A Return

black and white photo of the woods in the winter

I ventured to the woods the other day. These were the woods wherein my seizure occurred last March.

My mother waited in the car. I had to go alone. I needed the time to be there, process, and allow whatever might arrive.

The season had changed since my last visit. The snowmelt was no longer pooling here and there along the trail, and neither was the chilly bite in the air that remained for some time, even after spring’s arrival. The summer passed without a visit, and I was too frightened to be in the woods — particularly these woods. I was worried a panic attack might trigger a seizure.

When last there, the trees held tiny buds awaiting the perfect, though often invisible, moment to arrive. They had blossomed and were beginning to turn, on the verge of exploding with such vibrant colors as they do so beautifully here in autumn months in New England. Had it indeed been so many months since I was here?

I felt annoyed that the seasons had passed so quickly, but more so that fear had prevented me from returning here — to MY woods. The day was overcast, and I thought it might rain. I was alone with just my thoughts and memories.

After maybe a ½ mile, I rounded the bend in the path and came upon the place where my seizure occurred. Before this, when I walked in, I tried to stroll and be calm, though I could tell my heart rate was increasing steadily; a thin layer of sweat sprouted on my forehead even on this relatively cool day. I nearly turned around and headed back to the car, to the safety it represented, to my mother, and to the security she conveyed.

Ever-present change is more evident in the woods than most anywhere. This may be why I love the woods; perhaps this is why I am in love with the woods. In March, when I last visited them, they exposed themselves openly. The barely present buds left them almost entirely bare, letting the eyes easily pass through the thickets, thin conifers hoping to grow as tall as their brethren, and a few deciduous trees here and there that seemed out of place. Then, in March, just off the footpath, the untrodden snow still lingered, allowing the shadows of the trees to fall upon the ground, shifting with the daylight. These skeletal structures made them appear even more vulnerable. Soon, they will again return to this place of nakedness, letting their leaves blush and climax in such a way I oft wonder if one is worthy enough to witness it. The autumn rains, winds, or the process of the seasons will again reveal the depths into which one can peer… if one is so inclined.

I have not let the woods teach me anything. Instead, I let them teach me everything and then discarded this knowledge. I’m too damn stubborn to accept the reality and pure honesty of it; Nothing. Remains. Constant. Everything. Changes.

It took me several months to return to the woods, to MY woods. I almost forgot their ability to adjust so quickly to change and what message this might hold for me should I be a willing pupil ready to accept the wisdom I desperately seek. I held onto everything cancer had taken away from me; I roped in everything I could think of, from my first seizure in Chicago to the most recent setback, and said, “This is why I can’t return to you!” The woods seemed like the most logical entity I could blame; after all, who else could I point the finger at?

The woods graciously accepted my anger and sadness, my bitterness and tears. They held no hard feelings. When I walked into them and found the location of my seizure, a soft breeze moved through the branches, showing signs of the fast-approaching season. The gentle wind amongst the trees spoke softly, never demanding to know where I had been. Instead, as the wind tossed the branches, they said, “Welcome back, we’ve been waiting for you.”

I lit some sage, pulled the tendrils inward to my being, and then pushed them away to the woods, trying to cleanse something inside me.

PTSD

A few days ago, I decided to check my temperature. I was sniffling, probably due to seasonal allergies, but I was also concerned I might have a cold after taking my temperature, which rested nicely at around 98.6F. I took out an alcohol swab to wipe the end of the thermometer.

Immediately after removing the single-use swab from the packet, the pungent aroma wafted. Shaking almost uncontrollably, I made my way unsteadily to the foot of my bed. There, I continued to tremble, a jittery sensation as though I had consumed too much caffeine. My body warmed, almost a flushing feeling. My knee-jerk reaction in such a situation is to reach for an Ativan.

