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| Image via A. MacLennan |
Yesterday, I scheduled my one and only chemo appointment for July 10th. The single, strong dose, will reduce my chances of a recurrence to less than 7%. After that, I hope and assume this little adventure will slowly roll to a conclusion.
It's now been three weeks since the surgery, and life is getting back to a new normal. Especially in those first, long, scary days, it seemed like the hyper-realness of every single moment was never-ending. I kept waiting for time to move fast and for all of it to feel like a blur, but when it was happening the experience just kept going on, and on and on.
With just a little bit of time passed, that long string of experiences is finally starting to play like a montage in hindsight.
Wednesday Night
The story begins the same place that the speaking points do: I'd come home from my Wednesday night yoga class, taken a shower, and found a large, hard lump on my left testicle. That sentence became the speaking point and bedrock for how I told people over the next few weeks. But that night, when I was living it, I knew that the lump was too big to be missed, and that something was wrong. It was after 10:00 pm, and too late to call anyone or do anything right then. I held a pillow tightly to my gut as I laid on the couch and watched the season finale of Smash on my DVR.
Thursday Morning
My doctor's office starts taking calls at 8:30. I left the house early so that I'd already be getting off the bus when their phones opened up. They fit me in for a 10:45 appointment. My second call that morning was to my friend Sandy, a touchstone from my Madison days who I chat with most mornings on the way to work (it's our weird ritual). She was excited to talk about the news from the previous day about the President endorsing marriage equality. She was the first person I used me speaking point with about the discovery of the lump, and the appointment later that moment. "I'm spooked," I said. "Me too," she replied.
. . .
In the doctor's office, Harry had me casually drop trou, so he could have a look. He said it was big (under other circumstances, welcome and admittedly unsurprising news in that region), and that I should have an ultrasound just to be sure -- but it wasn't presenting like a tumor. Probably just a cyst, and nothing to worry about.
The weight immediately lifted, I went back to work, back to regular life, and felt relieved. That afternoon, I made the appointment for an ultrasound on Tuesday, and went on with normal conference calls and other consult-y things. Later that night, I saw friends out for dinner and even had a quick wine date. Everything was fine and back to normal. It felt like a near miss.
Sunday Morning
Walking up the escalator into Target, I catch my flip flop on one of the steps as I go up and fall forward. I land hard on my left hand, and have a gash in my toe. I didn't hit the step that hard with my toe, but the skin tore easily and I bled a lot. All day long, I don't feel right. And occasionally I wonder what,exactly, is inside that lump.
Tuesday Morning - Foul and Heinous Foreshadowing
My appointment with the radiologist is later in the afternoon. About a block away from my house as I stroll to work, I see two large black birds sitting on tree branch together. One of the birds falls off the branch and drops a good 50 feet to the ground with a sickening "THUNK" sound. He gives two slow, broken caws, and seems to wimper and die. This should be a scene from a Woody Allen movie, not my life.
Tuesday Afternoon - The Radiologist's Office
The radiology tech who gets me started seems a little nervous to have a man on her table -- the rest of the waiting room had been filled with middle-aged women, presumably there for their mammograms. She has me lay back and raise the hospital gown. This is not the most dignified moment of my life (and sadly, not even in the top 100 of the least dignified). She uses the same ultra-sound device on me that they use on pregnant women to see the baby in utero. I want to ask if she can spot a head or a heart beat, but it occurs to me that maybe I should shut up and let the poor woman do her job.
She starts with Rightee, who appears on a large TV Screen at the front of the room. He looks like a silver colored grape. Then she slides over to Leftee, and even to my untrained eye there is very clearly something wrong. In the middle of the silver oval, there is a black spot that starts in wisps like a cloud, and then grows into something tight and dark and big that surrounds the top of the oval. The tech and I do not make eye contact as she says that it's time for her to bring the doctor in to take a look.
He follows the same procedure that the tech had, first Rightee, then Leftee. He explained that it was clearly not a cyst, because it was solid (cysts are filled with liquid), and then showed me where the tumor had a blood supply. And so there it was, the tumor on my left ball. He asked me to get dressed and meet him in the hallway.
"Could you see anything to indicate whether or not the tumor was malignant?" He said, "No - but most of them are." He was a middle-aged man with a soft face, who seemed to be somewhat pained to be delivering this news, though not pained enough to deliver it anywhere but the hallway. "I really hope it works out for you," he said. (YEAH, ME TOO, BECAUSE IF IT DOESN'T "WORK OUT" IT PROBABLY MEANS I'M DYING OF A GODDAMNED TUMOR).
