Cancer on Five Dollars a Day* *(chemo not included): How Humor Got Me through the Toughest Journey of My Life

by Robert Schimmel

  “The nurse asked me, ‘Are you allergic to squid ink?’”

  I hold. They laugh in anticipation.

  “How do you know? Seriously. Is it on my birth certificate or do I have to drink squid ink to find out?”

  Squeals of laughter now. Testicular Cancer Guy is roaring. I’m hoping he doesn’t blow out his good ball.

  “They give you iodine in the CAT scan,” I say. “Then the nurse says, ‘You’re gonna feel this sensation. You’re gonna taste it, smell it, and then you’re gonna feel this warmth go through your body. It usually starts in your head, then travels all through your body. You’re really gonna feel it in your crotch.’”

  The laughter is rising, going where I hope it will. I hope I’m reading this crowd right.

  “Then the nurse says, ‘You’re gonna have the sensation that you’re peeing in your pants. But you’re not really peeing in your pants.’ And I say, ‘What if I really do pee in my pants?’”

  A communal roar. I keep going. “‘What’s that gonna feel like? What kind of sensation is that?’ She says, ‘No sensation. I guess you’ll just find out later.’ Great. So it’s like a wet dream without the sex?’”

  They’re gone. Howling. They need this. They need the distraction, the change of pace, the release.

  And, honestly, so do I.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 7, 2000

  My first chemotherapy session.

  I walk into the infusion center at Mayo, a large, drab room that feels like the inside of a tomb but without the charm. There are a few beds and several chairs arranged near the center, pretty much scrambled together. Behind the cluster of beds and chairs are doors leading off to private rooms where patients with compromised immune systems receive their treatments. The air in here is thick and smells of Lysol. People trudge to their seats as if they are underwater.

  The first thing I notice when I walk in is a poster on the back wall of the evolution of man. Except I imagine it in reverse. The first image is of a healthy man, walking erect. In each successive frame the man becomes more and more bent over and decrepit. I see myself morph into the poster, becoming over the next eight months the man in the final frame, once strong and healthy, who now looks like a human skeleton.

  I scan the room and the images in the poster become suddenly, frighteningly real. Everyone in here is the man in the last frame. All the people I see are hooked up to IVs and everybody is either bald or has patches of hair missing. The door to a private room swings open and a man appears in the doorway. He can barely stand. His skin is chalk white. He is bone thin, a walking corpse. He shuffles forward, nods to a nurse, and I think, I hope to God that was his last treatment.

  “Mr. Schimmel?”

  A nurse in blue scrubs approaches, extends her hand. She is young, blonde, and cute. More than cute. She’s hot. Even in her blue crinkly hospital get-up, I can see that she has a great body. Man, those feelings never go away. I’m about to have chemotherapy, I’m scared shitless, but a hot blonde calls my name, and I’m thinking maybe I can bang her before the nausea sets in. That’s normal, right?

  “Please, call me Robert.” I give her a smile that could melt the sun, but she spins away and leads me to the beds and chairs where a dozen people are hooked up, getting chemo. Some are lying down, watching TV. A few are sitting up, reading. Some are sleeping. Others are staring off, their eyes vacant.

  “You can sit anywhere you like,” the nurse says. Her voice is soft and musical. “Or you can lie down—”

  “No,” I say, surprised at how determined by voice sounds.

  “I’m not taking this lying down. I’m not giving in to it.”

  The cute nurse smiles, points to an empty chair.

  “Thanks,” I say as if she’s the hostess leading me to a power table at Spago. “Maybe thanks isn’t the right word.”

  She smiles again and starts fiddling with a nearby IV tube. I land in a chair next to a burly guy around my age. His eyes are sunken and his lips are dotted with sores. He looks pissed off.

  “I’m Robert.”

  “Bill.” He spits it out. Not sure if he hates his name, me, or life in general.

  “How you doing?” I say.

  “How do you think I’m doing?” Bill’s voice is raspy, his Midwestern drawl a bitter twang. “I got cancer.”

  I look at him. “So do I.”

