Sinclair Lewis
nailed me with a single line describing one of his characters: She
lived in mortal dread of being diagnosed. That was a character with
whom I felt a kinship. That is part of my psyche wrapped up in a
single line. I am a borderline hypochondriac. Not a germaphobe
mind, I have an immune system to keep the bugs at bay, I just fear my
body betraying me.
This is part of the
anxiety. I’m hyper-alert to any twinge in my body. Back in 4th
grade our class read a story about a boy and his dog entering a race
to try and save their family, I don’t remember. What has been
burned into my brain was when the dog dropped dead just before the
finish line. My teacher announcing that his heart had exploded.
What’s that?
Heart exploding from running too hard? That fear packed itself into
the back of my very soul and I’ve been afraid of the same thing
happening to me ever since. No doubt it played a part in my taking
up video games and reading over sports – although I always did hate
to practice. I think I was a sensitive kid.
On my worse days at
my job, when I was feeling my most hopeless and depressed, I would
day dream about being diagnosed with terminal cancer. Then I would
say fuck this place, quit my job, and go and do some of the things I
really wanted to do with my life in what-ever time I had left. I’d
cash out my 401k and get to do some traveling.
Macabre, I know.
But it isn’t about dying. I’m just sick of worrying about the
future. And the present. The anxiety is waring. Why not make a
change? Oh I’ve tried, and hit dead ends. Some of my own making,
others not.
A few years back we
visited Taos New Mexico as a family, and we went to see the Rio
Grande gorge and cross over the bridge on foot. I got nearly
half-way out before my body refused to move any further. I just
stopped. 800’ down, and a 4 foot tall steel barrier between me and
that drop. I could not make my feet take a single step further.
Applying for jobs is
like that. There are no real images of doom. Just a vague sense
that blocks my way like a fog. And so I imagine not having to worry
about any of that anymore(another reason the lotto is so damn
enticing).
So I started
shitting blood. Literally.
After the whole
thing with the wisdom teeth and the dentist and what-ever, I decided
to be a bit more of an adult about my health, and after a couple
weeks of that complaint not quieting down, I visited my Primary Care
Physician. Dr Google MD.
Dr Google is in my
price range. Dr Google is always there. Dr Google listened to my
questions and gave me answers. I had hemorrhoids, or Chron’s
disease, or food allergy(have you been eating beans and lentils or
dairy or wheat?). After several days of careful research I was able
to eliminate Ovarian Cancer. Dr Google had one retrain. It could be
any of the above but don’t rule out the old butt-cancer.
Either way it was
probably caused by vaccines. And I could swallow these lovely
homeopathic capsules, they’re made of cancer, except so diluted by
water that there is a statistically negligible chance that any of the
cancer is still in there. Also, put this crystal into your anus to
align your chakras. And pray to the Merciful Lord Jesus to take your
cancer away.
It got to the point where the region around
my tailbone would hurt after standing in place or sitting for any
period of time. Walking was ok. But my job often requires me to
stand at my work station. But there was no other source of pain to
speak of. This led me to suspect that I had hurt my tailbone at one
point. Or perhaps it was a hernia. Dr Google has suggested a lot of
possibilities. Delightful.
Hurting long hours
while standing at work actually got me off my ass, so to speak, and
moving towards getting myself fixed. Like an adult. Which was
something I was equally worried about, as I’ve never been in the
medical system. I’ve had insurance for most of my life since
graduating college, but have never used it. No matter what my crazy
brain was hallucinating was defective with my still warm corpse.
Boosters on
Butt-cancer causing vaccines aside, I’ve not been to a Doctor since
I was a child.
I only had a general
idea of what I needed to do.
Now let me
explain the American medical system for those of you who have not
encountered it. At least as best as I think I understand it. Most
of us engage private insurance companies, most often through our
place of work. Insurance is like the evil hated Socialism, but where
there is a profit motive for large companies.
They don’t save
money by shorting the shareholders.
The insurance
companies negotiate contracts with local(hopefully) hospitals,
Doctors offices, and pharmacies.
You can’t just show
up at a colon specialist and announce “My Butt hurts! Fix me!”
They’re not going
to take you in and examine you and say “Well we think we found the
problem. You had this little winged pony figure lodged in your
colon. Any idea why?”
