Mark A. Kilmer (the weblog)

Sunday, September 30, 2007.

First this morning, on NBC’s Meet the Press with Tim Russert, Clinton (Bill) was the guest. Interesting stuff. He credited his Global Initiative Project with having developed a new form of solar energy. He said that Hillary was right about there being no exceptions for torture, but added that individual agents can go all Jack Bauer on suspects if they see fit to do so. (Yes, he spoke much of Jack Bauer.) He praised his wife, calling her “more talented” that he is. He also handicapped the Republican race.

On FOX News Sunday, host Chris Wallace interviewed Chuckie Schumer and Trent Lott about SCHIP. Chuck said that they don’t have the votes in the House to override the President’s veto, so he supports Nancy’s scheme to send the same bill repeatedly to the President until he signs it. Lott called this “totally political” and called for Democrats to compromise and send the President something he could sign.

On ABC’s This Week, Steph talked to Newt Gingrich said that he was told yesterday that it would be a criminal offense if he had any contact with his American Solutions 527 tax-exempt outfit after the point at which he had decided to run for President. He said that Hillary is “nice person” who “works hard” but is “just wrong.”

From CBS’ Face the Nation, Dem Presidential candidate Bill Richardson declared that calling Iranian President Borat names and drawing up invasion plans will tick of the “Moslem world.” He still wants to GET OUT NOW! (Iraq) and declared that he’s the only candidate showing character on this issue. He wants to invite Iran to participate in Iraqi reconciliation.

For the show-by-show review, visit this piece RedState.com.…

For Sunday, September 30, 2007

Meet the Press (NBC): Tim Russert shows some more love, this time to Bill Clinton.

FOX News Sunday (FNS): Host Chris Wallace talks to Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee Chairman Chuckie Schumer and to Senate GOP Whip Trent Lott about the Democrats’ SCHIP scheme.

Face the Nation (CBS): Host Bob Schieffer talks to New Mexico Governor Bill Richardson, also a wannabe Dem President.

This Week (ABC): Host George Stephanopoulos talks to Clinton (Bill) about Clinton (Bill) and Newt about Newt. (Has he reached his $30-million-to-run yet?)

Late Edition (CNN): Host Wolf Blitzer chats Iraq Senator Chris Bond (R-Missouri); Iran with Sy Hersh; Iraqi Foreign Minister Hoshyar Zebari; and his usual cast of thousands.
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Bill Clinton is a disgraced former President whose only lasting footprint on American history might well be his impeachment. (And his corrupt ‘96 campaign eventually forced McCain-Feingold upon us.)

Bill Richardson is a media favorite, “the smartest governor in the Universe and expert on all things.”

Clinton (Bill) and Newt. I wonder if those two ever speak and who gets the good seats on the plane.

Well, it was the moment I’d dreaded. Last night, I had terrible dreams of Cisplatin, the platinum-based chemo drug which would rip my stomach from my body and leaving me in front of the “throne” all night. (I had made sure that the bowl was as clean as possible before my awful day.)

You see, the minds of cancer patients tend to envisage the worst when the doctors are not clear, plans change without warning or excuse, or words are dropped by medical professionals. (This theory has been tested by research.)

Fortunately this time, things don’t go as planned.

Dad got me to the Cancer Treatment Center by 8:15. I was in and out of radiation by 8:30, same ritual as yesterday but quicker. We sauntered – Dad in light brown pants and shirt, me in gray sweats and a light-gray tee, over to the chemo waiting room where I told the young receptionist that my appointment was not until 9:30 but I was told to try stopping by after my radiation. We sat down, after one cancer patient moved to another vacant chair to create two seats together for us.

A girl called me back to take blood, then we resumed our seats. Until 9:30a.

I was taken back to the chemo room, with dad coming along. The pretty blonde nurse of Polish ancestry – born in Gallitzin, moved to Ft. Lauderdale, then moved up here to Altoona (both Dad and I can extract such information, but Dad gets the credits this time)… I’m lost in this sentence. I’ll try again.

There was a row of comfy chemo chairs in which for patients to sit, and I was seated at the one closest to the wall with the opening to the hall. Susan, the nurse, was there to answer my questions and explain things to me, as Dr. Lieb and Dr. Shocker had left us with more questions than anything else.

What was the drug? “Platinol.” My heart leapt, as it was not Cisplatin! As it would be, though, Susan glibly explained that this drug was also called Cisplatin. I bit my lip.

Diane had done some research and discovered a mode of treatment called Fractionated dose chemotherapy, which involves smaller doses more frequently. The main side effect, Susan warned, would be fatigue. The treatment for this would be… rest.

To be honest — and why not? — that sounds like a plan right now.

If there is sickness, I should take the prescription Compozine we had purchased using Lieb’s signature.

My hair would thin a little, as hair follicles renew quickly and would be impeded, but that would grow back.

I praised the Lord, as I am wont to do when things go well, and I asked Dad to call Diane when he was back outside the waiting room, let her know the good news. He did, and she said his phone call lifted her spirits until she looked at the clock an noticed that I wasn’t home.

We were there from 8:15a until 2:15p, so that’s six hours. The extra time was so they could process my bloodwork, which won’t happen again. Diane and I will have the blood taken on Thursdays after radiation.

