April 15, 2006

This journal is inspired by my cancer, but I want to make it clear that cancer isn’t the only story I have to tell. I can’t really start at the beginning, because I’m not sure when that was. As far as the ending, I’m not sure that the battle ever really ends. There is a lot that I don’t know. I think the only way to write about cancer is to present it the same way it presents itself. It isn’t logical or chronological. It isn’t sequential or mathematical. It isn't fair or unjust. It just is.

There is a lot of looking at the past. How it came to be. Why? What could I have done differently? And there is the fear of the future. How will I cope with treatment? What will happen to my body? Will anyone love me? Will I die of cancer? And the present is consumed by the realization that cancer has moved in, uninvited, to crash my party.

Tuesday, April 11th, was the day I was officially diagnosed with anal cancer. Yes, it’s pretty shitty to be diagnosed with ass cancer. The Friday before I had surgery to remove the tumor (which I had named Guado), I was a mess. I have a real fear of anesthesia. I had surgery about 15 years ago, to repair my sphincter. (God, hasn’t my ass suffered enough?) After giving birth to three kids, it needed some repair work. I had a terrifying experience with the anesthesia. While under the anesthesia, I was conscious of what was going on, but I was paralyzed as they were putting the breathing tube down my throat. That feeling of not being able to move or talk while still conscious, was like one of those nightmares where you're trying to scream, but no sound comes out. Ever since then, I’ve had an unnatural fear of anesthesia. In fact, I told my kids that if I’m ever in a coma, it’s fine with me if they go ahead and pull the plug the first day.

With my upcoming surgery, I was also having a colonoscopy. The preparation the day before the surgery was unpleasant. I had to drink a gallon of some nasty stuff and then sit on the toilet the entire day. Normally, it takes me a whole day to drink eight ounces of water. Drinking a gallon of grossness, out of a straw for two hours, was not fun. But, I did it, and that initial accomplishment gave me confidence that I would be able to handle the surgery.

And, the surgery went great. I felt so relieved afterward. I had very little pain and I was told that my colon was clear. Though I had an appointment to see the surgeon on Tuesday to get the cancer results, I was able to put it out of my mind and just enjoy my weekend. It wasn’t until Monday before my appointment that I faced the possibility that I might actually have cancer. As I was trying to go to sleep that night, waves of panic kept rising in my chest. I think my body was trying to prepare me for the results. By the time I got to the doctor’s office the next day, I knew in my gut what the results would be. Still, when the doctor said the word "cancer," the shock hit me pretty hard. I no longer had that cushion of doubt. No more blissful ignorance or glimmer of hope that the tumor was benign and I could forget the whole ordeal and return to my former, carefree life.

As Dr. Fraser delivered the bad news, I tried my best to listen to the details. The cancer was a form of squamous cell carcinoma. It had moved to my right lymph node, and possibly to the left. Due to the large size of the tumor, it was probably stage 3 B, whatever that meant. He said this type of cancer is very responsive to chemo and radiation, but that I had a tough battle ahead.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Chemo? No one in my family has had cancer, except for lung cancer, which I had always assumed was from smoking. Isn’t this type of cancer hereditary?”

I wonder how many times doctors hear such absurd logic from their patients. As if it makes any difference, once you've been diagnosed with cancer, whether or not your grandmother or your third cousin had it. I think I felt the need to make this point, not as an argument, but as an excuse for my ignorance to the whole cancer business. If he had said I was diabetic, or had high cholesterol, I would have been more open to the idea. “Sure,” I would have said, “I’ve been expecting this. My sister is diabetic. My dad had a heart attack. I eat a lot of crap. I’ve been expecting to have a massive heart attack any day now. But cancer, I don’t know a damn thing about cancer.”

Aside from being sympathetic to the suffering of cancer victims, I had never had much interest in it. I’m ashamed to admit that I sometimes got annoyed with the media’s obsession with cancer. Pink ribbons everywhere. Lance Armstrong living strong to win the Tour de France with one testicle. My ignorance and disinterest left me wide open and vulnerable. I think I believed that, for some reason, I was immune to cancer. People like me don’t get cancer. Only exceptional people get cancer. People with an incredible will to live. People who live their lives to the fullest. Not people who complain about bad hair days and having nothing cute to wear.

I felt guilty about my ignorance. Maybe, if I had paid attention to all the cancer news, I would have realized that hemorrhoids do not grow so large as to be worthy of the name Guado. Then, after the guilt, came the anger. I got angry at my arrogance? Who the hell did I think I was? Did I think I was above getting cancer?

This was the beginning of the crazy cancer mind. It goes from lamenting the past, to the confusion of the present. It asks, what do I do now? How do I tell my children? Who should I tell first? Am I dying? Will I be in pain? Will I be hideous to look at?

Then the crazy cancer mind tries to be logical. It says to make a plan. It says, take it one day at a time. Be positive. I tell it to shut up and then begin to sob uncontrollably. I cry for everyone I know and for everyone who has ever suffered. I cry with abandon and without shame, because this time I’m crying about something real. This time, I’m entitled to my tears.

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