“Oh that. That’s Princess
SparkleWings. She was probably exploring the forbidden Cave of
Mystic Wonder! That incorrigible kid!”
“And this one?”
“Princess Sky
Dancer. They’re best friends and go everywhere together. Sky
Dancer is the cautious one, and SparkleWings is always dragging her
friend along on some crazy adventures. Guess this time they got in a
bit over their head.”
“And the rest of
these?”
“Rescue teams One
through Three. The cream of the crop. The Forbidden Cave of Mystic
Wonders is a dangerous place. Guess that is why it is forbidden. The
City State of Ponyapolis owes you a debt of gratitude.”
Nope, doesn’t work
that way. Firstly, do you have insurance? Secondly, does that Dr’s
office take your insurance? Finally, you need a referral. Usually
from your Primary Care Physician – Dr Google MD does not count.
Sure, you might get in without insurance, but medical bills in the
United States would break most people. Often even if they have the
insurance. Bull. Shit.
An urgent care
clinic does. Urgent care is like an emergency room at a hospital,
for lesser forms of emergencies. Not sure how they break down, but I
also believe that they’re a less expensive option. So that’s
where I went, with the expectation that I had a hernia. Where did I
get the hernia? I refer you to my previous posts about Rowsdower, my
bus.
Walking into an
urgent care clinic is like walking into a Soap Opera half-way
through. What was up with the tall, cute, tattooed redhead? Or the
colorful trailer-dweller who was experiencing all the abdominal pain
ever. Not to mention her two friends. The entire Hispanic family?
I’ve always been interested in people’s lives, where they came
from and where they were going, just not enough to actually try and
talk to them.
I spent 2 and a half
hours at the urgent care that night, finally getting in to see a
doctor.
He was about 70
years old. He asked his questions, and I answered them as best I
could. Finally he has me drop my drawers, turn my head and cough.
Hernia and all that. Nothing there. Well, now turn around and
assume the position. This was the part of the appointment that most
people find traumatic.
“Would you do me a
favor and find someone with small hands?” I asked as he reached
for the large gloves.
“I have slender
fingers!” He responded with pride. No sir. I have slender
fingers. I have the fingers of a time-traveling aristrocrat who only
stayed in this century after discovering video games. Oh, you’re
off to hunt foxes? Well I shall be saving the princess. I say, did
you know that if you stomp on a turtle and then kick it as a
projectile, you switch off most of Newton’s laws of motion?
Capital stuff that what what!
No, he had the hands
of a man who only took up medicine as a side-gig while working his
true passion on the family farm. The women in his life might have
found his hands impressive. I found his hands
“Don’t worry,
I’m not going to insert the entire hand!” He said jovially.
“That’s good,
cause there are places that charge extra for that.” He laughed and
then probed my rectum with one of those giant fingers. Telling me to
take a deep breath and try relax as he did.
Look. I learned
about myself that day. I would never make a good gay man. Something
I long suspected. There will be no engaging in the butt-stuff.
Giving or receiving. Just no. Unless you’re into it Ladies, but
only on special occasions like your birthday, or Guy Fawkes day.
With a visit to the
urgent care under my belt, I was able to move on up the chain, and
they referred me to a specialist. Early the next week, I got a call
and made an appointment. Which lead me to having a second man in
less than a week put a finger in my rectum. Some out there might be
jealous of this accomplishment. I think I’d rather have my wisdom
teeth out again.
“I know that
Cancer is always in the back of your mind...” The good Doctor
began.
Pause right there.
Cancer was at the forefront of my mind. Being one of the .008% of
people who die during the colonoscopy has been at the back of my
mind. Why did I worry about that? Because I’m the kind of moron
who buys lotto tickets.
But who starts
bleeding rectally and doesn’t think cancer? What are your other
options? “Oh, I must have been really popular at that party last
night!” Or perhaps “I really shouldn’t have eaten that Indian
food that I found in that dumpster at Chernobyl!”
“...But cancer
isn’t very likely. Possible, but not likely. I didn’t find a
mass, but I didn’t probe that far in.(probably because I jumped in
pain when he passed my tailbone) Really I think it is an autoimmune
condition. (he said the name, but I immediately forgot it, pondering
the above question – I am not good at adulting).”
