*72 . . . The Adventures of Chemo-Man
I
What’a night, tonight. Like any other night, tonight.
Darkness spreads her legs wide open for a more
than an agreeable evening sky . . . the stars
swim
by . . . wiggling like sperm missiles seeking out
an unused moon or two. Perhaps, a ménage à
trois
of heavenly bodies. They don’t call it the Big
Bang
for nothin’.
And thoughts, a thought, thoughts
drift like seaweed in the Pacific
on a night this deep, this dark.
A tiny bit of sandy turf to stand upon
would be more than just nice.
. . . but I stray.
This . . . night. Tonight? Just another night
just
like the night before. Another night just like
the night before that . . . and before that . .
.
and before that . . . and the only difference?
April 2o, 2o2o Norman
Regional Hospital Oncology 8:50 a.m.
Out of the bloodsucker’s cubical, back into the
main waiting-room
greeted by a sea of old people in surgical
masks. Old people,
my people. Old people in wheelchairs on regular
chairs, some
standing in line at the front desk, each frail
body supported by a
Cofoe NEW LED Aluminum Quad Walking Stick.
Every time
the door to the chemo labyrinth opens their elderly
eyes look up—
“Look at your arm . . .” I heard David say.
“What?” “LOOK AT
YOUR ARM!” I hate it when he whisper-yells at
me . . . but I’m
sure he hates it when I belittle his driving in
full voice. So, I guess
we’re even— "You’re bleeding.” I look down
. . . “Oh!” two thick
streams of blood emerging from under the left sleeve
of my
tie-dye hoodie and running the length of my
hand . . . dripping
from the fingertips . . . onto the waiting room
carpet. “Oh!”
the lady at the front desk performs a perfect
imitation of what
I just said when she sees my bloody hand. A
quick thrust of her
left hand, she’s on the phone, and almost simultaneously
two
bloodsuckers come out, grab me up . . . four arms guide me,
and back into the bloodsucker’s cubical I go. Bloodsucker
#1
lifts my sleeve. The elastic compression wrap
that covered
the spot where they just extracted my blood
sample is bright red.
“Oh . . .!?” A popular word at oncology today.
“We got a gusher!”
If I had, had my funny bone turned on, I
would’ve yelled,
“Thar she blows!” Bloodsucker #1 unwraps my arm
as
bloodsucker #2 rips off a much bigger wad of
cotton to
replace the tiny, blood soaked one. #2 hands
the cotton off
to #1. He presses the fuzzy white ball onto the
injection point
(located at the distal biceps tendon area of
the elbow joint . . .
yeah, I had to look it up.) and wraps it . . .
tight. This time
the elastic wrap has dinosaurs printed on it. A
comforting pat
on my back by bloodsucker #1 and a pleasant “there
you go!”
lets me know that I’m done. “Where do you think
you’re going?”
Nurse Happy asks from behind me. I turn to her.
She’s wearing
a chic Day of the Dead surgical mask. “You have
an appointment
with . . . THE DOCTOR . . . Follow me . . . please?”
II
. . .
and in less than twenty-four hours, mortality
caught up with me . . . its wrinkled hand
thrusting out, tapped me gently on the shoulder
. . . I turned my head in just in the “neck” of
time
and watched it . . . run away . . . laughing as it
disappeared behind a black Chevy Nova parked
by the old oak tree that I’ve always wanted to
climb
but never did . . . leaving me there with nothing
but the fading memory of its crucified shadow
hanging from a wrought iron fence that
half-circles
the Energy Center’s abandoned parking lot.
April 2o, 2o2o Norman Regional Hospital
Oncology 9:00 a.m.
A quick triple knock on the door, a three second
pause
and the Kwikset Tustin Keyed Entry Lever featuring
SmartKey in Satin Nickel quietly shifts
downward.
The door pops open and The Doctor (only a foot
or so
taller than door lever) power walks into the room.
She stops in front of the computer, diddles with
the keys,
looks down at the clipboard in her hand,
diddles again
with the keys on the computer. Pause. “Well,
how
you doing today, Robert?” Oh, you mean besides
having
cancer? “Fine.” I feel like I’m talking too
loud but I’m also
wearing a mask . . . “Well, that’s good that’s
good.” Again,
peck, peck, peck at the keyboard. “Okay. The
bone marrow
biopsy . . . no change from the first one you took
seven months
ago . . .” another quick look down at the
clipboard. “How’d you
handle the second one?” “It was okay. Hurt a bit.”
