Rodney Curtis

He’s coming!

We just got word that Rodney feels up to coming to meet friends who live in the southeast Michigan area at a fundraiser for Rodney at Inn Place Bar and Grill in Royal Oak. Rodney had nothing to do with staging this event. It was all the work of good friends Rodney has known over the years. As Rodney’s publishers, we’re throwing in a box of his books to help spread Rodney’s message and raise a few more bucks.

The fundraiser runs now through 6 p.m.

LOCATION: http://www.theinnplace.net/

Rodney plans to come at 4 p.m., we’re told.

(A NOTE FROM RODNEY’S PUBLISHERS)

Was Wednesday really my last blog entry? You can tell someone’s not in the hospital these days.

It has been a very scattered, yet relaxing time away from the front lines. Sleep seems to be my biggest luxury so far. I can’t explain why sleeping in the hospital is so tough; it should be the number one easiest thing because everyone since Hippocrates has said sleep is one of the body’s most important defenses.

My night nurses, the ones who knew me best, loved to Q-shift me, meaning they’d check my vital signs once at the beginning of the shift and once at the end. Barring any night noises or interruptions or beepings or buzzings or people emptying my trash at O-dark thirty it usually meant I’d be able to sleep an hour or two before the constant drip from my gal-pal Ivy sent me to the toilet.

The past several nights I’ve gotten 7-8 hours at a stretch, then a few more … then some more. Home life is a posh existence.

Marci and I went down to the Karmanos Cancer Institute to up the ante in this war on leukemia. They seem to love anomalies and eat them for breakfast. If my genes are screwed up or if I should want or require experimental treatments they are ready like Igor and Dr. F to jump in. I don’t actually know when I’ll be inserted into their system but the myriad vials of blood they sucked out of me indicate they’re arming themselves for battle.

What else? Of course I should mention the incredible karaoke fundraiser going on tomorrow, Sunday, from 2-6 at The Inn Place in Royal Oak. It was organized by Marty Westman with maybe a helping hand from Sally Tato Snell, but both are so modest I can’t actually tell. The Facebook group for the event seems to not allow everybody to see the event so here’s a poster, also created by the Fabulous Mr. Westman.

“So how are you doing, Rodney” is the number one question I hear continually. And yes, I’m happy to answer. I don’t really feel like I have cancer or anything other than the easy fatigue that hovers right nearby. I know I’m in the middle of an enormous fight and these brutal cells inside me just aren’t agreeing to a ceasefire. I appreciate the thousands of well-wishes I’m getting from friends as distant as Elementary School and as recent as my new Beaumont buddies. The only thing separating me from that dude riding the gondola in Marty’s poster is a head of hair and, well, that sexy silhouette.

I have more blog entries stacked up and ready to land like planes at Detroit Metro but I thought I’d just toss out a little of this, a little of that tonight. Now it’s back to my insanely soft couch, followed by my one-of-a-kind bed. Know this, know this from every clean and clear cell in my body; I am going to rid leukemia from my lifestyle and come back as the kind of person I’ve always known I can be. The Rodney BC was a pretty great guy. The Rodney AC will be even cooler.

AC, cooler … no it didn’t really work. But you catch my drift. If you have a better conclusion, please feel free to type it in the Comment section below.

Mom normally sends out these “Rodney updates” to you but this time she asked me to compose it.

The situation has taken a bit of a bad turn. It’s not horrible or life-threatening, but nevertheless it’s not the news we were hoping for. This latest round of chemotherapy actually allowed a slight increase of leukemia into my body. Can you imagine that for a moment; something called High Dose ARA-C actually let more cancer into my body? Now, it was only a bit more but when you’re thinking that maybe the news would be empty bones, it gets you even madder at the disease than the day before. Our family super hero, my Aunt-In-A-Cape Roberta speculates that the increase in cancer cells could be a false reading based on two different technical details. We’re hoping she’s right.

So why did the cancer increase? Or did it actually? Nobody knows. Are there other options. Absolutely. It turns out there are chemotherapy cocktails my brand of leukemia hasn’t even seen yet and should be devastating to the disease. Also, they are now scheduling me for bone marrow consultations on Friday. My brothers and cousins, as well as a vast sea of unknown persons await donorship. One of them, if not one hundred, will be a match.

I still feel reasonably fine and healthy and my greatest advocates tell me my youth and health are vital to my treatments. My doctor has told his mentor, whom I’m seeing Friday, that when I walk into the room he, himself won’t believe I have Leukemia, (except maybe for my bald head).

How do I feel about this? Thanks for asking. I’m pissed. I despise leukemia more than ever. And I’m mad my wife, daughters and Mom have to go through this. They’re handling it well but I’m angry they even have something like this to “handle.” Mom lost her own mother to cancer when she was 16. She lost her husband to cancer when she was 55. Her eldest had to have his thyroid obliterated due to, yep, cancer. Now me. No person should have to deal with that, this many times.

Am I thinking about the end game. Yes, but only in terms of a cure. Death is for a Rodney in his 80s or 90s. As Eminem says, “Success is my only _____ option, failure’s not.” That Christmas picture we sent out last year, the one where we’re all smiling and framed in portable frames, that’s the image of my family I’m keeping. That’s the one that will eventually eradicate cancer.

My climb became a bit steeper. I would be lying if I said otherwise. My prognosis is still for a cure and not just remission. I haven’t been blogging for the past few days just because I haven’t really felt like it. I wonder … hmmm … maybe this note to you will also find a spot in cyberland.

Oh, they’re sending me home for a few days too. They’re keeping visitors away but at least my own bed and family will comfort me until I report for duty at Karmanos in Detroit, U-M medical in Ann Arbor or back to Troy Beaumont.

Mom always said with bad news comes good.

Friday afternoon was mellow. Doctor was pleased I was flatline with all my blood numbers barely able to raise their hands for roll call. A hospital cheeseburger with fries was on the way.

And then suddenly I’m Nigel, an aging British rocker in rehab.

The story goes, my two longtime Irish roadies came to spring me but instead just brought my costume: an insane wig, Elton Gaga glasses and a tattoo saying either MOM or WOW depending on how I affixed it.

When Ronan and Aidan opened the hermetically sealed items — germs don’t ya know — my transformation became complete. No longer Rodney by the hour, I was Nigel.

Dragging Ivy, my first stop was the nurses’ station. A media frenzy ensued when they became the British tabloid press trying to do ol’ Nigel in with their cameraphones clicking and wanting to pose with me.

Several nurses who’ve treated me became former lovers of that rapscallion Nigel who had wronged them over the years in his haze. No one, fortunately, took the bait and slipped a little gin or stout into my water cup.

Circling the ward with my phony-fake English accent, nurse Hellen became my beleaguered publicist, checking rooms for patients who’d remember me and my mates during our glam rock days. Then back in my private cell I sunk back into me.

There was a brief interruption when wife and daughter arrived and were rock-shocked by the getup, only to burst into insane laughter and poses of their own before Er-bear, my leukemia licker, became Hair bear.

Anyone who says life ain’t grand, strongly needs a visit from their own private Nigel.