Like all of you, I have met with so many “firsts” in my life.

Some are exciting – like the first time I road a two-wheeler. I was 5 years old and I decided to try my older cousin’s bike at my grandpa Bassett’s house. Something just clicked right away and I was able to ride almost effortlessly. Although I didn’t recognize it at the moment, I was experiencing the thrill of riding a bike and the rush of new-found freedom. Unfortunately, these were quickly replaced with physical discomfort when my cousin pounded me after discovering I was using his bike. But it was worth it!

Others are nerve-racking. There’s a little stretch of road in Hamilton called the Sherman Cut. The first part of this road is in a section that was sliced out of a rocky escarpment. The roadway is quite narrow. I recall the first time I drove up that roadway like it was yesterday, even though it was nearly 40 years ago. I was by myself, scared and keeping a white-knuckled grip of the steering wheel. The whole stretch took less than 10 seconds to travel, but my nervousness transformed into a feeling of exhilaration, like I was flying, not driving. I was legally stoned, however briefly. I haven’t felt that same rush on that stretch of road since.

Others are stunning. When I was 16 my eyes saw perfection in the form a brunette beauty named Melody. We actually lived together in a group home, so it was easy getting over the hump of simply talking to her without babbling. It was a little trickier digging up the nerve to ask her on a date. I had never asked anyone out for a date before. When I finally had enough courage, I asked her and to my shock she said yes. She eventually ended up breaking my heart into 1,000 little pieces, causing me to sing Barry Manilow songs for days, but since she was my first love, she will always have a special spot inside me.

Yet others are simply shocking. Like hearing the words “you have cancer”.

The cancer treatments started a few weeks ago and over that time I have experienced a few more “firsts”.

The First Chemo Session

The chemo session was the first treatment I received on day one. Sue came with me and stayed the whole day. After first checking in with reception, we were asked to sit in the waiting area. The room was 3/4 full of people and I noticed that every patient had someone with them. Some patients looked a little rough and it seemed obvious that their companion was there to help them get around. Many patients looked quite good, and maybe their companions were there for support and to keep them company. Since I hadn’t received anything yet, I was in the latter category.

We eventually got into the chemotherapy room and I got hooked up to an IV. The whole infusion took 4 hours – 2 hours of saline to  ensure I was adequately hydrated, followed by 1 hour of the chemical, then another hour of saline. I must have been tired because I told Sue that I wanted to take a nap and upon closing my eyes, I was snoring loudly within a minute, much to Sue’s embarrassment.

After the infusion was completed, I left to go downstairs for radiation treatment. I didn’t feel any different than when I arrived which I was quite happy about. They left the IV in place because it was used to deliver saline for 4 hours a day, five days in a row at home – to make sure I had enough fluids on-board. The only medications I was given were to help fend off nausea.

The only side effect that I noticed was an increase in ringing in one of my ears. I know that hearing can be impacted for up to one year after chemo, so having my hearing effected so quickly worried me. I knew I needed to get good quality hearing protection.

The First Radiation Session

Sue and I went 2 floors down to the radiation wing after leaving chemo. This hallway has 4 different radiation machines, each with their own waiting area. My area was at the end of the hall. About 10 minutes after we settled into the waiting area, I was called to go into the radiation room. Upon entering I scanned the room quickly. There was a bed built more for function than comfort. The head of this bed was positioned for the bed to move into the circular machine – the machine which delivers the radiation.

After a very quick prep, I laid down on the bed. The 2 staff members put my fitted mask on me and positioned me perfectly for the treatment. The mask didn’t allow me to easily open my eyes, so I kept them closed during this first session. The staff members told me it was going to start and they left the room. I heard some humming of machines during the treatment. Then in less than 5 minutes, the staff were back in the room, telling me we were all done. I was surprised how quick the treatment was.

Just like after the chemo, I felt fine. Nothing odd or unusual – which, again, I was happy about.

I didn’t really expect any side effects that soon. Unfortunately, the side effects did start kicking in sooner than expected.

I’ll Pass on the Bacon

I am receiving radiation treatments every weekday for 6 weeks. I ate quite normally for a few days into the radiation. On the Thursday night of the first week I was settled in my bedroom to watch Game of Thrones. I was tethered to an IV pole for 4 hours, so I thought I would catch up on some TV and maybe enjoy a small bowl of chips. I’m in my chair, the show is on, I grab a chip and take a bite. What the hell was that! It tasted like a wood chip. Maybe I got a dud. I tried another – still wood chips. I quickly realized that my taste buds were already changing. I was told this could happen, but I did not expect it so soon.