Finally we got to
the point of it. It was time to get my first colonoscopy. About a
week and a half later. Joy. A week and a half to stew. One one
hand I’m about to pay a lot of money to have someone insert an
object into my anus. Or conversely, an acquaintance is about to drug
me and probe me. Either is a plot to a story that I would rather
avoid.
The PEG infusion claimed to have lemon flavor mixed
in. I was afraid that it would taste like Pledge. But no, it was
merely the promise of lemon flavor. Like a fart in a super market.
It did little to mask the sensation of drinking vaguely salty and
oily water, AKA Mountain Dew, that was the PEG. I rate it 2 stars
out of 10. Only real Crystal Lite is worse. I had a gallon of this
nectar all to my own.
The instructions
were to drink an 8 oz glass every 15 minutes, up to half of the
gallon. That is 8 full glasses, about the amount of water that a
grown adult is supposed to drink in a day. Mind, If you throw up,
wait half an hour and try again. Then, after you did that, get up
early and start again the next morning, at least 5 hours before your
appointment. Wooh! Spread the joy around! Don’t spend all that
in one place. Other ironic uses of cliches in the same vein!
I began to drink.
It made my intestines gurgle and it raced through. My insides
cramped and I nearly gagged numerous times as I drank. But I choked
the lot down. One swig at a time.
All that water is
coming out somewhere. And that somewhere isn’t the usual orifice.
The end result is about what would happen if Sam Raimi ever got
around to directing German Fecal porn. To the point that I tossed
aside my belt off after the first instance of the evening, and
considered discarding my pants as well, just to have fewer things to
muck about with in my race to relief. I do have a tendency to race
the train, so to speak, and was fortunate not to end in a pair of
ruined underwear, and jeans, and the carpet. This time.
That was my evening.
And then, when I finally got to sleep, the night was over almost
before it began, and it was time to get up and repeat the above
process. The worst part of waking up is a prescription strength
laxative in your cup.
My folks, bless
them, came down to be with me during this. My Grand Parents give
them enough to worry about in their retirement. They shouldn’t
need to worry about their grown adult son. But they’ve both been
through the procedure and survived intact. That calmed my nerves
some.
I almost expected to
be greeted with the following “Well, this is the twin of the camera
on the Hubble telescope. NASA uses the one just like it to explore
the depths of time and unwind the mysteries of the universe. We are
going to cram it into your colon, where no man has gone before.
Check, where two doctors and numerous of little pony toys have gone
before. Cheers!” - that would have felt right.
As they took my
vitals, my legs were shaking. Not sure if it was cold or fear.
Probably a little of both. I tried to joke around, it is what I do,
even when worried. I couldn’t bring that together, too much
pressure. Then they began the drugs. I went down almost instantly.
I recall them chattering a bit as I faded, and then I just woke up.
That is kind of blurry. Was I still in the operating room? Or had
they wheeled me back to the ward. I remember eating the crackers and
drinking the water that the nurse gave me and my folks were there.
The Doctor stopped
by and gave us the results. They found a mass and took a biopsy.
That was it. No autoimmune disease. No hemorrhoids. Everything
else looked healthy. Except for a large angry mass that was choking
my rectum.
Then we were free to
go. I got up and got dressed. Felt tipsy and groggy. And then went
home. The folks got us Chinese takeout and we toured the
neighborhood, looking at the old Victorian houses. Mostly I wanted
to get out and walk in the nice weather. They found a mass.
Fuck.
We had mexican for
dinner and then the folks went home They offered to stay overnight –
but they also have my Grandmother to take care of. I told them to do
that. They let me know they were there for me. I never expected
anything less. If I had had my way, I would have kept them out as
long as possible and saved them the worry. I was feeling calm and
proceeded to enjoy the rest of the evening as best I could.
The next day was
both better and worse. I felt fine when I woke up, until I went to
pass gas and nearly filled my shorts with blood. Lots of blood.
Freaking me out levels of blood. I passed on most of breakfast that
morning, and visited the toilet several more times that day to pass
blood. Called the Dr and they said blood was normal. Not sure if
they meant what I was passing.
It’s hard to make
jokes about swinging between anxiety and calm as you try to focus on
the mundane. I did so. Finally got around to getting those Fiber
Gummies ordered. They actually taste pretty good. People asked how
my colonoscopy went. I told them.