I was worried I might be too unsteady on my feet, so I chose to remain seated. My reaction, which I now understand to be a “trigger,” was activated by the smell of the alcohol swab. I felt nauseated while sitting on the edge of the bed, but I tried to calm myself by focusing on my breathing and posture. I’ve been practicing this mindfulness technique with the help of my therapist in such situations. Although I have Ativan as a backup, I don’t want to rely on it constantly. I managed to breathe through the intense anxiety, and slowly, it began to dissipate. However, it was followed by extreme fatigue, as usual.

While at Mass General, I had my temp taken regularly, every time vitals were taken. After this, the nurse on duty would wipe the thermometer. It was sterile, just like everything else in my isolated room. So great was the need for precaution that for both my transplants, I saw only the eyes of the nurses, doctors, and visitors as surgical masks shielded their faces. It is tangential, but it does illustrate the necessity for sterility and the regular use of alcohol swabs and other such disposable cleaners.
I have had numerous experiences such as this: legs shaking while at a clinic, nausea during routine blood work, and extreme panic while in an MRI machine. The list goes on and on and on…

I have strayed away from the term “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” though I am not sure why. In many ways, I thought it was reserved for people who had experienced events that were far more traumatizing. I also didn’t want to label it, especially that one. I didn’t want to see myself as traumatized. I didn’t want to be in that place. When I was first diagnosed, I hoped to go to the clinic for a few months of treatment and then return to my everyday life. Admitting that I was traumatized would mean needing more treatment, not physical therapy, but rather addressing the ongoing effects of cancer once the initial battle was over.

My psychologist and I have spent numerous hours both addressing aspects of trauma, how it looks and feels, etc., and also skirting the subject altogether. We’ve danced around it, so to speak, but also avoided entirely that which has been glaring at me, lurking, waiting for me to address it and growing larger each day I didn’t.

I thought of trauma as something that held someone back, something that was fixed in a specific time/place. I thought it was an event that never released its talons, rendering someone helpless & forever there, reliving the past events. I didn’t want that. I am embarrassed to admit I thought I was too strong. The idea above, that of strolling into the clinic and strolling back out after a few months, was how I saw myself. After the completion of my second stem cell transplant, and I was a few days away from being discharged, my oncologist said, “Well, you’ve really trooped through these!” That was me, the warrior. I only let my guard down in front of a few select nurses. I held my tears back until I was in the bathroom, supposedly showering; I’d turn on the water and then sit there crying. At night, I would slip into weird, psychedelic dreams, from which I would wake up moaning, curled into a fetal position, clutching my stuffed animal with such force my fingers would ache the next day.

This is fear. This is pain. This is trauma.

I see the label of PTSD as synonymous with being stuck somewhere in the past, reliving it over and over. The truth is, I have barely, if at all, even begun to let myself do that. To relive and work through an event(s) of significant trauma, pain, sadness & anger is, in fact, stronger. When an alcohol swab sends someone into a tailspin, into a place of panic because of the memory it holds, it is evident that something needs to be addressed, something needs to be unpacked.

I have been told that life post-cancer treatment is the most difficult; it is when the real work begins. It is when things rise to the surface and demand to be addressed. If not, they will have their talons firmly fixed into their prey, and one will be held there forever, somewhere in the past.

I’m not going to die…

I’m not going to die, at least not yet.

When my oncologist said, “There is some swelling around the former tumor in your head. This might be the tumor waking up, but we’re not sure right now.”He then mumbled something else, which now escapes my memory, as things do when you’re told such news. Then I mumbled something in response, neither of us wanting to address reality, just mumbling a language that we both agreed upon but neither spoke fluently.

I had several days to mull this over in my mind. It was the longest several days of my life. I played out every possible scenario, walked them all to the end of my imagination, and then started with a new possibility and led that one down the same road. A tumor that had potentially “woken up” and presented with edema (swelling) around it.

Sure, here is the revised text:

I found myself constantly thinking about death. Despite being told that my body could handle more chemotherapy, I questioned whether I really wanted it. After undergoing extensive chemotherapy, did I want to endure more? In addition, I was still dealing with numerous chemotherapy-related issues such as neuropathy, tinnitus, dizzy spells, extreme fatigue, memory problems, slight speech impairment, nightmares, anxiety, and depression. Could I really handle more? Moreover, would additional chemotherapy be effective? Would it only prolong my life without actually curing this disease?

