Theory
Five years ago, when I started having to give my medical history every five minutes, I got used to answering standard questions about my (non-existent) drug and (virtually non-existent) drinking habits. I skated by them on every intake questionnaire, checking "never" and "rarely" before moving on to the dreaded how-often-do-you-exercise section.
Then one day I was greeted by a nurse who actually took my history by asking me questions instead of handing me a form and a clipboard and a pen. First she went through the usual preliminaries (date of birth, height, weight). Eventually she asked, "How often do you drink alcoholic beverages?"
The answer was half out of my mouth when I realized that she was still talking—and that this was a multiple-choice question: "Once a day? Once a week? Once a month? Weddings and funerals?" She said the choices in rapid succession, so that they all ran together.
For whatever reason, it struck me as hilariously funny that "weddings and funerals" was one of the answer choices. So now, whenever someone else takes my medical history and asks how often I take a drink, that's what I always say. It's not true, actually—I rarely drink at either, or anywhere else, for that matter—but it gets the point across. And it usually jolts the history-taker out of his or her stupor long enough to register that I'm an actual human being, with a personality and a sense of humor. And that's always a good thing.
But I digress.
I bring up my near-teetotaler status because just today I started wondering whether it's exactly that lack of drinking that's made it kind of tough for me to function during those few rough days in the midst of Week 1. In the last day or so, for example, I've had more than one conversation in which I just could not get it together. Even if I sat (or lay) perfectly still, I couldn't will my mind to focus well enough to concentrate on what I was hearing, process it, and then respond in a manner that might generously be characterized as articulate. Just couldn't do it. (Sorry, Mom! Sorry, Elizabeth! Sorry, Zach!)
I didn't have a splitting headache (and just now couldn't come up with the word "splitting," by the way). I wasn't even foggy (the "splitting" problem notwithstanding). I was tired, but not unreasonably so—not I-need-a-five-hour-nap-right-this-second tired.
I was just operating on some bizarre low gear that I didn't even know I had. (I tend to idle pretty high.)
And then something about the whole sensation started to seem familiar—but from the other side. I'd dealt with other people who'd acted this way before.
People who were moving in some kind of pained slow motion.
People who couldn't handle any sort of conversational demands.
People who were hung over.
Not so hung over that they needed to have their stomachs pumped—just enough to turn that morning department meeting (or class, or conference call) into a little dose of torture.
Over time, though, I imagine that these people figured out a way to cope with their hangovers and got to the point where they could go out drinking but still function at work (or school) in the morning.
And this is an entire skill set that I do not have.
So, I ask you:
Had I been a big drinker for the past 20 years, would I have had an easier time getting through chemo? Or at least this particular aspect of it?
Hmm.
Then one day I was greeted by a nurse who actually took my history by asking me questions instead of handing me a form and a clipboard and a pen. First she went through the usual preliminaries (date of birth, height, weight). Eventually she asked, "How often do you drink alcoholic beverages?"
The answer was half out of my mouth when I realized that she was still talking—and that this was a multiple-choice question: "Once a day? Once a week? Once a month? Weddings and funerals?" She said the choices in rapid succession, so that they all ran together.
For whatever reason, it struck me as hilariously funny that "weddings and funerals" was one of the answer choices. So now, whenever someone else takes my medical history and asks how often I take a drink, that's what I always say. It's not true, actually—I rarely drink at either, or anywhere else, for that matter—but it gets the point across. And it usually jolts the history-taker out of his or her stupor long enough to register that I'm an actual human being, with a personality and a sense of humor. And that's always a good thing.
But I digress.
I bring up my near-teetotaler status because just today I started wondering whether it's exactly that lack of drinking that's made it kind of tough for me to function during those few rough days in the midst of Week 1. In the last day or so, for example, I've had more than one conversation in which I just could not get it together. Even if I sat (or lay) perfectly still, I couldn't will my mind to focus well enough to concentrate on what I was hearing, process it, and then respond in a manner that might generously be characterized as articulate. Just couldn't do it. (Sorry, Mom! Sorry, Elizabeth! Sorry, Zach!)
I didn't have a splitting headache (and just now couldn't come up with the word "splitting," by the way). I wasn't even foggy (the "splitting" problem notwithstanding). I was tired, but not unreasonably so—not I-need-a-five-hour-nap-right-this-second tired.
I was just operating on some bizarre low gear that I didn't even know I had. (I tend to idle pretty high.)
And then something about the whole sensation started to seem familiar—but from the other side. I'd dealt with other people who'd acted this way before.
People who were moving in some kind of pained slow motion.
People who couldn't handle any sort of conversational demands.
People who were hung over.
Not so hung over that they needed to have their stomachs pumped—just enough to turn that morning department meeting (or class, or conference call) into a little dose of torture.
Over time, though, I imagine that these people figured out a way to cope with their hangovers and got to the point where they could go out drinking but still function at work (or school) in the morning.
And this is an entire skill set that I do not have.
So, I ask you:
Had I been a big drinker for the past 20 years, would I have had an easier time getting through chemo? Or at least this particular aspect of it?
Hmm.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 8:22 PM
3 Comments:
That's a fascinating question. We should discuss it over, er, drinks. Scotch or bourbon for you?
I love this question! I never entertained the idea that my Irish tolerance might be some kind of conditioning for "future/possible" scary medical drugs like a round of chemo. It's a wonderfully dark idea. My Serbian friend, Zeljko, would love this question.
Puts a whole new spin on the ever popular toast "To your Health" (of which every culture has a version)...I sign off in agreement with your hearty, "Hmmmm."
hmmmmm again....
well, having previously lived with a guy that had a history of quite a bit of drinking (and other substances in the distant past) and also went through several rounds of harsh chemotherapy .....hmmm, well, I don't think I ever noticed him being as foggy as you've often described in your blog entries. So who knows, maybe practice with other chemicals does promote some sort of conditioning.
hmmm....I'll go for the scotch,then.
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