TLDR: I have Cancer. It is very curable.

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 4^th 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.