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

whistle.”
    “Wow. You’re doing incredibly well. Nothing too horrible.”
    “Yeah. Not bad. Piece of cake. I’m very lucky.”
    “That’s it, then. Dr. Mehldau will be right in.”
    She runs her tongue over her top lip, then leans over to give me a glimpse of her world-class boobs. She slowly sashays out of the room.
    Call me, she whispers over her shoulder.
    Okay. I’m pretty sure I made up that last part. I’m so weak and delusional that anything’s possible. A few minutes later, Dr. Mehldau comes in frowning at my chart.
    “No hemorrhoids yet?”
    “I got hemorrhoids like you wouldn’t believe. Killers. It’s like there’s a whole city of miniature pyramids living in my ass.”
    He looks up from the clipboard and stares at me, confused.
    “You told Meredith you didn’t have hemorrhoids.”
    “Have you seen Meredith?”
    “I hired her.”
    “Then you know I can’t tell her I have hemorrhoids.
    ‘Hello, Meredith. I’m Robert. I have a horrible case of hemorrhoids. But I’m horny. Wanna screw?’ I don’t think so.”
    “Yeah. That might hurt your chances with her.”
    I nod. “That’s what I’m saying.”
    He smiles and shakes his head in what to me looks like amazement.

    I leave Dr. Mehldau armed with a prescription for pain pills, which I fill on the way home—I actually wait in the car and play with the radio while Vicki deals with the pharmacy—then as soon as she hands me the bottle, I pop them like Pez. They work quickly, dialing my pain down from the level of water torture to something more tolerable, say, getting a cavity filled without Novocain. No side effects, either. Well, one.
    Constipation.
    There is nothing worse than having a case of terminal hemorrhoids and being constipated at the same time. I call Dr. Mehldau. And, yes, by now I have him on speed dial. He’s stuck somewhere at Mayo, his nurse says, but she suggests a laxative.
    Which leads to an incident I’d rather forget.
    The bottom line, no pun intended, is that I wake up in the middle of the night with a searing pain in my stomach and an overwhelming and immediate need to take a shit. I lurch into the bathroom, plop down on the toilet, and—
    The next thing I hear is a siren’s warr-warr-warring. When I manage to wake up and force my eyes open, I’m strapped onto a gurney in the back of an ambulance. Two paramedics sit on either side of me. One cups an IV drip that dangles down from a portable rod attached to the ceiling and the other jabs the needle into one of the potholes in my forearm.
    “Don’t tell me,” I say, my voice a hazed-out slur. “I passed out taking a shit.”
    One of the EMTs laughs.
    “Any shot we can keep that between us?”
    I don’t hear any response, but before I drift back off to sleep, I make a mental note that it may not be funny now, but next week I’ll kill when I tell everyone about this in the infusion center.

    Cancer beats the crap out of you. It pounds you with nonstop body shots to your ribs, chest, throat, gut, and head. You are left breathless, afraid to move, because even the slightest motion sends you reeling.
    I am so weak that walking more than three steps leaves me winded, gasping for air. This actually motivates me to set a daily walking goal. I gauge the distance from my front door to the mailbox. I calculate that it’s thirty feet, more or less. My goal, I decide, is to walk to the mailbox and back. Eventually.
    Day one.
    “Vicki, I’m gonna get the mail.”
    “Are you sure? It’s hot out there.”
    “I got it. No problem.”
    Twenty minutes later I’ve made it ten feet. My lungs are burning and I’m sweating like I’ve just run a marathon. I turn around and inch back into the house.
    Day two.
    “Vicki, I’m gonna get the mail.”
    “Be careful.”
    “I will. Today’s the day. I can feel it.”
    I get about halfway to the mailbox and then I stop, desperately trying to catch my breath. I see the mailbox in the distance, a mirage on the horizon. I vow