Special Edition: Double-Fried Chicken Wings
Preparing for head and neck surgery.
Last week, I discussed the beautiful gift of therapy and how freeing it can be to find understanding in the midst of chaos. This week, I wanted to start sharing about surgery and the events leading up to it. I want to mention quickly (because it’s easy to brush over in narrative form) that having depression and anxiety only amplified the emotional roller coaster of cancer diagnosis and treatment preparation for me. I imagine almost everyone that is diagnosed struggles on some level with accepting the fact that they have cancer — especially then there are no warning signs or medical factors present. I was twenty-seven when I was diagnosed. To say I was unprepared for the news is a gross understatement.
It rocked my fucking world. Rocked me upside-down, sideways, diagonal, and loopdie-duped me till I was sick. To accept the fact that I had cancer was to fathom the unfathomable. Swallow the unswallowable. Think the unthinkable.
And then say, “Well, fuck. Guess I’ll just have to do something about this.”
And move forward. For all the circles and loops my diagnosis news sent me on, the only way out of things was forward.
The key to moving forward was to trust my doctors. The moment I knew I could trust my surgical oncologist was when my family and I asked about the reason for my cancer. I had assumed they’d be able to link my sporadic college-years smoking habit and heavy-drinking days to my cancer undeniably. However, my doctor was humble enough to admit that he was dumbfounded by the presence of cancer in my mouth — despite a four-year period of smoking and drinking. He was adamant that the amount of tobacco and alcohol I consumed as well as the time span spent imbibing didn’t support or correlate with my diagnosis. It could have been a factor, he said, but more than likely…it was just terrible rotten luck.
I could hardly believe my ears. I was convinced I’d be able to wallow in my own poor life choices for the rest of my life. Drowning in self-blame and pity because I smoked cigs and drank cheap booze in college. But this. Rotten luck. Now that’s some shit I wasn’t ready to hear. And I wasn’t expecting a surgeon to admit he didn’t have all the answers. But boy, did I respect him for his honesty. He couldn’t hide that he was bothered by the circumstances of my particular case, and it made him the perfect gentleman for the job. Always professional, yes. But also — always himself. I strongly believe that the best doctors treat patients, not diseases. Just as the best teachers teach students, not math. My surgeon always treated me with respect, dignity, and kindness. He regularly asked how I was doing (aside from cancer) and seemed genuinely interested in my mental well-being as well as the physical aspect.
My surgeon consistently told me the truth. Never tried to pull the wool over my eyes or handle me with child-gloves. He was direct, succinct, even blunt. But always kind. I needed that. I needed a “no bullshit” doctor that had good, young, steady hands to get this crap out of my head and give me the best chance for survival and normalcy.
He stopped me at normalcy, though. During our first meeting after my diagnosis, my surgeon talked to me about a “new normal.” My tongue, neck, and mouth would not feel the same after surgery, he told me. My speech, with therapy, could possibly return to normal or “nearly” normal. But it would not be like it was before. That did not mean I could not have a normal life, he assured me. It would just be a new normal. And I would get used to it. And life would go on.
That was the first time since my diagnosis when a doctor mentioned life going on after treatment. It was enough to distract me from the daunting concept of a “new normal.” Life after treatment. Cool. Life’s cool, I thought. New normal. Sure. I’ll take it.
He continued to speak to me and my family about the different components of head and neck surgery:
I’d have to do pre-op labs and another set of scans, so they have a real clear image of where the tumor was located in my tongue as well as any spread to my lymph nodes.
I’d need to stay in the hospital at least one night after surgery, maybe more depending on how recovery goes.
Recovery would take time. I would have to take pain pills. I would struggle with swallowing and I would be extremely swollen in the cheek and neck area.
And so on and so on.
I was still stuck on life after treatment. I got the gist of what he was saying: I had some nasty fucker in my body. He was going to cut said nasty fucker out of my body. I would look like a drunk chipmunk for a while and I’d have to catch up on some Netflix while I healed. Got it. Understood. Let’s do this. That’s all I kept thinking during that appointment: great — let’s do this.
And so we did.
