Who has time for Cancer?

I am 44 and I have cancer. Actually, I was 43 when I was diagnosed. Just 2 days shy of my birthday. Happy bleepin’ birthday, right? I was hoping for something from Nordstrom, cancer.

This is the first time I have truly acknowledged those words. The first time it was lip service, or pen. I posted a FB status update to quell the rumors that would abound. (I now live in a small town where people talk. People talk everywhere, but it’s most concentrated in small towns.) Had I not set forth with the truth, I’d be scheduled for a lobotomy sometime this week. That may indeed come, but not now. For now, I have colorectal cancer. Yes, I am a 44 year old woman with colorectal cancer. No, I am not like Farah Fawcett. I do not own a red bathing suit, or have feathered hair; and I do not have ANAL cancer. Same hemisphere, but completely different. I have been diagnosed with colorectal cancer which is most common in men, and, apparently, in smoking, overweight, unexercised, poor-eating, and generally unfit individuals. Not always, but often. I am none of these.

For the past several months, I had been feeling different. My bowel habits had changed — yes, I am going there. I was regular, but gassy and bloated. And not Mexican bloated. We’re talking bloated like there’s something else there that you just can’t get out. My husband, who is 45 and not going through a mid-life crisis, said, “You’re probably lactose intolerant or gluten intolerant.” Maybe no mid-life crisis, but he’s apparently buying into the new age bullshit about all of these dietary intolerances that we develop as we age. I always have been a clean eater, but also have a cast iron stomach. I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want and it doesn’t affect me. So, on those binge nights where too much of everything is consumed, I’m all good. But then the blood appeared. “I think I have cancer.”

As with many things, he thought I was crazy. Still thinks I’m crazy, and admittedly so, but for myriad other reasons. I knew something was woefully wrong for I had never felt this way. I was a collegiate swimmer and exercise advocate. I’ve run marathons and delivered two 10 and 9 pound babies — vaginally! I know my body. This was different. This was RED FLAG, RED FLAG! Something is amiss! You need to see a doctor. Now.

SO, without a second thought, I picked up the phone on Monday, June 1, and called a recommended GI specialist in the area. I heard the receptionist’s eye roll as I divulged all of the details. “Do you have a referral?” Me: “Ummmm. Yes. My friend…she’s a nurse…” I knew that wasn’t going to get me anywhere, but figured I’d work it. “Honey, you need a referral from a doctor.” DUH. Yes, of course I know this, lady receptionist who clearly doesn’t like her job. Have some sympathy for me, please. I’m 43 and blood is emerging from yonder regions and I don’t think that’s normal!!! “Ok, how about June 22?” she said in an I-need-to-go-to-lunch voice. Deflated, I responded that that would work.

June 3, the last week of school for my kids. Symptoms flared and worsened. I called the GI receptionist again — a mere 48 hours later — and this time, I begged. “Would you please, please get me in to see the doctor? Mentally, I am in agony and simply cannot wait until June 22 to see him. There is something seriously wrong with me and summer is here! My kids will be home. The pool is open. Baseball season is in full swing. I can’t do this.” She either cared or was tired of hearing this entitled suburbanite blather on. “Wait a minute.” Silence. “Can you come in this Friday at 12:15? It’s our lunch hour, but the only time he can see you.” Done.

I went alone. While I thought something was REALLY wrong, I didn’t want to trouble anyone. Part denial and part being strong willed. I can do it. I don’t need help. It’s a doctor’s appointment. No big deal. The nurse did her job: weight, height, BP, pulse, plus all of the standard questions. “No, no, no, no,” I answered. I was not a smoker, not a diabetic, not overweight, not experiencing pain, blah blah, blah. Yet, I was in the GI doctor’s office waiting to learn my fate from a man I had never met.

The door opened and in walked this salty-haired man who firmly shook my hand and reminded me of my dad. “Your BP is 100/70, your pulse is 56, your weight is 131, and you are 5'10”. I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with you. You probably need to make some dietary changes and drink more water.” Had he been drinking my husband’s Kool Aid? “But, we’ll take a look just to make sure,” he stated pragmatically.

If you’ve never had a rectal exam — which I hadn’t — you can probably imagine the sequence of events. No coughing, no head turning, no jiggling of any sort. Rather, you curl yourself on the exam table in the fetal position and snap! On goes the glove and Mr. Finger makes a visit. There’s no other way to describe it. There is no preparing for someone’s finger to be thrust up your ass. It’s a job and somebody’s got to do it. When there are so many other professions in the medical field, why oh why would anyone choose this one? At least an OB/GYN has the pleasure of bringing life into the world. But these guys? Not much titillating about the poop canal. That is, until there’s something there.

Radio silence. “You found something, didn’t you?” We had moved from the finger to an actual device — a protoscope. The doctor was dictating location and measurments to a nurse whose face had gone sheet-white. I was still in the fetal position as he cleaned me up attempting to restore my dignity. “We need to talk.” And with that, they left the room.

Almost like when you’re waking from sleep but can hear muffled voices, those are the sounds I heard in the hallway…needs a colonoscopy, CT scan, possible MRI. Was he referring to me? Me — the athletic 43 year old woman with no medical history whatsoever? Me — the woman with 2 little boys and a husband who likes Kool Aid but likes me more? Me — the woman with no pain to speak of but some annoying symptoms albeit some unwanted blood? HOW could this be me they were talking about? I’m too young. Screening only begins at 50. This can’t be me.

I won’t bore you with the remainder of the day’s visit. It was grim. I was alone — by choice — and shocked. I was zombie-shocked. I could only stare ahead. But it was me being whispered about. It is me. I am the face of colorectal cancer. I have a friend who got upset with that term. But I am. I am the face. I am here to tell you that if it can happen to me, it can happen to anyone. And if I have cancer for no other reason than to educate people, then that is my mission. Colorectal cancer does not discriminate. It doesn’t care that you’ve lived a clean life or that you’ve never smoked or that you have a family. It just doesn’t care. But I do and throughout this journey I’m going to make it my business to make people aware.

To be continued…