Glenn Deir, a retired journalist residing in St. John’s, shares his experiences in this First Person column. To explore more of CBC’s First Person stories, visit the FAQ.
For a span of five months, I relied on six packs every day.
But not the kind with beer—no, my choice was Boost, a meal alternative drink, offering the necessary nutrients for a fuller life.
My aim was grander— it was about preserving life itself.
Prior to my throat surgery on July 13, where I had to bid farewell to my last regular meal of tenderloin steak, I had to part ways with my right tonsil, part of my tongue’s back, and the tissue in between due to a severe case of cancer.
Following the surgery, the surgeon described my throat as “almost normal.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite ready for solid foods.
Survival came in the form of Boost, either vanilla or strawberry, and pureed meals. There’s nothing more unappetizing than a blend of meat and vegetables. A mouthful of lamb chops and green beans lacked the expected flavors.
It was no surprise that I shed 15 pounds during this period.
My dietary routine stayed constant due to failed swallow assessments. During the test in August, I found myself in front of a camera, swallowing barium-infused liquid and food while speech language pathologists Christina and Kerri monitored my progress on a screen, ensuring the nourishment reached my stomach safely instead of my lungs.
Despite water entering my airway and reaching my vocal cords, causing no reflexive cough, it was a dense pudding during the test that halted any progress. The lump got lodged at the base of my tongue, resisting multiple swallows.
My tongue’s agility decreased, the food-blocking flap faltered occasionally, and my throat-clearing instincts were sluggish. Hence, I was deemed unfit for solid foods.
Nevertheless, the medical team at St. Clare’s Hospital in St. John’s persisted. But before another attempt, I had to endure radiation therapy and chemotherapy, forcing me to cancel a planned moose hunting expedition due to health concerns.
To return my hunting licenses and tags, and become eligible for next year’s drawing, a sympathetic plea was necessary to the wildlife department. Dr. Brent Tompkins, my radiation oncologist, emphasized my poor health status, prolonged recovery needs, and reliance on my wife’s daily care in a letter he penned without hesitation.
While the Good Glenn expressed gratitude, the Evil Glenn indulged in fantasies. I envisioned Dr. Tompkins chastising fellow doctors at the cancer center for focusing on a moose while he strived to save lives. A comical scenario played out in my mind.
Enduring radiation
Such whimsical thoughts entertained me during my twice-daily radiation sessions. If fate allowed, some moose from my freezer might find their way to the kind doctor.
Throughout treatment, I learned that even liquids