She’s stalling.
Why? “Okay, well, there’s not much we can do
for you. Sorry.
The chemotherapy is just not working.” I think
I say “oh” but not
all that sure. “So, what next?” “Okay, well . .
. we can keep
feeding you blood and that’ll work for a while,
but sooner or later
the transfusions will stop working too. Your
blood will dry up,
your organs will shut down and—” “I’m dead?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now, we could just stop the blood treatment
all together
and— "Dead?” “Yes, in about two weeks.” I
think I laugh.
She stares at me. “I’m sorry, but I can only tell
you the truth,
no watering it down . . . One thing we can do
is get you up
to the OU Stephenson Cancer Center and let them
evaluate
your status. See if you qualify for a bone marrow
transplant.
How’s that sound?” “Fine.” “Alright then. I’ll set up an
appointment for you (quick look at the
clipboard) for . . .
this week and we’ll go from there.” I can’t see
her mouth
because of the mask . . . but she sounds like she’s
smiling.
It’s approximately sixty-seven steps from the
examination
room to the waiting room. David’s there waiting
on me.
I can tell he wants to know “how’d it go?”
III
We are shocked, aren't we, to find out that
life,
our individual lives are so immortal . . .? but
only
during the spring and summer months of existence.
The fall and winter? We bleed like everybody
else.
Woodie’s Apartment April 2o, 2o2o 1:30 p.m.
The parking lot of Woodie’s building. David in
his car.
He dials
a number on his phone. Talks. Pause. He
hangs up.
Dials a number on his phone. Talks. Looks
at the
phone. Talks. Pause. Hangs up. Pause. Woodie
comes
out of the apartment on the run. He goes to
David’s
car. David rolls down the car window.
Woodie: (yelling) I can’t find my fucking keys!
I’m
going to be late! Stop fucking calling me! I can’t
find— your fucking phone doesn’t work. I can’t
hear a word you’re saying so stop calling! I
can’t
find my—I’ll be back, okay, when I find the
fucking
keys! STOP CALLING ME! Get your phone fixed!
Woodie exits back into the apartment building.
Pause.
Woodie runs out of the apartment building keys in hand.
Woodie runs out of the apartment building keys in hand.
Gets into the car. David pulls out of the driveway,
heads
for the hospital. Pause.
Woodie: Sorry about blowing up like that.
David: It’s fine. I know what you’re going through.
Woodie: You do? Oh, yeah, I forgot. Sorry.
David: Doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.
David: It’s fine. I know what you’re going through.
Woodie: You do? Oh, yeah, I forgot. Sorry.
David: Doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.
April 2o, 2o2o Norman Regional Hospital
Oncology 2:00 p.m.
The Chemo-room . . . a maze of cubicles . . .
each one equipped
with a gray reclining chair. I call mine the
Captain Kirk chair.
“Beam me up, Scotty.” Nurse blondie searches my
bruised
arms for a vein big enough, fat enough to
stick. “Well, shoot! Sandi,
get me the Vein Finder.” I could have given the
machine that hunts
out the thickest blood vessels in my body a better
name than just
“Vein Finder.” How about Blood Hound? or Blood
Hunter! “Sandi!”
I hear Nurse Blondie shouting in my mind. “Release
the Blood Hound!”
Yeah, that would be a better name. Nurse Sandi,
on the run arrives
with the Blood Hound . . . a sort of giant barcode
scanner with a wide
semi-skinny, metallic mouth, the “Trolley-Mounted
Vein Finder for Vein
View Before Sticking” is its proper name. See?
not as good a name
as the Blood Hound or Blood Hunter. The Hunter shines
a pale-green
fluorescent light across my forearm . . . and
there they are. Short, little
rivers of blood . . . looking like lime
popsicle sticks. “There’s a good one!”
Nursey B. is the best at hooking me up to the peripheral
intravenous
(PIV) line. I barely feel the needle enter the vein
on my left hand. My left
arm gets all the poking, all the blood tests,
all the transfusions.
My left arm and hand never complain . . . they
just bruise quietly.
