Rumour Control

I don't have cancer.

It's a dumb thing to say, but having returned from the clinic, it's a good thing to say.  So here's the story I didn't tell people.

I found a lump.  I was checking because I had an odd pain.  So I went in, sat the clinic waiting room and explained my predicament.  When the doctor uttered that cliche phrase about Early Detection, it was oddly quiet.

Waiting for the ultra-sound appointment was not much fun.  My boss at the sweatshop asked me why I was especially pale. Telling him I could maybe, almost, on a long-shot, have fucking cancer, and that I was scared as shit, well, that wasn't a good few seconds -- it's something you can hide from yourself until you say it too.

At the ultra-sound, I boggled at well-supplied they were, until I understood they go through the gel crap like they got it at fucking costco, and I would say they sent me on my slippery slimy way but there, on the way out, I saw it and shit became a little more real there because it was a fucking spot.  A spot.  Black and gangly on white.  And no rush to blank the screen is going to un-burn that sickening, damning, filthy image from my retina.

Work gets a little more surreal than normal for a bit.  The clucking HR people cluck about the United Way, but there was a spot.  Did you see that TV show last night where .. there was a spot.  Wow, was #8 in a super snit this morning, and really there was a spot.  The policy around the procedure for the process of performing the task really doesn't matter for shit because there.  was.  a.  spot.

And it's been three days that you've been looking ghostly and haunted by the spot.  And they say no news is good news and they say it'll take 2 weeks but it'll also take 2 business days, and it's been three days, so they should know by now, and you phone and you phone and you phone until they suggest maybe you need to find a hobby, sir, and you weren't at work because, really, who the fuck cares about those quacking shit-bubbles and their fucking snow day policy and the geezer's rambling and the bully's empty threats?  Don't they know there was a spot?!?  And now you can't call to see if the results came back?

And then it's the weekend, and there's nothing you can do, and maybe there's some giving up, and you don't do so much, and maybe you just wait, and maybe it's okay, and you're back at work, and it's almost a good day because the geezer is out and the bully's hunched over his computer, typing with his hamfists on the little keyboard, and it's kinda funny because it reminds you of when they make tall adults ride on kids' tricycles, ha ha ha ha, and you float along a bit, but you should call the clinic because you need to move an appointment and oh yeah, they don't have your new cell number and maybe you should update it and we all know why you're calling.  And they open with "we're glad you phoned.  We don't have your new number and we've been trying to reach you since Friday afternoon after you stopped calling, and, well" (and here's the nuke) "the doctor should really explain it."

I actually found myself laughing at me worrying how my hair will look when I'm bald as hell, with all my dents and scars, and what if they have to cut out too much, and really, how little is too much, right?  And I sleep a bit and go into the sweatshop again, and I watch the clock all freakin' day, and I try to look busy, and I don't say much because I can't be sure it's what I know it must be, because they said the magic phrase, and holy fuck am I going to fucking die at this goddamned job after 22 rounds of fucking chemo and them cutting bits and pieces off me, and what if we do have a soul and they cut that part out, and it's only 2:30, dammit, and I should probably be unconcerned, despite the fact that they said the phrase, but I don't want my entire gift to my chosen field of expertise be so insignificant, and why did I have to waste the last few decades, and why did I never go to Coney Island, and what are the clucking shit-bubbles talking about now with a 5-sickday-per-year policy, cuz you're going to crush that like the fist of an angry cancer god, and, and, and ..

And I go into the doctor's office, which is as empty as the Sad Scene in a movie, and I'm into the private office in minutes, and the doc takes forever to come see me, and I've imagined he's steeling himself for the bad news because he's not telling me yes or no but really giving me a number, and that's how much time I have, and I'm waiting, and I'm waiting, and just as I wonder if I could be waiting so long that I could actually have another birthday in this office, and once I've decided that it's a decent enough trade-off, and that I'd like my birthday present, and it's been more than 20 minutes, the doctor comes in and tells me the most wonderful word ever invented:

benign.

And nothing else mattered.

Get yourself checked, kids, and make sure you're with someone who can be brave enough for the two of you when it counts.