Free Cancer on Five Dollars a Day* *(chemo not included): How Humor Got Me through the Toughest Journey of My Life by Robert Schimmel

cost?”
    “As with any product, there’s a range. We have merkins starting at $44.95 all the way up to $3,000.”
    “For three thousand bucks, my merkin better cover my crotch and whack me off at the same time.”
    “I actually have a sample in my car, if you wanted to try one on,” Stevie says.
    “No, thanks. I’ll pass.”
    “Okay. But if you change your mind, here’s my card. I’m here at least once a week.” Stevie places his business card on my night table. “Have a good day, Robert,” he says.
    “You, too,” I say.
    Stevie leaves.
    “Try one on,” I mumble. “Right.” I pick up his card, read it, stare at it, and actually say aloud to the empty room, “This has to be a joke.”
    The card reads: “Wigs Unlimited” and gives a mailing address in Beaverton, Oregon.
    Not a joke.

    Sometime after my fourth session, the effects of the chemo start accumulating and begin battering me all at the same time. I feel like a crash test dummy hitting a brick wall in a Ford Focus.
    First, the mouth sores. No matter how much ice I chew or asses I refuse to lick, the sores will not go away. And forget about keeping anything down. I can’t get anything in. For three weeks straight I live on orange lozenges, Jell-O, water, and liquid Lidocaine to numb my mouth. Prisoners at Guantanamo have a better meal plan.
    Once the sores start to clear up and I return to solid food, I immediately throw everything up. Oh, and did I mention the headaches and dizziness? Every room I enter is spinning like a dreidel (to my non-Jewish friends, that’s a top). I close my eyes to get my bearings and the room spins faster. I force my eyes open to slits and try to focus on something to stop the bed from rolling, and, that’s it, I’m racing into the bathroom, hunched over like a comma, praying I make it to the bowl.
    All of this adds up to extreme weakness. I no longer walk. I shuffle. It feels as if there are fifty-pound weights lashed to each leg. The headaches intensify, become as relentless and incapacitating as migraines, but without the benefit of the light show. Imagine the worst rap music in the world pounding in your head, blasted at a volume beyond red line. I’m waiting for my ears to bleed.
    Then, to add to the fun, hemorrhoids. And not just a few. A mountain range. Popping out all the way from my ass to my waist. At least that’s what it feels like. Sitting on the toilet now takes all of my strength, courage, and will. I’ll be honest. Taking a good shit used to bring me pleasure. It now causes teeth-clenching pain. I cry during every crap.
    I see Dr. Mehldau for a once-over. In his examination room, I mentally go over my checklist of horrifying side effects, the worst of which, without a doubt, are the hemorrhoids. They’re killing me. Everything else is minor. I’ve got to get some relief. It’s like Al Qaeda living in my asshole.
    The door opens and the most gorgeous nurse I’ve ever seen walks in.
    “You . . . you’re not Dr. Mehldau,” I say. Oh, yeah. Mr. Smooth.
    “He’ll be right in. I’m Meredith. I’ll be doing your preliminary.” She smiles, revealing a slight overbite.
    Mannn. Would I like to bang her. Yeah, right. In my condition I couldn’t find my dick if I had a G.P.S.
    “Any side effects yet, Robert?”
    “A couple,” I say. “You know. A few. Minor stuff. Nothing I can’t handle.”
    “What are they?”
    I swear she just puckered her lips. She’s unbelievable. She wants me. I’m all over this.
    “Robert?”
    “Huh? Oh yeah. Um. Well, my hair is falling out. Fell out. Everywhere. Almost. Some places still intact. A lot of virile hair still. And, okay, let’s see. Oh. I have bad headaches. And I get nauseous.”
    “How often?”
    “Let’s see. Well, pretty much all the time. Pretty much always.”
    “Does it burn when you urinate?”
    “Me? No. Not at all. Sometimes.”
    “Hemorrhoids?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Do you have hemorrhoids?”
    “No. None. Zero. Clean as a