It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life by Lance Armstrong Page B
Authors: Lance Armstrong
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let me tell you–it can be unsettling. She saw people wrapped in blankets, with no hair, hooked up every which
way to IVs, looking pale and deathly sick. My mother gazed around the unit as she waited for the supplies. When they came, she piled it all into a large canvas bag that became our traveling
cancer kit, and made her way back to my room. She said, “Son, I just want to let you know that when you go for your treatment, it’s not a pleasant sight. But I want you to keep one thing in
mind. They’re all there for the same reason you are: to get well.”
And then she took me home.
ON SATURDAY MORNING I ROSE EARLY AND WENT INTO the bathroom and looked in the mirror–and I stifled a scream. My catheter had a huge blood clot in it and my chest was
swollen and caked with blood. I went back into the bedroom and showed Lisa, who stared at it, mute with horror. I yelled for my mother. “Mom, could you come in here!” I said. My mother
came racing into my room and examined the catheter. She didn’t panic; she just got a washcloth and calmly cleaned it out, and called the hospital. A nurse explained to her that it wasn’t
uncommon for catheters to clot, and went through a procedure with her for how to prevent it from being infected. But it still looked awful.
My mother hung up and ran to the store, and when she came back she had a box of Band-Aids that glowed in the dark. She put one on the catheter, and that got Lisa and me to laugh. Next,
she reached Dr. Youman on the phone. She said, “This catheter is not looking good. I’ve tried to clean it as much as I can, but maybe we should have it taken out.”
Dr. Youman said, “Well, don’t do anything yet, because I’ve decided Lance needs to move up his first chemotherapy treatment. He starts Monday at one o’clock.”
“Why?” my mother asked.
I took the phone. Dr. Youman explained that more results had come in from the pathology reports and blood work, and they were worrisome. In a mere 24 hours, the cancer had
progressed. Oncologists use something called blood markers to track the progress of the disease: the levels of various proteins in your blood such as human chorionic gonadotropin (HCG) and
alpha-fetoprotein (AFP) indicate how much cancer is in the body. My blood counts had risen, in a day.
The cancer was not just spreading, it was galloping, and Youman no longer thought I could afford to wait a week for chemo. I should begin treatment directly, because if the cancer was
moving that quickly, every day might count.
I hung up the phone, dispirited. But there was no time to brood; I would have one chance and one chance only to go to the sperm bank in San Antonio: that very afternoon. “This is pathetic,”
I said to my mother, disgustedly.
The ride to San Antonio was grim. The only thing that relieved the tension was that Kevin Livingston had come home, and he made the trip with me for moral support. I was glad to see
him; he has an open face and vivid blue eyes under his cropped black hair, and he always looks like he’s on the verge of laughing. It was hard to be in a bad mood around him. We got more
help, too: a young man named Cord Shiflet, the son of my architect and friend David Shiflet,
offered to drive us.
I sat in the back seat silently as the miles went by, with one nervous thought after another running through my mind. I would have only one chance to bank. I might not be able to have
children. I was going to have my first chemo treatment. Would it make me sick?
Finally we arrived at the medical office in San Antonio. Cord and Kevin sat with my mother in the waiting area while a staff nurse escorted me into a private room, and Kevin managed to
crack a bad joke, trying to break the terrible mood. “Hey, Lance, you need a magazine?” he said. I grinned, weakly.
I was shown into a room with a lounge chair, a sort of recliner. The lighting was dim, an attempt at ambiance, I guessed. On a small table there was a stack of, yes,
way to IVs, looking pale and deathly sick. My mother gazed around the unit as she waited for the supplies. When they came, she piled it all into a large canvas bag that became our traveling
cancer kit, and made her way back to my room. She said, “Son, I just want to let you know that when you go for your treatment, it’s not a pleasant sight. But I want you to keep one thing in
mind. They’re all there for the same reason you are: to get well.”
And then she took me home.
ON SATURDAY MORNING I ROSE EARLY AND WENT INTO the bathroom and looked in the mirror–and I stifled a scream. My catheter had a huge blood clot in it and my chest was
swollen and caked with blood. I went back into the bedroom and showed Lisa, who stared at it, mute with horror. I yelled for my mother. “Mom, could you come in here!” I said. My mother
came racing into my room and examined the catheter. She didn’t panic; she just got a washcloth and calmly cleaned it out, and called the hospital. A nurse explained to her that it wasn’t
uncommon for catheters to clot, and went through a procedure with her for how to prevent it from being infected. But it still looked awful.
My mother hung up and ran to the store, and when she came back she had a box of Band-Aids that glowed in the dark. She put one on the catheter, and that got Lisa and me to laugh. Next,
she reached Dr. Youman on the phone. She said, “This catheter is not looking good. I’ve tried to clean it as much as I can, but maybe we should have it taken out.”
Dr. Youman said, “Well, don’t do anything yet, because I’ve decided Lance needs to move up his first chemotherapy treatment. He starts Monday at one o’clock.”
“Why?” my mother asked.
I took the phone. Dr. Youman explained that more results had come in from the pathology reports and blood work, and they were worrisome. In a mere 24 hours, the cancer had
progressed. Oncologists use something called blood markers to track the progress of the disease: the levels of various proteins in your blood such as human chorionic gonadotropin (HCG) and
alpha-fetoprotein (AFP) indicate how much cancer is in the body. My blood counts had risen, in a day.
The cancer was not just spreading, it was galloping, and Youman no longer thought I could afford to wait a week for chemo. I should begin treatment directly, because if the cancer was
moving that quickly, every day might count.
I hung up the phone, dispirited. But there was no time to brood; I would have one chance and one chance only to go to the sperm bank in San Antonio: that very afternoon. “This is pathetic,”
I said to my mother, disgustedly.
The ride to San Antonio was grim. The only thing that relieved the tension was that Kevin Livingston had come home, and he made the trip with me for moral support. I was glad to see
him; he has an open face and vivid blue eyes under his cropped black hair, and he always looks like he’s on the verge of laughing. It was hard to be in a bad mood around him. We got more
help, too: a young man named Cord Shiflet, the son of my architect and friend David Shiflet,
offered to drive us.
I sat in the back seat silently as the miles went by, with one nervous thought after another running through my mind. I would have only one chance to bank. I might not be able to have
children. I was going to have my first chemo treatment. Would it make me sick?
Finally we arrived at the medical office in San Antonio. Cord and Kevin sat with my mother in the waiting area while a staff nurse escorted me into a private room, and Kevin managed to
crack a bad joke, trying to break the terrible mood. “Hey, Lance, you need a magazine?” he said. I grinned, weakly.
I was shown into a room with a lounge chair, a sort of recliner. The lighting was dim, an attempt at ambiance, I guessed. On a small table there was a stack of, yes,
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