I drove myself, which may not sound like much of an accomplishment, but it was a huge reclaiming of my autonomy. Also I scream-sang like a banshee in a jazz lounge so it was probably better that I was alone. As we walked to the clinic room my other father, Kevin Kopelson, brandished a flask of fireball whiskey and exclaimed “OLD SCHOOL ANESTHESIA!” We both took a swig and I swung onto the operating table. Double the fathers, double the fun. Dad shot me up with novacaine around the port site such that it appeared I had a small water balloon hiding under my skin. Sufficiently numbed, he took to it with a scalpel. To my complete amusement, when he first grabbed the port with the scissorclamps they slipped and it fired a volley of blood and novacaine out of the wound and onto the splatter-tarp (my words, not the medical definition) that had been lain on my chest. I was in high spirits and quite enjoyed the show. The port was totally encased in a sheath of flesh as though it had found a great piece of real estate in there and built itself a scar-hut. Dad cut through it like a SWAT team with a plasma torch and then we were being gazed upon by a third purple eye. The port was still trapped inside but as Dad rotated it it appeared to be the iris and pupil of some third being who entered during the treatment. Dad wiggled it around to break it free and with a satisfying pop that is reserved for the most disturbing of zits it came flying out. Using a pair of scissors he then poked around and found the sutures that tied the piping of the port, which went into my chest vein, and cut them free. With another yank the entire thing came out, resembling nothing less than an embryonic parasite. I was awake the entire time and had forced Kevin to video tape it (something I will not be posting) for my later examination, as I couldn’t crane my neck enough to see during the procedure. Kevin made faces of ghastly terror most of the time, which was entertaining and made me feel a little bad for him. But only a little. “MMMM SKIN-SEWING!” Kevin screamed as Dad took a hook and needle to the wound and began weaving it back together. A few moments later it formed a barely visible line which, with some luck, will transform into a redpink line parallel to the one I got when the port was installed. I’ll have a blazing equals sign on my chest for all eternity. F*** YEAH, EQUALITY! Now I feel as though I’m rejoining the world of the living. The port was the last tether to my undeath, the last thing that was reminding me bodily of the cancer and its effects. To have it unceremoniously thrown into a trashcan gave me a sense of justice I’ve not ever felt. An unmarked grave is what cancer deserves. There is still one thing that remains coiled in my chest. And it’s not a question about whether or not the cancer will return. I’m not one to dally over future uncertainties that I can’t do a thing about. That is a bridge I will leap over with a flaming motorcycle if the time comes. The question that I carry with me is this: After coming so close to dying can I make the changes necessary such that I may truly live? Getting cancer felt like going on an expedition to an extremely dangerous land that was rife with treasure and savage beasts. I got to come back, which is startling all by itself. And I’ve returned with a different outlook and a sack brimming with treasures. I suppose that’s been part of my urge to write all this down - that I might be able to share some of the treasures I’ve found such that those near me can live as if they’ve been on the adventure, without having to do the nearly-dying part. The greatest gift of cancer is that those things I find meaningful are now extremely urgent. I have woken up to my mortality. Now I just need to not fall back asleep. Like a fresh cup of coffee I’ve found one question so far that keeps me vigilant: What would I do if I were not afraid? What WOULD I do? I would write all of this into a book. A really cool book. The book I needed when I got my diagnosis and in the months that followed - one that highlighted the overwhelming good that can come from a horrifyingly bad situation. One which occasionally broke me down while I wrote it. One that, at the end of the day, was a piece of art that I was proud of, and better for producing. I would practice vulnerability. I would share something deeply personal I crafted a few weeks back. It’s a constitution of the self, a sort of codified list of attributes that I wish to embody in a prioritized order. I won’t meet it every day, but it’s my hope that having it around will push me to be the best version of myself. (https://docs.google/document/d/1jgICWoTpSe_GxfP2MlLcfbqdEdONyji4tTtExUcRmJA/edit?usp=sharing) I would recommend that every human being on the planet take an hour or two or more to generate one. I would be unabashedly thankful. The amount of support I’ve received from everyone has been completely overwhelming. I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who has kept me in their thoughts, sent gifts or food, or simply texted me to keep me company. I owe a massive, unrepayable bout of gratitude to my family, closest friends, and Diana Zeng. You made me live rather than just survive. And, lastly, I would be poetic: The dragon is dead.
Posted on: Sun, 30 Mar 2014 02:43:39 +0000
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