So, Friday I go in for an endoscopy & colonoscopy. They call it a “double ender”, I call it “fun times” or “take me down to Xanax town” or “I wonder if I’ll see Edward during my Twilight Sleep?”or “the big show”… it’s gonna be totally fun!
Well… not really. So my dad was diagnosed with colon cancer about 6 years ago. I inherited his stomach. Our stomachs are a hot mess. I’ve had issues for as long as I can remember. I’ve tried everything. Special diets, every doctor/ holistic practitioner and finally I decided to go to a gastro doctor as a last resort, because I knew I was going to end up with a tube in my butt. Which is utterly horrifying and embarrassing and super fun to tell people about.
But, it’s time I got real with myself. I need to know what is wrong with me. Of course I’m paranoid that I’ve got cancer. I have been off and on smoking since I was like 15, and I am genetically predisposed to colon cancer. So, Friday it is.
All the drugs they put me on for my fertility issues have made my symptoms a million times worse, and when my symptoms are bad my anxiety skyrockets. Literally, all of August 2010 I spent on a toilet. So for the past year I’ve been popping pills left and right. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind taking pills. Trust me, I don’t mind. I’m definitely not one of those people who “wont even take a tylenol” when I’ve got a headache. Give me two of those and two of something else and one to go to sleep and one to wakeup. I don’t care. If it will make my life even a glimpse more manageable, I’m in. As seen in all of my posts where Xanax seems to be a staple in my food pyramid. Right next to the grains.
Yesterday we got good news. My dad just finished his last round of chemo, and had a PET scan on Monday. The results were great. Everything is better or hasn’t changed. Which means that the chemo worked again. Which is always the biggest struggle of treating cancer, finding a chemotherapy that works. They found one on the first try, and it has been doing it’s job ever since. Not that I am happy about him having to do chemo, because watching the strongest man in your life literally deteriorate in front of your eyes is nothing to celebrate, but I am just glad that it is doing good things and not just turning him into skin and bones. Next step is surgery at the Mayo Clinic in Arizona. This process will never end.
I feel guilty. Guilty that my mom has to deal with my problems and take care of my dad too. She never got a break. The year before my dad got cancer, my grandma died. The years leading up to her death, my mom was the person that took care of her. It’s like she is forever tied to hospitals and sickness because of the ones she loves. I hate to think that I could potentially add to the list of her mandatory hospital obligations. I feel guilty that Louie could potentially have to take care of a sick wife before we even get to enjoy the years of child rearing together.
This is me going to general quarters. I feel like my life is flashing before my eyes. Dramatic much? Yes, yes I am. I might as well start playing the Titanic theme song and start writing my will out. I’ve promised so much of my stuff to so many people, I really ought to make it official.
I’d like to imagine that when Saturday comes, I’ll be laughing at this post. Thinking about how silly I was to be so paranoid that I had cancer, or that my mom and Louie would be at my bedside feeding me morphine and watching me slip away toward the light.
I have way too many things to do with my life before I die. Like all the laundry piled up in the hallway, or the rest of season six of BONES. I refuse to die until I catch up on BONES, damn it!
Honestly, I would like to travel without worrying. I would like to do fun things without having anxiety, like go to the park, take spontaneous road trips. Go to Disneyland (side note- once we drove all the way up to LA, stayed the night in a hotel, parked in the Dland parking structure and once I saw the line for the trams, I made Louie take me home). Go for a long walk. Go to school more often. Doula more. All of the normal things that people do are thwarted by my tummy issues. I worry not about dying in a plane or getting hit by a car, but about what unexpected thing is going to happen to my stomach. I can’t stand it anymore.
I’m willing to get a tube shoved wherever, just to get some fucking answers. I’d like to go into my fertility treatments with a clear mind, knowing that I wont have to deal with the anxieties that go along with my crazy stomach while pregnant. I can’t take Xanax while I’m pregnant, so if I don’t take care of this now, I will literally be a shut-in for 9 months. Louie would come home and I would have made a fort out of our couch cushions and Shelby and I would be wearing tin hat’s with aluminum foil wrapped around my stomach, asking him “do you hear that buzzing noise? I think they’re after us”. No one wants that.
I want Friday to come and go, and May to arrive like a present from God. The God of fertility, wielding speculums and Clomid and sperm in a cup. Yes, May involves more tubes in holes in my body, but instead of searching for cancer, it will involve sperm searching for eggs. Instead of crying because I think I have cancer, or panicking because I’m afraid I’ll shit my pants on the way to to doctors due to the ridiculous amount of laxatives I have to take tomorrow or writing depressing blog entries about my asshole… I’ll be crying because of the Clomid, panicking because I could be bringing a human into the world and writing uplifting and very detailed blog entries about my vagina. Because I know that’s what everyone wants to read.