'So, you're having chemo': Richard Crouse on feeling kicked when he's down
Just days after his 50th birthday in 2013, CTV's film critic Richard Crouse was booked for a routine colonoscopy. He thought it would be little more than a nuisance, but it wound up being a life-saver.
Now, six years later, Crouse shares for the first time his account of the moment he was diagnosed with cancer and the life-changing effects of that news.
In a series of columns exclusive to CTVNews.ca, Crouse chronicles his childhood as the son of a woman who died of cancer, his own surprise diagnosis and the intrusive treatment that followed, laying bare his eye-opening revelations, deepest fears and most vulnerable moments.
Catch up on the rest of Crouse's series:
- Part 1: The moment he heard 'We found a tumour'
- Part 2: The challenge of coming out to colleagues
- Part 3: 'Doing what I was told': The indignity of being hospitalized
- Part 4: 'You either have it or you don't': Keeping the faith in cancer care
- Part 6: Stepping into the void: My experience of chemotherapy
- Part 7: When the worst turns out to be good: Life in cancer care
- Part 8: Five years clear of cancer, but still feeling the peril
5.
Getting bad news sucks at the best of times but receiving it from someone you've never seen before, a doctor with an annoying vocal tick, made it even worse.
I'm not sure how it's decided who will deliver the bad news. Perhaps they draw straws or needles or something or perhaps there's one person who actually enjoys the moment of drama, like the person from HR who actually enjoys firing people. The nameless doctor breezed in, with a clipboard and a no nonsense attitude.
"Richard Crouse?" she asked.
"That's me."
"M'kay," she replied as if she was an internet meme come to life. It was the first, but not last time she used the contraction and the more she said it the more grating it became. She was like one of Hitchcock's icy blondes and HAL 9000 from "2001" mixed together, but without the charm of Grace Kelly or HAL's sardonic wit.
"Your chemo will start as soon as possible, m'kay," she said off the top.
Blammo.
I've had better conversation starters. The words slapped me in the face, but instead of waking me up they put me in a daze. My mind reeled as she "m'kayed" her way through the nuts and bolts of chemo.
Andrea squeezed my hand as I thought about my mother and her struggles with the treatment, about seeing her hair fall out and her energy wane. I thought ahead to the coming months. Would I be able to work? How would the strain of the treatment affect Andrea? I began to feel like I was running a foot race with no finish line in sight.
More from CTVNews.ca about colon cancer:
- Possible carcinogen found in French fries, potato chips and other foods: study
- Young adults not immune to colon cancer, shouldn't ignore signs based on age: experts
- Half of colorectal cancers diagnosed too late for effective treatment: study
- U.S. cancer group says colon screening should start at 45, not 50
- Half of colorectal cancers diagnosed too late for effective treatment: study
I'd like to say I had something clever to say; that I was like Bette Davis in "Dark Victory." "I think I'll have a large order of prognosis negative!" But all I remember mumbling is, "This is so… disruptive."
"M'kay."
It was explained to me that the chemo treatment would touch me on a cellular level. It would be a carefully diagnosed regimen, tailored to me and my needs that should clean my system, killing anything nasty that may be lurking in there.
Would my hair fall out? Maybe. Would I be able to work? Maybe, maybe not. Every question I asked was answered in a far from definitive way. One thing I came to learn about chemo is the only definitive about the treatment is that it sucks. Apart from that my questions were met with a combination of maybes and perhaps-es. It doesn't exactly put one at ease.
A needle to the arm before they put the port in my chest. (Richard Crouse)
In the meantime I was told to attend an Introduction to Chemo lecture, given some pamphlets to read and told to make an appointment to have a port installed.
What fresh hell is this? The port is a pincushion of sorts installed in your chest to facilitate the chemo injections. Have you ever seen an older chemo patient with blue, collapsed veins? They didn't have a port.
Mine was to be a Bard PowerPort, a smallish device with the slogan "You Have the power!" I imagine the exclamation mark is supposed to make you feel empowered, excited even, about having this foreign object implanted in your body, but I was less than enthusiastic at the prospect.
An appointment was made and I was assured I wouldn't even notice the small bump the port would leave in my chest.
"M'kay."
Mind busied with festival plans I tried to compartmentalize my everyday life from the looming unpleasantness. I threw myself into work, screening films, arranging interviews and setting up freelance gigs. I've always looked to the festival with a mixture of anticipation and dread. Anticipation for the movies and interviews, dread at the unbearable tiredness that quickly sets in. Every day feels like a week and by the time the festival draws to a close I always feel as though I have been pummelled by bowling balls.
Before I changed into my entertainment reporter suit, however, there was the small matter of the port. It's a day surgery with a local anesthetic. Having agreed to go down this path I didn't have any choice as to whether or not to get it, but I did have a choice of where it was to be installed, right or left side just under the collarbone. I chose left, laid on a gurney and chatted with the doctor as she made a small incision and connected the port.
