Sean’s Burgundy Thread: A Funny Thing Happened On My Way To An Infusion
A freezing rain was coming down that mid-January 2009 morning as I arrived at the hospital to continue round number two of induction chemotherapy in my ongoing battle against multiple myeloma.
Although I was feeling the unpleasant side effects and exhaustion of the rather aggressive treatment, I was nonetheless in good spirits.
My fingers were crossed that it would be an uncomplicated, give-some-blood, get-some-chemo, and skedaddle-on-home, kind of day. That was the plan anyway.
Sharing an umbrella, my wife and I sloshed up the wet concrete sidewalk to the infusion center.
To the left and perpendicular to the clinic’s main entrance was a picture window that looked into the almost-always-full waiting room. Straight ahead were the front doors, and to the right were a handful of vacant wheelchairs waiting to transport weary myeloma patients.
Karen started to go inside the building, but stopped in her tracks when she heard a loud clanging followed by me shouting, “What the heck!” or something like that.
She quickly turned to find me lying on the wet ground with a confused look on my face.
Oh – and my pants were down around my ankles.
Knowing that the last thing her normally-shy husband would do was to flash his bright green boxer shorts in public, Karen rushed over and asked with great compassion, “Sean, what on earth are you doing? Get up! Quit playing around!”
The truth was that at that moment I didn’t have the foggiest idea what I was doing or why I had spontaneously dropped trou and assumed a horizontal attitude on the damp concrete.
In hindsight, though, I figure that this is what must have happened:
I remember stopping next to the wheelchairs to shake off the raindrops and to fold up my umbrella when all of a sudden my pants started falling toward my shoes.
Not being a circus clown, a Chippendale dancer, or a member of a vaudeville troupe, I was pretty certain that such an act wouldn’t be much appreciated by hospital administrators – or anyone else for that matter.
So in a vain, knee-jerk attempt to defy gravity’s clutches and catch said falling pants, my umbrella went flying in the air, a folder previously tucked under my arm splayed opened scattering papers at my feet, and with an amazing lack of grace, I somehow got tangled up in the wheelchairs.
How did I get tangled up in wheelchairs? I’m glad you asked.
During that first week of chemo I was sporting a small video camera-sized bag that contained two battery powered infusion pumps and two bags of liquid medicine. You may have adorned yourself with one of these stunning accoutrements a time or two.
The pumps were set to deliver a steady dose of chemotherapy via two clear tubes that traveled to a triple lumen central venous catheter sewn onto the right side of my neck. The catheter, designed to deliver potent medicine directly into my blood stream or for withdrawing blood, then snaked into my jugular vein.
Any discriminating vampire would love his minions to be outfitted with one of these babies.
In my stalwart effort to retrieve my trousers, the tubes somehow got caught on the handles of one of the wheelchairs. As I moved, the tubes were simultaneously pulled taut between the wheelchair and the medical apparatus on my neck.
By being pulled taut, I mean yanked. By yanked, I mean that I was afraid that the catheter had been ripped out of my neck and that blood and chemo had spurted out to add to the wetness all around me.
But miracle of miracles, when I touched my neck, the catheter was still in place.
The wheelchair was on its side, but the central line held strong. Thank God, the wetness surrounding me was nothing more than water.
I have no doubt that the surgeon who sewed my catheter in place would have gotten a gold star and nod of approval from none other than Martha Stewart herself.
For those of you keeping score at home: Central Line 1 – Wheelchair 0.
Remembering where I was, I slowly rose and quickly pulled up my pants.
Why had my pants fallen down? I’m glad you asked.
In the several weeks prior to this unfortunate incident, chemotherapy and mouth sores had made me completely lose my appetite and taste for food and drink. I quickly lost 25 pounds. I had to force myself to drink nutrient-rich liquids and sip water to keep up my strength and to stay hydrated.
I was already paying a fortune in medical bills, so instead of buying new pants as Karen had suggested, I insisted on poking additional holes into my belts so that I could cinch them up tight enough to avoid any garish and unfortunate incidents.
Regaining my composure, I avoided looking in the window at the patients and caregivers inside. Perhaps they hadn’t seen my folly.
We went through the doors, and the ladies at the reception desk greeted us as usual. Instead of going directly into the waiting room, I stalled for time by visiting the nearby gift shop. Then I screwed up my courage and went into the abyss.
Nobody seemed to pay any attention to me. There were no stares or guffaws or pointed fingers. Whew!
Just then, a hospital chaplain with a big smile on his face sauntered over and asked if I was okay. I embarrassingly assured him that I was fine, to which he replied that it was “sure coming down out there today.”
I looked over at Karen, who was stifling a laugh, and I replied, “You can say that, again.”
I don’t think that he saw my striptease, but I guess I’ll never know for sure.
The moral of the story: Don’t get myeloma. If you do, keep eating and drinking. If you can’t, don’t be so cheap; buy yourself some new pants.
Sean Murray is a multiple myeloma patient and columnist at The Myeloma Beacon. You can view a list of his columns here.
If you are interested in writing a regular column to be published by The Myeloma Beacon, please contact the Beacon team at .
The last line reminds me of that commercial for satellite TV!
Once again, you manage to put a grin on my face. So sorry you went through that unfortunate incident, but glad you are able to share it and get a chuckle out of it. Glad it didn't hurt anything other than your pride but, as far as I'm concerned, this crazy disease has a way of stripping our dignity and pride to the point where laughter is all that is left.
Thanks Sean for sharing such a personal ... er ... um ... experience with the rest of us! Glad it turned out ok!
Thanks for sharing Sean. I needed a good laugh.
