TBM? Throwback Monday? Is that a thing? It is now.

 So the 14th of August is coming up, which will mark 1 year since surgery and since the beginning of this whole mess which eventually led to the beginning of this blog. 

Excuse the finger, I was already drugged up pre-surgery. Cool "Travolta from Grease" hair, though.

To recap, here are the stages of me learning, after 5 days of waiting while recovering in the hospital from surgery, that I have cancer:

1. The "Marcus, your results are in..." stage

"go on..."

 2. The "nod rapidly and politely while the doctor explains things while seemingly avoiding what he actually came in here to say" stage

 

"Okay, okay, uh huh, yes, okay..."

 

3. The "now that brings us to the unpleasant news...you have Hodgkin's Lymphoma" stage

"You're gonna have to say that again FRIEND."

4.  The "would you like me to continue or do you need a moment" stage

"No. No, no, no. No. No."

 5. The "Whatever, this guy doesn't know what he's talking about" stage

 

"Right. Me with cancer. Lol."

6. The "oh shit, he's being serious" stage

"Surprise!"

 7. Rage

"You better take a hike, Doc."

 

8. Fear

"WAIT COME BACK I HAVE QUESTIONS."

 8. The "keep calm, you have a rather treatable form of cancer and good chance of curing it" stage

"I approve of what you just told me."

 9. The "I'm just gonna act tough so this doesn't matter" stage

"Bring it, cancer."

 10. The "well, it is what it is, let's have some fun with it and write a blog and be super funny and witty and take lots of selfies" stage (acceptance).

"See, IT'S FUN IF I ACT LIKE IT IS."

 At least that's how I remember it. After a year, things change and attitudes evolve. With experience comes perspective. Still, in general, I think my attitude towards it all has been steady enough. It is what it is. This is the circumstance I currently find myself in. I can make the best of it and do what I'm told, and hope it turns out okay. The majority of the rest is out of my hands. 

The latter is a realization that has come about the longer this has gone on. Below is my first blog post and my first experience at the Cancer Center and with chemotherapy. I'm not sure the person who walked into the cancer center that day had any idea what he was getting into. He was "ready for a fight" and was going to beat cancer into a bloody pulp with his bare hands, because he is a MAN AND THAT'S WHAT MEN DO. 

He's learned a lot over the past year.  

About himself.

About the people close to him. About what is really important to him.

About what matters and what just doesn't. 

There is a place for the attitude that the Marcus of October 7th 2014 carried with him into treatment and for the person that he was. A little anger and a little aggressiveness and pride and probably even some arrogance, can serve a purpose in the face of fear. 

But I've changed.

I think I've changed for the better. Evolved. Grown. Maybe that's weird to say about myself. It certainly feels weird.

 Yes, alert the news--I'm writing a blog post that isn't self-deprecating. 

Maybe it's unfortunate that it took something like this to force a little growing up out of myself, or maybe that is it's gift to me. Maybe that is the silver lining.

I'm proud of myself. Proud of the people closest to me. 

But most of all, I'm proud to call all of the people who read this my friends, and eternally grateful for all of the support I've received. I'm so damn lucky.

Whatever happens going forward, whatever/whenever the outcome, I've stolen cancer's intentions and inserted my own. I've got a long way to go and am so far from perfect. Still:

It made me better. 

Jokes on you, cancer. 

 

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Chemo, Day #1, Cycle #1.

Chemo, Day #1, Cycle #1
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
12:30 PM
University of Michigan Cancer Center, Ann Arbor, MI. 

Today was wild. Not sure I can find a more effective way to describe it.

 I woke up, tried to turn myself into the same weird, antisocial, pretending-to-be-focused-to-compensate-for-being-terrified zombie that I tried to before I went in for surgery, and went along for the ride. It was an incredibly unique experience.

When focused on specifically what is happening to yourself, it's difficult to get a handle on the gravity of the situation. I tried to stay locked in to my little world. The infusion atrium, the noises and smells, the room I can carry my IV to for coffee and snacks, my chair, my tv and my computer playing the newest episode of Homeland, which I didn't hear a single word of. I spent time Thinking of the kind of day my Dad is having--his second loved one, starting this journey, and him knowing the worst details of how the last one ended. The meds, waiting to be infused, looking more like Kool-Aid than a toxic killing machine of both good and bad cells.

But while semi-enjoying life in my semi-comfortable, insulated bubble, I took a look over my left shoulder, and part of me wishes I hadn't.

The man in the chair to my left was at least 70, had a large portion of his jaw missing, and a handful of visible lesions all over his body. I took my headphones off to listen to him speak to the doctor. Long story short, this was less about treating his ailments, than preserving life.

I look further past him to the left. There's a man no younger than 80 on his chair, fully reclined, sleeping while his wife was gently rubbing his arm. I don't know any details of his diagnosis, but common sense, and the look on his wife's face told me it looked as if his time here was short as well.

Fuck.

Headphones back on. Go back to homeland. Maybe change it to something more upbeat. Just don't look to the right.

Looked to the right at a 40-45 year old woman, with her teenage daughter with her. The woman had a double mastectomy. She was incredibly thin. Her lips were very chapped and it looked like a handful of fingernails had fallen off. Her kid typed away on her cell phone, but I watched as the woman kept shifting positions in the recliner, trying to find a pain-free position.

She looked a ton like I remember my mom when I was 18. A forced, faint smile to her daughter. She must've told a corny joke, because the girl smirked and rolled her eyes. I suppose that's when it hit me; that in my insulated little world, I could tell myself I didn't really belong here. This is a blip, and it may very well turn out to be that for me, but that I needed to stop pretending.

I grabbed my portable IV and walked to the bathroom labeled "For Chemo Patient's Only." Had a long look in the mirror, couple deep breaths, a brief moment of "why me," a couple tears, a "stop crying, you punk," one last deep breath, and back out we go.
 

Decided to take a long walk around.

This room is full of dying people. People in pain. People trying just to extend their life. Loved ones with them. Optimism. Flowers.

My treatment began, it went relatively smoothly, and I felt/feel like shit. I've been injected with a toxic time bomb, and now I'm just along for the ride. That's an unsettling feeling. But I couldn't really focus on that while in that infusion atrium.

 I spent the rest of the time struggling with what I had learned today in Ann Arbor.

My treatment had begun, and this wasn't some mistake. The people around me in there may be at different stages, different cancers, different treatments, different ages…but I'm not special.

I belong there too.

That's enough for day one. Probably reads as a bit overly dramatic. But I'll never forget today.

I needed today, for obvious health reasons. I think I needed it for something else as well.

 I think, now, I'm ready to go.

Time will tell.