Spoiler Alert/Disclaimer: This is not a story about cancer.
I found myself in a doctor’s office last Friday. An orthopedist. I had an annual physical on Wednesday morning, and beyond the usual/unusual pleasantries of an annual physical for men over forty, I mentioned the acute pain I’ve been unable to overcome in my right knee. “Is it time to do something about this?” my doctor asked. It had been affecting my ability and willingness to work out. To play tennis, squash, racquetball…damn, I miss these. Basketball? That’s years beyond me, now. My only passion these days is to keep cycling. I wish I could get better, faster, stronger. But I seem to hit a limit with my knee, ankle, hip. So, I said, “yes.” I was ready to take a step to get better.
I walked to my Friday morning doctor’s appointment. Limped, actually, in true irony, the half mile to his office. (Kinda felt like an idiot walking in there…surely if I could walk to my appointment, I didn’t need the attention. Surely I should be strong enough to continue enduring the pain.)
They took four x-rays of my right knee on Friday morning. I filled out all of the requisite forms, and then waited, surrounded by people who surely, definitively, needed and deserved more medical attention than I did. I felt guilty being there. I’m forty-one. I’m overweight, have high blood pressure, but I try to be good. I care about my diet, probably drink too many beers, but eat veggies and fruits constantly. Fibers, whole grains, all in. Processed foods, minimal. In short, I drew the short gene straw and am lacking will power, but I’m trying. I’m infinitely healthier than I was four years ago, thanks to the loving and powerful influence of my wife. But my knee was likely condemned to an early demise thanks to years of baseball (as a catcher), an ill-conceived and fruitless basketball career, and several years of unnecessary and reckless rugby tacked on in college and beyond.
The doctor had his diagnosis before I met him. He had had the time to read the x-rays, and he didn’t need to share them with me. He came in to the exam room, we exchanged pleasantries, he asked a few questions about my background. He shared his astonishment at the degree of arthritis in my knee, astounded I was only forty-one with a knee that looked twenty years older. He gave a cursory look at my knee, but he already knew what he needed to know.
I guess that I was an atypical patient for him — much younger than the usual patient. I wasn’t there due to a worker’s comp injury. I’m working on my Ph.D. So we laughed about IRB proposals, and the exhaustion of course work, the zaniness of placebo cases in different studies, and strange European approaches to knee pain. I asked if he thought it would be wise for me to pursue Eastern medicine — I love acupuncture, but he explained that the degree of damage in my knee, and the bone-on-bone pain I’m experiencing, was beyond the promise of that. So, he introduced the three treatment options before me: 1) Cortisone shots, every 2–3 months until they don’t work, assuming they do; 2) Gel injections, which won’t last much longer, but might be worth it for a few years; and, 3) Stem cell injections, which sounded super cool and immensely appealing to me, but which he was quick to talk down because they aren’t as life-altering as they sound. That was clearly the third option. The fourth, and final, and eventual, will be knee replacement.
We opted for Cortisone, reasonably. The first, least insidious, most reasonable option. He asked if I had any issues with needles. I said no, though couldn’t, wouldn’t, and don’t claim to be a huge fan.
He left the room, promised the nurse would be in shortly. I was left to my thoughts. What would the needle look like? Truly, how large did it need to be? What the hell had I gotten myself into? Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut and continue to fight through the pain?
The nurse came in shortly thereafter, and prepped the syringe and injection. She left the room.
I sat there staring at all of it. And I panicked.
I know there are much larger needles out there, but this was the largest I had ever seen firsthand as a threat to entering my body. Damn, that thing was thick, and long. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories about Cortisone injections, and they all snowballed in my mind.
Why had I allowed myself to be subjected to this torture? Grin and bear it, limp through the pain, fight another day. Surely it had to be better than this.
That’s when I started crying uncontrollably. Not for my own pain, or the fear thereof.
Because of the pain that I know Susan and Aunt Judy lived through, in their failing attempts to hang on to life, as breast cancer spread through their bodies, and stole them from us, and us from them.
They fought like hell, each of them in their own different ways.
I
cannot
imagine
the
pain
they
endured.
Immediately, instantly, I was so ashamed and embarrassed by myself. Nobody had even seen me. The mere threat and promise of a needle, meant to help and improve the quality of my life, paralyzed me.
And all I could do was think of their pain.
How could I possibly be so selfish, so short-sighted, so narrow-minded? This was a simple injection to improve the quality of my well-being. Not to extend my life. Not to end my pain. Not to fight a cancer.
And all I could think of was their bravery.
And I cried harder.
Could I ever hope to be as strong as they had been? In my wildest fears, how could I ever face their trials? Chemotherapy. Radiation. Surgery. Rehabilitation. More drugs. More rehab. More radiation. Rinse. Repeat. Ad infinitum.
I watched Susan go through the shit. Shit I never want to see again. Shit I do not wish upon anyone.
How in hell did she endure? For years, she did this. Because she had to. It was the only option to keep fighting. She kept her mind through the very end, the very very very bitter end. And her mind was fucking brilliant.
We saw her three weeks before she lost her fight.
I couldn’t stand to see her again. I knew it was over. And I have to believe she didn’t want us to see her again that way.
We didn’t say goodbye. We said, “see you later.” It was a lie. We both knew it.
It’s the loss of her mind that hurts me the most. That’s a selfish way of saying it. It’s the loss of her mind to all of us that should hurt us the most. We lost a genius when she died at forty-two to cancer. The stories unwritten, the imagination lost, the brilliance and care and precision and thoughtfulness as a practitioner of Eastern medicine.
She had a brilliant mind.
I cannot now, and I imagine that I will never be able to, wrap my head around the enormity of her departure.
How life works like this, I will never understand.
So I sheepishly hide my tears and clear my eyes and throat when the nurse comes back in. She assuages my fears that she’s not the one to administer the shot, that’s a job only for the doctor. I breathe easier. And I explain away my tears and red eyes, explain that doctors’ offices have forever taken on a new meaning to me, that where I know there should be hope and positivity all I can see is pain and loss.
I gather my senses, realizing the blessing that I’m present to benefit from this treatment, and that my condition is in no way, is nowhere near, is laughably far from life-threatening. This is the simplest of procedures. I find strength knowing that I’m here. The doctor comes in and administers the shot. I thank him for his advice and his consideration, and assure him that I’ll be back in two or three months, when the Cortisone wears off and I’m in need of another shot. I tell him to bring it. I learned that from Susan. No needle too large.
I hope and pray for you and your family you are forever shielded from the pain of cancer. I can’t help you, but I can and will do what is within my power to facilitate the discovery of new knowledge to fight cancer.
That’s why I ride in Pelotonia. That’s why I want to train and ride to the best of my ability even though this is not a race. To pedal 180 miles in honor of Susan and Judy, so that you don’t have to feel this loss, to know this pain. I’ll do it every year until cancer isn’t a reality. I focus my power and thoughts 362 days of each year to the three days of the Pelotonia weekend each August.
If you have the means to help us fight this battle, please support my ride this year, and learn more about Pelotonia.
