Constant Reader, I'm sorry. Facebook followers, I apologize. I needed a little time.
Elvis* called me on Monday.
Yaddayadda...biopsy site doing well?
- Yes, it's fine. A little discomfort, but otherwise no infection and healing well.
Good. Well, unfortunately, it looks like you may have a re-emergence of your cancer. There are tumor cells in your tissue samples, and I want to set you up with an oncologist colleague of mine. He's world-class, and I think you should meet with him.
- (Swallows) Of course. Do you have any idea what kind of tumor I have?
No. Not yet. We're running a battery of tests against your samples now to figure that out. So, are you flexible to meet with him?
- Absolutely. I'm already scheduled to see you Thursday, so that would be ideal...
That may work out. Let me contact his office to see if he can get you in then. He sees patients on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I know he needs to leave early this Thursday, but I'll see what I can do.
- Great. I need to ask a question for clarity. I'm hearing that you do not think it's an abscess.
Correct. We doubt it at this point. I have my team and several others looking at it. The tumor cells are present; we don't know what they are just yet.
- OK. Thank you. I'm available whenever he is available. I can come in tomorrow if necessary.
One of my team will get back to you with details.
So much for Limbo.
As I publish this, I know nothing else. As this hits the Interwebs, I am at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center meeting with my doctors.
I'm a survivor in that place where no survivor wants to be—facing cancer's spectre once again.
Learning
In the past two years I've been tested. My marriage dissolved. Loneliness, abandonment, and heartbreak became my partners. Bankruptcy ever loomed. It was as surreal as it was unsettling, painful. The buildup redefined "weird". The separation...excruciating.I missed my girls deeply. When I would drop them off—knowing I would not see them for days—my insides melted; I became walking dead. Inside, I was shattered. Outside, I maintained a brave face. Life went on...
At some point, I stopped being angry. To much had happened too fast. Like an over-stimulated nerve, I stopped feeling. Don't get me wrong, anger is still in there, and it surfaces, but it does not drive me. It's not my core. (And as I write this, I continue to wonder: what replaced the anger? What is this inside me? Is it resolve? Acceptance? What?)
Seismic forces shattered my life, and I was pushed to my limit. Then something would happen, and I was forced to discover new limits. Every time I thought I had a handle on things, something extraordinary would happen, stretching me once again. I was pushed, and pushed, and I found myself in uncharted space.
And I survived.
As I rebuild, I am a better person.
Now
Oh, I'm in a scary place.Limbo is scary, because you just don't know. Now, knowing a little, I'm pushed to Limbo's edge. That means that I'm edging closer to reality. Ouch.
"...it looks like you may have a re-emergence of your cancer. There are tumor cells in your tissue samples, and I want to set you up with an oncologist colleague of mine. "
I know, "tumor cells" is not synonymous with cancer. It's what I cling to.
I also know that "oncologist" implies cancer.
It's not what I wanted to hear.
Inner Voices
Constant Reader, my head never shuts up. I'm blessed with a mind without quiet moments. It journeys on its own. I entertain myself. As I go through my every day, I'm always conversant with my inner voice. I imagine that we all have some form of this; as it happens, I'm comfortable with myself. My ever-present inner monologues and dialogues are me. They define who I am and how I relate to the world. I'm my own sounding board.I don't always agree with myself. In fact, mine is a dynamic, challenging relationship. Don't get me wrong, I need to be grounded. I need friends and family to call me on my bullshit. I need interaction...
But I know that I trust myself.
In recent years I've learned to channel my voices constructively. And in the the past year, I've managed a life-changing milestone—I've learned to be with it...with me...without Depression.
It's awesome. I've grown, and much to my surprise I've gotten to a place where I am me. This past summer a dear friend said: "You're the most you I've ever seen you be...and that includes high-school."
It was high compliment. She affirmed—without knowing it—that I wasn't bullshit. Rather, I'm real.
And it feels good...
...and right now, I need to be that guy. I need to be me. I have to embrace my resolve, my core, my strength—as I try like hell to hold it together.
I need to avoid the dark places.
I need to embrace myself.
My limits are being tested...again.
Interlude
Pelotonia 2013, Day 1, I was planning to ride the 100 miles with a group of friends. Then the ride started.I leapt out and started riding with the lead group. Nothing new here, with one exception. I was on a single-speed. For non-cyclist readers, that means that I had one gear—and I could only go as fast as that gear would spin (around 23mph at a crazy, unsustainable cadence). The lead group rode at around 25mph.
I hung on—spinning crazily above my limits, then coasting to recover, spinning crazily, then coasting—in the pack, until I couldn't hold it any longer. I then rode alone until another pack came up, and I joined in that pack—spinning crazily above my limits, then coasting to recover, spinning crazily...
And I did this for ~70 miles. Moving in and out of small packs, finding small spaces and hidey-holes, keeping out of the wind. And then there were none. And I was alone.
I finished—alone.
Later, when talking to a friend, I apologized for not staying with the group. "I can't really explain it, something inside took over...I wanted to find my limits."
(enthusiastically) "It's all good! So, did you find them?"
(pause)
"No. Not yet."
Inside
I'm a mess.I'm a tumult, a whirlwind. I'm the crazy scribbles of a two-year-old exploring a fresh white wall with a new box of crayons.
There's anger.
There's righteous indignation—but why, I don't know...
There's sadness...and a healthy dose of whatthefuck-ness.
In the past two years I've spent a lot of time in places I never wanted to be. And I've been alone. I'm tired and sad. I'm lonely. I'm beaten down.
But I'm not defeated.
The past three days have been a special kind of hell.
But it's past me. As I talk to my doctors today, I seek clarity. I know knowledge mitigates fear. And I trust them.
I'm in that place no cancer survivor wants to be: right back in it. I'm forced to face my nemesis once again.
I'm stronger than you know, and I'm tougher than you know.
Bring it.
* "Elvis" is my nickname for Dr. Joel Scheinfeld, my Urologist at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center. I call him that because he is The King. When he walks in the room, you know it. When he walks among his staff, he's The Man. It is a term of endearment.
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