And that's when the word tumor wrapped itself around me, and everything started to spin as I made my way back out into the world and the blinding midday brightness.
And Then it was Still Fucking Tuesday Afternoon
I needed to call someone. And I needed a cab. And I wasn't sure where to start with either. And even though I'm pretty sure I was walking normally, it felt like I was staggering. And every sentence began with an And, because everything was running together. And I had a tumor. I called Sandy again and she became the first person to know. Then I texted with Patrick, who was fortuitously just getting into town after finishing his first year of law school at Berkley. "Where are you?" I texted. "At Michael and Steve's," came the reply. I shot back, "I'm off of work this afternoon and coming to where you are right now." During this same time period, I was also getting some serious tone from one Barbara Ann Menard, another close friend and former boss (let's be honest - she's still quite bossy), asking why I wasn't meeting her and Patrick for dinner later that night. One of the many silver linings to this experience is that I will forever remind Barb about "that time I found I had a tumor and you were sending pushy text messages about dinner plans." And this became the first lesson of ball cancer -- when you've got a tumor on your left one, you take your victories where you can.
. . .
The cab dropped me off a block away from Wonderland, a favorite neighborhood bar. I called Erin, my boss, who knew about the appointment ahead of time. I don't remember what we said to each other, but I do remember that we both agreed that I should be holding a glass of bourbon.
I could make Patrick out walking up the block toward me and I tried walking naturally toward him. He asked about where I was coming from, and why I'd needed a cab, and we were walking and I had a tumor and he put his arm around me for a tight hug while we both kept moving. My tumor was now eating both my left testicle, and also Patrick's week off (selfish goddamned tumor). Patrick took the reigns and told Barb we would meet her at Rosa Mexicana. He then called Michael and told him to join too (note that he didn't ask Michael to join, he just told him to be there - it was very Metz).
. . . .
Patrick and I ping-ponged in conversation back and forth between normal catching up, and the abnormal growth on my balls. We made our way to the restaurant and devoured a serving a of guac and chips. Barb came first, and Michael a few minutes later. When I said I had news and that she should have a seat, Barb assumed I'd lost my job. She wasn't wild about the ball talk, but handled it like a trooper. Conversation went on. Garrison Keillor walked by our table. Random. At the end of the dinner, after a few more beers, it was time to go, and I said to these three who have been family for so many years now, "that given the afternoon, I couldn't have asked for a softer landing." My voice caught in my throat, and I think we all touched and squeezed and went on.
. . .
That night on the walk home, I think that I have my sea legs under me. I call my friend Charity, who says "Hey Hon, how are ya?" and I burst into tears (totally not my fault, she's always been deeply manipulative that way). It occurs to me in hindsight that I hadn't really cried yet. She offers, as my family will in the days to come, to jump on a plane, but it's not time yet.
Wednesday Morning - Type A Consultants on A Mission
Kristen is the founder and head of my firm, and often when she's in the office she passes through my office to check-in, or say hello, or generally make fun of me. I emailed her at 8:00 to ask if she'd be in the office that morning, and if so could I get on her dance card for one of her drive-bys. As it turned out, she was on the road in Philly for a meeting, so she called me at 8:23 while I was in Whole Foods, which is how I came to tell her this news while I was in the bulk foods aisle (it was the most empty aisle). By the time I made it to the office 20 minutes later, Gwyn, our COO was getting off the phone with Kristen as I walked into her office and she said, "are you coming to tell me what I already know?" This is what happens when you put a lot of pushy communications people in one organization. Everyone knows everything almost immediately.
The bottom line is, they are wonderful, and in three or so hours, I write a hand-off memo, tell as many people as I can catch what's happening, and I walk out of the office, totally unsure of when I'll be coming back.
Wednesday Lunch with Michael - Tuna and Egg Whites at the Fox N Hounds
Michael meets me for lunch, and we sit and make ball talk intermingled with small talk. My appointment with the urologist is in ninety minutes and Patrick is going to meet me to go with. I'm not sure how the conversation goes, but somehow, Michael makes clear that he'll take time off of work if I need him too for surgery. To this point, a few close friends and my office know what is happening. I haven't called my parents or family yet because I still don't know what I'm dealing with, and I want to avoid reallllly scaring them if I only need to generally scare them. We wrap lunch and I make a few more phone calls to friends. It's relentlessly sunny.
The Urologist
Patrick and I are sitting in the exam room together when the urologist walks in and says, "Which one of you is Mark?" I raise my hand. "Your ultrasounds look really bad - how do you feel?" Patrick and I do not look at each other.