And then came the
phone calls. Not the one I was waiting for, with the biopsy about
the mass. No, I was being scheduled for a CT, a MRI and a
consultation with a multi-specialist crew for the cancer. First came
the CT, the following morning. I would need to pick up the contrast
liquid and follow the instructions for that.
I put the MRI off
until friday, hoping that the other results would come back and leave
me clear of that. MRIs are expensive, and I didn’t want to be on
the hook for that. Also, other people might need one. Don’t waste
resources, it is a rule I try to live by, and often fail. But I try.
I left work early.
I was feeling drained. Not physically. But emotionally. The phone
call I was waiting for never came. I went home and then made the 2
mile hike uphill to the hospital. Felt good to move. Got home and
had dinner and dallied around while waiting for until it was time to
drink the new mix, which was a vaguely orange flavored pint of chalk.
It went down rather smooth and I would take it over the PEG any day.
I woke up at 1am feeling gassy as all get-out, probably from the
latest batch of chemical, and went to the bathroom after a while to
clear my bowels one last time. More blood. But not much, as these
things have gone.
Then at 5 am the
alarm went off, and I got up to start on the final regimen of orange
chalk. Bathroom again. No blood and actually improved bowel
movement. Oh yes, these things can be rated. Give that one a 3.
Though on a curve with the last few weeks, a solid 8. Are you tired
of poop jokes yet? Some of those have had to have wrecked-em. Eh?
Eh?
The CT scan was
nothing. The tech told me I was going to feel rather warm, and how
it would go down, so there were no surprises. The dude was cool. 15
minutes in and out. So far I’ve been impressed with the staff
across the board. My results came back and the rest of my body
appears clear of any other growths – with the exception of the
“large mass” starting around 4 centimeters from my anus up my
rectum.
Note, this is the
worst possible google maps location one can stumble upon. But Dr
Google MD still recommends it.
I’m still holding
onto the hope that I have a cyst. Though large mass doesn’t sound
like cyst. But Dr Google says that Cysts can be considered a mass.
And that I don’t know if the CT would distinguish. The only pain
I feel is around my tailbone when I stand for long periods of time,
or sit on it. The horrors of bad posture. And after the bleeding
stopped, though, I felt better than I have in weeks. Keep holding
onto hope about a cyst caused by a tailbone injury. Beats cancer.
Even if it needs surgery, it won’t require chemo.
Went to work after
the CT scan. Another day of waiting for the phone to ring. It
didn’t. Except to verify the MRI and the Multi-specialist meeting.
Both would be happening Friday. I got permission to take Friday
off. I think everything is being expedited. Still hoping for a
cyst. This seems to be the current branch that I am grasping to. I
won’t fall into despair if it breaks, but damn I don’t want to
explore that Forbidden Cave of Mystical Wonders. I’d prefer to stay
in my lane with the Comfortable Couch of Nearby Video Games.
I finally called the
Doctor’s office after I got out of work. They closed at the same
time I punched out. The Doctor saw my call and returned it, but I
was talking to my father at the time. I called back, but never
managed to get him. I did ask for a page, but he was in surgery at
the time. Went to bed without any results.
I set my alarm for
4:45 the next morning. My instructions were to give myself an enema
some 2 to 4 hours before the MRI. That’s right. I get to give
myself an enema. Scratch that bad boy off the bucket list. Wooh!
I tried to find a
sexy pose for this. But, really, is there a sexy pose for giving
oneself an enema? Don’t answer that internet. I am well aware of
Rule 34. The instructions, which I read numerous times in order to
get this all right, suggested either on your side or on your stomach
with your knees tucked up underneath you. Neither of which were my
first go to of curled up in fetal position and crying.
I cleared out the
array of books and clothing I store in my bathroom. Just in case.
So I found myself
lying on my side on a towel on my bathroom floor, a bathroom floor
that wasn’t really constructed for the use which I was putting it
to, and inserting the tip of an enema bottle into an angry little
hole that I couldn’t see. I got a hole in one, for those of you
who are keeping score, which is well under par might I add.
Bully!
The instructions
stated that I was going to leave the enema inside myself while I
remained the my assumed position until I felt a powerful need to
defecate. Usually between 1 and 5 minutes – and if more than 30
minutes pass without any liquid reappearing, call a hospital because
you can quickly become dehydrated. That’s a headline to look
forward to. Dehydration via self-inflicted enema. He was so
youngish, and probably had some stuff to live for.
