The Big C - Adventures in Cancer

There’s one message that you never, ever want to receive on your answering machine.
It’s the “Please call, we have to talk.”
Now, in the past, when I’ve received that, it means that I am about to get my ass dumped by the woman I am dating. And once it meant that the woman I was dating was late and how did I feel about that whole fatherhood versus abortion issue?

Unfortunately, I did indeed get dumped, and fortunately, the rabbit did not die, the flow eventually came, and I dodged the bullet of a shotgun wedding or at a minimum, weekend visitation privileges.

But sometimes, the message is not from a lover.
Sometimes, it’s from your Doctor’s office.
And I got it about 8 weeks ago.

You listen to it, and as they refuse to give any information to anyone except the person, they won’t leave any type of clue as to why they are calling on the machine. So you dial their number, your heart beating trip hammer fast, the sweat starting to gather on your forehead, the keypad kinda slick as you feel your fingers get moist.

You try to remember to breathe, you try to not sound all squeaky when you tell them who you are and why you’re calling. You sit down while they put you on hold.

Breathe in.
Breathe out.

It’s probably nothing.

But it’s not nothing; it’s something.
Turns out that the results of your PSA test spiked. A lot.

This can mean lots of things, but the big red flag that they are waiving in front of you says prostate cancer.

They want to do the test again. Go to the lab. Give blood. Wait for the results.

The next few days are a blur, except for the fact that you are eating, sleeping, driving, working, playing while surrounded by this fog called prostate cancer. It’s like looking at the world through a different, slightly out of focus lens.
You see the things, the people that you saw before, but it takes on a different meaning.

What if this is the last time I do this?

What if this is the last time I see this person?

Some things - such as friendships, relationships and family become more important, more satisfying.

Some things - such as possessions, money, status, prestige and ego become less important, less satisfying.

It’s these phone calls, these messages, these situations that actually reveal the truth to us. We’ve taken the wrong pill in The Matrix, and we’ve just had the jacks pulled out of the back of our head.

We’re waking up.
We’re seeing things the way they really are.

Priorities fall naturally into place.

As they draw your blood, you watch with a detached curiosity. You watch the dark liquid flow into the test tube, knowing that within it is information. Within it is the answer to the question.

High? Or low?
Positive? Or negative?
Cancer? No cancer?

You are worried, you fret, but unlike before it’s not about your debt, your writing, your mortgage, any hurricanes out in the Gulf of Mexico.

You’re worried that you never found that one true love.
You’re worried that you didn’t tell those around you how much you loved them.
You’re worried that you won’t see your nieces and nephew grow up.
You’re worried about the legacy that you leave behind.

Again, priorities shift, like tectonic plates beneath the ocean, giving rise to a tsunami of change within you. The water flows over you, washes you clean, makes you pure. It hits you hard, so it’s not without any pain.

Change always comes with pain, the two go hand in hand, like lovers on the beach.

Days later, another phone call.
Another message.
Given to you by an earthbound messenger from the Doctor’s office.

It went down, but not enough. You need to go see a specialist.

You dial.
But this time, the fear isn’t there like it was before.
This time, you’re calmer, you’re more at peace.
The Zen detachment you usually bring to romance, you have brought to death.
You figure “When it’s my time to go, it’s time to go.”

You start thinking about chemo.
Will it hurt?
Will I get sick?
Will I lose my hair?

You think about natural treatments.
You think about Mexico.
You think about about what you eat, what you drink, what you breathe.
You think about how you lived your life for the past 46 years, and you know for a fact, that those habits that you thought were so cool when you were younger probably contributed to where you are now.

You think about who you loved.
You think about who loved you.
You think about how you treated them, about how they treated you.
You blame yourself.
You pull the yoke on, and you drag your shame and your immaturity through the fields, digging a deep furrow to bury your loneliness in.

The Doctor’s kinda booked. She can see you in about six weeks.

Six weeks.
To wait.

For the first few days, you can think of nothing else.
After the first week, you rarely think about it at all, unless a parent brings it up.
You tell them everything, why not this?
They deserve to know, especially since they would be the ones caring for you.

No girlfriend.
No wife.
No kids.

Gradually they stop asking, and you stop thinking about it, and you go back on auto-pilot. You’re back in the Matrix, the long cable that leads from your spinal column firmly plugged back in.

You stop thinking until you look at your Google calendar and see the Doctor’s name on a certain day. A certain time. That’s when you’ll know.
More questions.
More tests.
More possibilities.

Maybe it’s a false positive.
Maybe it’s something else.

Your world is full of maybes and what-if’s.
Thoughts fly past, like gremlins on the wing of an airliner.
You’re helpless to control them; so you allow them to lead you down the many paths.

That day, you try to do your work as you always have.
You stare at the spreadsheets like they matter, you talk to people, help them, ask them questions, move money around, do calculations. You plan for a fiscal year that could be drastically different from the one that you just closed.

You go about life as if you were going to be here for a wee bit longer.

You walk into the clinic and you’re hit with the smell of clean. The smell of antiseptic. The smell of slow death, decay, illness. It surrounds you, the people dressed in scrubs and name tags. The women who sit alone, waiting nervously for their appointment. The men behind wheelchairs, pushing their wife of 40 years to the car.

You pace.
Back and forth.
You can’t sit down. Hell, you sit all day, staring at those spreadsheets.
Why would you sit down and relax now?

Your name is called.
You’re led to a small room, bright light.
The man takes your vitals - yep, you’re alive.
Blood pressure fine, pulse fine, weight fine, temperature fine.

But yet you’re still here.

You wait.

She comes in, dark eyes, dark hair, accenting a white jacket. Her name stitched, in cursive. Does anyone even write in cursive any more, or do we just type?

Dark eyes, dark hair, bright smile.
She reaches into her pocket and gives you a reprieve.
She’s a specialist.
She’s studied this.

You have nothing to worry about.

You take a deep breath, smile, and you want to kiss her.
Everything snaps back into place.
It’s sharper, more colorful - the sliders on the mixer make the voices clearer.

You shake her hand several times.
You keep thanking her.
You keep laughing.
You keep smiling.

You walk out the door.
You keep living.

It’s Thursday again.

But after the glow has worn off, has anything really changed?
Like a spike on an EKG, is this an anomaly or is this a new path, one that Frost imagined in a poem?

Do you take the correct pill the next morning with your vitamins?
Do you reach around, see if you’re still connected?

What if she’d told you something different, something more - fatal?

What would you do then?
How would your life be different?

Why can’t those things happen now?

They can.
It’s Friday.
Your first full day.
Your first new Friday.
Make it count.