Читать книгу Laughing at Cancer - Ros Ben-Moshe - Страница 10

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30 May 2011

What do you want from me?

Sometimes the burdens of life mount like a pressure cooker, exploding its lid and bursting with contents. Have I not had enough life lessons? Do I really need more? Apparently yes, and with a little added resistance. It just goes to show that when you think you know it all—or at least appear to be heading in the right direction—there’s still a blind spot. You can never know what’s in store for you. We’re just pawns in a metaphysical chess game where those in the heavens above already know the outcome; yet we remain blissfully ignorant.

Yesterday I experienced one of the greatest ironies in my life. As I stirred from slumber to woken consciousness, a tear cascad-ed slowly down my cheek, shed in the realisation I was no longer sleeping. This was not a bad dream but my new reality. Oh the irony: I had finally landed a dream job, an amazing opportunity, a small amount of financial security, and a bit of prestige. There might even be champagne. In fact, there would definitely be champagne upon signing the contract for my new job; or at least this was how it had played out in my mind after receiving the job offer two weeks ago. Well, that champagne ending morphed into a particularly sombre birthday in the relatively short history of Rosalind Jennifer Holsman.

Today is the deadline to sign and return my declaration for the permanent position of part-time lecturer at La Trobe University in yet another irony: Public Health and Health Promotion. Instead of the anticipated birthday lunch with friends, I had a midday appointment with a surgeon. This was no run-of-the-mill consultation, it was life-changing and I was considerably under-prepared.

How can it be that in less than two weeks, I’ve gone from a routine appointment with my GP where I once again aired my frustrations about my irritable bowel, to a colonoscopy and gastroscopy, and finally to this? Sitting opposite the surgeon with my soulmate and life partner of 25 years, Danny, numb and too terrified to speak or move.

Ever since a parting gift of a Giardia parasite from a family holiday in Thailand, I’ve grown used to the occasional sight of blood and mucous in my stools, finding it more annoying than alarming. My naturopath thought I’d probably picked up another parasite, which made sense as a stool test around 12 months ago had returned normal. What else could it be?

Following my colonoscopy less than a week ago, I left the recovery room, the gastroenterologist’s words still fresh in my ears, ‘You’re one lucky woman. I removed a polyp from your bowel but it all looks fine.’

Five days later, an unexpected phone call summoned me back to his consultation suite. As soon as I arrived, I exclaimed, ‘You said it looked fine. Are you sure?’ Our eyes met but I lost focus. Then the barrage of thoughts and questions jumbled amidst the many hushed expletives. What am I going to tell my parents? This is the last thing they need. What about our two beautiful boys aged 12 and 15? I pushed away that thought as far as my conscious mind would allow. It was too painful.

I’m sure the poor gastroenterologist wished his next patient would pound on the door demanding his immediate attention. ‘So does this mean you remove a little bit more of the area around the polyp?’ I asked. Wary of sending my doting husband and myself into even deeper shock, he kindly suggested we discuss surgical options another time. OK, maybe it wasn’t as bad as I feared, but then why the grave look? Curiosity got the better of me, and as we were both glued to our seats I asked what the next steps were. I sank deeper and deeper into the seat feeling smaller and more insignificant than ever before.

I didn’t have to undergo a full bowel resection, he explained. I could instead opt for a partial resection but there would be no way of knowing for certain whether the cancer had spread. cancer? What? This was just a tiny polyp! I didn’t have cancer. This was a malignant polyp. Full stop.

Any trace of blood in my face now drained away as my heart pumped harder and harder trying to escape the sinister truth. The next piece of news, the piece de resistance, came fast: the only way to test if the cancer had spread to the lymph was to do a full bowel resection. Danny and I had clearly both misunderstood. How could it be that, with all the advances of modern medicine, navigating around the bowel to the lymph wasn’t an option? Surely a high or even low-tech medical apparatus had been developed for just this reason? How seemingly ‘third-world’ to have to cut through the bowel! I had heard about friends who’d had breast cancer and even though testing the lymph nodes was traumatic, it was a relatively straightforward procedure.

I cautiously asked if he thought the cancer might have spread; yet as soon as these words left my mouth, my inner voice piped up, ‘Don’t ask a question you really don’t want to know the answer to.’ But it was too late. They had escaped along with more expletives. He said he really didn’t know and would refer me to a highly regarded colorectal surgeon who would be able to answer my questions and perform any subsequent surgery.

This was much bigger than I feared.

His words spun out of control in my head and kept spinning for two days until we landed in the here and now, long-faced in the said surgeon’s office on my 43rd birthday.

After the formal introductions a diagram was placed in front of us with a small circle highlighting the polyp in my rectum. Given its size the surgeon estimated there was a 3–5% chance that the cancer had spread but he wouldn’t know until further investigation. I felt marginally comforted. That didn’t seem too high. I mean, what’s 3%?

He continued talking while Danny and I sat in a state of paraly-sis incapable of uttering a single syllable, let alone a full sentence. Because the surgical site was so low in the bowel, the surgeon matter-of-factly informed us I would need a new rectum, which he would construct. Moreover due to poor circulation in the region I would be fitted with a temporary ileostomy. An ileostomy? What the hell was that? I had heard of a colostomy but that was for really old people.

I recapped the main points in my head: a new rectum, an ileostomy, and the removal of a ruler’s length of bowel. A five-hour procedure for the bowel resection and a two-hour operation to reverse the ileostomy three months down the track—if all went well and I was not left with a permanent bag. The recovery from the first operation would take around eight weeks and the side effects included the alteration or potential loss of sexual function as well as forever altered bowel function.

Feeling utterly demoralised, I stormed out of the surgeon’s office (as politely as I could). I was brimming with resolute defiance mixed with fury, rage and a strong shot of denial; but I knew one thing for certain: there was absolutely no way I would ever have a full bowel resection.

First stop thereafter was the local bottle shop where we hastily purchased two bottles of hard liquor: the first, vodka with acai berries and pomegranate (how exotic and with a wellness twist), the other, a Black Label whisky. I wasn’t going to scrimp on price or quality today of all days. Both these beverages hold spiritual and religious attributes for a l’chaim (to life) and I was not sure whether to go Hasidic or Polish for extra l’chaim potency. Safe to say I sealed the day’s fate with vodka for added nominal health attributes. As for the contractual champagne, it was left corked.

The lingering on the ‘Declaration of injury/illness’ contractual page soured what two weeks ago had been elation, at a time when little attention had been paid to the small print. Surely it is a good sign though to complete and return this permanent work contract by close of business on such a sombre and surreal birthday?

What was the best birthday you ever celebrated and what made it so special?

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In general do you make a point of celebrating good life events? What was the last thing you celebrated and in what way?

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Make yourself a promise right now to always celebrate life’s special events.

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