TSA Testicular Travel Advisory (and other Notes, Addenda & Whatnot)

Is there Something in Your Pants?

The TSA agent is a Latina woman who’s maybe in her late twenties. It’s not clear exactly what she’s reacting to from the review of my full body scan, but given that most adventures of late have been related to my gonads, I have at least an inkling of what’s to come.

“Sir, are you wearing a money belt by chance?”  It’s 104 degrees outside.  I’m wearing yoga shorts and a t-shirt, and because I’m an urban gay, there’s no room in either item for hidden money belts.  The question is clearly meant as an opening for me to share more about what might be going on down there, but I decide not to give her any help just yet.  “I’m just going to need you to wait here a moment while I call my supervisor over.”  Awesome.

Several minutes later, as other passengers stroll on by without anything suspicious in their pants, a middle-aged Eastern European man arrives, and asks me to follow him and a hunky blonde to a private room off to the side of the security area (haven’t we all seen this movie?).  They have collected my things.  I’m still barefoot and playing it as cool as one can when one is apparently transporting a suspicious package in one’s yoga shorts.

The older agent starts, “So, do you have any, ummm, piercings?”  Well, I have to admit, I didn’t see that one coming.  And come to think of it, maybe the way to follow up ball cancer is by considering a Prince Albert.  (I mean really, we’ve already started the renovations, why not add a little extra sparkle?)

No, I explain -- in a soft tone that I hope carries a quiet bravery that will make these men feel very, very badly about themselves -- that I had surgery for cancer a month ago, and that this is my first time traveling with my new prosthetic.  They both blanche at the C Word a bit, which is momentarily satisfying until they proceed to frisk me.  I have never been full-on frisked before, particularly not without benefit of a cocktail or two.  

Apparently, this is going to be a thing from now on.  We live in a world where sometimes  would-be terrorists try to blow up planes with their underwear.   The silicon orb in my business will keep showing up in full body scans, and will keep raising red flags.  The friendly agents sheepishly explain that I can request to go through the metal detector instead of the full body scan, or I can request a pat down for medical reasons, but either way, I need to start allowing extra time for airport security.

And so it goes, the slow motion indignities-to-person following ball cancer continue to unfold.  As a fairly regular business traveler, I’ve spent a dozen years barely catching flights and cutting airport trips a little closer than advised, and now the Fates have thrown a curve ball that will require me to add at least 15 extra minutes of time before any flight for the rest of my life.  Well played, you wiley Fates, well played.

. . . 

Traveling, Near and Far

Incidentally, I was passing through TSA because I’m heading to California for six days of  playtime and tom-foolery before hunkering down for chemo.  Getting away feels like the thing right now, largely because even wherever I am these days, it usually feels like I’m floating about 300 feet away.

The extra yardage isn’t necessarily unpleasant.  It’s just that it feels like my mental center of gravity has been pushed back a bit by all that’s happened.  It means that if I’m talking to someone sitting next to me, it takes a little more energy and focus to close the gap between us -- sort of like the energy you have to use when you yell to a friend up the block.   

Generally, the extra space feels like a mental defense mechanism kicking in.  Somewhere inside, my psyche decided an extra pocket of cool, calm air might help absorb some of what’s been kicked up.

Sometimes, in the right moment, with the right friend, the distance can be closed. Or maybe some people are just better than others at crossing the extra space intuitively.   It does make group activities, parties and bars particularly exhausting.  It also means that my efforts to keep up with email, phone calls and most other forms of communication have been less than stellar - though I do appreciate the good thoughts that people are still sending this way.

. . .

What to Expect When You’re Expecting Chemo 

My friend Trevor, who is one of the calmer people that I know, also happens to be a survivor of childhood leukemia.  We were seated next to each other at a birthday brunch for Michael last weekend, and this is what he forecasts for chemo:

• Hurry Up and Wait

First couple days, no big deal (huzzah!). 

• The Super Model Phase

Then, slowly, I’ll get tired/weak and lose my appetite.  The doctors predict that the low point will come about two weeks after the treatment, so this spell may last up to a coupla’ weeks.  The doctors also say that the anti-nausea meds are pretty good these days, so there shouldn’t be a need for dramatic sickliness.  

• Eating My Feelings

The sign that I’m turning the corner will likely be that I get hungry.  Ravenously, constantly, super-duper hungry.  Trevor says that this is a sign that my body is rebuilding itself, and that I should eat with wild abandon.  (This bit of coaching has made Trevor my favoritest person ever). 

• What about The Hair? 

Unclear.  Some people lose their hair, some don’t.  Most people who lose their hair to chemo also find that it tends to grow back thicker and curlier than it was before (and occasionally, it’s a different color).  On the upside, I won’t have to spend much time man-scaping this summer, so there’s that.