The other day I heard one of the nurses talking about a cancer patient while I was in a waiting room for blood tests. I didn’t think she was talking about me it must be someone else. Yeh it must be someone else it couldn’t be me, could it. Yes it’s me.
It’s really weird to think that yes I am a cancer patient. It’s surrealistic, its unrecognizable, it’s not me, but it is me. I am now a category.
It was an unwanted realization that I am and always will be a cancer patient.
And it kinda feels stigmatizing that I am identified that way. It’s external in its representation as, I am me, I have not changed whatsoever. I still think the way I think, I still feel the way I feel, I am Popeye – I yam what I yam. It’s how others may view me.
The above realization happened at the hospital several weeks before surgery getting pre-surgery tests. And at the time I was thinking about the surgery ‘cause it’s weird. It’s weird because this surgery is not fixing something it is trying to prevent something from happening. I will not be better after this surgery I will be worse in the short term. I’m losing some much desired functionality and there is no guarantee I’ll get it back.
I am now home recovering from surgery and I will have a catheter with a bag attached to my leg for almost two weeks while my surgery heals. This surgery happens in my core of cores. It’s my core physically and my core as a man. As a man I know I’m much more than that but this is visceral. Initially erections was the first thing that came to mind – of course I’m a man. What would missing that magical night, that moment of two becoming one, the joy of releasing all that passion be like – ha. Fuck Dave you’re 66 years old – never gonna happen.
But if I was 45 this decision would be so much more difficult to make. So my main concern would be bladder control – that’s what worries me most. I can only state how I feel about this choice I had to make. It’s basic in its nature. Surgery was a difficult but also an easy decision to make.
It’s also “funny” because I’ve had doctors calculate how many years I have left to live. It’s part of the decision process to have surgery or not. It’s kinda cold and somewhat mathematically impersonal. I guess that is the definition of math. To calculate how long I’m expected to live is a process that does make sense but it feels weird to go through.
This diagnosis obviously makes me think about every precious moment; past, present, and future.
Optimistically lots of future.
Love more.