I didn’t think about it again the rest of the weekend. I really don’t think much about it at all. It’s like being born with two eyes, or ten fingers. It’s just something that ‘is’. You get used to it, really. At least, that’s what I’ve come to believe.
It never crossed my mind that I should be wallowing in self-pity, all “oh woe is me, poor poor Kevin, whatever can I do to live?” I recognized there was a problem, saw the solution, and began pouring everything I had into getting there.
I didn’t realized until much later that I never told my friend about it the entire vacation. I was too busy enjoying myself at the theme park.
I finally have my answer, but not completely. We know what it is that’s killing me, we just don’t know how badly. The doctor ordered a bone marrow biopsy to determine what stage I am in. Let me tell you, that’s one hell of a trip. If you ever get the chance, get one of these. And by get one, I mean run like hell in the other direction.
Sure, the anesthetic works wonders, but there’s a reason they give you so much of the stuff. I guess it’s my natural resistance to medicine and the like, but it took a while for the anesthetic to kick in. I laid there on my stomach talking to the anesthesiologist, and after a few minutes, recognized that my vision began to blur, but just at the corners of my eyes.
Next thing I know, I’m mid-sentence discussing something with my mother in recovery. To be honest, I’m glad she didn’t have a tape recorder. It’s probably best I don’t remember anything that was said that day. She could hear me all the way from the OR, as I had lost all sense of volume, chatting up all the doctors in the room. While in recovery waiting for my mind to return, I had in-length rated the attractiveness of every nurse I had seen.
The best part was, of course, once the tranquilizers wore off and I could feel the spot they ran me through with a rusty machete. Or so it felt. Every time I walked, I caught myself trying to force my lower back more forward as I moved, as if it got me further away from the pain.
Days later, the results of the biopsy came in. My doctor called me to his office to discuss the news. Stage III of IV, with a 40% chance to live. Everyone else was so excited, that it wasn’t state IV. It hadn’t metasticised to any organs was all that meant.
I only remember thinking, “Forty percent. That’s more than enough. Even if it were 1%, it might as well be 100.”
Treatment was to begin immediately, chemotherapy every two weeks for the next six months. And so it begins. I have my answer, and they’re handing me the cure. Let the battle begin.