The day before my MRI, I sat on our porch, basking in the beauty of the world around me. The gentle buzz of bees filled the air as they industriously collected pollen from the vibrant flowers. Watching their instinctual knowledge of which blooms were nearing their end was fascinating. I was struck with the realization that we are on a ceaseless quest to evade the inescapable fate of mortality – even more so, the recognition of it.

I truly and honestly looked at death in that glorious sunshine on the porch amidst the bees and butterflies. It wasn’t some philosophical idea, some existentialist pondering, but a cold-hearted fact of what I thought was fast approaching. For the first time since the beginning of all this, since my seizure in Chicago to the most recent comment made by my oncologist about a tumor possibly waking up, I felt okay about it. I felt Okay about the possibility of dying. More importantly, I felt at peace with it.

Even now, writing the words is hard to fully express. Words fall so incredibly short. It is not that I was resigned or apathetic. It wasn’t that death was a welcomed reprieve from the madness of my life that, when it finally arrived, I would ask, “What the fuck took you so long?” It’s that death, the possibility of dying, the likelihood that it would arrive soon, graced me with a profound inner peace, one that I have never before felt in my life.

I didn’t want to move. I didn’t dare shift my gaze out of fear that this would disrupt the sensation and overall feeling I was currently blessed with.

“Hi Jeremiah, this is Dr. _; it looks like the swelling is due to necrosis, a cellular death that can occur after radiation. We’ll just keep track of it; I’ll schedule you for an 8-week follow-up. I don’t think surgical resection is needed, but I’ll put you in touch with a neurosurgeon, and they can go over that with you.

… and that’s it, necrotic tissue causing swelling.

There is a lot of work to be done now. One year post stem cell transplant allows for little breathing room, but that’s plenty for me — that’s more than enough. The real struggle now is with my mind and heart; the PTSD, anxiety, etc., will just take time and patience and love — self-love especially. The level of peace, however, and the acceptance I felt on that day, and still feel now, will go a long, long way in my emotional & psychological recovery. In using the metaphor of one of my latest posts regarding my feeling of helplessness & exhaustion being like the crashing waves under which I’m struggling to stay afloat, I can touch the sea floor now. Also, the land is clearly visible, and the tide finally works in my favor.

Measuring time

I measure time in interesting ways now. A row of trees (“green giants”) were planted in my backyard roughly two years ago. As they grow, like most trees, they send these vertical shoots (for lack of a better word) straight up, and then those, in turn, begin to fill out with horizon branches. They have not only sent up their shoots, but they have also begun to fill out. This is the intention of such trees; they are used as a natural wall. They are close to becoming impenetrable.

I think about when my dear friend visited. They put cream on my hands; it was a lovely gesture and made me feel safe and secure. When they came to visit, we went to get gelato. My hair fell out. They noticed it on my pillow but didn’t want to say anything, but I knew. When I left Chicago, I took their suitcase. It had a little Travelocity gnome on the handle. When I returned home to Maine, I left the suitcase in my room and lived out of it. Not that I couldn’t settle into my room in my mother’s house; I just didn’t think I’d be here long enough to have to. It wasn’t naivety, just wishful thinking and the assumption this would be over and done with by mid-summer. The suitcase was there, just resting in my doorway. I would wash my clothing and put them back in the suitcase, folding the pants and shirts neatly so they would fit. The little gnome smiled up at me, bidding me to take off, to go boldly out there, wherever there was. Slowly I unpacked, however. I washed my clothing, folded it, and began to fill my drawers. Then the suitcase was put in our basement, the little gnome still there, hanging off the top. That was over two years ago.

I want a 9-5 job. I want to go out on the weekends. I want to point the finger at someone or something. I ate organic food for the majority of my life. I was a vegetarian, didn’t touch GMOs, and tried to eat locally when possible. I drank green tea and coffee — but only organic, of course. I was raised on a farm in Vermont — I was an earth-loving flower child before earth-loving flower children became trendy and commercialized. I meditate regularly and exercise 4+ days a week. So why am I still fighting this this fucking disease?

