Another fucking day in paradise

The day after I get back from IronSpud, I have an appointment to see my oncologist for a routine follow-up. Now, while I know she’d be delighted and impressed with my triathlon exploits, it’s just not like me to brag about those sorts of things – I certainly wouldn’t bring it up myself. If I mention Spud at all, it’ll only be if it gets naturally worked into the conversation. That’s just how I am, low-key and modest.

So I’m waiting in the exam room when in walks Dr. Von Roenn’s assistant or med student or fluffer or whatever you call the person who gathers all the info from you first, relays it to the doctor, so the doc can then walk in and ask you all the same questions. Which I always find a bit odd, but these assistants are always nice as can be, and I figure they’re learning, so it’s fine by me. And there’s continuity, since I see the same ones each time for each doc.

Cynthia: “Hi, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Dr. Von Roe...”
Me: “Woo hoo! IRONMAN!!” I proclaim, lifting my hands in the air with the V-for-victory sign. “Oh, were you saying something?”
Cynthia: “You....what? Seriously?”

We talk and she’s duly impressed, almost out of proportion, telling me that I’m her “hero” and all that, so that makes me clam up, since where’s the fun in that kind of hero worship when it’s coming from other people? At least until Dr. Von Roenn walks into the room.

DVR: “So I hear you did an Ironman?!”
Me, modest as always: “Yeah, I’m a rock star...”

And then last week I went to see the wonderful Dr. Jeruss, and I get the wide-eyed you’re-a-star treatment from Ethan, her fluffer, as well as Dr. Jeruss herself who is so bright and cheerful and congratulatory that she makes me feel silly for being pessimistic about any of this crap, conveying as she does the attitude that it’s all over and done with. Well, plus SHE tells me how awesome I am, so now I’m really getting full of myself.

Then today I have a final followup appointment, where they’re going to also do an ultrasound to check on an ovarian cyst to make sure it hasn’t grown or done anything weird since the last visit. They do the test, and then I wait in the exam room for Dr. Ehrlich to come in, to hear the usual comments about how wonderful I am.

Dr. Ehrlich, bustling in, speaking with no preamble or any of the other bullshit niceties we’re all accustomed to: “Your tests aren’t good – we have a problem.”

Say.....what?

Yes, that pesky cyst has more than doubled in size – and here we’re not talking 1mm to 2mm, but from 2cm to 5cm, so she says it needs to be surgically removed to make sure it's not, you know, cancer. SHIT! WTF! I thought I was DONE with this surgery crap, dammit, other than the boob job (the Rackotomy?) that is. Then she starts talking about ovary removal, and the CA-125 test (she’s starting to explain to me what that is, when I interrupt her: “The tumor markers test.” “Yes.” I want to tell her that there’s no one who knows more about that stuff than your average younger cancer patient.), which basically does tell you how many cancer cells you have teeming through your bloodstream. Like I actually want to know that. I mean I do. But I don’t. I thought I did, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe ignorance is bliss.

So I walk out of there after making my subsequent appointments, and as I go off on my merry way, I’m getting more and more pissed off and surly. Sure, it’s probably just a benign cyst, but that’s what the lump was supposed to be, and we all know how THAT turned out.

And in addition to getting pissed off, one of the first other thoughts to enter my head was this: no matter what, I am determined, determined dammit, as god is my witness, I WILL take up smoking! And succeed at it! No, really - I need SOME kind of vice to make this all a bit more palatable, in my view. I mean, this is ridiculous, every time answering their questions the same way: “No, I don’t smoke, never have, don’t really drink, I work out a lot, blah blah blah.” Whatever! Enough!

So smoking it is, and I’m going to start drinking heavily, and instead of salmon and blueberries for dinner, it’s going to be all........corndogs from now on, yeah, that’s it. Corndogs wrapped in bacon! And fuck the exercise! Well, except for the fact that I love riding my bike for hours on end. Hmm. Okay, a compromise – I’m giving up....swimming! Yeah, that’s it. That shouldn’t be too tough, quite frankly. And...and....okay, that’s all I can think of. For now. Suggestions welcome.

With newfound resolve, on my way to pick up Richie, the Dobe I’m watching for the next week, I stop at the Jewel, once I finally find one. I guess people in Skokie and Evanston only need delis, to get something to nosh on once in a while. The grocery store I do find, well, remember Billy Crystal playing a verklempt Jewish old man? It’s that in spades. Average age of 80, these little old Jewish people there to socialize on a Friday afternoon. Not that I’m in a hurry, but it’s still a bit ridiculous. And everywhere you look, not just kosher food, but entire kosher sections. I ask you, how do mashed potatoes, for example, get to be kosher? They don’t tolerate any bloodletting when they dig the potatoes out of the ground? What’s the deal? And WHY exactly does this Jewel not have sour mix for my cocktails??

And then there’s the checkout – and here, let’s just say it upfront – I will clearly burn in hell for the comments I am about to make. But they’re all true. The checkout – it’s like the Saturday Night Live version of Jewish People Go Shopping on the Kibbutz. Every stereotype you can think of, playing out right there in front of me. I’m the third person in line, and I think it takes me half and hour to get through it. Well, 3 ½th person, since the woman in front of me separates her stuff into two parts to be checked out separately, for no discernible reason. EVERYONE around me has coupons. The first person dickers with the checkout girl about the prices on everything. The next person complains about how her groceries are being bagged. I start poking myself in the eye with a dull spoon, because that’s less painful than this, and then when I’m done, bolt out of there, so surly at that point that I almost lay on the horn to a police van that’s driving like an asshat. And yes, I know it’s a police van. But there’s a light, they pull into the left turn lane, then when the light turns green, they don’t turn, but head into the oncoming lanes so they can cut in front of me and then turn right on the next block WITHOUT a turn signal. Asshats. What, the badge takes away your ability to understand the basic rules of the road?

I will note that as I was going about my business, I was wearing my “Fuck Awareness, Find a Cure” t-shirt, similar to my race shirt but made and sold by a young woman on the YSC message boards who has since died. I’m almost willing someone to say something to me, because I have my response ready, to be relayed with a sympathetic smile: “Oh, I’m sorry – you seem to have confused me with someone who gives a shit about what you think.” Alas, nothing. I think they take one look at my face.....and know better.

When I get home, I set about making my amaretto stone sour, the drink du jour (or it will be, as I embrace smoking AND drinking! So there!), sans sour mix. But you know, the lemon drop mix I have in the frig makes a good substitute, and the Tri Club water bottle (which I in general don’t use because it’s made out of the Very Bad Plastic) makes a good drink mixer/shaker. Oh, and did I mention that this past week was my 1-year Cancerversary? Bottoms up!