This past Saturday we attended a banquet where Chris received an award for some odd reason having to do with being an extremely "genuous*" person of which he is not accused of often. I was proud of him.
An older man came up to me while I was speaking with another woman. He had a morbid look on his face, and asked if I was "on the chemo?" (Technically, I was not "on the chemo" at that moment.) Then this man started to complain about cancer (when there are so many wonderful things to be said for it). He said his "wife died of colon cancer after years of being on the chemo" -- (another member - My Spouse Died of Cancer Club). He said he'd never do the chemo if they told him to do it. I thought that was a good idea seeing as how he looked like had one foot on the banana peel already.
Doctors don't really like to do chemo on a patient if they are really sick already. Or really old or complaining of pain and/or sickness, old, pain-filled and suffering and cranky and anti "doing the chemo." Doctors don't like odds stacked against them particularly. They want to be successful. People with cancer look for successful oncologists. The old man said he was in a lot of pain from arthritis he got from an accident back when they discovered dirt. He looked like he was in pain. He was all scrunched over. He appeared to be at least 100 years old. His hands were swollen. He looked a lot like my husband looked prior to his death. His face was sunken. He looked pre-skeleton-ized. He looked like he was not long for this world. This old man was really angry because chemo had killed his wife. He wanted to 'encourage' me with his story.
I assumed it was chemo that ultimately killed Greg. Chemo, and my garlic breath. Greg pleaded with me not to eat garlic and at the time I didn't think my breath was that big of a deal. But now, after three cycles of chemo, I know what he meant with his pleas. The week of chemo cycle, the smell of garlic in any form is enough to make you rush to the toilet and barf. Greg may have died a toxic human chemo bomb but I also know that he had to get away from the garlic. Occasionally, I'd get out of the house, away from being the designated care-giver for an hour. We'd go to Lindsay's and order cloves of garlic and down those cloves with chewy chunks of fresh bread and olive oil. Garlic was the cheapest thing on the menu (of course that's not all we ate). Then when I returned home, I'd talk to Greg, breathe on him and encase his dying body in a cloud of garlic and I didn't even know it because I couldn't smell my own breath and even if I could smell my breath, poor Greg.
I assumed it was chemo that ultimately killed Greg. Chemo, and my garlic breath. Greg pleaded with me not to eat garlic and at the time I didn't think my breath was that big of a deal. But now, after three cycles of chemo, I know what he meant with his pleas. The week of chemo cycle, the smell of garlic in any form is enough to make you rush to the toilet and barf. Greg may have died a toxic human chemo bomb but I also know that he had to get away from the garlic. Occasionally, I'd get out of the house, away from being the designated care-giver for an hour. We'd go to Lindsay's and order cloves of garlic and down those cloves with chewy chunks of fresh bread and olive oil. Garlic was the cheapest thing on the menu (of course that's not all we ate). Then when I returned home, I'd talk to Greg, breathe on him and encase his dying body in a cloud of garlic and I didn't even know it because I couldn't smell my own breath and even if I could smell my breath, poor Greg.
Lindsay's went out of business.
Greg died.
I pushed him over the edge with my breath.
Back at the banquet, I could tell this old man's heart was broken from losing his wife to "the chemo." I felt sad for his loss and felt a short-lived genuosity* of my own spirit just listening to him story. When he walked up to me at this party, and said he "could tell I was "on the chemo because (a lack of) hair and my face" -- even the woman I was sitting with had a look of shock (and awe!). Then the man expressed his sadness for my condition, knowing I'd probably kick the bucket any moment, and walked away. I reminded him of his experience and his dead wife. I made him feel a twinge of grief. I was a downer, a visual party pooper.
What did my face have to do with anything? I wonder did I looked pre-skeleton-ized to him? I can understand his thinking I might be "on the chemo" because I hardly have hair but I don't understand how he could tell I was "on the chemo" because of my face? It's not like I have big sores.
What makes it okay to walk up to a bald woman and tell her anything? The whole experience of this man walking up to me and talking about his disaster was unsettling when I am going through my own disaster. Yet when you have cancer (or maybe any illness) people do it so often - they want to connect, they want you to know they understand your suffering, but mostly they want to talk about themselves, then they choose to flush a verbal toilet of crap on you when it's obvious that you're already having a bad hair year.
But my face!?!
The picture below was taken at the banquet.
(One could say that Chris is genuous with his hair too.)
Sort of ironic, huh?
*For definitions on the word "genuous" read previous post on Chemo-brain dictionary words.
1 comments:
[Long comment. I must have the same logorrhea as the older feller. Sorry!] All sorts of human conditions cause strangers to feel a license to comment on one's personal disaster. Pregnant ladies get unwanted belly rubs. Parents get unsolicited public advice. And hairless people get stories about "the chemo". I bet hairrorist muslim gals get religious nuts. I say, lie to the old man. Tell him you have a terrible skin condition which required shaving your head. Tell him it's not nice to ask a lady her age or her medical condition. But this is just the beeyatch speaking.
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