June 8, 2023

I seem to be surrounded by cancer. My dad is in chemo therapy this week to treat his recurring bladder cancer. We’re trying to get my brother to Oregon to treat his anal cancer. (He lives in a red state where they just let poor people die.) My aunt died of breast cancer. My grandfather died of prostate cancer. The news is filled with news stories of 90210’s Shannen Doherty’s breast cancer spreading to her brain (making me feel guilty for all the “I hate Brenda”: stuff in the early 1990s). It’s everywhere.

For the past week I have been convinced I was joining their ranks.

After a routine blood test revealed extremely elevated PSA (prostate-specific antigen) levels, I high-tailed it to the urologist. Her finger up my butt informed her (and me) that there was an elevated risk of prostate cancer. I tried not to panic. She asked me if I was peeing more often and I said no. Then suddenly I noticed I was peeing more often. I was convinced I was the walking dead. In my line of work, I’m often tasked to map out worst case scenarios (like Trump trolls trying to overthrow the government), so I began to doom scroll myself down the back hole of oblivion.

I immediately made an appoint for the biopsy. One should not wait on these matters. “Maybe it was just something I ate, errrrrrgh…” The date wasn’t until July, so I had weeks to freak myself out. Andi wisely urged me to get on the phone and demand an earlier appointment to get my ass poked. She’s generally right about everything so I moved up the date to the following Monday. Then she headed off to Lake Tahoe to do a fundraising bike ride for leukemia research.

My date with the anal probe was this past Monday (June 5). It wasn’t fun but it wasn’t horrible. I had to take an enema while I got Cozy ready for school. “Dad, I need to brush my teeth!” “Just a minute, honey, I’m crapping my brains out.” Everyone at the doctor’s office was cool. In sociology we call it, “studied nonobservance.” No cracks about buttholes allowed. I joked with the nurse that she probably sees a lot of ass. “All day long,” she dryly replied. The doctor came in, turned me on my side and went to work. The inserted probe took 12 samples from the many splendored parts of my prostate. After that, she informed me that I can expect to pee, poop, and ejaculate blood for the next week. Jesus. The appointment to return for the results was June 23. I figured I’d be dead by then.

I didn’t want Cozy to know what was going on because who wants your kid to worry, but I did mention that I had a “procedure” done that might have some side effects. She was home from school and I came out of the bathroom looking white as a sheet. “What’s wrong, Dad?” “Because of that procedure, I’m peeing blood,” I said, feeling weak in the knees. “Oh, so you’re on your period,” she said. I might be OK.

Over the next few days I dipped deeper in the doom pool. The blood, the family history, the twice as high PSA numbers. There was no way I was getting out of this alive. The anger brewed. The world is unfair! Wah! “They say these things come in threes; cancer, divorce, and a likely IRS audit.” I stopped sleeping and got bitchy toward Andi, even though she was only supportive. Wednesday morning in the dentist chair, while getting my teeth x-rayed, I burst into tears realizing how scared I was at the prospect of the Big C. Andi encouraged me to get my results meeting moved up. Right again.

My therapist also helped me to better communicate my fears with Andi and it worked. I apologized for turning my anxiety into resentment towards her and she assured me she would be with me every step of the way, no matter what the verdict. Later, I had a drink with a friend who works at OHSU, known for their cutting edge cancer research, and she offered to plug me into the best resources available. I started to feel like I wasn’t alone.

This morning I got a call from the doctor’s office. Not the doctor but her scheduler who called because (at Andi’s urging) I had been calling asking for the results. No cancer. No cancer. No cancer. All that weight lifted. I ran to tell Andi and apologized for being so stupid. She held me closely and said, “I told you that you were going to be OK.” Like I said, she’s always right. I can’t say what this feeling is like, this sudden clarity. I know the hell that my father and brother are going through. I don’t have to go there now, so I can keep my focus on them and my Portland family. I don’t want the, “me, me, me” anymore. The cascade of misery is, for now, not racing towards me.

I’m not sure what the lesson is here, other than live in a blue state with broad health care coverage. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance. I want to not waste time on anger. I want to people I love and the people I don’t to be happy and live with ease. I want to eat tomatoes and other healthy foods. I want to drink green tea and meditate in the sun and rain. I want to focus on the positive energy that is there for us to tap into whenever we need it, and I need it.

June 8, 2023 will be one of those days. After I got my news, the stories about the death of Christian hate monger Pat Robertson and the federal indictment of Donald Trump hit the national news stream. Suddenly, it seemed like I had a door open to hope and light in the world. I can weather peeing blood for a few more days. Today is yet one more reminder to live, not in the past or the future, but the vivid present. And let’s support our friends and family who are on their cancer journeys.