Rodney Curtis

Chapter 1: The L-Word

Chapter 2: Having Fun With Cancer

Chapter 3: Blue Evening

Chapter 4: Departure Terminal

Chapter 5: No News Is Good News

Chapter 6: (today) A Better Medicine

It might not be the healthiest reaction I’ve had lately. But when I woke up just now at 4:00 a.m. I felt a giant laugh in my gut. I won’t try and kid you that it was an all fun and games guffaw; most of you have seen through that charade by now.
   
It felt more like “I got laid off exactly a year ago, tried another newspaper which lasted five minutes, found a great teaching gig with amazing students but school cutbacks are coming, our van got totaled and now this — a disease that’s cleaning my clock.”

Happy Anniversary baby, where do I send the flowers for a fabulous year of living on the edge? There’s a pity parade forming along both sides of the street and I think I’m supposed to be the Grand Marshal.

And yet here’s the weirdest fact of all. Good Doctor Momin pushed into my room without knocking and said two simple words, “normal cytogenetics.” Not being able to comprehend what that meant I had to collar him for more information. “Your leukemia is De Novo which means it just came from out of the blue. This is not a bad prognosis,” he said in his wonderful Indian voice.

There is something inside me though, maybe brought on by the past year’s turmoil but most likely just a general Rodney thing that’s doing battle with this supposedly good news. When he said, “this is not a bad prognosis,” did he really mean it could be worse? When he said the risk of the disease returning was intermediate if we only napalmed the village once? Or should I just hold tight to the last image of him walking away from me with both hands pumped into the air like a World Cup Midfielder.

Everything is good so far. I have 46 xy chromosomes and right now the ones in my bones are being blasted long and hard by bag after bag of a poison so toxic I have to actually flush the toilet twice each time I pee to push the chemicals further down deep into the Beaumont Hospital sewers. Seriously.

Thankfully, this first round of Chemoscarepy is coming to an end tomorrow.

I wish that analogy got to the heart of my malaise. I wish, too I could blame this latest funk because I’m drunk on junk.

My wife said, “You really wanted this all to be just a big mistake and be told it was only Mono.”

Yeah. That’s part of it. But I guess there’s the whole victim element that plays into this too. God knows I’ve always loved being the center of attention, even now as you come to read what my latest exploits are. But equally so, I’ve always wanted to control the story, to say it in my own way. I’ve never wanted to let the news dictate me and unfortunately it’s starting to … or I feel it’s starting too. Taking control over my rotten layoff this past year has given me a little voice in my own destination. Writing about this ludicrous Leukemia can hopefully do the same.

So I’m folding up the chairs and putting the streamers for the pity parade back into the closet. Hell, I may even flush them into the hospital sewer. Yes, I had hoped this would be over and done with by mid-summer and I could celebrate with a nice Dragonmead Trippel Ale. It’s ironic yet highly appropriate that my favorite brand, the kind I crave more than any other draft from their microbrewery lineup is Final Absolution.

The deep laughter starts rolling again. And trust me, this time it’s real.

Chapter 1: The L-Word

Chapter 2: Having Fun With Cancer

Chapter 3: Blue Evening

Chapter 4: Departure Terminal

Chapter 5 (today): No News Is Good News

“Did you use a Sharpie to make that smiley face? You shouldn’t be breathing those fumes,” said our family friend Tony as we wandered around the cancer ward.

“What’s it gonna do Tone, gimme cancer?”

And with that, we’re back.

All yesterday we were waiting to hear how my little bits of bone marrow were growing. They were popped out of my hip with a corkscrew contraption that Napa Valley would’ve been proud of and set in a glass dish to multiply, divide, conquer or just party. I’ve never known what goes on in petri dishes except for those awful science fiction movies were you see little Zac Efron heads grafted onto Selena Gomez bodies. But maybe that was just a YouTube video of their latest date I just saw. The chemo has me a bit befuddled sometimes.

It turns out my marrow is just taking a little while longer to grow and become mature. Cough, cough, gasp? Mature? MY MARROW IMMATURE? No way.

