I always take the long way home

The rage is almost unbearable. The thought that Betsy Devos dicked around with this for AN ENTIRE YEAR, bleating about “a joint thing!” and “I’m not worried!” and “it can’t be anything since the pain comes and goes!” and on and on. I have one last appointment with her after I get back, for some bloodwork. My speech is prepared; I’m going to tell her what I think of her.

But then, I can’t do it. I’m a fraud. I think I’m still in shock that this is the way all of this is going down. Seriously?? On top of the shit summer I’ve had, now this? Betsy clearly knows she screwed up; she tells me that WHATEVER I want, any prescription, anything I need, let her know and she’ll take care of it. A few days later I message her for an Ativan prescription, and that puppy is at the drugstore in no time flat.  Good thing too, because the thought of waiting until October 2^nd for my surgery is in fact making me extremely anxious. Clearly, drugs will be my friend, and will put me at stage 3 on the Kuebler-Ross scale, ie “bitter and drugged up but slightly less obsessive.”

In the meantime, I have one more trip, back to IL for a get-together with old high school classmates. At the same time, I cram in as many visits with other friends as I can, since I don’t know when I’ll be back in Illinois. Friday night, this involved meeting up with the tri girls at a hopping establishment in Ukrainian Village, leading to a series of text messages.

Robyn: We’re never again letting Tasha pick the bar out for us.

Me: What? Stariy Lviv is a classic!

Robyn: I asked for a gin and soda water. The woman told me they have two kinds of soda: Coke and Sprite.

Me: Aaand? That sounds right to me.

Robyn: Yes. IN UKRAINE.

 

I’m happy to note that after a few shots and a couple of Будьмо!"s here and there, everyone was happy, especially after the delectable varenyky made by the bartender’s mom. It was lovely hanging out with the tri girls, and when Robyn told us her tale of woe, well, it truly put everything into perspective.

Robyn: Not to discount Tasha’s cancer but……..my shower curtain rod fell down and it’s just been a disaster to deal with.

Sometimes it hurts to laugh so hard.

* * * * * * * *

I’m also fuming about things that might not occur to (cough) more “mainstream” people. I’m staying with my old friend Laura in Northbrook when I’m in IL, and I have grievances. Lots of grievances.

Me: And you know what ELSE?

Laura: What’s that?

Me: What if it’s cancer and I have 6 months to live thanks to Betsy, and now, here I am, and I haven’t had a chance to have the wedding and shower payback I deserve! ALL THOSE YEARS of wedding after kid’s birthday and baby shower and lingerie shower and blah blah blah and I get NOTHING. That’s bullshit!

Laura: But…I thought you said you have too much stuff?

Me: THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT! I don’t want stuff! It’s the principle of the thing!

Laura: You should have a…..a Cancer Shower!

Me: That’s it! YES. A big-ass party where people have to wear what I tell them to and donate to my favorite charities like Save the Manatees and it’ll be festive and obligatory and the best Cancer Shower ever.

Laura: Yeah it might be the ONLY Cancer Shower ever…..

Me: What’s that?

Laura: Oh, nothing! Great idea!

* * * * * * *

Now that I have an actual diagnosis, I’m not exactly shouting it from the rooftops, but am telling the people who I’ve discussed my maladies with, when I see them. This leads to a bit of cancer redux, and it’s not good.

The other day, as I’m out in the garden, I see a neighbor with whom I’ve had many many many conversations about our respective ailments: his hip problems, my unknown leg/hip problems, with both of us limping around. I even asked him at one point how his hip problem was diagnosed, when I was trying to think of tests that Betsy might actually run.

Me: Hey, how’s it going?

Neighbor: I’m having my next hip surgery in December!

Me: Glad you’re getting that one over with too! And I finally have an update on my leg problem.

Neighbor: Which? Oh, your knee?

Me: Umm, no. The whole leg/hip/back thing I’ve had for months, where I couldn’t walk?

Neighbor: Oh right.

Me: Blah blah mass blah blah surgery blah thanks Betsy.

Neighbor:…..(says nothing, mouth agape)

Me, after a pause: Yeah, I know, it’s kind of shocking whe…

Neighbor, interrupting: Hey, I really have to go, I really gotta go pee.

