Alright, folks! This is it.
A few years back, I had cancer. Spoiler alert, I lived. A couple years after coming out the other side of the dark tunnel that is doctors, drugs and disease, I wrote everything down and compiled it into what is sitting before you now – the prologue to, what most of us today would call, a “book”.
I’d like to be able to release a new chapter every week for the duration of the novel so, if you’ll stay with me, together we can relive this treacherous, life-altering, reality bending experience together over the next 42 weeks. Yeah, that’s a serious commitment but if you’re down, I’m down.
Actually, even if you’re not down, I will probably just blindly and stubbornly press on on because this is my blog and I can do whatever I want here. My house, my rules, baby!
However, on the off chance that you are into it, please click the follow button in the bottom right corner and we’ll slowly mosey down this little rosy road together.
It’s my twenty-sixth birthday and I’m standing in front of a rotund Indian man with my pants around my ankles, my wiener hanging limply between us like a sad-faced emoticon. He gently pats the paper-covered exam table with his meaty hand and in his thick accent says, “Please sit up here.”
I pull myself onto the table, no easy feat with my pants bunched on top of my sneakers and my hands cupped neatly around my genitals for the sake of modesty. The ultrasound technician takes a seat on a low stool next to me, pinches my noodle between his thumb and forefinger and says, “Hold this, but don’t pull on it.” First, this is everything nightmares are made of. Second, I can’t help but stop to wonder what kinds of patients typically find themselves in this room. Men who, when confronted with a white-robed stranger, posters of bisected colons, and the aroma of cleaning supplies, are suddenly thrown into such an erotic frenzy that they simply must begin to “pull on it.”
I lie back and hear the sound of two rubber gloves being stretched and adjusted over as many large hands, the latex squeaking against itself. The noise sends a shiver up my spine, and the sterile smell in the air turns my stomach.
I just want this over. I just want an answer.
The Indian Man says, “I’m going to apply the jelly now,” and I’m thankful for the heads up because, lying here today, I have no idea what to expect anymore. Things have been spiraling quickly out of control for about a month. There are too many questions cropping up without near enough answers. My life has become a really terrible episode of LOST, except there are no polar bears or time travel or bad CG smoke monsters . . . .
He begins to gently rub the cold gel on my nut sack when, making a desperate stab at comedy, I nervously blurt out, “Hey, man, you’ve got the best seat in the house!” I say it as a joke. I say it to lighten the mood. I say it because I’m afraid I’m going to die, and I need to laugh.
The Indian Man completely disregards my comment and instead pulls out an ultrasound gun that he places against the taut skin of my scrotum (the room feels like a brisk 64 degrees and my body is adjusting accordingly). As he snaps several high-contrast black and white photos of my testicle, I shut my eyes and pretend that I am somewhere else; in the parking lot, at work, at home, in outer space. I attempt to force myself to have an out-of-body experience. I want to step away and come back when this is all over and hopefully “all over” is in just a few moments and not several months or years from now.
I open my eyes and see, on the ceiling directly above me, a little sign that reads, I’D RATHER BE FISHING. I begin to count the dots in the tiles, one hundred, one thousand, one million little pinholes above me, and I place my mind inside each one. The Indian Man takes his time and is very thorough in, what is for him, a routine scanning procedure. For me it is everything.
The silence is palpable. I can feel it in every pore of my body. I can sense the electric buzz from the machine where, as I glance over, I can actually see my testicle for the first time in my life. It just rests there like an enormous black and white egg filled with hope and desperation and anxiety and sperm. The quiet resting too heavy on my shoulders, I break it with, “Is it a boy or a girl?”
The Indian Man doesn’t smile at the joke. Instead, he simply states, “It’s a tumor.”
Next week let’s meet up right here again for CHAPTER 1: THE DESERT. And if you think you might miss it, hit that follow button in the bottom right corner and we’ll speak soon!