CAMPING SUPPLIES (FOR REAL, THIS TIME)

AUGUST 20, 2022 – Blogger’s note: The gracious reader will accept my apologies for the poor self-editing of yesterday’s post. The explanation (versus excuse) is that our hyper-imaginative granddaughter was under our day-long charge. Among her plays, musical performances, story-telling, painting sessions, and backyard expeditions, all of which required audience/spectator participation, I assembled very few sentences without interruption. Adequate proof-reading before publishing was impossible. Today’s post is rushed to take advantage of the kiddo’s sleeping in. With us for the weekend while her parents spend an overnight with friends, she’s still upstairs asleep—no wonder, given yesterday’s energy burn rate.

(Cont.) The chemo-blast for which I’m scheduled Monday will itself feel like a non-event—except for the part where I have to suck on crushed ice for 20 minutes before the chemo infusion, during the half hour of the infusion itself and for the half hour following, all to avoid one of many serious potential side effects: mouth sores that can make eating and drinking problematic for some days after the chemo-blast.

Except for the sucking-on-ice part, you might say that the chemo-blast is like open-heart surgery—the cancer patient feels no particular pain or discomfort during the “blast,” just as the heart patient is off in la-la-land not feeling a thing while surgeons with saws, knives, and needles play havoc with his chest cavity. (I say “his,” since it seems the male heart sees far more trouble than does the female heart.) But the fallout from the chemo-blast, including, but not limited to, the hair falling out part, can lay the patient low for a while, just as the pain and discomfort that follow open-heart surgery render life miserable for a time.

In my case, word has it that the going gets rough about four or five days after the Frankensteiner procedure—and continues on roads full of potholes, as it were, for another week to 10 days. And there’s no magic switch at the end of that period, by which the patient is magically restored to pre-blast mode on the Autobahn, freshly repaved. I hope, expect, and for crying out loud, want like hell, to get out of backcountry as quickly as possible. I also accept, however, that robust health restored will take time and effort, both mental and physical.

For the time being, I’m focused on the initial rough patch and stretch of unpaved road. Racing down the Autobahn can wait. Until my blood counts—monitored daily—start popping back, generally two weeks after the chemo-blast, my immune system will be especially vulnerable. This means (to me, anyway, as instructed), a full-on OCD approach to hand-washing and food-handling, and strict embrace of agoraphobia (beyond the presence of my wife, who, lucky she, will also have to go OCD on the hygiene front and become agoraphobic on the social front) until the counts are up.

The rough patch also means planning and strategizing around nutrition and hydration. The chemo-blast trashes the GI tract, turns tastebuds inside out, and, just to emphasize the first point . . . trashes the GI tract. In slightly more elegant terms, the patient doesn’t much feel like eating or drinking. But, as we learned in fourth grade science, we need to eat and drink to stay alive, and I intend to do more than just stay alive. Thus, despite salty food tasting sweet and sugary items tasting salty and favorite foods now tasting awful; apart from low energy, low appetite, even dark thoughts, unseemly irritability, and wholesale displeasure, I’m determined to follow disciplined hydration and nutrition plans.

These “plans” contain two elements: 1. Hyper-hygiene; and 2. “Ingestibility.” Thinking that after a day or two I can consume a three-course meal is an aircraft design lacking wings. Yet, again, the body needs sustenance (In extreme situations, on the daily trips to the clinic, the care crew can administer stuff intravenously, but I want to avoid that the best I can).

Where all this takes me is back to the two-week canoe trip my dad and I took to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (Minnesota-Ontario wilderness, for you non-Minnesotan readers) when I was 10. For many weeks prior to the adventure, Dad spent nearly every after-work evening planning, plotting, preparing. He bought a ton of gear and supplies from a mail-order camping equipment company, and the shipments included emergency food supplies, including powdered scrambled eggs, I remember, and 12 cans of “pemican.” He’d told me all about how Indians made pemican and used it for survival, and I don’t think our “pemican”—packed in tin cans—was quite the same thing, but it added to the spirit of adventure that Dad orchestrated with infectious enthusiasm.

A few days ago, in anticipation of my solo “canoe trip” of a different sort, I decided to bulk up on nutrition-supplement drinks in 8-oz. portions. Most offerings are loaded with sugar, which I want to avoid, so I searched online for lo- or no-sugar versions. Most brands deliver mega-portions of protein and a list of vitamins and minerals. I figure if I’m feeling as crappy as can be, at least I can stick a straw into a small bottle of Boost, plug my nose (after washing my hands for 40 seconds), and suck in sustenance. By this minimal method, I’ll be sure to propel myself to the paved portion of roadway leading to the highway that merges with the Autobahn.

Fine. I thought I knew what I was doing when I placed my order. I mean, the process isn’t rocket science, and hey, this just in—notwithstanding our young granddaughter’s inevitable future view of me as a Luddite—I’d bought plenty of stuff online before. I figured I’d want a supply to get me through 10 days to two weeks, and if I ran out, I—or my wife, if I’m just not up to the task— could always order more. Or, alternatively, if it turns out I can eat eggs and bacon for breakfast, pizza for lunch, and barbecued chicken for dinner, I’ll stock our imaginary bomb shelter with the unused Boost. Influenced by ancestors so frugal they diluted their water, however, I couldn’t bear the thought of missing out on “free shipping.”

Long story slightly shorter, I ordered enough to put me six bucks over the free shipping minimum. Three days later . . .

I thought I’d need a forklift to transfer the Amazon shipment from our front stoop to . . . where? A mini-storage facility? I’d clearly confused my calculation of “aggregate ounces” with “quantity of six-packs.”

I realize it’s been way too long since I planned a proper camping trip. I’ve also gained whole new appreciation for my dad’s über-attention to detail before venturing into the wilderness. (Cont.)

(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)

© 2022 by Eric Nilsson