My mother with portable phone in her lap watching Obama’s oil spill report and my wife at her computer were both shocked to hear what we’d been waiting for all day would have to wait even longer. So I made sure to use their anxiety as a cover for my own when Good Doctor Momin strode into my room.

“Look, I tell you again and again, you are fine. Didn’t you meet another man today who had this far, far worse than you?” he reminds me.

“Yes doctor, and he’s helped my wife and I find tons of resources already.”

“Resources. You don’t need resources. You just need to sit here, get bored and get cured.” I think I offended him. And like in those old commercials I hoped he wouldn’t pull one of those, ‘It’s not nice to offend Mother Nature.’ (Just go with me on this one, I know it’s fool Mother Nature, but you get the drift).

I explained we were just exploring all monetary avenues to help pay for stuff our co-pays and COBRAS and cohorts can’t cover and that seemed to assuage him. But the takeaway I got from him, loudly and clearly was, “Hey, this will take a while but you’ll be better.”

By us pinning our hopes on how early they caught the disease or if I have to search for bone marrow or even if I won’t be through with this until Fall, Winter … none of that matters. Right now they are hitting me with such hard doses of chemo because I am healthy and active. Therefore my cell count is lower than the Greek treasury and so my risk of disease just shot through the roof.

“Look at this as a season,” said another one of the incredible nurses who choose this ward as their calling. “Stay here and relax. It’ll be over soon enough.”

Maybe I need to sink into this as a gift and spend time getting in touch with me.

Well, me and my family anyway. Yesterday a fantastic Pizzapapalis dinner, along with all our teen hanger’s on arrived and we ate like kings right here in this hospital room. Jon, another of our solid family friends even took it upon himself to scarf down my normal hospital dinner so the nutritional staff wouldn’t feel sad. They all played with the iPad, we related wonderful stories about how Taylor was asked to the 8th grade dance, we saw Marci’s Google ranking jump up precipitously after a butt-load of work and for a moment or ten it was just like we were back home, in our kitchen.

Except there were no dogs. And that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

The results will come. We’ll deal with them and move forward. I am sitting here after another great night’s sleep, (brought on courtesy of a slight injection of Avatar, Aveeda or Adavan for sleeping). And I am awaiting my daily Cappuccino Blast from Marci who will sneak one in for another day or two until I can’t stand the sight of food.

And all is well. Remarkably and totally illogically, I am fine.

It seems my editor thinks it would be good if you were all up to speed. If you’re just catching a whiff of my whole Leukemia vibe you can read these ramblings chronologically by going here:

Chapter 1: The L-Word

Chapter 2: Having Fun With Cancer

Chapter 3: Blue Evening

Chapter 4 (today’s post): Departure Terminal

The parking lot’s mostly empty at our departure terminal, but the sun still hasn’t risen and activity is on hold for now. Most of the shift workers have completed their important duties and are just in monitoring mode, flipping through some magazines, making final notes in their endless computer ledgers, waiting.

Me and the other Acute Leuks, as our doctor has named us, have an unofficial handoff too. I don’t know exactly what it is but I think we’re the watchers.

The Czech gentleman down the hall who is done with chemo yet has to stay here due to risk of infection wanders around the ward in the evening, keeping the nurses light. I switch off with him during the day and joke around, hand out lollipops and relish the smiles as the ultra-competent care workers, amazingly gifted in their field, walk fast with an un-hurried rush to their next call.

We are watching the exiting. We are in some indescribable way here to witness the transformation.

If you walk 17 times around this cancer ward, almost a perfect square in shape, you have completed a mile and the nurses smile and say, “Hey you didn’t let your mom beat you today.” But exercise is only a sham. Sure, I want to keep up my muscle mass. And there’s no denying my girl Ivy a nice stroll, otherwise she gets moody and starts eyeing that cancer bear stud sitting next to her. (Just as an aside there was a moment I witnessed a few nights ago where he wasn’t licking Leukemia, if you know what I mean, but the two quickly broke it up when they heard me stir.)

No, my circuits around the track, while I still have energy are also done for a deeper reason. I’m looking into the souls of those on the loading platforms and wondering what they’re wondering.

