Chemo, Taco Bell, and Tugboat’s Betrayal

It’s been nearly three days since my first chemotherapy session ended, and I’m happy to report that the side effects I was warned about have been relatively mild—all things considered. Nausea and fatigue have popped in intermittently, but not nearly to the extreme I had imagined.

On Saturday afternoon, I disconnected my chemo pump—a little gray device about the size of an old-school Game Boy, housed in a very functional-looking black fanny pack. It had a long, clear tube running from the pump, under my shirt, to a chemo port just below my right collarbone.

I had gone through a quick training session on how to properly disconnect it, but true to form, I didn’t retain all the instructions. When the time came, it felt more like a movie scene where the good guy has to cut the right wire to disarm a bomb. Spoiler: I cut the wrong one, and it quickly turned into something more out of a Saw movie than Mission: Impossible.

With some distance from the ordeal, I now realize the mistake was not clamping the port line correctly after disconnecting the saline flush. That let a solid, freaking crazy spray of blood shoot out of the line. I can see now why they recommend having someone help you with these things. But, like most things in life, I’m stubborn and terrible at asking for help—so I just sucked it up and did it myself. Sort of. I didn’t pass out or die or anything, so for a first attempt, I’m calling it a win.

Once everything was cleaned up, I got my first good look at the incision on my chest from where the port was placed. I wasn’t ready for that moment. It’s not a bad-looking wound—it’s small, really—but I wasn’t prepared for how much it would symbolize. It’ll be a forever reminder of this whole ordeal, right there in the mirror every day. Most of my other scars are out of sight, which makes the memories that go with them easy to forget. Not this one. 

In that moment, my inner monologue decided to try and help by quoting The Replacements, with Keanu Reeves. In that movie he plays a scab quarterback during an NFL strike, and toward the end, his team is about to score for the final time in the movie. In the huddle, his teammates look to him for something inspiring, and he says, “I wish I could say something classy and inspirational, but that just isn’t our style.” He pauses, then adds, “Pain heals, chicks dig scars, and glory lasts forever.”

That’s what my brain offered me while I stood there, staring at my new most prominent scar. I’m not entirely sure what that moment was supposed to mean, but it felt right, and it still makes me smile. Interpret it however you want—you’re probably right too.

After all that nonsense, I was encouraged to find I had enough energy to get two workouts in since the port came out. They weren’t hard, but they were satisfying. A small victory. I never thought I’d look at my buddies suffering through burpees, rowing, or deadlifts and feel jealous—but here we are. I think I’ll be back at it soon. I just need that scar to seal up first. Then we’ll see what’s possible.

Another bright spot? I still have a pretty healthy appetite—even if my cravings are a bit bizarre. Right now, I can’t stop thinking about Taco Bell. Specifically, bean and cheese burritos. I have nothing against Taco Bell, but the intensity of the craving makes me wonder if the cancer has spread to my brain. Still, I’ve driven there… twice. So maybe it’s just chemo brain and nothing more.

And then there’s Tugboat.

You hear all these stories about dogs becoming extra sympathetic when their humans are sick—never leaving their side, being all loving and attentive, blah blah blah. Tugboat? Not so much.

While I was away for treatment, he stayed with my friends Vince and Janice, who live on a different floor in my building. When I went to pick him up after four days of chemo, he did everything in his power not to come home. He made it very clear that the luxury resort life at Vince and Janice’s place was vastly superior to life with me and my IV bags.

When I finally got him home, he sat at the door and cried for two hours—pausing only to glare at me for ruining his vacation. Even now, as I write this and he’s snoring at the end of my bed, I swear he’s cursing me between the breaths.

Still, I’m glad to have him nearby. There’s something indescribably comforting about that little jerk. Even if he’s mad, even if he’s betrayed, even if he’d rather be down stairs eating filet mignon and watching Netflix, there’s a peace that settles in when he’s close. Like his snoring keeps out some kind of creeping darkness that might otherwise sneak in.