  Bill stares back, his sunken eyes lasered into mine. “Good for you.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it good—”

  A brush on my arm. The cute nurse in the blue smock. She speaks low, like a ventriloquist, barely moving her lips. “Maybe you should find another seat. He has a really bad attitude. You need a lot of positive energy to get through this.”

  I look over at Bill. He glares at me again, then turns away, focusing his attention on a nurse on his left side who’s hooking him up to an IV.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “I like this seat.” I smile at Bill. He doesn’t smile back. He clears his throat and clucks, a dismissive, guttural sound that sends me a clear message: Don’t talk to me. Stay away from me. I want to be left alone.

  That’s the message that Bill sends.

  It’s not the message I receive.

  Because in that moment, a lot of things click. Immediate things. Life-changing things.

  First, even though I’ve just watched my career land with a splash in a giant toilet, I’m not bitter, and I’m not feeling like I got reamed. I’ve never been jealous of any other comedian’s success. I never say, Why them? Why not me? Sometimes it’s just the luck of the draw. I know that a lot of comics bitch about other comedians, saying stuff like, How the hell does he get to film an HBO special at Madison Square Garden while I’m playing Uncle Fucko’s Comedy Hutch in Des Moines, Iowa?

  It’s timing. In my case, bad timing. The Schimmel Touch. I was on the verge of making it big when I got cancer. I didn’t do anything to screw myself up or cause my cancer. And I don’t think getting cancer is a punishment or bad karma paying me back for all the bad things I’ve done in my life. I just don’t equate negativity with punishment.

  There are people who say, “You cheated on your wife. And see? You got cancer.”

  I look at them and say, “Really? If you believe in God, do you think that’s the way God is? Because if you do, three-quarters of the population would be dead.”

  Getting cancer is a dose of bad luck. It’s walking down the street whistling a happy tune, taking in the fresh air, looking at the clear blue sky, and then stepping in a huge steaming pile of dog shit. That’s what cancer is. Getting caught in a drive-by. Your plane going down. Hitting Lotto then getting busted by the I.R.S. for not paying your taxes.

  Makes you want to keep your eye on the ball. Makes you want to define your priorities in a hurry. Smell the roses? You bet. Spend time with your kids? Every second I’m with them is precious.

  And cancer makes you redefine success. If I based my success on Hollywood standards, I’d say I’m a failure. I’m a snail eating trash at the bottom of the food chain. I don’t have a Porsche or a plasma TV or a Rolex.

  What do I need? That’s the question. Not what do I need to have, to attain, to possess. What do I need to live?

  Love. True love.

  And I need to make people laugh.

  That’s what fuels me, feeds me, stirs my soul. Making people laugh defines me. Not my bank account or a BMW or a bunch of Tiffany trinkets. Looking around the infusion center, I don’t see a parking space for a BMW next to any of the beds. All the money in the world can’t buy you health or one more minute of life. And at three in the morning, when you’re freaking out, scared shitless that the treatment’s not working, who are you going to call to talk you down, your doctor or your BMW dealer?

  As the cute nurse with the fabulous body pokes my forearm in search of a willing vein in which to stab the IV, I think, crazily, that I’m actually a lucky man. In every sense of the word. It was unlucky to get cancer. Grant you that. But I am lucky to do what I do
for a living. When it’s time to do a show, I never say, Do I really have to go up there and tell these jokes? I’m thrilled that I get paid to make people laugh.

  I look at it that I’m on a temporary hiatus from playing comedy clubs. Taking a little break. This is my club now: The Infusion Room. The toughest room I’ve ever played. Rough crowd. Made up of people like Bill, not the most receptive guy in the world. Doesn’t seem like he’s really in the mood to laugh.

  That just makes it more of a challenge.

  Something tells me that Bill and people like him are the ones who need to laugh the most. I want to try. I want to connect to him. I want to make him smile.

  Because when you’re laughing, you forget everything else, if just for that five seconds.

  Gonna start by warming him up.

  “Cancer,” I say. “Talk about a shit sandwich, huh?”

  Bill turns to me, his face locked in an iron frown. “The nurse is right. You should find another seat.”

  “This is fine.” I wriggle in my chair, trying to find a comfortable position. “So are you going to any support group meetings?”