I probably jumped
the gun a bit there – I’ve had too many close calls as of late –
and have developed a psychosis I fear. But as soon as the press
began I got moving – and I found myself contemplating since the
dawn of Indian cuisine, which is "oh whatever god who is
listening, why is my butt-hole on fire?" Now had someone said,
"there will be a slight burning and cramping," I would have
responded "I don't want to do this, but alight, thanks for the
heads up." - I was later told that nobody has ever complained
about this side-effect.
Originally, I was
intending to go back to bed for an hour after my latest stint in
rectal self exploration. With the burning and cramping, that didn’t
happen. I was up for the duration now.
The hospital is a
short 1 and a half or 2 mile jaunt from where I live. So I wrapped
up in my hoodie and walked up at 6 in the morning. The weather was
cold and rainy. Something poetic about that. I signed in and watched
the an older black gentleman with the gift – no power – of gab
chat it up with anyone who seemed likely. “I was supposed to be
here at 6:30 but I got to talking and forgot to sign in!” He
announced to the room as he realized what time it was. The man was a
force of nature.
I hope I didn’t
look angry as I watched him gather steam. I have a case of resting
bitch face and probably appear hostile. He was fascinating but better
at a distance. I was completely aware of the fact that I wouldn’t
have stood a chance. Not at that hour of the morning. Not with my
state of mind.
I got called in by
the MRI tech and she gave me the speil. Strip down and change into
the gown and pj bottoms. You can keep your socks, but cover them
with these footies. Leave everything in this locker and ring me when
you’re ready. Oh, what kind of music would you like to listen to?
You see, the hospital has a new music streaming service, and you can
listen while you’re in the MRI. That is actually a nice touch.
I asked if there was
any trance with female vocals - a combination of sounds that I find
quite pleasurable and calming. But appearantly that is only a genre
on youtube. Next I considered asking for GWAR. Because GWAR! But
ended up just picking 90s dance music. It was upbeat – without
having that angry edge of a Thrash-Punk band. Upbeat is nice. I’ll
store that away for later.
The MRI machine
resembles a plastic tube that is around 6 feet long and 6 feet high.
The hollow center is around 2 feet across. Or less. I’m not very
broad across the shoulders, but it was a tight squeeze for me. If I
could change something about my body I would add a few more inches to
my frame around the chest and shoulders. Bigger hands too. I don’t
necessarily want Colo-rectal doctor sized hands, but larger
regardless.
MRI technology has
been around for longer than I have been alive, and creates magnetic
fields and radio waves to form pictures of the inside of your body.
I know this because I looked on wikipedia. It is cool as hell, but I
might as well be a Juggalo for all I actually understand it. All I
can tell you is that the machine is rather loud, and drowned out the
music I was listening to. I ended up keeping my eyes closed, just in
case I started to feel claustrophobic. Some folks also freak out
when passing through the magnetic field for the first time. I don’t
think I even noticed.
I assume that they
have them either in multiple sizes, or they can adjust the diameter.
I didn’t ask. Most people find the machine oppressive. I’m not
generally bothered by tight spaces, beyond physical discomfort. What
bothers me is being confined – or rather – constrained. Early
on, back in my late teenage, constraint was what set off those first
terrifying waves of Anxiety attacks. Being stuck at school, in
class, without the freedom to just get up and go.
“Do you mind if we
insert this gel into your rectum?” I was asked by the friendly MRI
staff. Look lady, this isn’t the first thing to go up my butt this
week. This isn’t even the first thing to go up my butt today.
Have yourself a ball. She called in a male tech and I was told to
try not to squeeze it out. I promised to do my very best, as I long
ago learned to poop on command. Mostly.
Those urges are
mostly under control, but I remember them. Dread them. To have a
full on panic attack while lying in the MRI, during an expensive
medical procedure. I was worried that I would freak out. So I kept
my eyes shut and listened to Chumbawumba and whoever else made an
appearance as the techs talked me through the exam. Breathe in.
Breathe out. Breathe in. Hold your breath for 15 seconds. Ok
breathe. Now there is going to be some loud noises that will last
for 4 minutes or so.
By the time the last
15 minutes arrived, my stomach began to spasm. Whether from hunger
or something else, I didn’t know. I just breathed deeply and
waited as the seconds ticked by for the test to be over.
