So what do you say about Day One? I call this my Day One because this morning I awoke in my own bed, in my own home, surrounded by family. Day One is good – it is hope, it is optimism, it is relief. Day One is rough – it is reality, it is the beginning of something very new and very difficult, it is daunting. Over the past two weeks, I made a (basically) routine visit to my otolaryngologist’s office, got a CT scan, was admitted to the local ER for bleeding, went into respiratory arrest, was given a tracheotomy (without warning – a fun thing with which to wake up), was transferred to Vanderbilt Medical Center, underwent exploratory surgery, and underwent major surgery – including a complete glossectomy – to clear my body of cancer. At this point, it looks like all the cancer has been cleared, but there are more tests to be performed. I get to look forward to chemotherapy and radiation therapy. I get to relearn how to speak, how to swallow. I get to watch my face return to something that I hope will eventually more closely approximate normal as the swelling subsides; yes, I still look like the world’s most dedicated method actor auditioning for a role in Frankenstein.
What do I do? What do I say? I have no idea. I have a wonderful support network; I have received more love and support from those around me than I ever dreamed. But now that I’m home, it’s all hitting me. This is my life now. This is real. In the hospital, I was safely ensconced in the surreality of ventilators and pain medication. Now, I must administer my own medications and feed myself four times a day through a tube the disappears just between my ribcage and my diaphragm.
Here’s my basic plan – cancer can bite me. I’m going to beat this. I refuse to give in to the darker thoughts that are hiding in the shadows of the corner of my mind. I will make plans. I will move on.
Yes, I will break down. It’s already happened more than once; I’m sure it will happen again. Every time I am brought face to face with something else that I have lost – however temporarily that loss may eventually be – it will hurt. Every time I feel like a burden to my fiancee, it will hurt. Every time I cannot be what I once was, it will hurt. But it will not hurt forever.
This is my space. On these pages, I will celebrate and mourn. You are all welcome to come along for the ride. I make no promises about how interesting this may be to anyone else, but – since I cannot physically verbalize what I am feeling – this is my therapy for myself.
I’ll post daily, if I can. I think that would be beneficial for me. Sometime this weekend, I hope to publish the finished version of my love letter to cancer; it is the culmination of all the thoughts that rolled through my head as I lay in bed at the hospital.
Namaste. Be well, my friends.
