The last few days have been a blur of nothingness filled with moments of huge impact.
The margins on the melanoma they removed were clear, which means they got all of that and can sew my face back up.
Unfortunately one of the lymph nodes tested positive, so tomorrow I go back in for my second surgery in 8 days.
This time the will removed the remaining nodes, as well as the salivary gland on the right side of my face.
Maybe that will be it. Maybe I'll be done.
But maybe I won't.
That's the fun of cancer. It can never come back and you still get to live the rest of your life wondering if every cramp, itch, phantom pain, headache, or bump means that it's back.
Me, my life and the people in it.
Thursday, September 28, 2017
Monday, September 25, 2017
Dirty Little Secret
A friend of mine commented on Facebook that she had no idea that I was dealing with yet another cancer issue these last few months.
The truth of that matter is that no one did except me.
Once the diagnosis was confirmed I told my boss at work, and a few coworkers. I felt that was probably the responsible thing to do since I kept having to duck out for lengthy doctor appointments that I would need coverage for.
Somewhere along the way I told my brother, just in case things went real sideways, I thought someone in the family should know. And then eventually I told my youngest sister.
So, until the week of my surgery, besides myself and the doctors, the number of people that knew I had skin cancer could be counted on one hand.
"Well, it's just skin cancer," is not a response I would hold against anyone. It is just skin cancer, and in a lot of ways that's been my approach to it. Get in, cut it out. If it's not more complicated than that, then in the grand tapestry of cancers, it's pretty basic. So why turn it into anything more dramatic?
In hindsight, I'll admit to not going about informing the people closest to me in the best way possible. Considering every one of them was pretty much a phone conversation with me saying "I have a melanoma, they're going to take me into surgery and cut it out. I'll call you when I'm done."
I told my mother three days before it was set to happen, I told my dad the morning of. I told my best friend the night before, which is the one I feel the worst about (for so many reasons I won't get into here and now). There are still close friends and family that, unless they stumble upon me writing about, or have been told by someone else, still don't know. And I imagine they'll be pissed when they find out.
All I can say to that is, I'm sorry.
The first time I had cancer I didn't get to be in charge of how and when people knew about it. Instead I woke up in a bed to all kinds of sentiments ("Don't scare me like that" being a pretty common one, to which I always wanted to respond with a big middle finger). And sentiments are nice, and they're appreciated, but in the long run they don't do anyone a damn bit of good.
Just as bothersome can be the people who absolutely do care about you and just want to know you're okay, or if you need anything. Again, those are good people to know and have in your life. But unless they're single with almost zero responsibility, asking anything of them is you taking their time away from things that are, for them, just as important. Inevitably guilt will set in, and then you're left holding that.
It can be a devastating thing to see the toll your sickness has on the lives of people around you. Even if it's little things, it sticks with you.
So, I made a choice. Maybe (probably) a bad one. But it's one I'd probably make again.
The truth of that matter is that no one did except me.
Once the diagnosis was confirmed I told my boss at work, and a few coworkers. I felt that was probably the responsible thing to do since I kept having to duck out for lengthy doctor appointments that I would need coverage for.
Somewhere along the way I told my brother, just in case things went real sideways, I thought someone in the family should know. And then eventually I told my youngest sister.
So, until the week of my surgery, besides myself and the doctors, the number of people that knew I had skin cancer could be counted on one hand.
"Well, it's just skin cancer," is not a response I would hold against anyone. It is just skin cancer, and in a lot of ways that's been my approach to it. Get in, cut it out. If it's not more complicated than that, then in the grand tapestry of cancers, it's pretty basic. So why turn it into anything more dramatic?
In hindsight, I'll admit to not going about informing the people closest to me in the best way possible. Considering every one of them was pretty much a phone conversation with me saying "I have a melanoma, they're going to take me into surgery and cut it out. I'll call you when I'm done."
I told my mother three days before it was set to happen, I told my dad the morning of. I told my best friend the night before, which is the one I feel the worst about (for so many reasons I won't get into here and now). There are still close friends and family that, unless they stumble upon me writing about, or have been told by someone else, still don't know. And I imagine they'll be pissed when they find out.
All I can say to that is, I'm sorry.
The first time I had cancer I didn't get to be in charge of how and when people knew about it. Instead I woke up in a bed to all kinds of sentiments ("Don't scare me like that" being a pretty common one, to which I always wanted to respond with a big middle finger). And sentiments are nice, and they're appreciated, but in the long run they don't do anyone a damn bit of good.
Just as bothersome can be the people who absolutely do care about you and just want to know you're okay, or if you need anything. Again, those are good people to know and have in your life. But unless they're single with almost zero responsibility, asking anything of them is you taking their time away from things that are, for them, just as important. Inevitably guilt will set in, and then you're left holding that.
It can be a devastating thing to see the toll your sickness has on the lives of people around you. Even if it's little things, it sticks with you.
So, I made a choice. Maybe (probably) a bad one. But it's one I'd probably make again.
Sunday, September 24, 2017
The Morning After the Morning After
It's been (not quite) two days since my surgery to remove a melanoma on my upper right cheek. I'm happy to say that there's not a ton of pain in the area of that surgery, or any near the incision made to remove the two lymph nodes it was connected to.
What I wasn't prepared for was the pain in other places. My throat is a wreck from the breathing tube they use when they have to put you under, and the subsequent cough it has caused has made my nonexistent abs feel like I've been doing sit ups for days. My calf muscles ache thanks to the pads they use to help prevent blood clots during surgery. My shoulders hurt because I had to hold my arms above (not behind) my head while they traced the radioactive dye into the lymph nodes to know which ones to remove.
