This is the first installment of many having to do with my ongoing treatment of a dose of cancer discovered this past summer. It is a work in progress – and it is as of this date, nowhere near complete.

Prelude

Cancer is a disease no one wants, but people end up getting it anyway.

Not everyone gets it. But at the same time, the disease seems to make its rounds. When someone gets it, usually he or she will find out about others who either have it or had it. Like going out and buying a car. My wife, Carol and I went last year and purchased a used Chevrolet Spark – a car I have dubbed “The Roller Skate.” Until we made the purchase, I hadn’t noted the things. Now, they’re popping up everywhere.

Is it all psychological, or is that psychiatric?

Back in May of 2021, I learned by way of a colonoscopy that I had rectal cancer. There wasn’t much there. The person doing the colonoscopy removed the mass and referred me to a very good surgeon who made sure that I was clean as a whistle by doing a relatively simple resection of the offending part of my rectum.

My concern at the time centered on what might happen to me. I was sent to Physical Therapy to pump me up with what I needed in the way of strength so that I might withstand what might actually happen when the surgeon cut into me with her scalpel. Words like “Radiation” and “Chemotherapy” were paraded around me with possible timelines that would mean a year taken away from whatever I thought I might be doing in that time.

News of how well the surgery on my rectum went – despite part of it being conducted by a robotic surgeon nicknamed “Karen” by the surgical staff – came from Dr. Palanisamy, an Asian woman who was quite thorough with her evaluation of me. I appreciate her being forthright about what was or would be happening to me. I also very much appreciate her cheery disposition.

It was after the surgery that I started to note the number of people I knew who had been affected by cancer. My parents and both of my aunts had it. Several classmates had lost the battle or were still battling the disease. My stepdaughter’s ex underwent treatment. The same stepdaughter’s new fiancé was diagnosed and was gone within a month.

I came to understand and appreciate that the battle I fought in the summer of 2021 was short, sweet, and successful. As a precaution, Dr. Palanisamy insisted that I have regular check-ups with her and/or her Nurse Practitioner over the next five years. For the first year and a half, those check-ups were quarterly. In October 2022, the check-ups were moved to every six months. Dr. Novosad, the surgeon who worked with “Karen” did regular exams as well, involving KY Jelly and a rubber glove.[1]

All in all, my little bout with “The Big C” was short, sweet, and without incident.

That is, until July 2023.

From July 5 through July 19 I had a series of “Labs”, CAT scans, and MRIs followed by consultations with Dr. Sarver (my Primary Care Physician) and Dr. Palanisamy. By this time, I had been spared the regular exam from Dr. Novosad, although she had ordered the MRI just to keep track of her work.

I met with Dr. Sarver on the 12^th, followed by the CAT scan for Dr. Palanisamy later the same day. The MRI came about the next day.

Dr. Sarver was impressed with my attitude and my bloodwork. He sent me on my merry way.

Since Dr. Novosad said nothing after the MRI, I presumed that everything was peachy-keen with her, too.

My appointment with Dr. Palanisamy was on the 19^th. I was all ready to declare a Trifecta of good health and had all but lined-up a weekend with Carol to celebrate my good fortune.

“It looks as if there is a small growth on the edge of your liver. About 3cm. Not big, really, but we need to find out what it is. The sooner the better.”

So much for the Trifecta.

On to round two.

[1] I could have said something about the exam being degrading, but in the grand scheme of things, it really wasn’t, as most women would testify after having visited a Gynecologist. I had an exam of my testicles done by a young woman many moons ago. I thought that I might have been embarrassed but found that I wasn’t.

It appears as if Cancer runs in the family.

My maternal grandfather had throat cancer for a while. It was found and treated when he was in his mid to late eighties. His voice changed, but he still had a voice when he died, short of his 93^rd birthday.

My mother died of throat cancer when she was 86.

My father died of a melanoma that lodged in his brain. He was only 71 when he passed.

I’m 69.

My first go-round with cancer occured when I was 67. I am about to go to the second round of the journey.

My immediate goal is to make it to at least the end of June 2025. I will at that time pass my father in age.

My long-term goal is to be shot by a jealous lover at the age of 102. Preferably while I am “In the saddle.”

It wasn’t until I had a colonoscopy in May 2021 that I put some of the dots together to conclude that cancer runs in the family. I had heard that there is some correlation between cancer and genetics but never thought that I would be susceptible to the dread disease.

Cancer and tobacco use – I get it. I quit smoking when I was 39… at about the same time my father was under treatment for the melanoma that killed him nearly eight months after I quit. My mother quit smoking when she was about the same age. Her father used tobacco quite literally until the day he died. Mom’s sister was hooked – died of a stroke while she was fighting cancer. Uncle “Mike” was a heavy smoker – he had a massive heart attack after pulling off the side of the Interstate on the way back from the hospital to visit his granddaughter. I have at least two friends who were heavy smokers – one barely made it to 63, the other didn’t make it to fifty… had a backache for most of a summer that was finally diagnosed as lung cancer. He was told to get his affairs in order as he would likely last only four weeks. Ironically, he was a Probate Court judge I saw standing outside of the courthouse in all types of weather feeding his addiction.

Now, colon cancer, in my case, rectal cancer, is one I hadn’t thought of. I took precautions, including a high-fiber diet and regular use of Aspirin, thinking that I was home free. My primary care physician was a bit crazy, in my way of thinking, to suggest that I undergo a colonoscopy. “What could possibly go wrong?” I thought. So, I dragged my feet for several months while he twisted my arm until I finally relented.

There was a night of horror when I ingested a series of pills and large amounts of water while camped out on the toilet… followed by at least three enemas and more cleansing before being wheeled into an operating room where I was given some happy gas to put me asleep for about an hour.

I was barely awake to hear the doctor tell my wife that he found something and was sending it off to the lab to be analyzed. A few days later, the phone call came. I was referred to a surgeon and to physical therapy for what might lie ahead. A worst-case scenario was outlined, involving multiple surgeries along with chemotherapy, lasting at least nine to twelve months.

The surgeon was more optimistic. After undergoing an MRI, she concluded that the mass found in my rectum was localized and had missed linking up with my lymphatic system, meaning that there was little to no chance that the cancer had metastasized. She went ahead and scheduled a resection just to make sure.

On the day of the surgery, my wife and I had a pleasant conversation about the procedure. It would be a robotic surgery performed by a machine nicknamed “Karen.” Apparently, Karen was occasionally fussy to the point that she would “Demand to see the manager!” We had a good laugh about Karen before I went into the operating room.

When I was in recovery, I don’t recall how long after going under, my wife and my surgeon were discussing, among other things, if I would be able to perform sexually when all was said and done. She was assured that I would have no problems, given a few days’ rest.

I had to stay overnight in the hospital, getting little sleep due to irritation in the urethra caused by the tube stuck the wrong way down the one-way street to my bladder. Breakfast the next morning was pleasant – and since it was taking time to get a release, I was offered lunch.

I declined lunch, hoping that the staff would take pity on me and send me home sooner.

There was little pain post-op, other than what I mentioned previously. The dog Filbrix was glad to see that her daddy was back home.

There were follow-ups with the surgeon involving rubber gloves and KY Jelly, as well as follow-ups with an Oncologist and my primary care physician.

My PCP was quite happy with the success of my minor ordeal. He made a point of saying “I told you so” on every succeeding visit.

There were follow-up visits involving blood tests, and sessions with the MRI and the CAT scans. The Surgeon eventually quit examining me, relying on MRI scans every six months or so to check my progress.

A little more than two years since the ordeal of my rectal cancer, my second brush with “The Big C” was about to begin.