Yes, that’s right, fuck. Fuck this, fuck that… fuck!

There’s shame in all this, too. As with my diet and lifestyle, how on earth did I get cancer, considering how I tried to be diligent (almost militant!) about the choices I was making? Or is that guilt? I am not sure I fully understand the two: shame and guilt. Do I feel ashamed when I let out the pain and anger from this ongoing battle? Or is that guilt? Do I feel guilty that I feel as though I am burdening someone with it all this? Or is that a shame?

We have a tendency to glorify these people who go through cancer with some sort of sage or guru or saintly-like bravery and stoicism. The talks and books, the inspirational speeches, and blah blah blah. But that person who marches through it all doesn’t exist. Yes, they do, but I can guarantee they cracked, broke down, and screamed. Yes, the inspirational speeches are full of beautiful sentiments about this or that, about how cancer was “the little friend I needed.” The majority, though, I’m assuming, are like me in the sense that they can’t right themselves long enough to step away from the looming shadow that is cancer.

My oncologist said I should get a job. I’m not sure if that was a joke or not.
My other oncologist said, when I had ongoing back pain recently and asked for an MRI (it turned out to be an inflamed disk), “that’s the trouble with doing scans, it seems you always find something wrong.” Excuse me? Fuck you.

Those green giants have indeed filled in. They have made a lovely wall. Inside that wall, on my side, there are plants, flowers, and endless beauty for the eyes to behold. I will admit my gardens are beautiful. Our gardens are beautiful. I spent endless summers crafting them when I was at home from school or had free time from work, etc. When I lacked stamina due to treatment and willpower, my mother took over and put her unique touch on them. But I’m not there, not fully present on our side. I am standing with my friend’s suitcase, with the little gnome on the handle, ready to travel, trying desperately to get beyond the wall of green giants. I am certain that on the other side is a 9-5 job, weekend drinks, and conversations that don’t feel like a burden to others. On the other side, hand massages are simply hand massages and not about squelching intense fear that transcends words.

Shadows larger than life

Sometimes, I feel as though I have a very clear idea of what I want to write and what ideas and emotions I’m trying to convey. Other times, I don’t know where to begin and hope that fumbling along will eventually string together enough thoughts to create something solid. This is the former. However, the idea is clear but the words haven’t yet formed.

Recently, I have wondered if this is all worth it. By this, I mean the cumulative fear, stress, and anger that have spanned the last 2.5 years of my life.

With cancer, there is no reprieve. I always wonder if something is lurking. The experience with the recurrence took me so off guard. Now, I always wonder what’s there, just under the surface? What’s going on within me?

In a way, I have become very childlike, existing in this world where shadows are larger than life and wondering about my health every second.

The scans I had 3 months ago were clean. (I will have another round in early August.) The knowledge of clean scans permits me a little time to feel good, safe, and breathe. Then the show starts all over again. The build-up begins weeks (if not months) before the actual test dates; sleepless nights, raw emotions/emotional outbursts, heightened sensitivity to noise or sudden movements, and irritability. There is a pervasive feeling of dread that blankets everything. It’s not so simple to label it as depression; it is too multifaceted. (By the way, I take antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication. In addition, I also take a daily regimen of herbal remedies and supplements to combat all sorts of things mood-related.)

This is my existence, and I have honestly been wondering if it’s all worth it and if I can hold on. If I can hold out for that one day when I’ll awake, the nagging fear, the chronic anxiety, and endless worrying will have slipped away in the night.

In June (2018), when I saw my oncologist at Mass General, they asked how I was doing. I felt more and more comfortable with them and knew they were asking on a deeper level (i.e., not just inquiring about fatigue levels, appetite, etc.). I said, “I feel hopeless.” It is a word I hadn’t used much before, if at all. Hopeless: despair, desperate, forlorn, pessimistic, resigned… these words don’t describe who I am. Who was I becoming? What had all this illness done to me? The weight of that word fell upon me.

