When I first got my mantle cell lymphoma diagnosis , I thought, "Oh my god - this is how I'm gonna' die."
Then I heard about the treatment. You know you're in trouble when your regimen includes the word "hyper," as in "hyper CVAD." For a while, I was convinced that the chemo would do me in.
But when I checked in to Hotel Hope and met the IV pole, the contraption that would be tethered to me 24-7, I sensed that the "pole of death" could place first in a trifecta race to the grave.
In spite of that lousy first impression, the pole and I eventually became friends, gliding gracefully through the halls and pole dancing effortlessly in the lobby.
Until this morning. On the way back from the bathroom, I yanked him over his cord. He came crashing down to the floor and bonked my bald head in the process. I screamed, "Help, help, get him off of me," until two nurses came to my rescue. The whole thing reminded me of a blind date I had in college.
After I regained my composure and nurses checked my vitals, I got right to the heart of the matter, "This isn't going into my chart, is it?"
"You betcha it is," they laughed, as they took off down the hallway spreading the tale.
Forget cancer and chemo. Can a person die from embarrassment?