(This may be a long way, but there is an important announcement at the end. Scroll to the bottom if you impatient. The crux of this post is the bottom.)
I was feeling pretty good last week. My years long problem with indoor allergies and asthma at the work place seemed to be getting under control. My fatigue and drowsiness from whatever toxins were in the ventilation system seemed to be getting better and the Company Nurse was even making arrangements for the company to pay for my air cleaner and filters.
I had gone back to counseling to deal my depression issues. He told me it was more like disthymia and PTSD, but we got a handle on it with additional meds and cognitive therapy. That, and I just started doing things that made me happy. I spent time with my wife not staring at adjacent screens on the couch. I took control of my books and even republished my first novel. I put it on Amazon with a great new cover; a handful sold the first week to total strangers on both sides of the Atlantic.
I was astoundingly close to happy, a position I had not allowed myself to be in for years.
Then, came the colonoscopy.
I had one five years before, and, just like then, the prep was the worst part of it. The day before you must stick to a clear fluid diet. The night before, you drink a gallon of some noxious fluid to clear the colon/small intestine of all fecal matter. This will let the candid colon camera inspect the walls and ceiling down there. The prep fluid is refrigerated, because at room temperature the motor oil on dead dog taste is too much to bear. For several hours I drank almost the whole gallon and spent much of the night squirting prep fluid out my ass. Kit and I made it to the doctor’s office by seven a.m..
I had planned to tell my co-workers what had happened to me when I returned to work. It would have gone something like this:
“I stayed up all night drinking, and then I got waylaid by a bunch of people in masks. They drugged me and started sticking things up my butt. What’s worse, they took pictures!”
I would have told my co-workers that the next day, but the technicians found something: A white mass, about 2 centimeters long, low in the colon. I would have been even more concerned if it had been a black mass. I never allow satanists near my colon.
The discovery led to a quick succession of tests. There was much poking and prodding and needling. I received a CAT scan with contrast and the next day developed hives as a reaction to the dye. In the end, my end, the results indicated the best bad news I could have. I have colon-rectal cancer, though the test results indicate a slow-growing tumor that may have stayed entirely in its place. After a few more tests, the doctors and we will decide the best course of action. Surgery, chemo, and radiation may all come into play. It will be a stressful few months. Some of them I may spend flat on my back. But this is far better than the prognosis if I had avoided the test as I wanted to.
There’s much more to this story, and I’ll try my best to make it a comedy.