For me, a state of hopelessness is reached rather gradually. In considering my journey, in relative hindsight, it is akin to wading out into a body of water — just one step, then the other, and so on. I think the longevity of my journey was a sort of cresting wave; the initial diagnosis, the recurrence, the stem cell transplant. Everything consumed me in between the various tests that took place, the preparations, the scheduling of this or that. I had little time to even consider what state I was in. Naturally, there was great sadness, frustration, etc. I never thought these emotions would culminate in hopelessness, or perhaps they were slipping under the radar. The cresting wave broke; it fell upon me. The body of water, the floor of which I could just barely touch amidst everything, was no longer there. Try as I might, I couldn’t touch the bottom. Then, another wave broke and another. I surfaced and looked for the shore, but the swells were too great, too high. All these moments of fear or anxiety, anger or sadness, amounted to a state of hopelessness.

For those unsure of what I’m saying, I will be blunt; I have often wondered about ending my own life. Also, for those who are also wondering how or why I would go through years of cancer-related treatment only to contemplate taking my own life — it is not, nor will it ever be, that simple.

As I said before, I’m holding out for that day when I will wake to even the slightest hint of normalcy.

Things change so quickly

I can’t help but look back. It is torture, I know… but I’m still trying to figure things out. If I keep repeatedly playing things in my mind, something will pop up, make sense, and be clear.

This photo (4/4/16) is after being discharged from the hospital. I had my orchiectomy, was diagnosed, had my apartment packed up, and was about to return home to New England for treatment. How did I manage all this? I didn’t notice until looking at the photo that I was still wearing the bracelet from the hospital.

Things change so quickly.

My eyes are so tired in this photo. I looked worn out and worried – naturally, I was. I wanted to smile for my girlfriend, it was her birthday. Considering life’s drastic change, I wanted to act as normal as possible.

I am not sure why I return to these images. Maybe it is the stark contrast between the two; a casual day at the nature museum was only a matter of days before my life fell apart.

What am I seeking here? What do I hope to find in the words written upon my face, within my tired eyes?

I notice my left hand is gripping her shoulder so tightly. Is it because I’m leaving? Is it to thank you for being there for me, coming to the emergency room, and staying with me there for days? Is it that I’m trying to hold on with all my strength because this is the last refuge, the last fragment of normalcy that I will have in a long time?

I will turn these questions (and many more) over and over in my mind. There has to be reason within them… they have to make sense.

Expressive writing

“Stress, trauma, and unexpected life developments — such as a cancer
diagnosis, a car accident, or a layoff — can throw people off stride
emotionally and mentally. Writing about thoughts and feelings that arise
from a traumatic or stressful life experience — called expressive
writing — may help some people cope with the emotional fallout of such
events. But it’s not a cure-all, and it won’t work for everyone.
Expressive writing appears to be more effective for people who are not
also struggling with ongoing or severe mental health challenges, such as
major depression or post-traumatic stress disorder.”

It sounds like I am beating a dead horse when I talk about “getting over” things. In many ways, and I do recognize this, I am. It isn’t that I’m obsessed with this idea, or beating myself up… it is simply that I am trying to come to terms, accept, move onward.

My fear is, and this too might be glaringly obvious, I worry about getting stuck there. Perhaps this is why I’m so keen on stepping forward and into the present.

I ruminate. I think and overthink and re-think… I try to work something out, see it from every angle and point of view. This has served me well and has helped in many ways. However, in regards to cancer and cancer treatment, I worry that it might be too great a focal point.

The above quote, published by Harvard Health, interests me. I fancy myself a wordsmith, even though my spelling and grammar are rather questionable (thank you neurotoxicity!). With writing, especially that which isn’t fiction, I grapple with subjects and, as with my other rumination skills, pick at it, dissect it, scrutinize it.

