Feb 11, 2001

However, as I told him what my old doctor was doing, he could barely hide his shock. By the end of it, he disgustedly said that the treatment I was getting was absolutely wrong for my cancer and that my doctor didn't know what she was doing. "This is NOT how we treat Burkitt's Lymphoma in the year 2001."

He urged that I switch to his care and be admitted to his hospital immediately for a different and much more aggressive treatment. If I had waited any longer to see him, he said, I would have been in serious trouble.

Needless to say, I was totally shocked. My old doctor had seemed totally non-chalant and capable, and who was I to question her? But here was the leading expert in the field telling me that she was dead wrong. My trust shattered, I admitted myself to this new hospital and almost immediately I found myself - once again - in a bed with tubes in my arms.

My visit to the second opinion doctor - what I thought would take an hour or two - turned into a grueling, three week stay in the hospital where I endured daily bloodtaking at 6am, multiple spinal taps, two injections of chemo directly into my spine and a very painful bone marrow extraction. Of course that wasn't the end of it.

Above all is the chemotherapy. At first it struck me with nausea and a torturous, endless bout of insomnia. After this I was visited with mouth sores that prevented me from eating anything but soup for a week. I was connected to a morphine drip to ease the pain but even that struggled to do its job well.

Chemotherapy is a dark magic. Its ultimate effect may be good but the road there is a frightening one. It makes me feel half-alive, like I'm drunk and walking on a tightrope. On one side there is death, and on the other, life.

Even as I write this I feel sucked of my personality, my energy, my life. This is what happens after months of nausea, confusion, lethargy, dizzyness, chemicals, drugs. I am a cracked shell of what I once was although somewhere the original me does exist. Cocooned, awaiting its rebirth. But for now at least, I live in a mental and physical fog. I'm lucky if a train of thought has more than 2 cars before crashing and even moving across the room is a journey of excess.

Its impossible to describe the experience of chemotherapy. I've gotten many emails from those of you who have been through it or who have known those who have. I'm taking handfuls of pills every six hours. Its hard to imagine where my mind has gone.

I write this from home now. But I return to the hospital on Monday 2/19 for another bout of chemo, and as long as I don't get any infections I will be back home on Saturday 2/24. I hope to update again at that time.

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Now onto something I will give to you until the very end - music.

First, a classic from 1993 whose simplicity is matched only by its beauty. Picture hearing this under the stars at an outdoor desert rave:

'Spacetrack' by Cosmic Baby

Next, a haunting trance masterpiece from 1995 whose spooky vibes could easily have accompanied parts of my hospital stay:

'Are Am Eve' by Commander Tom

And lastly from 1996, a song that lends itself to acid rather than ecstasy:

'People Can Fly' by Astral Projection

I must end this by saying how much it kills me (but not literally!) to be missing Danny Tenaglia and Carl Cox at Twilo this Sunday night. Its going to be the party of the year, for sure. I can't believe I have to miss it due to this preposterous illness. I can't wait until I can dance again. Those of you who attend must email me detailed reports!

until then, remember..
when you dance, we are a part of what you feel.

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If you'd like to read more of my cancer updates: