Cancer, schmancer. What’s the difference as long as you’re healthy?


In the past week, after Jane cat-serminded a black eye, I have given up spirituous liquors, and today have taken them up again because I have been diagnosed with squamous cell carcinoma of the (ghod help me) anus. So much for my “bleeding hemorrhoids.” ¬†Apparently my choices are (a) to have my ass carved out and spend the rest of my life with a colostomy bag (and this has only a 40% success rate) or (b) six weeks of radiation and chemo (and this has a higher success rate but they cook my anus).

First come the CT and PET scans to make sure that the damned thing hasn’t metastasized, and then Fun with Your New Illness, the treatments for which at least will take place on this island. The radiation is five days a week for six weeks and the chemo is twice over that period of time (they’ll sink a port into my chest to make this easier).

I am scared not necessarily of dying, but of hurting and then dying. And of leaving my kids, my beautiful boy and girl. I haven’t spoken to them, although I have a ¬†call in to Katy and am hoping that she’ll call tonight, and I left a text for Richard asking him to call.

I think I have said that after all the nursing, the caring, the worry, the love I put into the Ex during his many medical emergencies, I thought that he would be there to help me through mine. This awakens that pain all over again, although I would loathe having him as a caregiver and would not trust him in anything (although I rather hope that he’ll hear about this and will be so consumed by guilt that it will kill him –yeah, right).