Friday, June 10, 2016

Here's what happened. We had waited two weeks for this appointment(post Buh-bye Thyroid Day) and P points out that this hernia business actually started way back in February(Funny how pain slips your mind. Good funny.) and if you don't remember exactly(who could blame you?), the deal-as we'd last understood it-was that they were going to do the thyroid and the hernia at the same time but they-the team-my fabulous cancer smashing team that I had just been walking around telling people how great I thought they were-we were to make the next available appointment with this Head Surgeon dude(aka: The Boss) to see about getting the hernia repaired. 

Pre-appointment home discussion was about when-like hey do you think they'll let me do this maybe in a month or something because I have got to check in with my various employment situations and ya know, after all this shit and by shit I mean all those thousands of needles shoved into me-okay maybe more like 75-my skin just needs to rest. And-I don't care if it's a 5 week recovery period-I Want This Done. 

We got there. My vitals were perfect or so they said and the two residents were going to be in next and we waited and in came this pink dress shirt filled by 'The Boss'. 

No residents at all. Impending doom. 

He didn't sit. Then exam was incredibly brief and the news was this: Your hernia is not your biggest problem. 





And we were like....wait, what? 





And he went on to explain-and here comes some fabrication for the purpose of illustration on my end-when the portal vein got a clot in it, a whole bunch of new veins(Imagine cooked spaghetti. That's what I'm doing.)rerouted themselves to my liver and so now, cutting into my belly wasn't going to be as easy as a simple slice. It was going to be Chef Boy R Dee in a can. 

He didn't say anything cool or illustrative or encouraging-seriously we could have used some sort of(ANY sort of) lilac scented marker of pleasantness or something in this situation but charm school was clearly not on his bio. He crossed his pink shirted arms and stood there. 



I've read that within a group there's always gonna be one person who fills the silences and that person turned out to be me. 'So that's it then.' I said like the brilliant genius you've come to know and love. (ha). 

Later P said, you know, he could have sent that paragraph in an email. The actual doctor time was probably 4 minutes. Maybe. 


I dunno, I certainly feel bamboozled at this point. Or baited and switched. Or actually more like permanently disfigured beyond what I imagine would be accepted in the colon cancer coloring book. 

We were walking Grantley later that day, and we passed an old car dealership and for the first time, I really looked at my sideways reflection in the window-P was watching me. And I thought, God damn I look like I have a cantaloupe in my belly. 
(Somebody is going to approach me and tell me how hilarious they think that last sentence is. Believe me-it is not.) 

I have forcibly resisted making a list of things I traded to rid my sorry ass of cancer. Like coffee. Or my taste buds. Or my jeans. T-shirts that are not V Neck. Or the mystery of my digestive system. Oops I gotta stop. I don't want to be that person. Nope nope nope. 


What happens next? More waking up to take a pill and then taking another and then after toast, another. The cancer cook book came. Black and white with no pictures. What a gigantic bummer and a half o rama. I told P this morning-I want to do the 3 Dune Challenge again. We had just completed it right before the cancer wagons started circling. I was looking at a Survivor work out program that had been absolutely free at the Loyola gym but they added a massage and some nutrition advice and turned it into a close to $300 for two months proposition. Yeah no. 

So we'll see, huh? 

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