
Observations from 1996
This was one of my projects from my essay writing class in college. It totally was not that good, but I did manage to make my professor cry when reading this out loud in class.
On chemotherapy
“Do you know what to do?”
“Umm, yeah, uh, okay….” I trailed off, holding possibly the world’s smallest cup. I had never been in a more awkward moment. The nurse walked out the door, leaving me to my own devices. My task was to get my sperm into that clear cup with an orange cap. I wanted to yell for the nurse, “Can I get some, well, some viewing material? At least a magazine? Could you dance for me?” I wouldn’t have the balls (no pun intended) to ask that last question, especially when the nurse was ridiculously good looking and I was a thirteen-year-old boy with long, greasy hair. It took every ounce of athleticism I had to aim perfectly into that cup. But I did it, feeling like Michael Jordan when he shot his game winner during the final seconds of the championship game. OK, maybe it wasn’t that climactic, but I can dream. The worst part? I had to do it another time in that same day. Why was this happening to me at such an early age? I was just about ready to start chemotherapy for my cancer, and there was a chance the chemo could totally wipe out my sperm, leaving me unable to “plant my seed.” But thanks to artificial insemination, I can carry on the Kelly legacy. Thank God, because the world needs more of me.
On Demerol
Looking back on my well-spent time at the hospital, which consisted of watching the Price is Right and Gilligan’s Island reruns all day while eating fish sandwiches, I realized that I was addicted to a painkilling drug at the hospital. No, not morphine. That drug sucked compared to the real painkilling drug they gave me, Demerol. Pain and reality stood no chance against Demerol. The pain from the surgery was so intense, they decided to hook me up to a machine where I could press a button every fifteen minutes to send some Demerol through my IV. Pure, syrupy pleasure in my veins every fifteen minutes — that’s half of Gilligan’s Island or a quarter of Price is Right! I could feel it go through my body. Of course I became hooked on this brilliant drug and even after I recovered from surgery and left the hospital, I plotted how I could break my arm so I could get some more of that sweet medicine. I went through Demerol withdrawals every day. My family and friends deserted me. I was a mess. But after listening to the advice of the Dalai Lama, I eventually recovered after several rehab programs. Though I still miss the pleasure of Demerol every time I see an IV pole.
On surgery
Even though I’ve had six surgeries, I never got used to the idea of somebody cutting me up and looking at my organs. The surgery rooms are colder than hell and when the doctors wheel your naked body, covered only by a small towel around your genitals, onto the cold, metal bed, you begin to think, “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all.” During my first surgery, the last thing I remember was listening to a Muzak version of The Eagles’ “Peaceful, Easy Feeling.” while the doctor told me about his fishing adventures and asked me random questions about fishing. That Eagles’ song and fishing adventures were the last thing I wanted to hear at that time. I really did not have a peaceful, easy feeling because I was not on the ground and I don’t like fishing. The worst experience with my surgeries was when the doctors told me I’d have a tube down my throat and others protruding out of my body after the operation. I woke up from my first surgery expecting the worst, but no tubes were to be found. So the doctors are liars, I thought. My next surgery the doctors gave me the same spiel, only this time I didn’t listen. But I missed the important part where they told me this surgery was longer and more important than my first. I woke up in ICU with a tube down my throat and several tubes sticking out of my side. I almost laughed at my stupidity, but then I realized I couldn’t.
On going bald
Being bald was the worst experience socially. Before I started to lose it all, my hair was at its longest, past my shoulders. And then it was gone. When I was bald, my head looked like lumpy mashed potatoes. Everyone I knew started to buy me hats. I hated hats and I never wore them because they made me look like a hillbilly. Only when my hair started to grow back, did I finally appreciate the comfort a hat could bring. But now no one would buy me any headgear, because my I-had-cancer-give-me-some-sympathy routine had run out. “Where are all those hats you had in the hospital?” they’d ask. “I, uh, gave those hats away to the other kids down the hall from me. They needed them more than I did.” In reality, the hats were laying in the trash. So I wasted my own damn money to buy my own hats. It’s funny how ironic life is.
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The only way I got through each day at the hospital was by having fun and laughing. My friends used to call me cancer boy and it made us laugh. Now I joke about having cancer — don’t drink from my cup; I could give you cancer. Having this mind-set made my ordeal a whole lot easier. I think this poem my dad found for me sums up the best attitude for battling cancer:
What Cancer Cannot Do
Cancer cannot cripple love.
It cannot shatter hope.
It cannot corrode faith.
It cannot destroy peace.
It cannot kill friendship.
It cannot suppress memories.
It cannot break courage.
It cannot invade the soul.
It cannot steal eternal life.
It cannot conquer the spirit.
It cannot silence laughter.
-Anonymous