What I’m beginning to understand, and this quote really gets to the heart of it, is that my trauma from these many experiences had over the past two years, might be hindering me from working through something and thus letting it go. (Perhaps I am even overthinking this…)

Mandala

“When the mandala is finally finished, however long it takes for the
monks to deal in this divine geometry of the heavens, they pray over it —
and then they destroy it. They sweep up every last grain of sand and give handfuls of it away to those who participate in the closing ceremony as a final memory of sublime possibility. Then, they throw the rest of the sand into the nearest living stream to be swept into the ocean to bless the world. And that’s it. It’s gone. In an instant, after all that artistry, all that work, it’s over.”

I am burned out.

I have spent the better part of today trying to sift through GoFundMe updates and re-constructing this blog based on them. Gofundme isn’t, as I’m sure many know, a blog, the updates don’t really work/flow like that. I was trying to cut and paste and get the dates in some sort of order so that it made sense – IE, it was chronological, concise, etc. For the most part, the cutting-and-pasting was fine, or at least relatively quick and easy. I would read just a few lines from each update, hunt for the photo contained with it, and then post it. This was like stepping on landmines. I became so triggered. It is a year out from my first transplant, but the memories are so fresh. Even if it were after a decade, I could easily feel this knee-jerk reaction and slip into this state of paralysis.

I don’t know why I keep pushing myself in such a way. I seek to escape to get over things. But I am in a labyrinth, walking around, disoriented, lost. Of course, healing is a maze, and one must work patiently to find the route. More so, which I know logically (philosophically?) but have difficulty accepting, is that one must embrace wherever he/she is – even if it is a confusing, endless maze.

I often think of a mandala. The metaphor is loosely connected to this, but it still stands. I think about these monks working endlessly on this beautiful sand “painting,” fastidiously laboring over it. The attention to detail is of utmost importance, but so is this sense of being present, of working in the moment. The work isn’t seen, or at least I believe it isn’t seen, as a whole. I believe the monks begin and work from breath to breath to breath. The skill they have acquired is so precise that they are masters at work. But the mastery comes with a patience that is only possible from moment to moment, from breath to breath.

Try as I might, I am not in this place. I look in the mirror, and though I see the present Jeremiah, who looks back with brightness in their eyes, I can’t help but see Jeremiah, whose eyes have a vacant and sickly look. These two (and many other forms) stand side-by-side, I can’t.

How do I let this person go? I know it isn’t possible in all aspects; this person has defined me in many ways. But like the mandala crafted by the patient monks who let it go, destroy it by the hand that labored over it, wash it away in a river… how do I let the pale and sickly Jeremiah go, embrace the Jeremiah that is now?

“Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know.”
Pema Chödrön

The Woods

Today, I returned to the woods. It wasn’t the same woods where I had my last seizure in March, but nonetheless, it was a nice preserve with winding footpaths that overlook small islands just off the coast and nice, expansive views of water stretching outwards to the open ocean. My mother insists on how healthy this expanse can be for the mind. Often, I forget about the healing quality of this until I am standing on the rocky coastline looking out. It was then that I felt calm, and peace was over me.

It felt good to be back in the woods after weeks of fear of entering them. Whenever I would pass the woods where I had my seizure, I would cry. Depending on who was driving, I would ask them to take an alternative route so I didn’t have to see them. During initial treatment, I often walked in them after my long days in the clinic. If not, I spent nearly every “recovery” day before my next round within them. I found solace there, stillness. I found a sort of peace amidst all the madness and uncertainty of my life.

In March, when the seizure struck and I was in my sacred woods, it was a real blow to my emotional state and my overall well-being. It isn’t that I felt the woods betrayed me or triggered my seizure; it was the realization that there isn’t any escape, for lack of a better word. The woods may have been my refuge but I was naive to think nothing could happen or harm me there.

Ever since I was a boy, I’ve loved the woods. There have been only a few places I’ve lived over the years where I didn’t have access or time to access (the) woods. As a young boy, the woods didn’t necessarily mean a haven, as this concept was far beyond my comprehension then, but they did represent (and still do) a place of magic. Then, when I was younger, they were filled with endless adventures as vast as a young boy’s imagination. Now, as an adult, though still playful on many levels, the woods represent more of a holistic and nurturing environment. When I had the seizure in March, both the lingering playfulness and youthful innocence, as well as the “grownup” seeking to be nurtured and held by nature, were infringed upon.

