lower case ‘c’

From what I’ve heard and read, pretty much everything can cause cancer.  Here’s a short list:

Sunshine.  Genetics.  Tobacco.  Diet.  Radiation exposure.  Alcohol.  Cell phones. 

Pollution.  Obesity.  Asbestos.  Household wiring.  Physical inactivity.  Red meat.

It’s only a matter of time before wearing leisure suits in the ‘70’s, listening to 8-track tapes and watching all of the Rocky movies back to back are added to the list.  (Guilty on all three counts, by the way.)  But until that day comes I never thought I’d hear a doctor say these words to me:

I’m pretty certain it’s cancer.

Yes, he said it.  Cancer.  The dreaded ‘C’ word.  Cancer; with a capital ‘C.’   

Let me back up for a minute.  Earlier this year I noticed what I thought was a scab on the back of my left calf.  I scratched at it a time or two and it seemed to be going away.  When the scab eventually resurfaced—bigger and badder than before I thought I might have picked up a tick one day while my grandson and I walked through the woods looking for zombies.  After all it hadn’t been too long since I discovered a tick on Krischan one afternoon after saving humanity from the undead yet again.

I was wrong.  It wasn’t a tick.  And it wasn’t going away.

My friend Al said I should have it looked at.  Eventually everyone did.  Everyone who saw the nasty growth on my calf, that is. 

Finally I listened.  (Translation: I finally realized the growth was only getting bigger and it was becoming evident I couldn’t simply wish it away.)  I made an appointment with a dermatologist, the same one who removed a cyst from my right cheek three years earlier.  I had a lot of faith in him because after the aforementioned procedure I was only called ‘Scarface’ for a few weeks, the amount of time it took the surgical scars to heal.  I figured I could put my trust in a man who took a scalpel to my face and didn’t leave any evidence behind. (Worth mentioning: His last name is Marcet.  The first time we met I thought it was Machete.  Funny now; not so much three years ago.)      

Before I directed the good doctor to priority number one, I pointed out several other ‘items of interest’—bumps, blemishes and the like.  He didn’t bat an eye.  If they’re not bothering me, he said, don’t worry about them. They weren’t bothering me so I got ready to show him the main event: The growth on the back of my left calf. 

Let me be the first to say: Under the bright lights of a doctor’s office the growth looked absolutely horrific.  (Why didn’t I listen to Al sooner?)  With absolutely no uncertainty in his voice the doctor said he was pretty certain it was the ‘C’ word (not his exact words, but how it sounded to me).  He added that he was fairly sure it was benign and wouldn’t affect my internal organs.  Worst case he would remove it surgically and all would be well in a matter of weeks.

He asked if he could take a biopsy (this was apparently my day to hear ominous and foreboding words from a doctor that were directed at me), send it to a lab and get back to me in a week with the results (see what I mean?).   He explained the he would perform a ‘paper cut biopsy,’ which to medically inept ears like mine sounded as if it were nothing more than his nurse taking a tiny scalpel and nicking off a piece of the growth about the width of a paper cut.  That’s why I was surprised when the nurse took out a rather large needle to inject me and ‘deaden the area.’  Seriously, for a paper cut?

As I lied on my stomach and let the nurse have her way with me I tried not to focus on the several hundred injections she made around the perimeter of the growth, deadening my entire left leg from the knee down in the process.  Then the doctor leaned in with his scalpel and commenced carving on my calf like it was a Thanksgiving turkey.  I asked him to save me the wishbone; not surprisingly he had no idea what I was talking about.  (I say things like that when I’m drenched in fear-sweat.) 

After the procedure I was given my ‘wound care’ instructions.  Wound care?  I wondered to myself why something described in the vernacular of ‘paper cut’ would be considered a wound.  I would have asked the doctor that question but something told me I didn’t really want to know. 

What I didn’t want to know I found out for myself the next morning when I had to remove the Band-Aid and dress the wound.  A simple application of water-then-petroleum jelly with a cotton swab followed by a Band-Aid was all that was necessary.  At least that was what the written instructions said.  Here’s what was left out: ‘Prepare yourself to look at the horrific gaping wound in your body that in no way, shape or form would you have had any inclination we were going to make when we had you face-down on our examining table.’         

So I treated the wound for the first time, a gaping pink hole in my left calf about the size of a silver dollar.  I tore off the Band-Aid with one quick clean yank, the way my mom did when I was a little boy.  It felt almost the same, except that five decades later the searing pain of having hundreds of leg hairs pulled out by their roots in a split second was excruciating.  The application of the water came next; it felt like I was pouring salt on an open wound.  The petroleum jelly didn’t feel much better.  By comparison I came to the realization that pain-sweat was infinitely worse than fear-sweat.

I also decided that from now on I would refer to my dermatologist as Doctor Machete.           

After any necessary follow up procedures he may need to perform on me down the road, of course.  I wouldn’t ever want to be on his bad side.     

The royalties from the sales of all of my books are either donated to charity or set aside for my grandson's college education.  The charities dedicated to finding a cure for cancer are the ones nearest and dearest to my heart.  I, like almost everyone else throughout the world have had my fair share of family and friends afflicted with cancer.  It is a horrible disease, but I have faith that one day a cure will be found.

I have a large plastic crayon bank at home.  Every penny I get from change at the store or find on the ground goes in it.  Eventually they will all be counted, rolled and deposited in my grandson's college education fund because one day I dream of Krischan becoming an astronaut, curing cancer or being elected the 55th President of the United States.

Then one day when a cure for cancer is finally found I will know in my heart it was that last royalty dollar I earned or that partially buried penny I found in the dirt that made the difference.