D-Day + 5
I'm not big on anniversaries. Hell, I'm lucky if I remember my immediate family members' birthdays, let alone any other important days throughout the year. It's just not a strong suit.
That said, there are a few dates that manage to capture my attention throughout the year. The first is October 17th. Nearly 20 years ago on that date, my father passed away after a prolonged illness. While there are parts of that day and week that are lost to the haze of time (and alcohol), there are other aspects that stand out oh-so clearly, like receiving the phone call from my sister Paula telling me to come home.
The phone rang in my Boston apartment at about 3 in the afternoon, shortly after I returned home from my last class of the day. I was supposed to head out for an afternoon at the paper when Paula's call came in. It was short and sweet - Dad wasn't doing well and it would be good for me to head for the hospital as soon as possible. Within 20 minutes I'd thrown some clothes in a bag, gotten my roommate to watch my dog and told the paper I'd see them whenever I got back.
Three hours later my Subaru rolled into the parking lot of the Westchester County Medical Center for last time, as my father died about three hours after my arrival.
The other day that always stands out for me is today - January 8th because it was five years ago on this date that I heard those dreadful words: You've got testicular cancer.
To be honest, the diagnosis didn't really shock me as I knew for awhile that something wasn't right. Let's face it, when you left nut begins to feel like a rock, something is probably wrong. But, even though I knew all wasn't right, my complete hatred of all things medical (due partly to living with my father's illness and due partly to the fact that my mother is a pediatrician and well, you know how doctor's kids are) I tried to ignore the signs for as long as possible. In fact, it wasn't until my girlfriend at the time reached for me in bed one night and said "What's that?" while grabbing my package that I decided to get a professional opinion.If you haven't had the pleasure of visiting a urologist, well let me tell you, it's a barrel of laughs. There's nothing like having someone you don't know from Adam literally performing a clinical examination of your twigs and berries while your pants pool around your legs in a cold, sterile medical office. Even more fun is when you're told you need an ultrasound to confirm his suspicions, so you're trundled to another office where a technician lathers some very cold gel on your privates and waves the wand around your wand.
Twenty minutes later, those fateful words were uttered for the first time. "You've got testicular cancer. We need to operate as soon as possible." Yikes. For me, that meant I'd be back at Cedar's Sinai six days later for the removal of my left nut.
Having read a little bit about TC before going to the doctor - and being familiar with Lance Armstrong's inspirational story - I knew that as cancer goes, this is one of the "best" types you can have. The disease is highly treatable if caught early enough and, unlike many other cancers, patients who remain cancer free for just two years are considered cured, as opposed to the standard five years that doctors wait for most other forms of the disease.
Still, armed with all of that knowledge, there's nothing that really prepares you for hearing the news. Even worse, there's nothing that prepares you for how you tell other people that you're sick. In my case, I took the direct approach and began calling family and friends as soon as I got home and finished my first drink of the day.
To their credit, most everyone took the news pretty well, though I think my sister Paula was in a state of shock for at least a day. (To be fair, I got her at work just as she was heading into an important meeting, and I certainly threw her off her game for awhile.) As for my friends, well, let's just say I couldn't ask for better. To a man (and woman) they offered to jump on planes and meet me in Los Angeles. After I told them that no, there was nothing they could do, they focused in on the really important stuff like would the operation affect my golf game as I'd now have trouble shifting my weight on my follow through. Bad jokes aside, they offered all the support I could ever want, and I owe them all to this day.
So today its five years later. I'm healthy, employed, and sitting in a shitty apartment in Dublin a world away from my friends and family. I may not love it here, but it certainly beats the alternative, and I'll take that any day.
