(Pink Floyd reference)
Six days from today, some guy I have never met will tell me whether I am a candidate for surgery to remove a spot from my lung. My first thoughts have to do with how much partying he did in college, but in truth, he is known as the best in this area at what he does.
And so my bigger fear is that he will tell me that I have failed to measure up. Maybe I didn’t breathe well enough during the pulmonary function test, or maybe they found something during the brain MRI that makes them think I’m
not worthy. Whatever.
When you are a survivor, you think about stuff like this, even though it is a waste of time. I listen to survivors all the time worrying about things they have no control over. What can you tell them? Stop worrying? Right.
We worry. If you have had cancer, it seems that every little nick or pain draws out that fear that cancer is back. Until you hear me say something else (and I will) this is the worst thing about cancer for survivors: that it never really goes away.
Personally, this whole thing with the lung is a fearful suspicion that the Beast is just chipping away at me. I am not afraid of them taking out part of my lung; I am fearful that it is just the second stage of this thing taking me apart, one piece at a time. That is what bothers me.
To be honest, I am being a wimp when I say that. I know people with other cancers who have lived with theirs for years and years, and they seem to handle it well, most of the time. Even they, I should say, break down on occasion.
But I am a wimp by comparison.
I am trying to say, I think, that I get a lot of my inspiration from some older, rubenesque, women with larger testicles than most men I have ever met, not that I ever spent any time looking at men’s testicles or comparing them to one another or to mine, although I will admit that mine are small, and I am certainly not saying that I prefer rubenesque women with large testicles. That is certainly not the case! I’m just saying. These women have balls.
I mean that in the kindest possible way.
In the meantime, I have my visit next week with a surgeon I have never met, and he will tell me whether he can operate or not, based on the breathing test and the MRI. I can’t believe I am hoping that I can have surgery, but I am.
Cancer has an interesting way of changing what you wish for.
I hope I like the guy (in a professional way…I don’t really care how big his testicles are). That would be a good start. I hope he gives me the answers I want. That would be good, too.
Otherwise, I am doomed, in a sense. If he says they can’t operate, then I can only hope that the ‘spot’ is nothing. I don’t like those odds.
Right now, tension is thick in my household. You could cut it with a knife, but we recognized that we should remove all dangerous objects several weeks ago, so there are no knives in the house, unless my wife is hiding one.
I wouldn’t put it past her :).
Me? I’ve been thinking about that new movie, The Bucket List, and considering that my original answer, here, some time ago, was the same one I would put on the list today: I want to spend time with my family. Unless they have
knives and want to kill me. (I just added that.)
If you are a caregiver, you know what I’m talking about.
To heck with exotic travel and jumping out of planes and going on safaris and all of that. I think it is about love. And sex, small balls or not.