The chemo room is pleasant, divided barely into two sections: one with a TV and the “quiet section” without. I sat on the side with the TV, which was tuned to the local NBC affiliate. No one was watching it, and I asked nicely if they’d tune it to channel 75, “a news channel.” It was FNC, of course, and I noted that after it was on, the patients and nurses started watching the TV, commenting on the news, offering opinions, cracking jokes, etc. Most of the stories on during those hours (Hemmer & Kelly, E.D. Hill) are entertaining and/or outrageous.

I talked to other patients, and we had light time of it.

At one point, Susan asked if I had a sister who worked in the hospital, as she knows of a girl who looked just like me. I noted, “A very attractive girl, then.” Susan replied, “Very, and…” Another patient, over on the quiet side with Susan, interrupted, laughing: “Not a lot of conceit in that family.” I replied, “Ladies, I’m teasing!”

Dad came in to visit me at one point, and I told him what Susan had said, asking if I had another sister about whom we had not been told. An old Navy man (Cuban Missile Crisis), he asked: “You weren’t in Germany were you? Italy? Ireland?” That’s Dad being Dad, and it gives me hope that I WILL NOT have slowed down WHEN I REACH AGE 67. That’s what I know, and that’s what I have to keep in mind unless I am told otherwise and a gun is placed to my head.

I described the Chemo Room because that is a part of the treatment. It’s the environment. A new friend, a lady who has been dealing with cancer, explained to me early on that I’ll find that I have a new family of the other patients, and it’s true. There is something special about a smile from a bald lady in a ballcap who knows and sympathizes with your affliction.

How am I now? No nausea yet. I feel as if something has been done to me, which is true, but it’s nothing debilitating. And I’ll sleep better tonight, knowing at long last what my treatment will be. Dealing with it is something else, but it is doable and will hopefully be successful. My prognosis is good, and I am again in spirits as close to ebullient as my reality will allow, what with what I had feared.

This morning’s trip to the treatment center uneventful. The most exciting thing occurred on the way there, listening to FOX News Sunday on XM. A man who had been stung by a skillion killer bees told how he went to his screen door and asked his wife not to open the door. She noted, in a carefree drawl: “I said buuullll-sheeeeuttt.” She immediately apologized, and everyone – including the crew – seemed to think that this was pretty kewl.

Anyway, in the waiting room, I swiped my card. The tech, Allison, came out to get me as I was handing my watch, keys, and wallet to my wife. (I wear sweats and a t-shirt. It’s much easier that way.)

Back in the room, I saw my picture and stats on the wall. I took out my hearing aid, kept the Cross, and took off my New York Yankees T. (They clinched the Wild Card last night and are the early favorites, for what that’s worth, to win the AL pennant. They’ve had quite a comeback this season, and it gives me something to celebrate as I go through my treatment.)

They evidently had a few more things to adjust on the mask, which they put on my head after putting my breathing thingee in my mouth. “94,” said one, “94 ½.” The voices were muffled, but I’m pretty sure I heard both of them use those two numbers during the treatment.

Nice blasts of radiation, I suppose, though I could not feel it. Yet.

And I was done. My photo and stats had been replaced with those of the nice, older gentleman I had seen in the waiting room when we arrived.

Tomorrow is the chemo. My first time.

This is much of what I wrote to my family, etc.:

This morning was my first radiation treatment. If this was what it would be like, how I would feel afterwards, from now ’til the end, I’d be great. It’s not, but I won’t worry about that for now. In fact, for now, it was what it was.

My wife and I arrived at the Cancer Center at about 8:15a. I’ve heard that it is difficult to find a parking space there later in the day, but there were plenty there at the early hour.

Inside the waiting room, Diane – to whom it had been demonstrated – flicked my card with a bar code past the standup reader, and they knew that I was there. Sort of. You see, in a few minutes, the tech came out and called for, “Mr. Gilmore.” I thought first of Gary Gilmore, but he’s long dead and the idea of my being there was that I am alive and will stay that way.

I left Diane in the waiting room and ventured through a few halls into the treatment room. (It was not the same as the other one; in fact, this one was more spacious. More comfortable, I thought.

I looked up on the wall, and there was a photo they had just snapped of me – a pretty good one – and some information. It was on a medium-sized internal projection screen, it looked like. I put my glasses, hearing aid, little silver Cross, and t-shirt on the counter below.

On Monday, they had made a mask for me, and a breathing thingee. (”Thingee” is here a better word than “tube,” as “tube” connotes something long and thing. This is really a mouthpiece, and I suppose I could have called it that. I laid back on the bench/gurney thing of the machine, my head in its special spot, oval and raised on the edges. They put in the mouthpiece then shoved the mask onto me.

Their voices, as I then heard them, were muffled by the sides of the mask. But they drew on the mask and the, unbeknownst to me, gave me my treatment. I think it was when twice, the room went dark briefly and I heard a whirring sound.

But I was done. Diane tells me that it was only 20 minutes, and the girls told me that it would take less time from now on.

I’ve no pain, no discomfort; I’ve the knowledge that it is being treated. I’ve warnings of what’s to come, but I’ll worry about that when it happens.

Wake up, go to the cancer center and flick my card, get called back, get my treatment, and leave. It will feel like an endless march with no recourse. I’ll be a machine which performs its daily function then departs. But I’d spent a long time waiting for the doctors to test and to diagnose. It was unnerving, but the treatment is, a long last, underway.

I’ve radiation tomorrow, and my first chemo goes on Friday.