My mother came down
to join me for the specialist meeting. She wants to be involved, to
help her favorite(only) son. This kind and generous woman who mothers
everyone who needs it. Which makes it difficult for me to follow my
own idiom and sulk in solitude as I slog through the mire that lies
before me.
We went out for
lunch and then walked around down town in the dreary and windy late
morning. Then on to the meeting.
As a side-stop I
went to get blood drawn as I had been ordered. I signed in and was
asked the same bevy of questions that always comes along, name,
birthdate, address. All to make sure you are who you are. I went on
autopilot as my mind wandered. Then I was blindsided with “Dr
order?” I automatically responded “Yes. A doctor did order
this.” No, they wanted my Dr’s name. Hah. Being up for long
hours, with too little sleep as your mind keeps chewing on worries
about the dark and unknown future, now that’s comedy!
The plebologist was
cute and cheerful and chatty. Three factors that help distract a man
from the fact that she is also essentially taking his life’s blood.
Bonus, she was a gamer chick. So we briefly compared notes as she
asked what has been in my docket as of late. I’ve wrapped myself
in the NES games of my childhood, a warm, safe and happy time. Aside
from that, Dark Souls 3. Why did I play that? Her brothers loved
them, but they are like smashing your face into a wall. Well I love
both the fantasy and post apocalyptic genres, and Dark Souls is a
delightful combination of the two, except for the smashing your face
into a wall part. She suggested Skyrim. I might have to take her up
on that.
Back to the
multi-specialist suite. And waiting. They called my name and led us
to a corner office with a nice view over the city and a small roof
that was covered in plants. It would have been pleasant under other
circumstances. But now we were left to wait. Mom talked. A lot. I
failed to hold up my end of the conversation, which is almost exactly
what always happens. In the mean time the doctors were discussing
the cases that they had before them, and going over test results, and
then talking to the patients. Looks like I was last.
They had me fill out
a form, the main question being between 1 and 10, how anxious did I
feel. I went with a middle of the road 5. In the mean time after
months of being steady, I’d dropped somewhere in the range of 4
pounds over the course of the week. That did not surprise me as I
didn’t eat a damn thing for a day and a half, and had several light
meals. Lazy and wanna get ripped? This may be the path for you!
My first visitor was
a dietitian. She seemed to think that I was on the right track with
my dietary habits and only suggested eating less corn kernels,
popcorn and whole nuts, as the insoluble fiber might be inclined to
irritate my innards. Bollocks? Giving up the popcorn that I never
eat? Will my condition haunt me forever?
The Rectal surgeon
was the second to arrive. He was positive and gregarious and would
be taking over for my previous specialist, who no longer performed
surgeries. But no worries, my new doctor was in charge and he had
some good news.
I was super lucky!
I am not the first,
nor will I be the last, to point out that having something terrible
to happen to you automatically disqualifies you from being considered
lucky. And the Doctor agreed, offering the modifier, that for the
circumstances I am extremely fortunate. This could have been a lot
worse.
I asked what it was.
“You have rectal
cancer.” That. That. Those weren’t the words I was hoping to
hear. But I was expecting them. Glass completely empty in all. But
my symptoms had improved somewhat since the bleeding after the
colonoscopy. The cyst? Fuck a goat on the White House lawn but did my
day just get substantially worse.
Talk about a phrase
that can change your life. It is up there with “I do” and
“Congratulations You jus won the Election Mr. President!” With
the exception that you can freely walk away from the implications of
the others.
They have a plan.
And all of my tests came back that I should live another 60 years.
Mind you, this year will be a long one. And I would be losing my
rectum. All of it. They were going to cut and paste my colon to my
anus. And I’d have to shit into a bag for about 3 months. But I
am lucky. No, compared to many of the people in my situation, I am
fortunate. My body is betraying me, or a piece of it, but I am
otherwise healthy and all of my scans and numbers look excellent.
Sure there is a 10% chance that erections will be a thing of the past
and I might have to spend the rest of my life shitting into a bag.
But don’t focus on
that.
My voice broke a bit
as I spoke. Not sure if anyone could hear the change, but I could
feel it every time. All that unspoken fear that has been pent up for
so long. I don’t know if I am feeling relief, terror, or grief. A
mixture of the lot. Which is daunting for me as normally I chug
along without a melange of emotions, just solid old neutrality.
