Thank God for Hemorrhoids: A Colon Cancer Journey | The Colonoscopy

Bleeding.

Pain.

Hemorrhoids.

Doctors.

Colonoscopy.

Mass.

Cancer.

There was always the before the fire and the after the fire. It’s been the timestamp we measure our lives against.

“We have a mandolin slicer…was that before or after the fire?”

“I don’t have pictures of that anymore, that was before the fire.”

Now there’s a new timestamp.

This was supposed to be routine. This was supposed to be a simple fix. I was SURE of it in my heart. I had way more anxiety and worry over my mom’s heart catheter procedure two weeks ago. I had two friends there to support me. I expected the worst and we had the best outcome, “she has the arteries of a 20 year old.”

I got a text from my mom this morning, before the procedure, “I didn’t get a chance to ask you how you’re feeling about all this.”

My response, “I’m medium. Feeling confident it’s nothing serious, but also fighting a lot of intrusive thoughts.”

They took him back, I was called back. I rubbed his feet, I massaged his shoulders. He was so tired from a night of colon cleanse. So tired of two weeks of being uncomfortable. The nurse came to get him, I made her stop so I could kiss him before he went back. She almost close lined herself on his IV.

We’ve been here before, three back injections for a herniated disc. Nasal surgery. At least four times he’s been under anesthesia during the course of our marriage. This felt routine. This felt like every other time.

I went to the waiting room and worked on a blog post about our favorite travel gear. I’ve been reminiscing a lot lately about our heavy travel days, in the throws of a pandemic, exploring the vast state of Texas in our camper with our kid and dog in tow, family often accompanying us. The pandemic was awful, we felt isolated, we lost friends, but it was also a time where we really bonded as a family, where we really LIVED.

Issa and I were talking about it recently and she apologized, saying her swim has kept us from traveling like that. I said no need to apologize, we’re in a new season and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I was writing about refillable hand sanitizer bottles when the nurse came to the large waiting room to get me. A woman covered in a blanket in the corner was talking loudly on her phone. When we first arrived there she had been asleep in that same corner. Bill and I had silently giggled about it. There was a general aura of fart in the air, people were here for colonoscopies after all. The ones there for procedures were in and out of the bathrooms. I held my pee so I wouldn’t occupy such a coveted space.

Mrs. Sizemore, he’s ready.

They didn’t bring me right to recovery. Every other time I’ve sat by his bed and laughed as he said funny things to the nurses as he came out of anesthesia. No. This time they brought me to a small room, with three comfy chairs, a mirror, a small table and a framed poster on the wall, “Diseases of the Digestive System”.

I nervously flipped my phone in my hands. I took my wet hair out of the hair clip. I stood up and looked at the poster. “Polyps, hernia, hemorrhoids, cancer.”

The room felt wrong. It was small, but it felt so empty. My heart started to race. I pushed away intrusive thoughts. I fought my anxiety. I tried to still my mind, and once my mind silenced I felt, “this room does not mean good things.”

It’s not how you see it in movies. Where the family is by the bedside and the doctor comes in sort of solemn. You don’t get to hold hands with your loved one and cry beside them and experience it together.

I’m the wife. I am alone.

The doctor came in and sat down. Also not good.

I told him I’d be taking notes on my phone.

I don’t remember his exact words.

It was mostly the same noise the parents make on Charlie Brown.

Then I heard, “…found a mass in his colon. Every time I’ve seen this before it’s been cancer. Pathology will tell us more, but more than likely its cancer.”

My ears were loud. He said more things. I cried. I said, “fuck”. I apologized for saying fuck. I cried more.

Then I realized he was still talking.

I looked at him, “I know you just said a lot of words, I do not know what they were. Can you please say that all again?”

“It’s not the worst I’ve ever seen. He will definitely need surgery. Maybe chemo. Maybe just surgery. Pathology will tell us more. I want to see him for a follow up in a week and we’ll talk about next steps and a surgeon.”

“This isn’t fair, he shouldn’t have to do this again. This isn’t fucking fair.”

I apologized again for saying fuck. And for crying. And for not listening.

I cried a lot.

I cursed some more.

Then I looked at him, “you’re going to tell him right, you’re not going to make me tell him this?”

“I won’t be there to tell him, that’s why I’m telling you. The nurses might be able to give him the report, but it’s got to be you.”

I died a little in that room.

I am the wife. I am alone.

I texted my mom. I texted my friend. I flipped my phone in my hands.

This isn’t fair.

I don’t want to walk this road.

How will we tell Issa.

I can’t lose him.

I can’t lose him.

I am the wife. I am alone.

A nurse came in. Her face fell when she saw my state.

“It wasn’t good news?”

“No, they said you would tell him.”

She looked confused, “We can’t tell him, that has to be the doctor, or you will have to tell him.”

“I can’t tell him this.”

I broke.

She hugged me.

“I will see what we can do.”

She came back, “We can report on the findings but that’s all. Anything else the doctor said, you’ll have to tell him.”

“I can’t let him see me like this.”

“That’s ok. You wait here, he’s having some trouble coming out of anesthesia, we’ll take care of him, get him dressed. You take a moment.”

She left. I melted into the chair.

I tried to cry softly because I knew he wasn’t far and I could hear him cough so I knew he could hear me.

I felt the tingling of a panic attack.

My breath quickened.

I am the wife. I am alone.

I went into our mantra. “I’m ok, Issa’s ok, Bill is ok. We’re safe.”

Except he wasn’t ok.

I waited there for what felt like hours. I tried to collect myself only to spill myself all over the floor again. I put my wet hair on my eyes in an effort to lessen the puffiness.

I poked my head out, “Can I use a bathroom.”

I peed quickly, coveted space. I washed my hands. My reflection showed me broken. I had to be strong for him. I had to be strong for him. I had to be strong for him.

The nurse walked me around the corner. I saw his face. It was broken.

I haven’t seen him cry like that since the fire, quiet yet unconsolable. Immediately I felt strong, because I had to be strong.

“This is not the same”, I said to him.

This is not the same.

I held him. The nurse pulled the curtain closed around us as we wept. The nurse pulled the curtain closed just like the fire fighters held tarps around us so we could say goodbye to Sam. The illusion, the gift of privacy in a public space.

“I want to go home.”