A report written in 2006

On January 6, 2006, an oncologist explained to me that I had recurrent renal cell carcinoma and the tummy tumors were “drinking my blood.”

I chose to be treated with a new drug called “sorafenib” and on February 1, 2006, I sent my check for $5,037.11 to a specialty pharmacy to purchase one month’s supply—120 pink, 200 mg. pills to be taken on an empty stomach twice daily, two pills each dosage.

Now, after 10 months, the tumors have shrunk, I feel good and lead a more or less normal life, which for me includes considerable travel mixed with sitting day after day at this computer and writing, or (as some have accused) re-writing, American History.

Since the medicine is working for me, I feel fully qualified to offer some totally unprofessional advice to any critical cancer patient, including of course, those taking, or contemplating taking, sorafenib. Here is what you should expect:

• The more business-like members of your family will want to help you get your will up-to-date.  Go along with this; it can’t hurt.

• A cousin you haven’t seen since pre-teen years will visit to extend his wishes and see what you look like before you jump into the box.  Go along with them/him/her, too.  They mean well.

• There will be a big party of some kind, perhaps some close relative’s birthday.  You will find all of your friends there even though the party supposedly has nothing to do with you.  Don’t drink too much like I did. I circulated among the guests taking digital pictures. Like me, the pictures were fuzzy.

• You will have diarrhea.  Buy stock in Kimberly-Clark or any other toilet paper manufacturer.  You may also want to invest in PreparationH. Companies like these will increase sales appreciably because of you, so step up (as you squat down) to profit from constant trots. If you choose to take a powerful medication like Lomotil to suppress the diarrhea you will trade semi-solids for odious gas.  Do not allow any one near you to smoke or strike matches.   And another tip: When the sacker at Hillers asks you “paper or plastic?” choose plastic.  Carry spare underwear and a plastic bag in your purse or briefcase. You are smart; therefore, I feel no further explanation of why you must do this is necessary.  You should not be over-stressed, as this malady is quite common.  I know this because every pickup truck in rural Indiana sports a bumper sticker that says “..IT HAPPENS.”

• One day you will look in your bathroom mirror and be surprised to see a sick, reversed raccoon.  The area around your eyes will be white, but the rest of your face will be darker than usual. It’s an indication of high blood pressure, another side effect. See your doctor for high blood pressure medicines.  They don’t hurt.

• Yes, your hair will begin to give up and want off.  Your hairbrush will clog.  You will see your scalp.  Don’t worry about this, either.  Like me you could be lucky and have it grow back bushy, curly, and wavy.

• Your hands will begin to blister and hurt.  Strong topical creams will help, but they won’t completely solve the problem.  After a while you will not be able to turn the key in your car’s ignition, rip open a pink Sweet’N Low packet, or peel open a Ziploc bag. This problem will come and go. Remember in high school when you saw the documentary on chimpanzees, and how they used sticks to poke into rotting trees to gather delicious termites? Do the same: Use tools. Go to Wal-Mart and buy kindergarteners’ blunted scissors.  Or keep an ordinary toenail clipper in your pocket—anything that will start a tear and will not cause a problem if you travel by air. (I also carry a small pair of pliers to remove, move and twist stuff.) But don’t show these tools to anyone.  They will think you’ve fallen over the edge.

• You are going to get skinny.  Eventually you could loose 25% or more of your normal weight.  You must decide whether to buy new clothes or to have your present wardrobe altered.  Do a little of each and give the rest of the stuff cluttering your closets to the Salvation Army.

• Your closest friends and relatives will start every conversation with “How are you feeling these days?”  Answer “I feel great!”  Do it enough and they will stop asking and you will feel great.

So, here you are.  Your hair is wavy and curly, you’ve lost all of those extra pounds, you are sporting new clothes, and you feel great. What’s all the fuss about anyway?  And, ehhh, where’s the men’s room?  Tell me NOW!

(Two months after this was written, the magic drug failed and the cancers began growing again . . . just in time, another new cancer drug was approved and has been working well for over three years!  I feel great.)

About a half century ago I was one of the guys who sat in the beautifully upholstered chair who—just when the TV movie was getting interesting—would say, “We’ll be back in a minute, after this important message.”

The message was always about a product, something you could buy and use and, hopefully, enjoy.

Most of these TV ads were professionally produced in Chicago, New York or Hollywood with handsome men and beautiful women proclaiming the benefits you would receive, and doing it with a light musical background.  It was all black and white in those days, but it was good.

In the early 1950s, both radio and television advertising content was unofficially regulated by an association of broadcasters that first got together in 1927.  There were rules.  There was no punishment for disobeying them, but almost everyone in the industry agreed that they were good rules for good advertising.

For instance, neither doctors nor lawyers were solicited to advertise their services, and in most cases if they contacted broadcast media to purchase advertising to promote their services, they were refused.

Imagine, if you will, a world without lawyers telling you about asbestos, car accidents, and missed overtime pay, and without doctors urging you to get a new knee.  We all slept better then.

Local commercials were often read off-camera to slides or with TV stills of products, yet some of the  local actors and announcers worked on-camera grasping or demonstrating the product they were selling. Hanging on my office wall there is a picture of me and one of the first “weather girls” of television.  There were no special effects, no radar images—only Marcia making long frontal lines on a plastic map of the U.S. with a felt pen. My job was to pitch the bliss of eating Puffin Biscuits, biscuits ready to burst from the cylindrical cardboard package when you tapped it on the table.

Then as now, automobile dealers, new and used, advertised on television.  Many used movie clips from the car manufacturers, ending the commercial with a slide that listed pricing and the dealer’s name and address.  There was no shouting, no wild gestures, no girls poised with slipping bras.

Then it happened.  Catastrophe struck. Whether it was caused by greater competition or the scheming of a clever TV advertising salesman, no one seems to know.  Used and new car dealers became convinced that they—the greatest salesmen ever—should do their own pitches on TV.  They loved it. Egomania set a new and very loud record.

Thankfully, this all happened at exactly the same time as the introduction of the mute button on television remote control units.

Mute is good.

–The Flayed Fox

(The Flayed Fox writes scary books. More info at historynerds.com)