More than anything though, right now my biggest post-surgery takeaway has been my weight. Specifically that I've got to do something about it.
I've ballooned up to nearly 300lbs, and it is truly the heaviest I've ever been in my life. I think the biggest contributor has been my new job.
I sit at a computer all day, so exercise has become a non-existent thing for me. I get up at about 6:30 every morning to get ready for work, but honestly the last month or so that's gotten pushed almost to 7. And I usually get home around 6:30 or 7. If I'm going to make myself dinner, it means I don't get to eat until around 8, so too many times dinner has become whatever fast food I feel like on the drive home. Equally unhealthy is the fact that I usually cook a pizza in the oven on Sunday and then divide that up for my lunch throughout the week. And then I'll grab a sweet of some sort from the vending machine.
I was never a work-is-life guy, and the fact that I'm becoming one is troublesome to me.
No, troublesome isn't right. To put it bluntly it has depressed the hell out of me.
While I've never been the healthiest person, I've always enjoyed moderate exercise (especially lengthy walks and the occasional jog). The walks weren't just contributing to my physical health either, they were extremely therapeutic for my mental state, and also fueled me creatively as well.
Six months ago I loved working with the people I was working with, and it kept me chugging along at a job that was beyond stressful and I knew was negatively impacting both my mental and physical health. Now I have a new group of coworkers and a new boss, all of whom I like just fine, but the changes I've been forced into have made it easier to reassess the situation I'm in and adamantly say "This is not where I want to be. and it's not who I'm meant to be."
It would have been Jim Henson's 81st birthday today. He once put a green puppet on his hand, talked in a funny voice and gave life to these words: "Life is like a movie. Write your own ending."
Saturday, September 23, 2017
Cancer 2: The Electric Boogaloo
So, several weeks ago, and for the second time in my life, I found out I had cancer. The first time it was Hodgkin lymphoma, which has been in remission for almost two years now. This time it was a melanoma, which presented (of all places), on my right cheek.
I realize WHY it is most skin cancer winds up presenting on the face at some point, if not right off the bat, but it's just so damn cruel. It's not bad enough that you spend most of your teen years (or, if you're like me, most of your life since puberty) worrying about your complexion, but if you wind up with skin cancer, hey, here's an unsightly facial growth that not only won't go away, but they'll have to go in and cut it out of you.
Death is the ultimate F-U from cancer, I know that. But this one feels pretty high up on the list.
It's been less than 48 hours since the doc took scalpel to skin, sliced off part of my face, and (as it turns out) had to go in and take a few lymph-nodes out of my neck as well. It's like a toll I have to pay the ferryman every time I get a bad diagnosis at this point. "Got cancer? It's gonna cost you a few lymph-nodes to get to the other side."
My face is puffy, my neck is swollen, my right earlobe looks like a really fatty piece of bacon and thanks to my incredibly shitty veins I have bruises up and down my hands and arms. It took a pit crew of doctors and nurses to place an IV before surgery, which they had to change twice after they finally got me knocked out. I look like I was attacked by several swarms of deadly wasps.
Even better? It isn't over yet.
They have to make sure they've cleared all of the melanoma out, and ensure that the lymph-nodes it was connected to aren't cancer ridden, then they can officially sew me back up and try to make me look as close to normal as possible. Jokes on them, I never looked normal to begin with.
Now I've got at least few more days of dealing with a somewhat-open wound on my face, which makes bathing damn near impossible. But if there's writing in the margins, or the ferryman's coins turn out to be damaged, we go to Plan B.
No, I don't know what Plan B is. In this entire scenario I'm B.A. Baracus. The cancer is the mission, and Hannibal, Face and Murdock gotta slip a little something special into my milk to get me on that helicopter so we can fight the fight. I just wake up and do what they tell me once we're there.
But I'm still here to complain about it, and for right now that's good enough for me.
I realize WHY it is most skin cancer winds up presenting on the face at some point, if not right off the bat, but it's just so damn cruel. It's not bad enough that you spend most of your teen years (or, if you're like me, most of your life since puberty) worrying about your complexion, but if you wind up with skin cancer, hey, here's an unsightly facial growth that not only won't go away, but they'll have to go in and cut it out of you.
Death is the ultimate F-U from cancer, I know that. But this one feels pretty high up on the list.
It's been less than 48 hours since the doc took scalpel to skin, sliced off part of my face, and (as it turns out) had to go in and take a few lymph-nodes out of my neck as well. It's like a toll I have to pay the ferryman every time I get a bad diagnosis at this point. "Got cancer? It's gonna cost you a few lymph-nodes to get to the other side."
My face is puffy, my neck is swollen, my right earlobe looks like a really fatty piece of bacon and thanks to my incredibly shitty veins I have bruises up and down my hands and arms. It took a pit crew of doctors and nurses to place an IV before surgery, which they had to change twice after they finally got me knocked out. I look like I was attacked by several swarms of deadly wasps.
Even better? It isn't over yet.
They have to make sure they've cleared all of the melanoma out, and ensure that the lymph-nodes it was connected to aren't cancer ridden, then they can officially sew me back up and try to make me look as close to normal as possible. Jokes on them, I never looked normal to begin with.
Now I've got at least few more days of dealing with a somewhat-open wound on my face, which makes bathing damn near impossible. But if there's writing in the margins, or the ferryman's coins turn out to be damaged, we go to Plan B.
No, I don't know what Plan B is. In this entire scenario I'm B.A. Baracus. The cancer is the mission, and Hannibal, Face and Murdock gotta slip a little something special into my milk to get me on that helicopter so we can fight the fight. I just wake up and do what they tell me once we're there.
But I'm still here to complain about it, and for right now that's good enough for me.
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