Charles — September 17, 2020

Hello family,

I feel a bit self-conscious about this, but I’ll get over it. Nora says it’ll be good for me to write it out, and I’ve learned that arguing with a therapist about what’s good for me is impossible. So, you’ll be able to catch up with my cancer story every time you log in to check whose birthday it is.

I’m lucky we caught things quickly. I have one more appointment next Tuesday, and the care team will set the treatment plan. My primary doctor says we will start in the next 10 days. I’m figuring September 28th. I appreciate how many of you have reached out with your well wishes and offers to help. Just please, don't be upset if I "accidentally" catch gamma rays and turn into Hulk.

chuck

Nora — September 22, 2020

Hi everyone!

Chuck has a visit with the radiation oncologist today (luckily in Tomball, apparently Houston is under water). The MD Anderson team is fantabulous; he’s getting the best care possible. Dr. Fincher said the diagnosis is Squamous Cell Carcinoma. Chuck has two sites in his throat/neck area. His start date is October 12th. Prior to that, he must have a contraption developed that holds his tongue down during radiation. I’m pretty sure it’s a Medieval torture device. The side effects of radiation therapy in the throat and neck do not sound fun. He may temporarily lose his sense of taste, which means eating will not be as enjoyable, but the doctor said he may just have to focus on eating things he really likes. He’s totally pumped at the idea of milkshakes three meals a day. On the upside, he may never have to shave the left side of his face, again.

-Nora

Charles — September 30, 2020

Good evening from H-town,

What up dogs? That sounded pretty hip, didn't it? We’re back in Houston for a long day. It's six appointments. The highlights include fine-tuning my "tongue depressing stent" and getting fitted for my "body mask." Sounds pretty fly, huh? I’ll have some nasty souvenirs from all this. Although, I’m told this won’t help the claustrophobia, which is wiggity wack.

I was approved by Blue Cross to get Proton Beam radiation. Since it is a tighter beam, there will be less damage to surrounding structures. Dr. Fincher said the side effects shouldn't be as bad now. Nora started calling me Professor Proton, which isn't as cool Hulk.

chuck

Charles — October 1, 2020

OHMYGOSH, what a long day. It started with my COVID screening check at 7:30, said "no" to a bunch of questions. Off to get my wax tongue fitted. It wasn't quite right, but Caroline, my nurse friend, adjusted it. Then, it was off to get the "shove up your nose" test. Caroline counts down from five once she gets it in place. She says counting helps. It doesn't. Just makes me want to show her how to count faster.

Then, it was off to make the mask. So strange. They strap you down, take plastic mesh that has been in a tank of warm water, and stretch it over your head and shoulders with the stent in your mouth. They take it off, unstrap you. Yay, all done. That's a negatory, Ghost Rider. They put you back in and attach it to the mask’s back portion. They keep you busy around here.

Ok, enough expository material, on with the panic attacks. I get there and it's time for the worst ride in Astro World: The Claustrophobic Carousel of Cruelty. Well, it's not a carousel, it's an MRI machine. Despite the two happy pills, I was still wound up from the earlier session. I sat in the waiting area staring at my lime green mask and red wax stent, tapping my foot as fast as Buddy Rich. Seriously, if you would have snuck up behind me and popped a balloon, I would have soiled myself, jumped out of my skin, and my eyeballs would’ve exploded.

The techs were patient. After three false starts, they got me strapped down and ready. I didn't ask how long the sessions were. I didn't want to know. I'm not certain if the happy pills ever did anything, but I spent my time trying to count seconds while screaming "DON’T THINK" in my head. Stop laughing, I really did that. I wanted to kiss them both after they disconnected the mask, but they were wearing face shields and I still had the stent in my mouth. They seemed to appreciate the gesture. Nora was so proud she bought me a chocolate milkshake.

I appreciate the people at MDA. They give me confidence. If I only had a heart.

C'mon Toto, time for bed.

chuck

Nora — October 11, 2020

We moved into the Airbnb home, yesterday. Chuck is painting with the window open—you know what he’s like. We have all day to acclimate before the adventure begins in earnest tomorrow.

-Nora

Charles — October 13, 2020

Day Two went as smooth as jazz. The techs that torture me are so upbeat. They asked for my music preferences, and I told them Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes. They were surprised to see me shimmy like a June bug when they turned it on.

“Mr. Keller, you got some moves on you.”

“You should’ve seen me before the hip replacement.”

Nora wasn’t nearly as appreciative of my moves when we got home—[Wife’s note: It was nothing to be proud of, trust me.]—but she’s always been the better dancer.

I was in no hurry, baby, I don’t want to go home.