Yesterday, a woman my age was clutching her cell phone but not making any calls as she huddled in the darkest corner of turn 3. The first time by I mentioned something light and she responded that her mother just passed on. The second time I slowed and offered her a hug which she seemed to melt into. The third time around, her brother exited the room and they slowly walked away. The fourth time came the Get Well balloons, a bit deflated, sure, but still remarkably mylared.

Then she came out.

I slowed. My pace didn’t need to be so quick. She was a young woman of 80-something and there she lay on her bed, head cocked to one side, mouth agape, eyes closed and pointing towards her next destination. I didn’t feel like a gawker or a ghoul. More like a bon voyage party of one.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t throwing streamers or striking up any celestial bands. But I did get another one of those Rodney feelings that tell me deep truths. Her time here was over but this was only one segment of her journey. I don’t say this, sitting backwards on my bed, tapping in the pre-dawn light because I want to believe it or wish I thought it. I tell you this because I can actually see it.

That’s partly why I’m here. I’m the one that’s haunting this place, not them. I’m the one who doesn’t belong but since I’m being offered this rare glimpse along with the other Acute Leuks I think it’s my duty to report back to you as objectively as my subjective mind can.

The trains or planes or water taxis will start to arrive and the bustle of this place will pick up. I’ll fall back asleep and forget for a moment or two that I woke to write this. I’ll also try to find something funny to insert as I re-read this just so I can feel more like myself. Don’t let me get away with too much though. Don’t allow me to hide too deeply in that Mr. Funny Man persona, as Marci calls it.

I’m staying back here on the docks and will continue to take my notes. I’m not joining their journeys for a long time yet. Am I glad I get to get a glimpse? Heaven’s yes. Are my bags properly packed for the voyage?

Not a chance.

Chapter 1: The L-Word

Chapter 2: Having Fun With Cancer

Chapter 3: Blue Evening

Drip … drip … drip … go the toxic chemicals that are killing all my bone marrow cells, good and bad. And as I lay here feeling physically fine, I miss my boring ordinary Sunday night family routine. Marci’s editing pictures, Skye is taking a shower, Taylor is working on some last bits of homework and I yearn to be part of the subtle sway of my home filled with females.

My doctor, a wonderful man from India, knows in his gut that he’ll have good news for me about my bone marrow on Tuesday, “But I want to see it on paper in front of me.” I too can visualize him reporting, with a smile, that they caught this bitch early enough so a total and complete cure is in sight.

The incredible support I’ve received from long-time family and friends as well as brand new folks who have just appeared in my life is staggering. You don’t always know how truly connected you are until an event like this transpires and suddenly you are invited to see a rare glimpse of how humanity acutally works. My wife wrote on her Facebook wall that she didn’t realize all 479 of my “friends” were actually friends without the quotation marks. It has made my blue, sad, tearful jags briefer and almost silly in a way. How can I get down when everyone is rallying around me.

There have been acts of amazing kindness, extreme silliness, and just plain sweetness like the Radkes who tonight brought me a basket of suckers with the phrase “Let’s Lick Leukemia” stuck onto every stick.

In my funkiest of funks I wonder why this is happening: did I really just have nothing else to do, was I that in need of new things to write about, or did I piss off the devil with that 666 story I wrote. But then the eternal optimist in me grabs hold of my hair, (the hair that I’m told will soon be vacating the premises), and says, “Look, a-hole, it’s because you had nothing else going on that you cleared the time to listen to your body and caught this early on.”

The guy down the hall from me has been in and out since January because he showed up in Emergency back then with pneumonia. He has exactly what I have. But his hair has grown back, then he lost it again because he caught another infection and was back here for another round and on and on. But the thing is, he’s fine. He’s much older than I am and yes, I’m taking comfort in other people’s stories but I think I mentioned earlier how connected we are on this planet.

I’m rambling. I can tell. I’ve seen this in me before so I’ll pull these horses to a halt and circle the wagons for the night. I’ll take one more self portrait to give you the mood I’m feeling tonight then I’ll gratefully accept my first sleeping pill and drift off.

Tuesday can’t come soon enough.