  He grimaces, maybe from the needle that’s been plunged into his arm, or maybe from me. “I don’t believe in that. It’s a waste of time.”

  “Really?”

  “This must be your first treatment, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Talk to me after you’ve had about three treatments and tell me how great the support group meetings are then. They’re bullshit.”

  My mind clamps onto last night’s meeting. Pictures of faces flickering by. I remember something. A woman. My instinct goes there, and I say, “I went last night because I wanted to be prepared for what I would face here.”

  Bill rolls his eyes.

  “There was a woman there last night. Kinda ugly. She was crying hysterically and she said, ‘I’m gonna have one of my breasts removed and I’m afraid my husband isn’t going to find me sexy anymore.’ I’m looking at her and I’m thinking, ‘Lady, you wouldn’t be sexy if you had three tits.’”

  Bill’s bottom lip quivers, then his mouth cracks open and—he can’t help himself—he starts to laugh. The laugh builds to a roaring, out-of-control cackle. Bill’s laughing so hard that the cute blonde nurse rushes over to see if he’s all right.

  “Bill? You okay?” He’s doubled over. He waves her away. Then grinning widely, she says to me, “I’ve never even seen him smile. What did you say to him?”

  “I told him about us,” I say.

  She swats me lightly on the shoulder, then bends over and kisses me on top of the head.

  SESSION THREE

  “GETTING SICK”

  TEN DAYS LATER

  You don’t get sick right away.

  My problem is I’ve seen a lot of movies where people get cancer and it seems that they’re throwing up the second after they start chemo. That’s what I expected, anyway. I figured right after the nurse yanked the IV out of my arm, waves of nausea would start hitting me, and I’d be puking in the car on the way home. It’s not like that at all.

  I get home and I feel fine. No nausea, dizziness, nothing. In fact, I take a brisk thirty-minute walk, which makes me feel refreshed. When I get back, Dr. Mehldau is on the phone.

  “Hey, Robert. Thought I’d check in. How you feeling?”

  “I feel pretty good. No nausea. This isn’t bad at all.”

  Then one word that’s like a stop sign.

  “Wait.”

  “Really?”

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but you will get sick. It usually takes between nine and eleven days for your white and red blood cell count to plummet. Then it hits you. That’s why we space the chemo treatments three weeks apart. Otherwise you couldn’t take it. Nobody could.”

  “Nice. Thanks. Something to look forward to.”

  “Sorry.” He pauses. “I want to tell you something. Actually, I want you to do something for me.”

  “All right—”

  “I want you to concentrate on you. Just you. You’re sick. You come first.”

  “Okay, but when I do, the girl usually gets pissed.”

  Dr. Mehldau laughs, a short sudden burst, then he stops and pauses for a long beat. “Robert, I really mean it. You need to put yourself first. Do you understand?”

  I actually don’t. “I have kids,” I say.

  “That’s right, you do. But you’re not worth anything to them dead.” His words jolt me. I squeeze my eyes shut, listening intently. “Is Vicki a good mom?”

  “She’s a great mom.”

  “I knew that. Let her take over completely. You take care of yourself. You have to kick everybody out of your head except you. You’ve been there for other people before. Now it’s time for other people to be there for you. This is important, Robert. Be selfish. You’re gonna have to be.”

  I’m not sure how long I take to respond. It must be a while because Dr. Mehldau speaks first. “Robert?”

  “I’m here. I’m thinking about what you said. It’s just so weird for me to think that way. It’s unnatural.”

  “Think of it this way,” Dr. Mehldau says. “I’m your doctor and I’m giving you a prescription. Be selfish.”

  Dr. Mehldau hits the number on the head. On day ten a coughing jag wakes me at 5 a.m., a hacking, knifing cough that doubles me over, then sends me bolting into the bathroom, arms cradling my stomach before the cough brings me to my knees, bowing and retching into the bowl. Since drinking too much Southern Comfort one Saturday night my junior year of high school, I haven’t been a big fan of vomiting. I’ve heard of bulimic people who eat anything and everything they want because later they’ll just make themselves throw up. They can’t be Jews.

