You know those statistics that say "rare case… 1 in 100,000"? I think they may be talking about my family. Given the amount of creative action we see, it seems about right.
My husband was diagnosed with colon cancer in the summer of 2022. Only after numerous ER visits, scans, and the feeling of transitional labor did we get someone to listen. That and maybe my radiation of energy that was nothing short of double dog daring them to continue to downplay his symptoms. Being that he never ever complains of pain, I knew it was serious when he said he didn't feel well. I can't begin to imagine how he holds his "cards close to [his] chest" as he says. You would think it's the next Mount Kilimanjaro getting ready to erupt just below the surface. The doctors still didn't think it was cancer even after colonoscopies they couldn't complete because of a blockage. Or a mass of cells that had balled up his colon and intestines. Surgery to remove it? To take out a portion of each? Nah the doctor said "it just doesn't look like it".
So we sat for days on the cancer floor… it was the only place with a bed albeit twice when he had been admitted for "gastric issues ". Where they seemingly starved him for days waiting for the irritation to die down. The irritation of course being this undiagnosed cancer. No matter the push I was always told I was not right. Until, I was. After the surgery the mass was sent to pathology. Routine it was. Despite me saying "it's cancer". I was overreacting they said. Right cause what do I know about the man I've been married to for 25 years? Dated all throughout college? Loved and lost many times together. Apparently in the medical world love didn't count this time. Until it did.
This particular day we were in his room listening to the power washing of the side of the building. Hedging insignificant bets on when it would hit our room. I call it that because by this point I had refused to leave him. I was sleeping in a chair that only stayed reclined if I kept my leg hyperextended because it wouldn't lock in recline. But I digress. We hear the surgeon coming down the hall, the cowboy boots announced his arrival far before anything else. He and his PA come in and begin to talk about the surgery, the cell mass. And just as he is describing that the mass of cells had actually encapsulated something rarely seen. The power washing hits our wall and a mist of debris and deafening noise fills the room. "You have" he bellows over the sounds. And as he projects his words "cancer " is announced as the power wash goes silent. That was the loudest noise I've ever felt. This word cancer. Even though my gut had known all along, it sucker punched me.
As we were upgraded to a quieter much larger room that had fabulous furniture and a silent apology for the imposed agony that he had endured while waiting for someone to listen to his body. Suddenly the nurses were much kinder. He was allowed to eat. Our world changed, forever.
Our poor children were left to fend for themselves that summer. But for a handful of loving friends and neighbors, they took care of themselves. Every ER run. Every hospitalization. Uber eats. Big sister delivery. Kroger grocery pick ups. The amenities that many used during Covid became our lifeline. Family offered to come and stay but it isn't until now that I realized we could have used the help. For in the moment it was us, our chaos squad who got by with a little help from our friends.
Because it's not supposed to be this way. He had an A-typical presentation. The 1% or something. So why make a big deal about no big deal? Except it was. It still is. He endured months of needles to his port and handfuls of daily pills that killed the cells - both good and bad. He slept and worked and carried on in his normal Warrior way. He's been cancer free a few months now, yet the side effects still linger. It's hard to know what they are really like because we can't see his cards.
The upside of this? We found out who really cares. Who is not all talk and who gets running away when the going gets tough. I will be forever grateful for the friends who helped my kids have fun that summer. Who picked up groceries. Who shared meals. And I will remember the ones who didn't.
They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Our family is made of Teflon or some hard metal stuff that sounds like Teflon. We still can't always sleep, and we worry, and we're sensitive. But we know we can always count on our chaos 6 (+1 fiancé), to help keep our sanity.
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