What they didn’t say… cancer
December 3rd, 2021
They said it could be hemorrhoids, colitis, polyps, some kind of inflammation or growth...
“English muffin or blueberry?” I’m cold. Slowly coming to. In a johnny and hospital socks, under two blankets that don’t really qualify as blankets. The nurse is backing the gurney skillfully into the room where my day started.
“English muffin?” I say, but I’m not hungry. “Can you hand me my hoodie?”
The nurse nods and passes it to me. “The doctor will be in to see you soon,” she says on her way out the door. I drape the sweatshirt over my chest, pull my knees up, and tuck my arms under.
The blood started showing up in late August. Didn’t hurt. There it just was with my stool and on the toilet paper. Back in my late twenties I had hemorrhoids. There’d been blood then. Prolly something similar I’d thought.
I finally got into to see my primary in October. I remember him chuckling as he said, “And you’re headed for your first colonoscopy. C’mon, you knew that was coming.” I smirked back and groaned. Yeah, I figured that was coming.
I’m 48. No big history of cancer in the fam. Some skin cancer with my parents, but they spend a lot of time outside. Always have. Still, it was time to figure out what was going on. The blood was consistent. And it was taking longer to go. Like something was in the way. I knew they often found polyps with my mother’s colonoscopies, which they simply removed. Maybe that was it.
Now, it’s early December. Dr. Damianos, my gastroenterologist, enters the room with the requisite clipboard. This morning I found out his first name is Aristotle. That amused me as they put in my IV while I counted the sections of the ceiling vents. Now I hear him say, “It’s cancer.” Total record scratch. My brain rebells. They never said cancer. He never said cancer. Hemorrhoids, colitis, polyps, some kind of...
He’s still talking. Holding his hands up. “With a colonoscopy, what I see is like looking through the middle of a roll of paper towels. I can see the surface of the tumor, but not how deep it goes.”
I process snippets of what he’s saying, forcing myself to repeat them to myself so I'll remember. “See if it’s spread to other areas, organs.” “...schedule an MRI and a cat scan for next week.” “...meet with your oncology team.” I have an oncology team??? “Ok?” I must’ve nodded, and he was gone.
The nurse appears, places an English muffin next to me. “Anything else I can get you.” My eyes flood. My lips tremble, “They never said... I didn’t think it...” I swipe at my eyes with the arm of my sweatshirt.
“You suspected it was cancer?” she says nodding.
“No. Fuck no,” I blubber.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I misheard you.” Her warm demeanor wins out. She means it.
She hands me a package of tissues, I get dressed, and we walk me through the sterile, bright corridors to the front entrance where my mom anxiously awaits sitting in her Suburban. As the hospital doors open, the nurse touches my arm. “You’ll be in my prayers.” I look her in the eyes and choose to believe her. I guess I need prayers now. Walk out, open the front passenger door, and climb into my mother’s embrace.
”Cancer.”