  Lying in a heap on the bathroom floor, waiting for the next wave to hit, I think about my TV show Schimmel, the hot new fall sitcom ten days ago, now a videotape gathering dust on some shelf. Before we shot the show, the entire cast had to be examined by a studio doctor for insurance reasons. After my physical, the doctor gave me a totally clean bill of health, compared with the Mayo Clinic, which gave me six months to live. Yeah. The studio guy didn’t miss by much. Maybe he wasn’t a doctor. Maybe he just played one on TV.

  Ohhhh. Here we go again. Excuse me.

  Chemotherapy works the same way as boot camp. I know because I’ve been through both. Back in the day, when I was eighteen, there used to be a draft lottery. Of course, my luck, the Schimmel Touch, I got number four or something, so I enlisted in the air force. Fortunately, they kicked me out after a year when I ditched K.P. and went AWOL to the movies. True story.

  But the philosophy behind both boot camp and chemotherapy is to push you to your limit, kick you to the edge of death, and then back away. It’s a simple plan: kill the cancer and try not to kill the patient. Curled up on the tile floor of the can, my head propped against the porcelain base of the toilet bowl, I know that if I survive the chemo, I will beat this fucking cancer. I will.

  A few days before I’m scheduled for my second chemo treatment, after the vomiting has run its course, I stand at the kitchen sink, drinking a glass of juice, and I feel something burning in my mouth all the way into my throat. Later I’m in the bathroom taking a crap (well, where else would I take a crap?), and I feel the burning again, only this time it’s deeper, burning from my mouth practically all the way down my back. I call Dr. Mehldau, who tells me, with alarm in his voice, to come over to his office right away.

  “Wow. You’ve got a ton of open sores in your mouth,” Dr. Mehldau says, peering inside my mouth with a penlight. He snaps off the tiny flashlight. “It’s a common side effect.” Astride a padded stool with wheels, he rolls himself over to a file cabinet and rummages through one of the drawers. “Throw away your toothbrush. And forget flossing. That’s out of the question.”

  “I can’t brush my teeth?”

  “Nope. With those sores, if you brush your teeth using a conventional toothbrush, your gums will definitely bleed. If you get a
n infection while your blood cell count is down, you’re dead.”

  I’m starting to realize that everything this guy says is followed by the words “You’re dead.” As in:

  “If you brush your teeth, you’re dead.”

  “If you cut yourself, you’re dead.”

  “If you catch a cold, you’re dead.”

  I sigh, feeling suddenly winded. “You wouldn’t think that dental floss could be so hazardous.”

  “If you floss, you’re dead.”

  “Listen, Dr. Mehldau, you don’t know me, but when it comes to hygiene, I’m a little over the top. I have to keep my teeth clean.”

  “I kind of figured that. Here we go.”

  He pulls out a handful of small sponges attached to thin wooden sticks. They look like giant fluffy Q-Tips. “Start with these. The nurses at Mayo will keep you supplied. Now. About those sores.”

  Dr. Mehldau leans forward and fixes me right in the eye. “Robert, you have to avoid all oral and anal contact. That can be very, very dangerous. Okay?”

  Now, I know I’m pretty outrageous and everything, but at that moment all I can think is: Do I look like an ass eater to him? Is that how people see me? I do get crazy in my act, but does he think I really do this stuff?

  “Wow,” I say aloud. “What a blow. The cancer’s not bad enough. Now I can’t lick anyone’s asshole. When is the punishment gonna stop?”

  Dr. Mehldau lifts both eyebrows, and then starts laughing. A fierce cartoon chuckle. Someday I’d love to fill an audience with laughers like that.

  “I’m serious,” he says, but he’s laughing.

  “I know, I know. If I eat somebody’s ass, I’m dead.”

  “No anal. And no oral.”

  “No licking, no eating. Got it. What about blow jobs?”

  Dr. Mehldau is laughing too much to speak. He manages to shake his head and wag a finger.

  “Finally some good news for my wife,” I say.

  By now Dr. Mehldau’s loud scary laugh has dissolved into a kind of frightening silent spasm. I keep going. “So oral sex is out, right?”