Does one have to shower before one learns if one has cancer or not? The doctor doesn’t care, surely?
If i’m about to hear I have cancer, my Keenly Musk is hardly the issue?
I was just going for the results anyway, no more pants-on-the-ground, “bend further please”, lancing, “Yes, I know, Sorry, nearly done”, pinching, cutting, “Do your testicles hurt, Keegan, Sorry Keenan?” – no more injecting.
Just the report card.
Showering was very sore, you see. Undressing even more so.
Despite this, I showered. It just felt uncouth. And I am anything but uncouth. One must remain dignified is such situations.
It also felt like the only decision I would actually make for myself that day. It may as well end in smelling like Old Spice.
Naturally, the story doesn’t start here. It started when I fell down some stairs last week in Maboneng. It was really quite undramatic, sober and very uncool. Obviously.
I slipped, feet up in the air and basically slammed my bum and back onto some concrete stairs.
So I drove home, slept, hobbled around work and my meetings all of the next day – I even went out for gin and some laughs (despite being in pain). Sometimes, I’m a proper idiot.
On Saturday, I somehow managed to stand up put on shoes and drive myself to the Dr. I have never felt such pain before. I couldn’t sit, stand, walk or lay down. I couldn’t stand up straight, or bend really. Farting hurt. It was bruised, sharp pains, aching and burning all in one. Imagine John Cena full-force punching you somewhere new every time you tried to move or breath. Something was wrong. More than a bruised bottom.
They found 2 lumps during the examination.
Jirre fok Keenan.
Lump is a disgusting word, isn’t it? Lumps. Say it. Lumps. A fear inducing word. An ode to failure and death. A diseased tool of the Grimm Reaper himself! An orb of defected FLESH! Lumps mean cancer.
Don’t even get me started on the word cysts.
In other news, I’m really not dramatic at all as you can tell.
Seriously though, I’m the most rational person I know. In fact I’m probably more rational, level headed and calm than anyone you know. Or don’t know. Or something more convincing.
Long story short, the fall seems to have ruptured some fancy sounding lumps. That were already there. Waiting to be ruptured, woken up and disturbed.
Trust my lumps to be in the closet. Assholes.
So I never panicked, I went for all the tests. They lanced me and drained me up real good, all the while feeding me fistfuls of meds to make the pain go bye-bye. To make me hazey, dazey, fuzzy pumpkins. For a week this carried on. Insane pain, minimal showering, maximum dosage, no appetite, poeps that hurt, injections that hurt more, bullet sized antibiotics, too much time online.
Gold medal in Symptom Googling. Silver in imagination.
I barely told anyone, because what was there to tell? I knew nothing except when I needed pain meds again.
First results were inconclusive.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I sat in the dark, every day, wondering if at 29 I would have cancer. Before I marry. Before I have kids, before I reach 30. I was depressed. I hated that no one knew and that those that did weren’t with me 24 hours a day. Everyone seemed so blasé about it.
Did I cause it? I’m not exactly the healthiest person I know. Was it just the fall?
I started narratives in my head. Conversations with myself and others. I started resenting people. I started getting angry. Frustrated. Sad – in the true sense of the word. I wasn’t myself anymore. At all. And that was just in my head. What of my broken body?
So I woke up yesterday and really didn’t care if I was showered or not. But as you know, I showered anyway and went for my results.
Precancerous. Premalignant. Low-grade carcinoma in situ.
Other fancy words I had to Google.
Part of me was momentarily offended, I have never been low grade anything. Hell, even my blood type is A+ (true story).
Basically, the lumpy asshole twins have the very real and strong potential to be malignant in the future, but for now are basically the flesh equivalent of loud annoying noise and can be cut away without much pomp and ceremony.
It’s like I held my breath for a week. The relief! Is there a better word than relief? The (that word)!
Look, I’m still shit scared. Things must be cut from inside of me. Maybe radiation. Maybe chemo.
I’ve always said I am the luckiest man alive. Lucky for my family, especially my friends, my talents (like falling) – lucky for my luck.
No doubt, everything changes for me now, right? My health, my view of doctors, Maboneng, lumps, and the value of my instinct.
I’ve missed more work than I can literally afford to, I’m still sore, I will still be sore and really don’t need another scar amongst the stretch marks. But I’ll take that any day if it means I get to walk around next week and this fall induced fear becomes a blip on the radar that by end August no-one even remembers.
I’ll remember though. I owe it to myself and my family to remember. Luckily, I can handle anything. I already know this.
I won’t skip my annuals, I’ll go for my first prostate exam (never been to one before at nearly 30 years old), I’ll run more and eat better. Drink less, maybe.
My body will remember. Remind me.
To some it may seem all so uneventful.
Man discovers nothing really wrong with him after slipping on stairs. Blogs about it.
Hardly a best selling headline.
Thankfully I’m not trying to sell newspapers. I’m trying to live. Really actually live. So that headline is the best damn thing I have read all year.
Gents, get your gonads groomed, your cojones checked, feel your falafels, examine your eggs, scrutinise your sack, and go get your prostate prodded. Ladies, book that mammary scan, pap smear and feel yourself up in the shower real good. Check for the lumps and bumps. Go for a full blood work-up, just do it.
Don’t wait for when you fall. You may not be so lucky. Don’t wait for when the Dr wants you to go. He may not ever ask you to. Don’t say “When I’m older.”