Chemo, Cocktails and Big Questions

A magic night. Why I’m going sober for the rest of my chemo treatments. And how much should I push myself to write–during months that could be among my last? Plus, a comic strip from Rowena!

Chemo is a drag.

Especially after you party like a maniac with margaritas.

These may be obvious truisms. But I learned them first-hand this week–the tail end of my second round of chemo infusions.

This second of six rounds of anti-cancer drugs has been harder. First time around, the chemo crappies came to a hard stop one week after the infusion began.

Not so this time. Wednesday, July 9, marked the end of the one-week period. But queasiness, fatigue and headaches lingered throughout Wednesday and Thursday.

Feeling low and covered in laundry I was too tired to fold. Rowena ended up folding it for me.

And I compounded the problems by letting it rip Thursday night at a street festival in my San Francisco neighborhood.

Three blocks of Valencia Street were closed to traffic as restaurants, shops, artists and musicians took over for “Valencia Live!” I felt very alive as I joined my wife Rowena and our dear pals Jason and Colette for a pitcher of margaritas and yummy Mexican food at local icon Puerto Alegre.

Puerto Alegre. A Puerto Alegre margarita. Rowena and Colette. Jason and me.

We then added a drink at one of our favorite local bars, Blondies. Jason and Colette split a hard cider while Rowena and I opted for the “Deep Blue Funk” vodka cocktail.

***

Things were indeed funky. A live band played salsa music at the corner of 16th Street and Valencia. More than a dozen couples danced with creative, seemingly effortless steps. We swayed less skillfully at the edge of the scene, then made our way to visit shops and the booths of local artists.

I’m sure the drinks and the pot gummy I took earlier in the evening helped, but I felt joy and delight at every turn.

Here is an electric lighter unlike any I’ve ever seen! (I am gently chastised as I try to light a candle in the store where I discover it, Black and Gold.)

There is a woman selling clever crocheted items! These included male genitalia filled with catnip (only in San Francisco?) and carrots with googly eyes.

My haul from Valencia Live festival: Inappropriate cat toy (male genitalia stuffed with catnip), crocheted carrot and coolest lighter ever

Now we pass by a DJ set up where Asian-American women are spinning grooves. We bop with strangers for a few minutes en route to our own corner–18th and Valencia.

There, a nine-person band is playing Latin tunes to an even bigger crowd than the salsa group two blocks back. The Nicaraguan band leader proudly introduces his bandmates, who include his own daughter and two musicians from Peru. Rowena, Jason, Colette and I join in with the dancers for the last two songs.

(Video of Valencia Live band giving it away.)

***

It is San Francisco at its best. Maybe California and the United States as well? People of many ages, races, sexual orientations united in appreciating infectious beats, beautiful harmonies, moving melodies.

Jason and I have the same thought as we move on from the band: Why would we not want people from around the world to be part of our country, bringing such talent and spirit?

Not wanting the good times to end, the four of us decide to take a walk around nearby Dolores Park. Along the way, we spark up a clove cigar with my new lighter.

From the top of the park, we see the city’s downtown cloaked in its famous fog. Just the tips of the tallest buildings peak out, like the heads of giants standing in a slow-moving river.

It was a magic evening.

One followed by a morning of mourning.

***

I awoke with a blend of hangover and chemo malaise–a crummy combo that lasted the better part of two days.

I've since learned that alcohol and chemo don’t mix well.

Alcohol may reduce the effectiveness of chemotherapy. And drinking while undergoing chemo puts extra strain on the liver, which processes both anti-cancer drugs and alcohol.

It's especially unwise for me to drink during chemo. That’s because the cancer that started in my appendix has spread to the surface of my liver.

“You big dummy!” I’m now telling myself.

But I’m also giving myself a break. It’s hard not to want to party hard after feeling the opposite of festive for days on end.

And it seems like I’m not alone in wanting to pound a few drinks amid cancer and chemo. A 2023 study found that drinking alcohol and even “risky drinking” are common among people who’ve been diagnosed with cancer.

If any population could be excused for trying to deaden pain, or trying to live it up in the face of death, cancer patients and survivors might be at the top of the list.