Dr. Shin is probably about my age. Aside from his less than subtle introduction, I like him. He's calm, competent and spends an hour with us. In the exam room, Patrick is treated to a front row seat to a rather gross view of my testicular exam (Michael and Steve would later sit with me for similar exams - the three of them deserve medals of some kind). We're then moved back into Dr. Shin's office to learn more. He says, "don't worry - testicular cancer is the most curable form of cancer. Lance Armstrong's cancer had already spread to his lungs and brain when they found it, and he's fine now. In a year, you and your friends will tell stories and make jokes about this over wine." How does he know that my friends are the kind of people that talk about man parts over wine?
Patrick and Dr. Shin are left alone in the office together for a moment when I leave to have a blood test. When I came back, Patrick was smiling that smile that indicates that he was amused with himself. Dr. Shin had apparently been trying to delicately ask what our relationship was, "soooooo, I wanna use the right terrrmmmmms here," Patrick knew exactly what he was asking, and decided to torture the poor straight man who was in charge of saving my gonads, because that's how his instincts work. "Are you...frrrrriends?" Patrick remained stone faced. "Partnerrrrs?" And finally, because Dr. Shin's voice couldn't really go any higher, or drag the words out any more, Patrick relented and said,"Ohhhh, I see what you're asking, yeah - we're just good friends."
There's a very short list of people in the world that I'd have wanted with me in that appointment that day, and Patrick is right up there, largely because even when shit was getting fucking seriously scary, he still had the presence of mind to be a dick to the well-meaning urologist.
I sat with my fist to my face while Dr. Shin gave marching orders for next steps and tried to answer questions. He said, "this is overwhelming, and you're not going to remember anything about today other than me saying the word 'cancer.'" He was wrong. I also remembered that he said it looked bad, and that the words chemotherapy and radiation had been mentioned repeatedly. And also, this - I told him that I hadn't called my parents yet to tell them, because I wasn't sure if it was time. He paused as he wrote on his prescription pad, but didn't look at me when he said, "get your CAT Scan first, then call them." (Apparently, avoiding contact is a big thing with cancer - no one had ever mentioned that in any of the big scary cancer movies).
He then said that I should go out with friends and get drunk, and I had to restrain myself from kissing him on the lips (with tongue). Coulda, woulda, shoulda.
Wednesday Night - DC United Game
We had planned on going to the soccer game that night, and decided to keep the tickets. We brought the barium drink that I'd need to have at 9:00 pm to start getting me prepped for the CAT Scan at 7:00 the next morning. I was allowed to have beer, as long as I didn't actually mix the beer and barium together. We watched the game. And gingerly, we began saying the word "cancer," which quickly turned into black humor about cancer. On the way out, a man cut me off and I snapped, "fuck you, I've got cancer!" Michael quickly intervened, grabbed me by the arm and said, "ok, let's get you home now." It was a weird fucking night after a weird fucking day, and it was getting dark.
Thursday Morning 4:00 am
I'm dehydrated and exhausted and have to be awake in an hour to drink more barium but can't get back to sleep and my balls hurt but I can't tell if that's real or in my head. I'm still thinking in run-on sentences. The CAT Scan is going to look at my whole body to see if there are tumors any where else in my lymph system. It's dark and quiet and I pull out my laptop to watch HBO GO and manage to see almost every episode of the Sex and The City story line about Steve's ball cancer, and then Samantha's breast cancer (I'm up way too early).
CAT Scan
Lisa is my work-wife, and also has a car, and has agreed to drive me to Chevy Chase at the ass-crack of dawn for the scan. She picks me up before 7:00 and has already bought doughnuts (I can't eat before the CAT Scan, but am touched by the gesture -- people are SO NICE when you have cancer).
When we get there, I'm told that the doctor also wants a chest x-ray to see my lungs, which somehow tips the scale from frightening to terrifying. Lisa is asked to stay in the waiting room while they take me back. I take off my clothes and put on the second hospital gown of the week. This blows.
CAT Scans are not, in and of themselves, unpleasant tests. All you have to do, really, is lie there. But the gravity of what they were looking for made the blood rush out of my face and limbs and the room sort of spun. I'd been awake most of the night before, hadn't eaten in a dozen hours and had to consciously focus on not losing my shit and crying in the CAT Scan machine because that would be too pathetic for words, and also they'd probably make me come back and do it again. I thought of my friend Kathy, who died two summers ago when they found lung cancer had spread throughout her body. I thought of what it must have been like for her to go through these same tests. I wondered if she'd been scared, or lonely or pissed off too.
And then we were done. I was released to go home and told that someone would probably be in touch that morning with the results.
