Twelve years ago this week I was told three life changing words: “You have cancer.”
It didn’t exactly come as a surprise. I’d been dealing with continual hoarseness with no definitive diagnosis since late 2000. But it was still one of those moments when time seemed to stand still.
I had no health insurance, but thankfully—somehow—I managed to qualify for Medicaid. This at least eased the worry of how I was going to pay for any required treatment and though I was now out of work (after the diagnosis and a week in the hospital my contracting position was “eliminated”) and eeking by on unemployment and the kindness of friends and family, I knew all my medical expenses would be covered.
I found both a great Otolaryngologist as well as a Radiation Oncologist. I approached this ordeal knowing that I would make it through to the other side of treatment and beat this thing that had been dropped into my life. That was never in question. I wasn’t about to let a clump of cells less than half the size of a pencil eraser destroy my life.
Alter my life, yes. Completely redirect the course I was on, yes—although neither of those were particularly conscious decisions.
The next six months were hell; there’s no denying that fact. Seven weeks of radiation therapy left my throat so burned and inflamed that all I could mange to eat was pudding, jello, and Ensure. Occasionally I could manage some well-cooked pasta with mild sauce. I laughed at the time that one unexpected and welcome side effect of all this was that I lost 40 pounds. I looked great.
Toward the end of the therapy however, I was so sore even the maximum dose of Oxycodone wasn’t helping alleviate the pain, and oftentimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night sobbing. I did a lot of reading during those long, sleepless nights.
I asked my doctors if I’d ever get my voice back (because there were several weeks when I was left unable to speak at all) and they said, “You won’t get your old voice back, but you will have a voice.”
Considering the alternative, that was a welcome prognosis.
After the treatments were completed and my throat had healed somewhat, a biopsy was taken of the previously affected area in my larynx. The tests came back negative. The radiation had been successful. And thankfully this particular type of cancer was one that had one of the least chances of recurrence.
Over the next couple months, the pain and inflammation subsided and I was able to speak again (now with a voice that reminded me of an elderly woman or a young child, especially on the phone) and once again return to eating regular food.
Where did it come from? Everyone—including my doctors—were baffled because I’d never smoked and never drank to excess (the two leading causes of laryngeal cancer). But while I haven’t been tested, at this point it I would almost guarantee the source was HumanPappilomavirus, something that at the time was just starting to be correlated with the disease and contracted no doubt during an episode of unprotected oral sex during my wilder days in the underbrush of Golden Gate Park—or any number of other venues. (I won’t make apologies for not sticking a condom on every dick I sucked because I weighed the risks based on available knowledge at the time and found them acceptable.)
Anyhow…
When my five year anniversary arrived—the point at which one is generally labeled “cured” (or “in remission”)—I decided to mark the occasion by getting my first tattoo. Those of you who have been with me during this crazy blogging journey know how that turned out.
My semi-annual checkups kept coming back clean, so when the ten year anniversary rolled around I celebrated it with another tattoo (this time done properly) and breathed a healthy sigh of relief. Even though I’d been told repeatedly “You’re fine. You’re cured,” until that ten year anniversary arrived I’d always felt that perpetual Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. In fact, it wasn’t until my last checkup about six months ago that I reached the point where I felt I really could finally relax.
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