April 2o, 2o2o Norman Regional
Hospital Oncology 3:30p.m.
“You okay?” I look up from the Kirk chair at
Nurse Nice. She
looks distressed. It’s then that I realize I’ve
been crying for the
last-half hour. I smile at her hoping she doesn’t
see . . . she
rushes over . . . “What’s up?” She has a
demanding tone to her
voice. Not unkind. But she does demand you tell
her exactly
what is— "THE DOC said the chemo isn’t
working on me. So,
I’m done with that—" She lays a hand on my
knee and
automatically my hand covers hers. I don’t dare
look at her
because I’ll start crying again. “Don’t worry,”
she says with
such a tender, caring sound that I never heard
from her before.
Sort of a whispery voice. My mother used the
same voice
when she was trying to get me to go to sleep at
night.
“It will be alright,” mom would say. And I’d
believe her.
El Monte, CA May, 1961
The phone rings. “I’ll get it!” I said as I’m on
the run
from my bedroom and down the hall— "I’ll
get it,
mom!” Yelled my younger brother, younger but
taller,
stronger than me. Behind me, I feel that
younger brother power as his left hand (filled
with a treasure chest of scars that he won from
kicking the dog out of anyone in the 7th
grade
that fucked with him. He was in the 6th.)
“RING!”
“I’ll get it, asshole.” my brother said. Magically,
“I’ll get it, asshole.” my brother said. Magically,
I’m flew through the air in the opposite
direction
from the phone . . . BUMP! I hit the linoleum floor,
my body, my legs taking most of the punishment.
It hurt like hell but didn’t stop me from getting
It hurt like hell but didn’t stop me from getting
to my feet and leaping through the air onto my
brother’s broad back. We tumbled to the ground,
knocking the phone table over and sending the
heavy dial phone sailing. We scrambled for it, kicking
at each other as we crawled across the floor,
AND
for the first time ever . . . I won! I grabbed the
heavy
black receiver. Out of breath, I yelled as loud
as I
could into the black mouth of the phone . . . “HELLO?!”
April 2o, 2o2o Norman, OK Woodie’s Apartment 10:30
a.m.
“HELLO?!” “Hello?” the invisible voice on the
other end
of my cell phone says— Wait a minute! There were
no
cell phones back in ’61, were there? Fuck! It’s
2020!
“Hello? Mr. Woods, are you there?” It’s Nurse
Happy.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.” “Are you alright?”
Yeah, yeah,”
I say as I’m trying to knock the fuzz balls out
of my
consciousness, “Yeah. What’s up?” Happy pauses
a minute. That makes me think the news ain’t
good.
“Well—" “What’s up?” “Well, THE DOCTOR
called the
Stephenson Cancer Center yesterday after she talked
to—" “Uh-huh.” “Well . . .” She’s stalling.
No one says
“well” that many times if they got good news. “Well,
she
called to set you up with an appoint to see
about the
bone marrow transplant. The hospital said they
are not
taking any new patients for at least two months.”
“Oh,”
my “oh” must’ve have been very telling. “But
now, that’s
actually, good news.” “It is?” “Oh, yes. Very
good news!
You want to try it?” “You guys think you can
keep me
alive for two months?” There was a slight
giggle from
Happy. “Yes! We can keep pumping you full of blood,
and if your cancer advances into acute leukemia
before
the two months are up, we’ll be able to get you
in as a
critical necessity. Does that sound good to you?” “Sure.
That sounds . . . good—"
IV
The younger we are the saintlier we are, we, teenage
gods and goddesses of the freckled-faces, the long
legs that stretch all the way to the ground, and’a
flexible
body that can withstand being stomped into’a howlin’
puddle of sweat and spit by a heavy booted kick
to the groin, the gut, to the chest . . . those
pretty-boy
looks demolished by the proverbial knuckle
sandwich
to the mouth, the eyes bruised shut. You can
hear
the bones creak, crack, splitting themselves
into small
shards of collagen and calcium phosphate . .
. all of me
put back together . . . as easily as if I never
fell apart.
V
Yes, if there is anything to admire about youth,
it’s that
naive view of longevity, a long life. It never
seems to end.
*Written by Woodie for Woodie’s 72nd
Birthday
Damn good, Woodie.
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