Yeah. I’m fond of
my rectum. My rectum is a lot like my phone. As a straight male who
doesn’t have taste for buttstuff, I don’t make use of all the
features. I like knowing when I have to poop, and having a place to
store that poop. That was going to go away with this. I was not
feeling lucky. I was feeling apprehensive. Hoe my life was about to
change.
The oncology Dr
arrived next and asked me what I know about cancer. Well, cancer is
when one of your cells mutates and freaks out and divides
uncontrollably. I was spot on, and he added that that cell has
discarded the genetic instructions that tell it when to die and thus
that single cell builds to form a mass that often takes years.
So essentially I
have the kick ass mutant power of regeneration, but it only works on
one fucking cell. This is like being Woolvareen the cheap grocery
store checkout line version of everyone’s favorite mutant. Has the
powers of scent, sight, hearing, touch and heart! And look at these
sweet blades as Woolvareen carries a variety of butter knives to
fight his foe MRIagnito.
He explained their
plan of action. First 4 Months of Chemotherapy, where they pump
poison into your system every two weeks in order to try and flush out
and kill off any rogue cancer cells in your system to keep them from
spreading. It is blunt and destructive, like killing a fly with a
maul. Or a swarm of flies. But you do want to get rid of those
flies.
He was less
enthusiastic than the rectal surgeon. Not in my overall prognosis,
but just in the fact that Chemo takes a toll and there can be
set-backs as other cells start to die off and the immune system takes
a hit. Not to mention the intestines.
Second would be a
six week combination of more chemo and radiation therapy. Both of
which were directed at the tumor. After that, after I heal up from
the ravages of the combined therapy, then the surgeons will come in
and excise the shrunken tumor – and my rectum. Did I mention that?
They have to remove my rectum.
The final doctor was
the radiologist. His bit involves zapping the tumor with focused
blasts of radiation. Small focused blasts, which will not mutate me
and upgrade my lame as hell superpower. I asked. Nope. I could
expect a lot of diarrhea and being tired. I would have to come in But
the radiation and second round of chemo would break down the tumor
and make the surgery easier.
He told me that I
could look forward to finding pieces of the tumor in my bowel
movements. Looking forward to that. Good riddance to that prick!
My phone went off.
I had been texting friends and co-workers to let them know what was
going on. The ring tone is the monk chant from Monty Python’s Holy
Grail. My man recognized it. It will be nice to have someone who
shares some of my taste in movies. But I won’t be seeing him again
until phase 2, some four or more months in the future.
We passed the time
between the visits. My mother chattered away and I made dark jokes at
my own expense. I always seem to laugh the hardest when I’m faced
with something this soul crushing. But how else do you survive?
Especially when staring the terror of the abyss.
Finally came in the
Nurse Navigator. Her job is to clear the way to appointments and
answer questions. We had a long talk and she was extremely
optimistic. I don’t know her well enough to gauge how true that
statement is. So there returns the doubt. But I shall trust. If I
don’t, I’ll defeat myself. These people know their shit, my
co-workers and friends all seem to agree on that.
She hates cancer,
and seems to share my distrust in the possibility of a Intelligent
Designer. Really, it should be Incompetent Designer. Cancer should
be the only exhibit anyone needs on that count. She is also angry at
our insurance industry, and trying to get peoples’ “Coverage”
to actually cover the life saving services. I hope I don’t run
into that problem.
“You’re not
planning on self-harm are you?” NN asked as we were parting ways.
We were the last group to leave the suite. I don’t know what she
sensed in me, if anything, or if this is just a common question.
No. I’m not
planning to self harm. I’m too lazy for that, especially with the
next few months coming up where I am going to be allowed the
opportunity to have a group of strangers poison me, fry me with
radiation, cut me open and remove my innards. Self harm seems like a
lot of extra work.
I am at where I am
always at when facing something this unpleasant. Just kidding. This
is a first for me and I don’t know if I am strong enough. I want to
fold time and step to the a place where all the nasty work is done,
and resume my life. I just want to be on the other side of the
ordeal. Like the Skip Chapter feature on a DVD player. Or like the
sedation, fall asleep and wake up when the worst has past. I don’t
suppose that they can put me into a coma for the next 12 months…
no, that would bring on a whole different raft of problems.
