Texas Two-Step

 12/16/2022

 “I pity the fool attempting to diagnose Breschard.” said Doctor T.

It has come to my attention that a rumor or story or factual report has been circulating that I have recently been discovered to be the proud owner of a bladder cancer. At this moment in time I want to put an end to the speculation that I have been so afflicted by stating categorically that I am indeed dancing with bladder cancer.

Not to worry. It's being dealt with.

Let's go back a few months, late June. My BW, Nell, is teaching a miniatures class in Castine, Maine, when she comes down with COVID. She could only remain housed where she was for three more days and quarantines were meant to be at least seven, so it came down to me to make the 1,100 mile drive from our home in Michigan to Castine to pick her up and take her back to our suburban paradise. I like to drive, but a 2,200 mile round trip does put a bit of a dent into one’s weekend plans. The emergency evacuation went well, but on the first day of my drive I made a rest stop for the usual reasons. While visiting the porcelain upright throne I noticed my urine was not its ordinary pale yellow but a glorious crimson.

Not to worry, probably just a kidney stone seeking its freedom. The rest of the rescue mission was non-eventful and from then until now my body has remained gloriously asymptomatic.

Back at my home WiFi I promptly did what any 2022 citizen does and Googled what to do when you see blood in your urine and haven’t recently received a pounding kidney punch from your significant other. What you do is see your doctor. Checked it a dozen times and they all said see your doctor. Probably not a serious problem, could be from driving too much, but you should see your doctor.

I made a non-emergency appointment with my GP. In three weeks.

Saw my GP and she had me take all the usual tests.

A few days later an appointment was made with a urinary surgical oncologist (my dream job as an eight year old). Three weeks.

Meet the oncologist. He fist bumps me and calls me “Buddy”. Twenty-five years my junior and he calls me “Buddy”.

Schedule an exploratory procedure. Let’s say in another two weeks. I could look up all the exact dates, but why bother?

I get set for the procedure where they are to send some kind of alien technology probe up my penis for a look see. I’m cool, relaxed, and wearing a backless dress for maybe the second time in my life. Everything going swell, three other people in the room, and I’m not sweating this at all. They swab or whatever my Willie, and my “Buddy” says that will numb me sufficiently. I have no problem with drugs designed to keep pain in abeyance.

Then they send the Raquel Welch piloted probe up my Precious.

I doubt any of you have ever heard me scream. Let me say here that I was quite loud. It was a feeling I can only imagine to be similar to having a saguaro cactus shoved through that tiny, tiny hole at the tip of the penis. Aside from what might be considered impolite screamed verbiage I distinctly remember yelling at the top of my lungs that I should start singing in my usual horrible voice so at least the three of them could experience some pain. I don’t know how long the pain lasted but rather rapidly my “Buddy” called a halt to the procedure. My guess is “Buddy” didn’t wait long enough for the pain killer to take effect. But that’s just an amateur’s opinion.

Buddy came in later and apologized. I was most gracious and said words to the effect of “shit happens”.

Schedule a procedure where they’ll put me under general and try to remove a tumor in my bladder. Three weeks more.

Meantime I see my GP again and she reads the report, which I’d already perused

Apparently there were some code words I’m not privy to, that indicated I didn’t have a swell time with my last procedure.

Meantime I’m having MRIs or other very expensive shit like that. Again I could look it up, but I’m not going to. Interrupts my narrative flow.

Three weeks and I’m on an operating table for the first time since I had my tonsils taken out when I was about 10. I’ve been one healthy camper much to the surprise of many.

They put me out. They go in. I wake up. Eventually my “Buddy” let’s me know that he couldn’t do the whole job since my bladder is the proud owner of a “diverticulum” which is basically the same thing as a corner pocket on a pool table. Buddy couldn’t get into the pocket to remove everything. Probably never played pool in a barroom when he was cracking those texts in undergrad. Lab says definitely cancer.

Schedule another what they call a TURBT. (trans urethral resection of bladder tumor). Buddy also informs me around this time that I’ll probably have to have my bladder removed. Happy! Happy! Happy!

Another month passes and Buddy goes in again. Gets most I guess. Lab tests, similar shit.

Buddy recommends me to one of his work pals who I guess will be handling my chemo. Three more weeks to meet the guy. New doc comes to my appointment and shows such concern for my case that he’s reading my file for the first time as he’s talking to my BW and myself. Such professionalism. I can do cold reads better than that.

I have to credit Buddy and the other guy with one thing. They both suggested I get a second opinion. Nearest good hospital is University of Michigan about an hour away. Buddy told me some of his patients don’t get a second opinion because it’s too far away. I don’t kiss my bladder goodbye that quickly, and I like to drive.

A month later at U of M. Welcome to OZ. New doc is another surgical oncologist. It seems to me, although my BW disagrees, that she was ready to remove my organ (What - no monkey?) until I ask her if there is a way to treat my condition other than surgery.

And she says “When you have a hammer.”

Anybody who knows me reasonably well understands my style includes a healthy respect for non-elaboration. Basically I aim for an audience which is at least as clever as a bright sophomore in high school. At that age you shouldn’t need to have everything explained to you. “When you have a hammer” should be enough for a good reader to bring to mind “When all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” What’s necessary with a little mental work, and no more.

Click.

New doc suggests I see a radiologist in her group. An alternative including radiation and chemo is proposed instead of removing my pal, myself, my bladder.

Radio guy gives me a COVID fist bump but definitely doesn’t call me “Buddy”.

Another TURBT is scheduled in a month which happens to have been yesterday.

I’m writing this with another catheter shoved up my cock, that’s what happens after every one of my TURBTs and this is my third TURBT. Definitely not the definition of “A real pisser.” (Pissah for youse Bostonians.)

Yesterday my BW chats with my second opinion first doc while I’m still under anesthesia and I’m later informed that the doc says that she’s “cautiously optimistic” after scraping my bladder again that I might not need any further treatment. We’ll hear about that in another five days or so but will probably have to schedule another extremely expensive MRI. (I love the way the medical profession makes up imaginary numbers for their billing departments. Hey, we’ll charge the government 30K for this and by the way you still owe us a hundred bucks. I bring them an imaginary 30K worth of business and they still want a hundred bucks from me? I’d say decimate the MBAs but I’d lose too many friends.)

As of now it’s all looking pretty good. Even if I still need some treatment, radiation and chemo appear to work pretty well. But there’s hope that I might not need any at all.

With any luck in couple of weeks I’ll be able to say, like Emily Litella, “Never mind.”

Couple of weeks. I could probably do that even with a catheter up my cock the whole time. Fortunately the catheter is coming out Wednesday.

…………

A quick note. When I get past all of this, I hope to Thor nobody refers to me as a fuqqin cancer survivor. When somebody or something attacks someone and they beat them back and away, you don’t call the victor a survivor. When Ali wiped the canvas with Foreman, nobody called Ali a survivor. When I beat the crap out of this cancer I’ll allow all of you to call me Champ. And Champ I’ll remain until I’m Champ no longer.

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12/22/2022

Word from the pill pushers is that the cancerous growth has probably been totally removed and has not invaded the rest of my corpus. Will need a few more tests to confirm but this is the best news I could have expected.  I'm so happy I think I'll go out and play in traffic!