Still, the data on the dangers of downing margaritas and the like during chemo are sobering. Literally so, at least for me.

To help my liver live, I've decided not to drink anymore during chemotherapy.

I may continue with marijuana at times, which simultaneously can calm my belly, open my mind and help me cultivate connection.

I stumbled across this sign at a local pizzeria. I’m not the only one taking a break from alcohol. (By the way, “temporality” may be used mistakenly here, but it’s a real word. It means “the state of existing within or having some relationship with time.” I feel like I have a heightened sense of temporality in the wake of the cancer diagnosis!)

***

Apart from the drinking difficulties, another challenge arose in this second, rougher round of chemo. One that involves my writing.

I’ve been frustrated that I haven’t had the energy, the freedom from nausea, the mental sharpness to write as much as I did during chemo round 1.

A text exchange with my pal Chris helped me see I have been pressuring myself to produce two or more blogs a month. And this is a foolish expectation, given that I’ll probably have similar or worse chemo side-effects from now until this chunk of chemo ends in late August.

“Don’t worry about not having energy to write,” Chris texted. “This is clearly a put-your-own-oxygen-mask-on-first moment.”

He’s right, in that my priority now is my health. It’s not publishing essays in the hopes of helping other people. Resting and reducing stress is vital as I let the chemo drugs do their thing.

And yet partly how I heal is by writing. Writing my way to an understanding of what I’m going through and learning. And it feels great to hear positive responses from readers. Many of you have been validating that I’m writing some of the most moving words I’ve ever published in my life.

I’m pretty sure my oxytocin levels have been spiking as I hear back from people about FrauenTimes affecting them in some way.

For me, writing is like putting on an oxytocin mask.

And guess what? Research suggests oxytocin may inhibit cancer in the gastrointestinal track–where my malignant cells started.

***

So I’m torn about how much time and effort to spend composing my thoughts when chemo-brain makes it hard to think straight, and straining to do so makes my head hurt.

Chris offered more wisdom here: Try to discern when I'm feeling I “should” sit in front of the keyboard from when I'm “called in the moment” to do so.

It's spot-on advice. Lately, I've been recognizing the “call"--sensing that I'm channeling insights from a mysterious place rather than merely penning personal essays.

So I’ll try to focus my writing energies during those moments of genuine inspiration. And not force matters when I should be taking it easy

Still, a deeper question strikes me: what if all this doesn't work? What if the chemo-surgery-more-chemo plan fails to remove cancer?

Odds are decent that the treatment strategy will succeed. But what if I am going to die in a year or two from cancer?

Would I not want to write like a maniac, even if it makes me feel worse, even if it means beating back feelings of bloat and brain fog?

***

I’ve always loved this lyric from Hamilton: “Why do you write like you’re running out of time?”

Throughout my life, I’ve felt a sense of urgency to accomplish all I can while I’m alive. In recent years, that pressure has been tempered by recognizing that basing my self-worth on achievement is a trap. A trap that confines men especially.

I largely feel grounded and spiritually whole these days.

But my days may be numbered because of cancer. And I'm hearing that Hamiltonian call to action loud and clear in this moment.

How can I not push myself to finish the masculinity memoir I’ve long envisioned, updated with a focus on my cancer journey? How can I not squeeze all the insights out of this experience–for my own benefit and the possible benefit of others?

What’s more, why wouldn’t I want to party like a maniac with good friends? Why wouldn’t I want to squeeze all the good times I can out of the time I have left?

My dear pal Steph put it this way: “How do you (we) LIVE while doing everything to not die at the same time? And what is a full life?”

I don't have all the answers. But I suspect I’ll be sitting with these questions for the coming year and probably beyond.

And I’m eager for suggestions. I’d love to hear your thoughts on cancer, cocktails and these big questions.

Cancer Comics

by Rowena Richie

Ed has to wear a fanny pack with an “infusion balloon” full of anti-cancer medicine for 46 hours after leaving the Kaiser chemo clinic. I’m responsible for “discontinuing” it. The balloon (and Ed hates balloons!) sends the medication through the port in Ed’s chest. It’s also called a “pump.”