The Longest Fucking Six Hours of My Fucking Life
And then it was time to wait. Lisa dropped me off at home. I couldn't sleep, should've eaten but didn't, tried to watch TV, and mostly thought about all the places in my body that there might be tumors. At noon, I saw Kevin online. He's an ex, but we've traveled enough miles that he's also homebase when either of us needs it. Over g-chat, I asked if he had a minute to call on cell. When he did, I burst into tears, and at noon in the middle of the work day he said, "I'll be there in ten minutes." And he was. And I cried some more, and then we put on Horrible Bosses via On Demand (because Jason Batemen couldn't hurt), and I buried my face in his chest and dozed on the couch, and still those bastards in radiology didn't fucking call. I also said fuck a LOT during this period.
By 3:00, Patrick was also here, and the three of us were collectively done waiting. I stalled a little by calling the Silicon Carving Block - based in Reno, Nevada for extra weirdness - to order my prosthetic for surgery the next week. Nancy, the operator, asked what sizes I wanted (for those new to this game, you order three prosthetics ahead of time, they fit you in surgery and then you send the other two back) -- "Do 2, 3, and 4 work for you?" she asked, referring to the standard sizes. "No, actually the doctor told me to ask for 3, 4 and 5." Fuck what ya heard Nancy.
And then there was no more stalling to be done, and I wanted to know but didn't want to hear the words. Patrick sat 18 inches from me and Kevin had his hand on my leg and I could feel both of them looking at me but couldn't look back (finally, it was my turn to avoid eye contact). After some transferring and holding and getting the right person on the phone I was....fine. Normal. No signs of tumors or cancer anywhere else. I gave a thumbs up to Patrick and Kevin while I tried to at least pretend to hear what else the radiologist was saying, but at that point everything else was noise and the crushing weight was starting to melt away. In 24 hours I'd gone from being terrified that I had a tumor, to being thrilled that there was only one. We called Michael. We sighed and I think I choked back some tears. We went and got frozen yogurt and talked about stupid things that didn't even rhyme with cancer and the bright shining sun no longer felt like it was giving me the finger. I still said fuck a lot, but it was in a much happier context.
Speaking Points and Staying on Message
Now it was time to start making phone calls. Having been through the scariest parts, I had a message platform that became almost a script for the next few days. The first is the one I already mentioned about how I found the lump, which was generally where I started the conversation. Then:
- Testicular cancer is the most curable kind of cancer, I'm going to be fine.
- Surgery will be next week, and we'll know more then.
- (insert ball joke here, frequently: "the words you're looking for right now are awwwww nuts).
These are the points I used when I called my parents, siblings, grandmother, friends, and on, and on and on. Kevin stayed with me that afternoon while I called my Mom and Dad.
Monday Night Yoga
This year, I started going to a new gym, called STROGA, which is a combination of strength training and yoga. I love it. It kicks my ass every time, and it gets me out of my head. My surgery was scheduled for the coming Thursday morning, so that Monday night was going to be my last regular class for a while. I nailed a few positions that had been eluding me. I felt strong and healthy and was so happy to be there. It felt quietly, privately momentous to have a good class and then say goodbye to yoga for a little while, even if I was the only one who knew.
Knowing Hugs, Glances and Whatnot
The next few days are a blur in my memory now. My friend Eric had a party for our friend Josh's MBA Graduation on Saturday night, and my left ball took up a lot of conversation air time.
Tuesday night I went to an event at HRC, and a lot of people there knew what was going on...there were a lot of hugs that lasted longer and held me tighter than usual. It was a comfort and a bit overwhelming all at the same time. HRC is still a bit of home for me in DC - sort of like being an alumn and visiting college for gays.
Wednesday was mostly quiet time. I aggressively cleaned the house and stocked the fridge and put things in order. Then it was time to go to bed, and start.
The Church Laugh in Pre-Op
In the pre-op room, Michael and Josh are sitting with me as a string of doctors, nurses and others pop in and out to poke, ask questions, tell me things and occasionally make ball jokes. Balls, balls, balls. I'm focusing as best I can on staying present and being calm.
There is a handsome anesthesiologist who has the same inky eyes and dark black hair as the Italian Bicyclist waiters at Coppi's on U Street (if you haven't been, the waiters and the cannoli are both delicious). Dr. Cutie is noticing that no one has started my IV yet, so he says he'll do it. This doesn't go well (thank God he was cute). The first IV jab in my right hand doesn't work, and he offers to give me a double dose of valium for my troubles. I like the way he negotiates. The second attempt doesn't work either, and he's now getting a little flush and I'm trying to keep a smile on my face because I want to stay in the good graces of the man with all the drugs.