'You Have the power!' A freshly installed Bard PowerPort. (Richard Crouse)
It looks like a small breast, like a Barbie doll boob. Running my finger over it — a habit that would come compulsive the longer I had the thing — I could feel three bumps. Later I was told they are called palpitation bumps, a kind of landing strip for the needle that will be jammed in. Bandaged up I went home and healed and while I knew the port was a useful tool, psychologically it was a constant reminder of the upcoming chemo.
Just before the festival we had a cocktail party, a last chance to relax with friends before the storm of movies and mayhem. The port's mojo was strong that day. It felt as though it was throbbing, it wasn't, but for some reason I was hyper aware of the lump in my chest. It distracted me. Reminded me. Bugged me. A few drinks in I decided it would be a good idea to let it drop that I had colon cancer and would soon start chemo. I immediately regretted blurting out the news. Looking at the stunned faces in the room put me in the mind of the crazed faces on the poster for "Reefer Madness." Wide eyed and confused, some thought I was joking. Others didn't compute what I had said. The only thing certain was there is no faster way to kill the party vibe than to loudly and drunkenly announce you have cancer.
March 2014, on the last day of my chemo. Not sure why I wore a suit other than to make myself feel better. I couldn't really control how I felt inside but I could make sure I looked as dapper as possible on the outside. (Richard Crouse)
Reactions were varied. Hugs and support all round, of course, but the dreaded "What's on your bucket list?" question came up. As I mentioned earlier, this is not the thing to ask someone who has just told you they have cancer. It suggests mortality — hurry make up a list of things to do before you die! — and frankly, I think that if we all thought about it long and hard, we'd put Not Have Cancer at the top of the list.
Another friend insisted on driving me to and from chemo. A nice gesture to be sure, but what if the chemo makes me throw up all over the back of his car? Worse, what if I upchuck all over him while he's driving? I declined the offer figuring I feel less guilty puking out the window of a cab than all over my friend's Lexus. It's a Sophie's Choice to be sure but if I was going to unload, I'd rather do it in front of a stranger and then give them extra cash for a car wash.
By the time everyone went home my instinct not to tell too many people about the cancer was reconfirmed. I got tired of the puppy dog looks and had hand-shaped bruises all up and down my spine from all the hearty slaps on the back. All are given with the best of intentions but do little other than reconfirm that something is terribly wrong. It's comforting to know friends are around to support you, but for me this was a personal thing, not something to share.
On Monday I headed to the hospital for my chemo class. No one wants to go to things like this. You arrive at the hospital, then follow those sticker footprints on the floor to a sterile lecture hall. Inside are a dozen or so anxious people about to jump on the chemo train. Everyone is tense and no one is speaking. A stern looking woman who put me in the mind of the Dark Nurses from Silent Hill broke the deafening silence. You could tell she's done this hundreds if not thousands of times and her no nonsense drill sergeant demeanour wasn't comforting.
"You WILL drink lots of water!" she commanded.
"You MUST comply with your nurse's wishes!"
"You MUST NOT drink beer and wine on chemo days!"
It went on for what seemed like ages — there are Chinese board games with fewer rules — and when it was done she saluted us with a curt, "At ease! Good night, ladies."
OK. That didn't happen, but I felt like I had just been given a stern talking to. I had some questions, but feared the ferocity of her response. "Why you little maggot, you make me want to vomit!" I figured I would just try and get out of there and give the grainy, photocopied "So, You're Having Chemo" sheets a read when I got home.
Sixty-four days later, with the film festival under my belt and the port in my chest I reported for my first dose of chemo.
In previous instalments, Crouse shared the life-changing moment he first heard his diagnosis, the challenge of talking about his diagnosis with colleagues at work, the indignity of hospitalization and his struggle to keep the faith in cancer care. In a week, we'll have the next instalment in his series on surviving colon cancer.
'Pop Life' host Richard Crouse
Richard Crouse shares a toast with celebrity guests and pundits on the talk show Pop Life on CTV NewsChannel and CTV. Catch up on all the entertainment news, reviews and interviews at the Pop Life website.
Read more of Richard Crouse's recent movie reviews:
- 'Dumbo' remake is pure Burton eye-candy
- 'Us' is gory, outlandish and resonates in Trump-era America
- 'Wonder Park' more poignant and heart-tugging than you'd expect
- 'Captain Marvel' is convoluted, cluttered and as refreshing as it is unusual
- 'A Madea Family Funeral' puts Tyler Perry's most famous character to rest
- 'How to train your dragon: The Hidden World' pushes the boundaries
- 'Alita: Battle Angel' is a CGI spectacle with a synthetic heart
- 'Lego Movie 2' zips along, but not as awesome as original
- 'Miss Bala' potboiler rarely gets above a simmer
- 'The Kid Who Would Be King' brims with good messages