This is truly a LOL (laugh out loud) story. Thank you for sharing your experiences and perspectives in your unique & funny way. I've been connected with the "Burgundy Thread" for 17 months. I've learned so much about living with MM by reading what you and others are willing to share. Your creative gift of story telling is a blessing to me and I'm sure to so many MM'ers. Many thanks.
What a way to make my day! I love knowing you are able to put a grin on my face first thing in the morning! I will be sending this to all my caregivers..8 in all, who got me through my first 18 months of treatment. We had similar situations along the way and found humor was what saved us emotionally at times. Thanks for sharing!
Hi Sean, That is such a funny story on so many levels! From the vampire feeder, to the wardrobe issues, and tripping the light fantastic with the central line tubing! I think that only folks involved in myeloma and its treatments could grasp all of the humour here! Thanks so much!
Oh my gosh! How can life take such ridiculous turns when one needs to maintain some dignity? You certainly finessed this one! I'm proud of you, and your wife as well. Have you been shopping yet??
Sean...your story cracked me up..thank you for making me laugh..even though it is such a serious topic we are dealing with, I love the way you can take an experience and tell it in such a way that a smile just has to come out on my face..with this disease and the fact it just seems to always be there,extracting its many challenges from us on multiple levels..I am finding my joy from many different sources...laughter being a huge one...Thank you for giving us that gift!
Sean,
Suspenders!
Sean,
Maybe some suspenders would help. You could keep those loose fitting pants just a little longer. I love your storytelling style of sharing your thoughts. It puts a smile on my face.
Sean, your storytelling talents are stellar! I could visualize every step as you recounted the story. Although you are dealing with such a serious subject, your sense of humor never fails. You are such a blessing to all who know you
This is great! And why DO we laugh? “I've found out why people laugh. They laugh because it hurts so much ... because it's the only thing that'll make it stop hurting.” So sayeth the sage in Stranger in a Stange Land. BTW, I gave up this winter and bought new clothes -- but for the opposite reason. The dex has made me gain weight, and there was no way the waists on my old wool slacks could be let out enough for my new belly. I kept the old ones though for the chemo in my future ... I presume you did to and that you have grown back into your old ones.
Sean,
Love it!!! My husband was recently diagnosed with MM - Jan 10. 2014 to be exact and he is having a very difficult time admitting that he can't do most things by himself anymore. Although we just found out, the rapid spread has cause severe deterioration of his spine, ribs, arms...Stage III and praying for a
miracle.
@ Scott H: Thank YOU, Scott. I think that MM would be even more difficult to deal with if we couldn’t chuckle now and again – especially at ourselves. Keep fighting and keep grinning!
@Nancy K: Thank you! Wishing you many good laughs ahead. Stay strong.
@irene j: Thanks so much for sharing your thoughts with us. Reading the Beacon cover-to-cover has been a great blessing to me, too. The resilience of MM patients and caregivers of all stripes never ceases to amaze me.
@Lindy Brizendine: Thanks, Lindy. Best wishes to you and your caregivers as you march on. I had a bunch of caregivers help me, too. I don’t know what I would have done without them. Keep laughing!
@Nancy Shamanna: I certainly don’t have to tell you and yours about eloquently dealing with MM. My road is easier because you continue to share your story. I have a feeling that we share a similar sense of humour – good for us! PS – we’ve had enough of your polar winter weather down here in the lower states, please take it back!
@Linda: Hi, Linda. As things are want to go, I’m back to the original belt holes – and beyond! I hate to admit it, but my most successful weight loss plan has been massive chemotherapy. There’s got to be a better way. I’ll certainly keep working on maintaining my dignity, elusive though it may be. Be well!
@Randy Strode: Thanks, Randy! In the midst of your struggle I pray that joy and laughter are constant companions along your journey.
@Eric and Revo: Suspenders are a mighty fine invention- I may just have to strap on a pair next time I am trouser challenged.
@Revo: As one of my oldest entertainment biz buddies, you certainly know a thing or three about storytelling. I am humbled by both your comment and your friendship!
@Janice B.: THANK YOU, Janice. Always my best to you.
@Stephen Kramer: Right you are, Stephen! Wonderful Heinlein quote; living with MM does somehow feel like we’re living on Mars, too. Thanks. Yep, I have both sizes ready to go! Keep plugging away!
@Tanya Fresquez: I will join you in praying for you and your husband. You, no doubt, have experienced a confusing new world come rushing at you. Many of us were in dire straits at our MM diagnosis. It takes time to get your footing. Stay strong, stay hopeful. God bless you both.
Hi Sean,
Thanks for sharing your story - it certainly put a smile on my dial. Sometimes it is hard but I do try & see the funny side of things, even when unfortunate things happen. I'm glad you can & that you are willing to share.
I can certainly relate to falling over in front of a crowd. A long time ago (I was in my 20s)I was skiing with my sister. We had finished skiing for the day & were hurrying to catch a bus to transport us to the carpark. Picture basalt steps, a waiting bus full of people at the bottom of the steps and me with my arms full of skis. My boots were undone & one clasp looped over the clasp of my other boot while I was going down the steps. My skis flew through the air as I literally went A over T (dont know if you have the same expression over there - head over heels or really it was heels over head). I ended up doing a somersault in the air & landed on the back of my head on the edge of one of the steps. Thankfully I was okay but I still had to get on the bus - the bus driver had picked my skis up for me. As I got on the bus and looked up the aisle I could see most of the passengers holding their hands up to their mouths. 1/2 of them looked truly shocked the other half were covering their smiles. I stopped walking, looked at them & took a bow. The whole bus started clapping.
Take care & I look forward to reading your next installment.
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