On Saturdays we often have pizza/movie night as a family. I love those nights. We found a pizza place that served real bacon, not just bacon crumble or bits. I got comfortable on the couch with my TV tray, staring down a couple of slices of hearty pizza with real bacon. First bite – WTF – more wood chips. Second bite was the same. I didn’t finish the first slice.

I lost my appetite at that moment. It’s obvious that taste drives hunger and appetite, but it becomes abundantly clearer when most everything starts tasting different or just plain crappy. Over the following couple of weeks, the tastes of foods deteriorated even more. Now it’s not a matter of finding something that tastes great, it’s more of a matter of finding things that taste less shitty.

I was told that I should avoid foods that I love during this treatment process, otherwise I run the risk of permanently associating lousy tastes to that food. I have therefore decided to avoid bacon until a couple of months after treatment ends.

To Make Matters Worse

Imagine the radiation machine as being a very expensive suntanning bed. The only difference is that suntanning beds affect the outside, potentially burning the skin if left too long. The radiation machines dig a little deeper than just the skin level. The radiation I am getting is 360 degrees around my neck. My spinal column is not being radiated, but a lot of my neck is, including my throat. Over the course of many treatments, my neck is becoming red (cue the redneck jokes!) – it is effectively becoming burnt gradually. But so is my throat. It’s like having a sunburn from the inside out.

Within a week and a half of the start of the treatments, my throat was extremely sore. Unfortunately, I couldn’t simply rest my throat because it gets used much too often. I was (and still am) spitting up blood from my throat frequently. Every bite has pain to it. The intensity of the pain fluctuates, but it is constant. Even drinking water hurts to varying degrees.

There is a certain irony to this process. The treatments are wearing on my body, so I need more protein and calories than normal to help the healing, but the treatments take away your want and ability to eat. This is the first time in my life that I simply don’t want to eat. I am eating out of duty to my body, not out of desire. I now see why people lose weight during cancer treatments.

People Staring

On the Sunday after the first week of treatment, I took Treva out on one of our dates to Wimpeys. I was already experiencing changes to my taste buds, but I could still enjoy a few things. The restaurant was closing within 30 minutes of our arrival, so there weren’t a lot of customers. In a cubicle next to ours sat an older lady. Treva had her back to the lady, but I could see the lady quite easily past Treva. After a short while, I noticed the lady was staring at me. It wasn’t just a passing glance, but rather, it was a locked-in gaze. Most people look away if they get caught staring, but not her. Eventually she broke away and started looking around elsewhere.

Then she started again. I am fairly secure, but she made me very uncomfortable. What the hell was she looking at? I was simply trying to enjoy a nice daddy/daughter date. Finally, I had enough and simply asked her “Why are you staring at me?” She fumbled around, obviously feeling awkward, and left the restaurant a minute later.

I know my look has changed – the nerve on the one side of my mouth still isn’t working quite right and my neck is red from the treatments. I am sure I get more subtle looks from others that I don’t even notice, nor do I care about usually. This was the first time I can recall feeling singled out because I was different.

The Eyes Hold Secrets

The eyes tell so much. Not like the older lady in the restaurant staring at me, but sometimes just as revealing.

I went to an event recently and I met with some people I haven’t seen for a while. Nearly all of them knew beforehand that I have cancer and I am going through treatments. In some people’s eyes I could read a surprised look that I was actually there. In others I could see a sadness pointed my way. Both viewpoints seem to come from a thought that cancer means you are on a crippling path to your maker. Sure the treatments are very challenging, but I’ll be around for quite a while yet.

I spent time with some of these folks demonstrating that I’ll be okay. I am a little banged up right now, but I’ll be okay. By my showing them that cancer doesn’t have to be a terminal death sentence, it seemed to make them feel more at ease.

I know that other people are dealing with my cancer in different ways. Sometimes I need a helping hand, but sometimes so do others. My job sometimes is to remind people that this is all temporary and I (we) will be beyond it in due time.

Upcoming

Tomorrow I start my second half of the treatments. My second chemo session. My 15th radiation session. Truthfully, I am not looking forward to this week. As the oncologist said, the treatments are the same, but I am different – especially with the cumulative effects of 3 weeks of radiation. I have already had a taste (pun intended) of how these treatments can impact me, so I am a little concerned about what this week will bring.

So many firsts are behind me now, but I understand more firsts could rear up over the next little while. Although I think I am ready for them, I also am blessed to have so many people who have volunteered to help me should I need it. Many people have reminded me they are only a call away for help.

I just might be calling.