The Road to Cancer: How we got here
Cancer diagnosis leaves a person second-guessing their choices
A few months ago, I sat in the bathroom and stared at a package sent to me from the government. It was the dreaded FIT test that allows people to scoop a little bit of stool into a tube and send it off for testing.
I stared at that package for a week or more, long enough for it to expire. I was terrified. Even though I had no symptoms at the time, I was haunted by the memory of my mother walking down the corridor at the Toronto Hospital attached to an IV. She had been in the hospital for a year and the doctors couldn’t find what was wrong with her. It turned out she had a bowel blockage which ultimately killed her after she signed herself out of the hospital.
Her story is different from my story. It’s thirty years later, and cancer care is much better these days. But my story is still her story in many ways.
My brothers reminded me that there was much going on in mom’s situation. Doctors explained as she lay in a coma that her heavy smoking habit had basically killed off part of her intestines. In other words, even though they didn’t find a blockage til it was too late, she would have died anyway, as the thinking went.
When a doctor at another hospital finally opened her up — in spite of the fact she had never before been given surgery as an option — he saw the damage clearly, though he said a simple blood test would have confirmed her condition.
Back in Vera’s day, the doctors blamed her for being a heavy smoker and drinker. I remember a conversation my brother had with a doctor who was really cruel. It made me furious, and it left me not trusting doctors all these years.
Even though it was thirty years ago the image of my mother, a robust lady who ultimately died at about 85 pounds, has haunted me for decades. I was convinced I was on the same path. The signs were all there. She was a widow, I was left by my husband. Both of us had three kids nearly the same ages and same genders. She died at the age I am now from a bowel blockage; my doctor just found a tumor in me.
And eerily enough, and not to scare the children, she died when my sister-in-law was pregnant, and I have a little grandson on the way. In my mind, it all added up. Despite some course correction on my part, I was headed toward a similar outcome. (Ridiculous I know, but try living in this head! I am the master of catastrophic thinking.)
Should I have taken the test the first time when I had no symptoms and not waited until I had clear symptoms? Hell, yes. But I didn’t. And now, I look toward an uncertain future, some of it created by my own magical thinking.
Am I to blame for this? Sure I have not always treated this body as kindly as I could have. I should have stopped drinking years ago. I have tried over the years. Even tried cannabis oil with the following result.
I don’t drink what I used to — just a few glasses of wine at cocktail hour and dinner with a little tequila mixed in when the back garden is freshly mowed. I eat well, and until the pandemic regularly went to the gym.
Unfortunately, anxiety rules my life
The last year and a half has been hard, and I have been filled with acute anxiety. For eighteen months I worked at a place where the experience was horrible. I was the only woman on the project and while my boss treated me fairly, several other bros treated me like their secretary — even though I had all the qualifications and skills. I was marginalized, and underpaid making about a third what the men made.
I lived this in hell for months, not sleeping, always waiting for the shoe to drop. My anxiety levels had not been this high for years.
At the same time, my beloved pug of 11 years got sick, so I have divided my time between the computer and the couch since last fall.
When the job came to an end, I spent all my time with Sophie, but she left me the day after what would have been my mother’s 100 birthday. I really wish she would have stuck around to help me deal with this mess, but she knew better. Leave mom be. She has enough stress without me.
I waited until the job was over to get all the tests I should have done the past few years. That included the dreaded FIT test, a mammogram, a echo cardiogram, a Pap and so on. At my physical, the doctor proclaimed me healthy with only slightly elevated blood pressure.
Riding on this wave, I had the courage to tackle what ever was eating at my gut. It turned out to be Joel, the troll who has set up camp in my ass.
I’m sure my anxiety levels contributed to my condition and made it worse. But who knows? I only know that if anyone speaks to me the way that doctor spoke to my family, they will realize they messed with the wrong person. The last person who messed with me, an old employer, had to change his phone number after being hounded by the media.
I am 67, and I’m looking forward, not backward. I will deal with whatever happens on my own terms. By the way, I quit drinking on March 1, a week before my test and haven’t touched anything. I’m not interested. I don’t need a bottle of hooch to fill the giant hole in my life anymore.
Joel, the tumor has filled that hole and he’s ready for a fight. Well, Joel, I’ve got news.
You might have the upper hand right now, but I know a guy with a scalpel.
Fuck you, Joel.
Can’t wait for you to go into the hospital incinerator.
Regret does nothing but bring sadness & anger - and you pay the price. It’s not worth it, m’dear. The past is over. Today & tomorrow are yours. Kick Joel’s ass! Throw that shit (tee hee) in the garbage. You have a world of love to enjoy. Scott, kids, grandkids…. What could be better. ❤️
No fears - you will have the last word on this in so many ways. The pen is indeed mightier than the scalpel (sword). Go girl!