The scans and pre-operation labs were set-up for that week. All my dad’s thirty-nine questions were answered. My mom took notes at all my appointments like she was a stenographer for an auction house. My wife — she was remarkably strong. She had this way of smiling at me when we were dealing with all of this. It was often when we’d hear some distressing or “not the best” news; I could tell she was getting upset, but she’d continue to nod in the doctor’s direction and shoot me a quick side-eye glance to check-in. I was usually looking for her eyes and when our gaze met, she’d tighten her lips and lift her eyebrows to stop any sadness from seeping out, and she’d smile at me as if to say: well okay…not the best news, but hey — you got this and I got you.
And she did. And she does.
We were both still working, so a couple appointments were just me and my mom. My parents and wife got closer during this period. They had to, really. We were all on the same team and we all wanted the same thing. She had to trust them to take care of me at times, and they had to trust her to take care of me at times. Lots of trust. Lots of love.
That was not the case with my pre-op phlebotomist, however. For those unaware, phlebotomists are the vampires who take your blood for labs and tests. Most are soft-spoken, gentle vampires with steady hands and a good sense of humor. Mauve was not soft-spoken or gentle. Nor did she have steady hands. I have no clue what this woman’s actual name was, but my mom and I called her “Mauve,” because well…her hair, nails, lipstick, and shoelaces were…you guessed it: mauve! She was probably in her late fifties, clearly enjoyed experimenting with fun hair dyes, and enjoyed matching. I wish she enjoyed counting all the way to three the way she enjoyed the color mauve. On two-and-a-half she decided to plunge the needle into my arm. Not my vein, my arm. She proceeded to dig around for my vein until my upper lip started sweating and I asked her to try re-sticking because I needed a moment (to get my shit together aka not lose my cool around a bunch of other people having an equally terrible day). She sucked through her teeth and cocked her head to the side as she begrudgingly removed the needle from my arm. She proceeded to share with us that I was clearly stressed and therefore, my mom should take me to the bar & grill across the street afterwards for some chicken wings. She said we’d need to ask for them to be double-fried. Double-fried. What she didn’t know is that I don’t like chicken wings. In fact, I have always struggled to eat meat off the bone. So…Mauve. I will NOT be eating double-fried chicken wings from the bar across the street. If I survive this, I thought, I will be opting for a chocolate shake and some cheese fries from Steak n’ Shake.
During this whole double-fried chicken wing debacle, Mauve managed to stick me in the other arm, actually hit my vein, and fill up 7 separate tubes of my red life force.
However.
Her incessant chicken wing rant and snortles at her own advice had sent me into a bit of a downward tailspin until I couldn’t feel my hands and nausea had climbed up to my throat. So, when she finished filling the 8th and final tube of blood and put a Band-Aid over the puncture site, I stood right up, took a large step toward the door and immediately lost all feeling in my legs. Mauve and my mother picked my crumpled, ghostly body up and jimmied me up onto the exam table. Mauve proceeded to scold me for not telling her I was not good with needles (as though some people are just great with needles…like some people freaking LOVE needles, I guess?!?). She made it seem like it was my fault I went white as a ghost and briefly fainted in the exam room. I just wanted to get the hell out of that room, with that woman, and the several vials of my own blood sitting on the tray.
Oh and, sometimes when I’m anxious and people are talking at me without regard for where I’m at emotionally, I get a similar feeling to claustrophobia and start to panic.
That is what happened, Mauve. I didn’t omit information about myself to make your life harder. You simply wouldn’t stop talking about the double-fried chicken wings and it stressed me out, and you didn’t notice because clearly you were projecting your desire for double-fried chicken wings onto me even though I don’t like them so my body just decided to stop working for a moment, so it could gain its composure before taking me to get a milkshake.
Suffice it to say, the labs and pre-op tests got done. I managed to survive the Mauve chicken wing trauma. My mother and I had a good long laugh on the way home about it. My mom did a funny impersonation of me when I went completely pale and collapsed as I was trying to escape. She reassured me that Mauve was, indeed, quite a lot to handle.
I got my milkshake. And the cheese fries.
I was cleared for surgery and my date was set: November 2nd, 2017.
All that was left to do was the damn thing. And I was ready.
