The Malignancy
This is part of a series. Below is a piece I wrote on Nov. 7, 2012, aka the day after. Danielle and I were living together at this point, a fact I remain as thankful for today as I did on that morning.
Wedding Planning Tip #17: Sometimes, despite really wanting to just sleep in on a Saturday, you’re going to find yourself wide awake at 6:30 a.m. mentally skimming through a list of action items on your wedding planning spreadsheet. Don’t fight it. Make a cup of coffee, sit on the couch with your cat, and stare into the morning fog of San Francisco, or whichever beautiful place you happen to live, unless that place is Boston, in which case, well, I’m sorry.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon, November 6, 2012 — election day — and I’m lying on my back on a table with my pants pulled down as a man rubs jelly on my scrotum. My doctor thinks the thing is a hydrocele, a build-up of fluid in the testicle that causes swelling. That’s what I told Danielle, who for obvious reasons is acquainted with the thing: it’s a hydrocele, a plain old boring everyday hydrocele. A hydrocele is nothing to be concerned about (although for god’s sake don’t google it).
The man with the jelly and the ultrasound wand is a jovial goombah, like a cousin from The Sopranos, with a salt and pepper goatee and a sense of humor I imagine comes with the territory: So whadda we got goin’ on down der on wit da boys?
I ask the goombah if he can discern anything on his monitor. His demeanor changes to that of a DMV attendant when he informs me that my doctor will review the results with me. I attempt to parse the goombah’s body language. If it’s nothing — if the thing is not the thing — then he probably just says so right? Keeps making jokes, keeps the mood light. Nuttin ta worry about down der capicola mortadella.
But if it’s the thing…
And yet! Maybe it’s just policy not to say anything, no matter what, keep it all between the patient and his doctor. Yes, that’s it, that’s definitely it. Ten minutes into these matters I am an expert in them.
After we finish up, the goombah tells me to sit in the waiting room while he consults with a doctor. I sit. He returns and tells me I can leave. I leave. As I’m walking across the parking lot of the medical center my phone rings. It’s my doctor, Jeffery.
“Garrett, are you still in the parking lot? Can you come up to my office right now?”
It’s 5:00 p.m. so the office is closed for the day. This is not good. Urgency is not something doctors employ when delivering good news; good news can wait until the next business day. I push the button for the fourth floor, then mistakenly get off at the second. I dash up two flights of stairs, walk into the office, catch my breath. The lights of the waiting room are off. There’s no check-in in at the desk, no sitting around reading months-old copies of Time. Jeffery instructs me to follow him into a room, asks me to sit down.
“So how long have you had this thing? Has it gotten bigger? Have you noticed any redness or itching?”
He asks a bunch of questions, fishing for some new detail we may not have previously discussed that would upend this emerging theory that this thing is the thing we were hoping it was not. No, yes, no, yes. I know the answer at this point. It’s hanging in the air like a bubble that needs to be popped. Jeffery’s voice is soft, comforting, and compassionate, but definitive all the same.
Because… they think it’s a malignancy.
A malignancy. That’s cancer right? Is that cancer? I should ask if malignancy = cancer. In the past I always confused the terms malignant and benign. Malignant sounds like “malaise,” as in the tumor’s just sitting there, not doing a whole lot. Benign has that long “I” sound, like “night” and “fight” — bad things, dark things. Which is the bad thing again? It’s “malignant.” “Malignant” is the bad thing. So then what’s a malignancy? I should ask. I should ask questions. This is all about asking the right questions, getting answers, not being afraid to look stupid.
“Take a deep breath,” Jeffery says.
I start crying.
This is it. This is cancer. It hits me. It doesn’t hit me.
“It’s going to take a second to hit you,” Jeffery says.
There’s this feeling I’ve experienced a few times in my life. It’s like a premonition except there are no images or anything. I don’t see the future and it’s not supernatural. It’s simply this flash of certainty, as blunt and boring as a stubbed toe, that nothing will ever be the same after this moment. I will have to miss some work. There will be one million doctor’s appointments. There will be gurneys and IVs. There will be tears and flowers and get-well cards. I will need to miss a few meetings. Could I, like, die? I have emails that require responses and have yet to finish my departmental goals worksheet. Lance Armstrong. This might affect thanksgiving. There will be meds and insurance paperwork and odds, as in odds of survival. I just want to see Danielle. I want to see her and hug her and cry forever.
Jeffery explains how this is going to work. He’s made me an emergency appointment with a urologist, Dr. — I shit you not — Rodman Rogers. We are to see this man the following afternoon. There will be tests, biopsies, experts. We’ll draw up a plan. It may involve losing the testicle. They have artificial testicles. We might consider an artificial testicle. Would I consider an artificial testicle? I am to email if I have questions. Do I have any questions right now?
I do not have any questions. I have every question anyone could possibly hope to ever ask ever.
I ride my bike home at dusk, along a route I’ve ridden hundreds of times. Down the hill along Duboce, right on Sanchez, left at 14th, down the hill at 14th and Dolores, a sweeping descent that lasts six blocks. I hit all green lights. The last hour of sun is spraying the East Bay red-orange, reflecting off of Oakland high-rises and the hillside homes of Berkeley. I’m crying, I’m trying not to cry. I’m wondering if the motorists and other bikers notice my face, this contorted thing. There’s no possible way any of them can know: That guy was just told he has cancer and is trying to pull it together on his way home so he can tell his girlfriend the news in something approaching a calm, collected way, because that is what’s needed right now: clear, composed communication. I get home. I throw my bike in the garage, go up the back stairs. Danielle is sitting there — oh thank god she’s home! There’s no other way to do this: suck it up, pull it together. I fall apart. Her eyes go wide: What’s the matter baby?
On the television, Obama is pulling ahead. In a few hours, they’ll call the election. He will win. Four more years of peace and prosperity. Hip-hip, hooray. Celebrate good times.
Tomorrow, we’ll go to the doctor.