At this point, Cokie Roberts appears in the prep area across from us; she's there with a friend who's also having surgery that morning. The doctor moves to my left side to try a third IV attempt in my other hand, and Cokie's phone goes off...her ringtone is "When the Saints Go Marching In." I caught Michael's eye and began to laugh. It wasn't a little chuckle, it was a deep in my gut belly laugh that took a while to stop. I have a tumor, am about to lose a testicle, the hot doctor can't find my fucking vein to save either of our goddamned lives, and Cokie Roberts is Marching with the Saints.
And then I was wheeled into surgery.
Freeda
Freeda is my post-op nurse. She's a matronly black woman, probably about my age, and has one of the warmest smiles of anyone I've met in a very long time. She is in the exact right job. She adjusts my pain meds (more please), and gets me blankets and generally makes it all ok. Occasionally, Michael and Josh appear, and so does Dr. Shin. Michael and Dr. Shin are pretty insistent that the tumor was malignant, which is somehow surprising and a little irritating (I was more mad at Dr. Shin than Michael, but it's all kinda blurry). I focus on Freeda because she's not talking about cancer and keeps offering me juice. I think I might love Freeda.
. . .
Freeda won't get off my fucking tits about getting up to pee. I've just fucking had a ball cut off, apparently have cancer, and I don't have to pee even though I've now had about 40 fucking cups of fucking juice (Freeda is a total pusher). Also, Freeda is now telling me that when I do get up to pee, that I should just be aware that they put a surgical jock strap on me while I was in the O.R. Well, I knew from the start that Freeda was stupid. Clearly, if I was wearing a jock strap of any sort, I'd know about it. Fine. I let her guide me to the bathroom so I can try AGAIN to pee, and see what's what.
. . .
Holy-fucking-shit, Freeda is right, I'm wearing a jock strap that is packed with gauze so that my junk will stay firmly in place. There's a three inch incision just above where my pubic hair used to be on the left side (also, all of my pubic hair is gone). There's a little dried blood coming through the tape or gauze or whatever is covering the incision, and the little bit I can see of my genitals looks sort of like ET did when he was sick. Standing up is making me have to pee, but the swelling all throughout South Florida is pinching off the flow. I manage to squeeze out a half a cup, and Freeda and I are friends again.
Percoset for the WIN!!!
Michael and Josh take me home. Josh stays with me while Michael goes to walk the dog. Michael comes back and Josh goes. Steve, comes over and rubs my head. Sometimes I talk, sometimes I don't. I think there's soup. Percoset is popped pretty regularly. A care package arrives from Charity - it's a box of balls. I sort of sleep, but not in that deep sleep way, more in that "hazy in-and-out of consciousness and floating around the room and occasionally have a moment of clarity that slips through the fingers kind of way." Then it's time to brush my teeth, take some more pills and go to bed and my bedtime routine seems almost normal. Michael sleeps across the hall in the guest room, though he could have had a party down stairs for all I knew because when you mix percoset and xanax it's just suddenly tomorrow.
And Then, the rest of it...
Gary Busey is Michael and Steve's dog. It's the morning after the surgery, and the four of us are driving to a cabin in West Virginia for the weekend where we'll stay with some other good friends for some R&R. I'm packed in the front seat with a lot of pillows and pills (it occurs to me that "Pillows and Pills" might be a suitable name for a memoir). Someone is farting, and Gary Busey and I seem to be the likely suspects (I still think it was him, but cannot say beyond the shadow of a doubt as those pills were kinda for serious and my level of consciousness was questionable). The cabin is as good a place to be as I could hope for. The boys are all great and attentive. And when they were too attentive, I just took more pills.
By Sunday, I'm strong enough to take a quick trip to the outlets with Michael and Trevor. We make ball jokes. I sleep a lot. When we come back from the weekend, Memorial Day is over and I'm post surgery and life starts to slowly move again.
. . .
Now that this has all been written out, it seems to be longer than a montage...but something about pouring it all out and writing it down feels like letting it go, so there's that.
There were many other details, and more importantly acts of kindness and love from so many good people along the way. Montages only capture some of the detail, the occasional frame of this, that and the other. All I can say as I look back at these clips is that I was never alone, so many friends and family were there every step of the way, near and far, sort of like the good people that pour gatorade on race day and man the water stations across the long miles. I'm blessed and grateful, and half nuts (totally bogarting Matt Cole's line here).
And I know this: I was saved as much by the people who have been there for me these last weeks as I was by my doctors.
Thanks.
