I was skulking around the house last week, ruminating on just how bad I smelled. My wife was getting annoyed with me, insisting that I did not smell any differently; it was a hot, stagnant summer day and I was sweating (I felt) profusely. My chemo treatment was beginning to purge from my system and it seemed to me that as I would walk around a corner or even just turn my head, I would get a wiff of something nasty, putrid, sour. And I couldn’t shake it — that smell was just plain bad.
But it couldn’t be identified, or even located. And I was the only one smelling it.
Then I started to take stock of all my symptoms, which I do now and then as both a way of monitoring my body and keeping a sense of humor about the process. Because it can be pretty gross. Let’s face it, no one likes to think of themselves covered in puss-filled sores, hobbling about on swollen feet and wafting fetid breezes from God knows where throughout the room. Continue reading Perspective: One of the Greatest Gifts of a Cancer Diagnosis

Not long after I began my chemotherapy, I realized that I had been putting off some of my own maintenance for far too long. In this case, it was a wobbly toilet in the main bathroom, where one of the bolts that used to hold it securely in position against the floor had rusted away and, not long after, the seal on the caulk had come loose. Realization struck that it was only a matter of time until something would go terribly wrong, and I imagined all sorts of disasters I did not want to deal with following an infusion (or pretty much any other time, ever).
