Who doesn’t like to get fussed over?

Friends,

A few days ago I got a text from my old friend and bandmate Winston Watson. He was out playing drums with the MC5. Yes, you heard that right. The M! C! 5! They were in San Francisco. Playing at Bimbo’s. He said he’d put me on the guest list. Plus one. But nooooooo! I have stupid cancer, and I have to stay away from crowds. Color me immuno-motherf***ing-compromised.

Folks, today is a gift and you better believe I know it. Still, half the time I don’t know what to make of it. One day you’re just another singer-songwriter wading through a pandemic, and the next you’re a singer-songwriter with a mass invading your body, getting infusions and blood work, with a van that isn't getting the kind of mileage that wears down tires. (Which doesn't stop the industrious night crawlers in my neighborhood from breaking the van's windows on a semi-regular basis.)

Enough already. 

Honestly, it’s been hard to bring myself to write about this. But not saying anything — that would be weird, right? 

I said I’d keep you posted. So here we are. The sooner I get this missive (thesaurus alert!) out there, the sooner I can get back to my regularly scheduled newsletter. Get back to dazzling everybody with the mundane, tedious, but somehow fabulous adventures of MC Chuck and his band – the best around if you ask me – you asked, right? And the latest in a long line of workhorse Econolines. 

What next? Who knows, I might even try to sell you stuff in my online store. It happens.

Cooling my heels at the office, playing with the Substack.

                             ****

The nurse comes around and taps my arm and says, “Oh, you have nice veins.”

“Uh, thanks.”

My oncologist tells me the treatment is working. That much I know. Incidentally, we here at Chuck and Stephie, Inc. have a fairly strict "no google" policy. Why? We may be acting on a hunch, but so far we’ve found talking to educated experts to be more effective than googling information that may be 20 years out of date on some painfully unfunny AOL site like Weekly World News. Next to a piece about Michelle Obama having inappropriate relationships with animals. (Michelle! Cut it out, girlfriend!)

On the other hand, I haven’t had to dig too deep to feel gratitude daily. I feel pretty damn fortunate to be receiving great care. Life in the Money Belt has its advantages. No kidding. For a country that isn’t known for taking care of its citizens, Start-Up City USA isn’t too shabby, as long as you keep ponying up those monthly premiums. Go Team Science!

The hospital’s not so bad either. It’s kind of like a Korean nail salon in here. People sitting in these chairs staring straight ahead. The chairs are extremely comfortable, too. And I have a window view from the eighth floor. They fuss over you. And who doesn’t like to get fussed over? And just like in the movies, if you want to move around the floor you get to drag an IV pole around. Which is kind of fun. For a minute.  

First time around, it was five hours on the chemo drip. And I didn’t have any reactions initially. The nurse said he was "quite impressed" about five times. I’m sure he tells everybody that. But I’ll still take it. 

Unbeknownst to this guy, though, the treatment includes healthy portions of steroids. Which might explain why I felt so energized after I got out of there. I was ready to fuck shit up. I was like, “Ah man, I got this!” That night I was up till four watching Woody Allen movies. The next morning I asked Stephanie, “When is the last time you watched Alice? Joe Mantegna is just — Oh my gawd. It. Is. HILARIOUS!”

Surprise, surprise. A couple days later I woke up feeling like I’d been turned inside out and thrown in the microwave, on high. My ass was beat. And my appetite and lust for life and just general serenity were gone. Sucked out of me. Energy zapped, emotions wack. Depressed, anxious, borderline psychotic. It’s exhausting. Just as brutal as anything — as bad as coming down from crack. (Ah, Memory Lane!) As bad as any opiates.

But over the course of a week or so it passes, just like George Harrison said. And the Bible. And the energy comes back. And the appetite and the lust for life and just general appreciation creep back. Appreciation for… if not sandwiches, like the man said, at least cookies start to have some appeal. 

Soon I was back to taking long walks around the city. You know how I walk: hands behind my back, slow and pensive - the Nixon walk. And bracing myself for the next month's treatment. That’s how it’ll go for a total of six months. A slog from where I sit, but necessary.

Note to self: go to Nordstrom and pick up a bathrobe.

Otherwise? That’s about it. Before I stop bending your inner ear…

Know that I appreciate all the notes on social media and this newsletter and through texts. The cards in the mail, too. All the well-wishing and love have really moved me. Man, it feels good.

As for unwanted advice, I’ve gotten a mess of it. And given it all some thought. Yes to exercise. Yeah to healthy eating!

I’ll share one piece of unsolicited advice I got from Ryan Adams. He wanted me to know about a controversial treatment that Dio (that’s Ronnie James Dio to you) received from a Dr. Hoxsey. Only available at a clinic in Tijuana. Ryan says that even though people have tried to discredit Hoxsey, the ironic part is that the very people who made Hoxsey leave the US to practice in Mexico have since been saved by going to the center.

I should add that Ryan was very polite. And said, “If nothing else it’s just something I hope can help. There’s a lot of evidence of it working and I just wanted to pass it along and obviously you know what is best and I hope I didn’t impose.”

I shared that Dio tip with our resident metal expert James DePrato. Who sheepishly informed me, “You know Dio didn’t make it, right? Died of stomach cancer back in 2010.”

Oh… okay. Back to the specialists who finished at the top of their class while the rest of us were out there getting a different kind of education. 

Onwards!

All love,

—CP