Seriously? Are you fucking kidding me? As I turn away in silence and go back to the garden, I hear him yell “I’m sure it’ll all be fine!” and I mutter to myself, oh sure, cancer is always fine, and you can go fuck yourself. For the first time since all this crap started, I’m brought back rather harshly to CancerWorld, where people disappear or they say stupid things and you’re left all on your own to deal with an incomprehensible medical system, crazy bills, feeling like crap, and endless contemplating of one’s mortality. Sure, everything will be just fine.

Then there’s the friend who, when I told him what was going on, within the context of an evening of ax throwing, just…said nothing. Sat there and smiled. And when I mentioned I might seriously need a malpractice lawyer, he commented on a potential job offer he had received from a law firm that does malpractice, but he’d need to commute. This one just stunned me into speechlessness. Look, people, it’s not hard. There’s a LOT of pablum out there that makes for decent (or at least inoffensive) responses.

“Oh, I’m sorry, that sucks.”

“Ugh, that’s horrible.”

“OMG you’re kidding A WHOLE YEAR??”

“FUCKING BETSY!”

See? Not that difficult. I can forgive young people who haven’t navigated enough of the world and might stumble over what to say, but people in their 40s+? No. Just no. Get it together, people, and act like adults.

Speaking of ax throwing, yes, I went to a cider bar that had the opportunity to practice one’s ax throwing skills on Friday the 13^th. I of course wore my “Do Epic Shit” t-shirt in honor of Cancerchick Paige, who died recently, and left us all with a great example of how to live. Fiercely, badassedly, and of course, doing epic shit. Always.

 

 * * * * * * *

“Cori, I must be dying.”

This is my latest call to Cori.

“No, really. You know how I had to cancel Cycle Oregon because Ragbrai was such a shitshow and I couldn’t bike? Well, I had bought travel insurance in case the ride was cancelled, but I figured they’d try to weasel out of paying for this since it wasn’t an injury like a broken leg or something.”

“I just got a text, a week after I filled out the form, that I’d be getting a full refund. They must have called Betsy’s office and she told them that she fucked up, and ‘FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY GIVE HER WHATEVER MONEY SHE WANTS, SHE’S PISSED OFF ENOUGH AS IT IS!’”

Cori seems skeptical, but I’m sure of it. I mean, I’m happy to have the refund, but since when do insurance companies pay out right out of the gate? Never. I’m doomed.

* * * * * *

For some reason, I’m now becoming obsessed with Gilda Radner and the fact of her not coming out of surgery. She didn’t want to be put under because she was positive she wouldn’t awaken…..and she didn’t. Somehow, I feel I can make a point about this to my surgeon while keeping it light-hearted, and I don’t know what the fuck  all I was thinking with that, but then I read an article that talked about the 10 months her doctors ignored her symptoms, with one of the last ones being “sharp pain up and down her right leg,” after which they “removed a grapefruit-sized mass from her abdomen” and well at that point I decided this all was hitting a bit too close to home.

At least I know I won’t have any “unknown” or random babbling about Gilda while I’m going into surgery, as I’ve made my aversion to Versed very clear. Versed, aka the “forgetting drug,” as I call it. Never again. If I wanted to be yammering about stupid stuff and not remember any of it later, I’d go back to doing shots of peach schnapps like I did in college, so no thanks.

* * * * * * *

A week ago I got a call from a scheduler at the hospital, who told me that there had been a cancellation, and that I could have my surgery on September 25^th instead of October 2^nd. Did I want to switch? Oh hell yes. One less week of being insanely stressed sounds pretty good to me. Yes, twos of readers, my surgery is this morning. I had my pre-op appointment yesterday, and alas, even after a CT scan, I have no more information than I did before. The possible scenarios range from them going in and removing the ovary and mass with no problem, to them finding cancer and things stuck together and having to do a full gut-opening exploratory thing. That’s the nerve-wracking part, ie going into surgery and not having any idea of what things will be like when you wake up. If you wake up.

When I ride my bike for miles and miles and find the happiness that always seems so elusive, I do a lot of thinking. Much of that thinking is about my stupid, cursed life, and how it got to this point, but I also sometimes think about the fact that we never truly know what other people are thinking or feeling or going through. Maybe that person with a short fuse has just found out she might have cancer, or that sad surly guy has a dog that just died.  Yes, there are a lot of jerks out there, and we don’t have to be nice to everyone. But sometimes it soothes me to think: we are all just walking each other home.

That’s all.

We are all just walking each other home.