Charles — October 16, 2020

I realized I hadn't updated things since Tuesday and, honestly, I didn't want to. After my post, it went south. I had my first chemo Monday evening. Three hours of lying quietly, eating a turkey sandwich in a comfy bed. How tough is this? Got up Tuesday for radiation—not even a full panic attack. But the happy chemo drugs began to wear off, and the Hell Hiccups started. They began around my ankles and twisted me like a dreidel. I didn’t get much sleep, and Nora got hiccup alarms throughout the night.

It’s here, gentle readers, that I must be honest: I ignored Caroline’s advice. She told me not to wait until I was sick to take the nausea medicine, but did I listen? I’ll spare the gruesome details, but Nora turned the TV up to 80 and still heard me yacking.

She’s doing a wonderful job taking care of me: tolerating my whining, complaining, and occasional barfing. I doubt I could do half of what she does, but I won’t have to. She may be a better dancer, but I trounce her in the Big Baby Department.

chuck

Charles — October 20, 2020

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in 64 years, it’s that everyone wants to befriend the donut holes guy. This morning, I wanted to get Team Hulk a dozen: my golden tickets of delicious dough. I’m in and out of the lab in 20 minutes. Down to the first floor, and ready to begin my march to the dungeon. I stopped and helped a young woman find her way. I’ve been around enough to know the secret of finding the big blue doors. It’s easy to spot rookies: bug eyed with the scent of confusion. The woman said something about picking up her meds, and it hit me! There was no happy pill swimming in my stomach acid. I’ll spare Nora from reading the cussing I gave myself.

I was in a death grip with the Panic Panther. I sat next to an older couple and prayed the delicious dough holes would calm me. Radiation screws your taste buds. I tossed the first one in the air and tried to catch it. I thought doing my infamous dolphin routine would lighten the mood. Instead, I wasted a perfectly good donut hole. I popped the second one in my mouth and tightened my face like a fist. Must have been the black sheep of the donut hole family. I could barely swallow it. I pushed the third one further in my mouth, away from the bad juju tastebuds upfront. Before I could force it down, the hillbilly tastebuds came out of the bayou to terrorize my mouth. My “golden tickets” tasted like copper. I thought the couple would want some.

The gentleman was in a wheelchair. His treatments must be hell because he only spoke in whispers through his wife. I’d assumed it was his wife but—by the look of him—it could have been his daughter. I didn’t want to assume. Mr. Whisper spoke something in his wife’s ear, and she replied, “You know it’s in my purse, go ahead—get it.”

I laughed. "Oh, never go into a woman's purse. I learned that from mom decades ago."

"It's ok to go in a woman's purse when she says so." We laughed together.

“Oh, no, I can’t. I bring it to my wife and ask her to get it.”

The laughter continued; they were an easy crowd.

You would be surprised with how pleasant Mr. Whisper’s laugh was. It was the loudest he got. He whispered in her ear, and she told me he said I was right to fear my wife.

Charles — September 26, 2020

Mr. Whisper came in with his wife's pink purse perched on his lap. That was his wife, by the way. As she picked it off his lap, I told him, "I saw you looking in there." He and his wife started laughing. Everyone else in the waiting room laughed too, perhaps they thought I was bullying the guy in the wheelchair and didn't want to be next. But the three of us knew.

"Mr. Keller, you ready?" It was Caroline.

“No, but you’re going to take me anyway.”

“Great. We moved your proton therapy up, so you can just go in right after your simulation.”

I wanted to throw a chair. It was the second time that week I forgot my happy pills. This time, it was Nora’s fault.—[Wife’s note: It wasn’t]—She said I could drive back and get it after simulation. But Overlord Nora didn’t account that they would run early? Here comes the Panic Panther again, grinning at me with those sharp teeth. I didn’t want to appear wimpy and admit that I needed to go home to get another happy pill. I tried to cover my heinie by telling Caroline, “They moved my time up, so I won’t be able to take the car back to Nora and she needs to go to HEB.”

She giggled. "Oh, HEB doesn't care. I've picked up groceries an hour late before—they just keep them there for you. They’re good about that." She pointed to a room with a curtain and said that I can sit in there until my therapy starts.

I found myself in the proton radiation therapy room, no second happy pill in sight. It’s not even 3:00 for gosh sakes! Things are supposed to run late! Not horrifyingly early! I caved and told Caroline that I’m claustrophobic, and I’ve only had one happy pill.

She gave me a billboard smile and said, “It’ll be ok. Close your eyes and count the chickens.” I don't think she heard a word I said.

Charles — October 31, 2020

It’s been a while; I’m sorry. I lost a friend, yesterday. For the life of me, I don’t know why I never introduced myself. I noticed that I hadn't seen Mr. Whisper in days. The new ladies and EMTs from another hospital were coming in with a gurney. It was the first time I’ve seen Caroline without her teethy smile. She was holding on to the gurney bar tight like a rollercoaster harness. I kept my distance, but I was positive it was Mr. Whisper. I couldn’t be sure because I didn’t see his wife. I never got his name. I took the waiting room seat where we always had our morning conversations and cried like a baby.

