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.