_{Glen Hansard – “Time Will Be the Healer” (2018)}

We lost Glen this past summer, far too soon. I was fortunate to see him perform live a few times, most recently opening for and performing with Pearl Jam in Missoula and then again in Chicago. Before the Wrigley show, my friend Ron and I were be-bopping around Wrigleyville and we ran into a bunch of Glen fans who were there solely for his performance as the opener. I had listened to Glen’s music for years but that moment gave me a new appreciation for his reach and influence. His music has been helpful throughout this journey. Maybe press play on him today if you have the time.

Latest Updates:

Picture it: It’s 4:00 AM ET on a Thursday and I cannot sleep any longer due to a mix of anti-nausea medication and kids coming into my bedroom (should emphasize “my” kids, otherwise that statement seems super bizarre). So I head downstairs to my office, open my laptop and decide I should eat something. Mind you – I am not hungry. Well, not *that* hungry. I rarely get hungry these days. But I’m down in weight and the doctors and nurses and family and friends and the 17 neighborhood hypoallergenic dogs all remind me on the daily that I need to eat. It’s like my Nonna Petrill is back from the grave, has temporarily transmigrated her soul into all of the aforementioned, and has one solitary goal: fatten me up. So I dish up a bowl of ice cream. I’m sure people eat ice cream before sunup and not all of these people can be high, right?

Weight loss is a side effect of chemoradiation. Kinda seems more like a side effect of the side effects to me, NGL. I spent the past few years trying to get healthier and lose weight (fact check: Lonnie did not really try all that hard. Source: me!), so it’s oh-so-strange to have medical professionals look me in the eye and say “you need to go to Bruster’s and eat a milkshake every day.” The thing is, and it’s not unique to me, there’s no appetite. The chemo medicine just squashes it. I’m at the precipice of queasiness often throughout the day, but thankfully I haven’t really been sick-sick. It’s akin to the feeling I get for the first hour after a flight with heavy turbulence. I just don’t want anything. Honestly not even water. Also, water out of a stainless steel bottle tastes off, kinda metallic. So I opt for a glass or plastic (opts for plastic!?) cup when drinking water. In addition to water tasting metallic, my taste in general is just significantly altered. So it’s not just the looming spectre of nausea; food is /often bland or bad. I estimate I have about 25% of my taste. I bit into a granola bar a few weeks back and I might as well have chomped into an Amazon box.

<Luciano Puparotti enjoying brunch>

Chemo isn’t the only guilty party. Daily radiation treatments stack up and take their toll. Radiation affects the salivary glands and causes dry mouth as well. Double whammy. They make the juiciest burger taste like dry dog food (I had two older brothers growing up). Yogurt has the consistency of elementary school Elmer’s paste. Smoothies? Not so smooth! Chalky, almost. These side effects fall under some sciency words like hyposalivation, xerostomia and onomatopoeia or something like that. I can’t keep track of all the medical terms; I attended public school growing up.

<Jared Leto, super hot in that show>

Happy to report that as of this post I’m maintaining weight this week. I dropped over 10 pounds in one week when I had my tonsillectomy back in June. That recovery? SWEAR WORDS. This part of the journey, like most everything else, is very different for everyone going through treatment. My mouth can be very sensitive, and at this point I find out what I can and cannot tolerate through trial and error. Certainly spice is long gone from my menu. Well, except when someone sneak-attacks me. I had dinner at my friend’s house last night. There were pickles. Did anyone tell me these were hot garlic pickles, courtesy of a recipe apparently dusted off from the ancient cookbook of Xiuhtecuhtli, Aztec God of Fire? No. Was there any food signage or tent cards displayed in front of these tiny fermented grenades like you see at one of those high-end, bougie Golden Corral & Buffet restaurants? There was not. Thanks to 32 ounces of metallic-tasting water and a few spoonfuls of honey, my eyes only watered for 20 or 30 minutes, and I was eventually able to hold a conversation about Lord-only-knows. I couldn’t focus; I was in a hurt locker from a cucumber.

<would’ve helped>

But I feel fortunate. I know what others are experiencing. I see it every day. I speak with them. I listen. I’m fortunate to have my friend Vic coaching me through this, having already gone through the treatment himself. And I have a passenger pal in my friend Lou, who’s going through a very similar treatment plan at the same time as me. We text daily. There are people I see every weekday at radiation — both the staff and the patients. There are the people I meet every Monday at chemo. Their stories. Their cancer journeys. Their life journeys. I’ve written down nearly all of their names, although most of them I don’t even need my cheat sheet for anymore. There are about 40 names on the list now. And more names to be added.

Next up: perhaps some additional side effects (ahhhhhh the ear ringing!) and more about the people I’ve met along the way.

Staying positive and knowing that time will be the healer once again…