I’m trying to distract myself with painting. I know; I haven’t changed a bit. I check the email to see if my students need anything. But Art isn’t exactly Pre-Cal, so they don’t ask many questions. Today, a few sent some of their projects and that just made me cry more. I miss making fun of them in person.

I still can’t get over not getting his name. We chatted about the staff, how damn chipper they were that early. A little baseball or football. Nothing deep. His cancer was on his tongue. They had to remove a part of it and replaced it with tissue from his leg. His biggest concern was not being able to see the granddaughter in Mississippi.

Nora told me she was going to try to find Mrs. Whisper on Facebook. Part of me hopes she doesn’t. It doesn’t take long to get attached around here.

Love you, thanks for reading.

chuck

Charles — November 2, 2020

Today was my last day in radiation. I had a lot more zip. I went to radiation and every tech had on matching witch socks and Halloween shirts. A little late in the season, but I like to think they were celebrating my birthday. I wish I’d thought to get a selfie with them. Nora made the traditional Italian Creme Cake that I couldn't find a taste for other than “yuck” which made me sad. I heard "Happy Birthday" from all of them and they were delighted to see Nora’s cake.

Radiation goes off without a hitch. Afterward, I told them how much I’ve appreciated them, that their compassion got me through this. It wasn't my intention, but they started crying and said they’d miss my bad jokes. It was about that time Mr. Whisper rolled in. Because of my mask, he couldn't see my big grin when I realized it wasn't him on the gurney. He was with Mrs. Whisper and Caroline. They were busy, but I barged in to ask for a group selfie and tell them it was my last day. He whispered congratulations through his wife, and I told him to keep his manners and stay out of his wife’s purse. Their names are really Mr and Mrs. Moore. It was good to hear them laugh one more time. Caroline walked me to the door, and we hugged. "If they don't treat you right over there, we will take you back, Chuck."

“Back here? With you and the chickens? They’d have to drag me back.”

Later that day, I had my chat with the chemo doctor. All my blood work looked good; I just can’t lose too much more weight.

“If you drop more than 20%, we will have to put you on a feeding tube.” He almost made it sound fun.

I got home worn out. I lied down for a nap. Nora came in about 7:00 and asked if I wanted dinner. “Not right now.” I rolled over.

"You need to get up and take your meds and take care of your teeth." She poked my empty gut.

I crawled out of bed, had a muscle milk, took my meds. Everything was fine until the fluoride treatment. Something about it causes gag reflex. I was still over the sink when the nausea took over and emptied everything in my stomach. Luckily, it wasn’t much. I cleaned myself up, shrugged, and went back to bed. This is not a problem. I know people with problems. Life goes on.

Charles — November 21, 2020

"Mr. Keller?" "Yes, here." "How are you?" "I’m well," I lied, "Yourself?" "I'm well. We aren't quite through, so if you would—" "Have a seat in the VIP lounge?" I finished for her, and we chuckled at the long-standing joke.

It's just a dressing room for patients who must be in a gown. A few minutes later, I’m finished disrobing.

"You ready?" "No, but it doesn't matter. You're going to make me do this anyway."

In goes the mouthpiece, down comes the mask, the eyes close, darkness surrounds, and the count begins:

One clucking chicken, two clucking chickens, three clucking chickens …the beginning is always tough because of the adjustments …twelve clucking chickens, thirteen clucking chickens ...sorry if all these chickens are making you hungry …58 clucking chickens, 59 clucking chickens, 60 …one minute down, 19 to go; I always tell myself it will take 20 minutes even though it has only taken that long once ...five clucking chickens, six clucking chickens ... “Ok, everything looks good, we are ready to start," then the weird noises like fabric tearing start... 34 clucking chickens …marbles rolling around a barrel …51 clucking chickens …Why am I doing this? Caroline said counting chickens makes you happier than counting Mississippis ...three clucking chickens, four clucking chickens ...the beam alarm. "Good job" the voice says, "We are setting up for the second phase." I lie still. I am in position, and don't want to screw anything up …twelve clucking chickens, thirteen clucking chickens.

This one has sat uncompleted for a few days. There were some rough days I’ll tell you about later.

Nora — November 30, 2020

Hi everyone,

Chuck finished treatment on the 24th. We stayed in Houston for Thanksgiving and got home Friday. He's been asleep in his recliner ever since. The last 10 days have been tough for him. His throat is in extreme pain, and he's pretty much been on a liquid diet.

The good news is that there is every indication that the treatment was successful, although, we won't know for sure until he heals, and they reassess.

I wanted to post the painting he’s been working on, but he won’t let me. Don’t worry, my wordsmith will post again, soon.

-Nora

Charles — December 7, 2020

Sorry, I haven't written sooner.

It’s interesting, looking back to my early conversations with Dr. Fincher. I asked her about going back to work.

"Probably January or February."

January or February! I was thinking that we’d finish in October, recover Thanksgiving week, be back for school early December. I know extra precautions are needed because of COVID. My immune system will be compromised, but do you not know who I am? I’m Chuck Keller. I laugh at such things. I've had three hip replacements.

"You need to make sure you give yourself plenty of time to heal, Mr. Keller."

Did you not listen to the voices in my head? I’m Chuck Keller, dammit. I am a legend in my own mind. Time to heal? After my last hip replacement, I was back on my feet three hours after surgery. People marvel at my strength and stamina. I should have my own carnival tent!

"This isn't something you hurry back from."

Are your ears clogged? I made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs!

I went to the kitchen today and got down a very small bowl,—[Wife’s note: He wrote "bowel" the first time and I caught it on the read through. I think he was trying to get back to you on the constipation question, but I am not a psychiatrist. Oh wait, I am.]—poured myself a very small portion of Rice Krispies, covered them with milk, a bit of sugar. Nora has the unenviable job of trying to keep spirits up, taking care of me, putting up Christmas decorations. She came down the hall to see what I was doing and began in a very congratulatory and upbeat way, "Oh, good! You're eating." I cut her off with a growl, "No. Go away." I waited until she left the house before trying to eat green beans. As she turned quietly and went back down the hallway, it occurred to me what the real problem was. I’m Chuck Keller, dammit. I didn't want her to see me struggling to swallow soggy Rice Krispies or witness my battle with green beans. I’m ashamed of what this disease and treatment has reduced me to.

I love you, honey. I’ve noticed you read these.

chuck

Charles — February 1, 2021

[Wife’s note: I told him, if he didn't finish this, there would be no more chocolate cake. Look at those fingers fly!]

Here it is: good news and bad news. No one picks bad news first, so let's start there. It may not be over. The surgeon told me there are two nodes on the left side of my neck that he "isn't happy with." Sugarcoating isn't what this man does. He says what he thinks. He described the surgery as "no big deal." Seriously, as far as bad news goes, this is mild. I feel good about it. The good news is that the throat cancer appears to be gone. So, they won't be crawling into my mouth and tiptoeing down my throat.

Charles — March 1, 2021

As I stare at the ceiling tiles, I keep wondering about myself. You ever notice time rarely goes in real time? Sometimes it speeds by—a student turns 30 that just finished high school last week. Maybe there’s a pattern in these little holes, a picture of something. On other occasions, time crawls by. Usually, it’s a meeting you didn't enjoy or a bad play you can't walk out of. I can't find any kind of picture or pattern, and the clock has barely moved.

The man had his hand on my head, jabbing the needle inside my neck, searching for cells. He is thorough at his craft. I didn't recall it being this rough the first time, but then again, the first time he knew where the cancer was.

As I stare at the ceiling, I give a little snort. During the PET scan, I’m as still as a scared baby deer, distracting myself by counting. The voice in the back of my head suddenly has volume. I hear it over my counting. "Open your eyes, chicken—bwuack, bwuack! Go ahead, open them." I keep my eyes closed, counting seconds; time slowed down. Is that damn clock ever going to move? How long can 30 minutes take?

"Sir, hold this gauze on your neck with some pressure. I will take this down to pathology and get the preliminary results."

"Ok," I tell him, "I’ll just wait here." He gives me a chuckle. You think he’s heard that joke before?

The patterns make sense, now. I’m easily one of the luckiest people in the universe. I’m surrounded by people that care more about me than I deserve. Here I lie, deciding if I need to send cancer a thank you note: 35 pounds lost, a clearer understanding of what’s important as I hurl through space. There is a light tap at the door. He’s back to tell me that the preliminary pathology is negative. He tells me that he was using the biggest needle they had and he, "biopsied the hell out of it." Then, he says, “We’ll look at it again in a month, but everything looks good.”

When I started telling people I had cancer, I felt like the Phantom taking off his mask for Christine. No one screamed quite like Sarah Brightman, but I could see how horrified they were. I didn’t want to lose myself in the blur of cancer.

Maybe I’m still in shock because of the needle that was just in my neck, but I swear there’s a pattern to it all. Hidden definitions in the ceiling, supporting each other: Caroline’s smile, Mrs. Moore’s purse, her husband’s laugh, the lost woman who was only a corner away from the blue doors, my students’ shy brushstrokes, the comments under these posts, and my wife’s chin—heavy over my shoulder while I paint. I love you, honey.

To all my little clucking chickens,

thanks for letting me count on you.

chuck