It was healing to be there. I felt a reconnection and a sort of resurgence of my love for them and the safe feeling they kindle within me. It wasn’t necessarily the young boy who again was filled with innocent wonder that came alive. The grownup craved a sense of normalcy and a reconnection to the simple things in life that can save us from the harshness of it.

April is testicular cancer awareness month

How I got here. Wherever here is.

I decided to visit the school nurse and ask about the dry cough that had been lingering. There was a sort of clinic located on campus for students. I decided to make an appointment. At this time, the cough was starting to interfere with my daily life; in the morning, after doing my daily pushups, I had to hold my arms above my head to get a lung-full of air.

The nurse practitioner (NP) was a little confused. I was a-symptomatic, except for the cough. When they asked about my health history, I told them I hadn’t been sick a day. They prescribed an albuterol inhaler to see if this would help. It did, but only momentarily. I returned to the clinic, and the NP said I might want to visit a walk-in clinic near the school and see a doctor. So, I did. Again, I’m thinking this is merely a cough due to allergies, maybe I’ve developed asthma, etc. I was a “strapping young man,” and surely it couldn’t be anything more than that.

The Dr. at the clinic was also a little baffled. I had no signs of any illness at all; no fever, swollen glands, nausea/vomiting, etc., and again, no history of ill health. They decided to do an x-ray of my chest, which they could do right there at the clinic. After waiting a considerable amount of time, the Dr. again was a little confused by the x-ray results and wanted something with a more “in-depth” look at my lungs. I was told to schedule a CT scan. Again, I was in school full time, trying to keep up with a considerable course load, getting ready to install my thesis work, working a part-time job, etc. This all seemed like a nuisance. However, I assumed the Dr. would know best, so I scheduled an appointment for a CT scan.

I went to the appointment and was informed that I would have to pay well over a grand ($1,000) for the procedure. I was shocked, naturally. I had very little money, but my insurance deductible was so high that I was paying for the procedure out of pocket. Also, everything was well out of network… which I didn’t understand because I was a “strapping you man” and didn’t ever, ever even use insurance. I basically had it because students must have a plan or buy one from the school. The plan I purchased through the “affordable care” act was a bare-bones plan with a $6,500 deductible. But I bit the bullet and paid for the scan with my credit card,

I left the facility, and even though I just put a “pointless” procedure on my credit card, I was happy as the day was so beautiful. I thought I’d take my habitual long walk and soak in the sun. My cough, though persistent, never prevented me from my daily walk. I needed exercise, and still do, to maintain a clear head, and since my walks have become so routine, I find myself craving them.

The CT scan results would be sent to the ordering physician at the walk-in clinic.

A few days later, the clinic called me and said the Dr. wanted to see me regarding my results. Annoyed again, I left work early and headed to the clinic. I waited long, as it was a walk-in clinic for various ailments and people seeking medical attention. Finally, the Dr. saw me. They said the CT scan was a bit strange and showed my lungs were full of this sort of white, wispy stuff. They said they didn’t want to jump immediately to the idea of it being cancer, but they had a sneaking suspicion it was. They said it wasn’t primary lung cancer, as this would certainly be noticeable, but it could be cancer that had spread to the lungs. I was given a little time to myself in their office as this was “a lot to process.” However, I still assumed it was nothing — I was certain it wasn’t anything to worry about. I was, again, a “strapping young man,” and this was some sort of lung infection or … something else, but not cancer.

The Dr. returned and said I’d need to have a biopsy to determine what it was and, if it was, in fact, cancer, where it originated. They gave me a list of hospitals and local Drs. etc. Told me to contact my insurance about out of network possibilities, etc. Then, with a handshake and a wish for good luck, I was off.

It still didn’t phase me. Trust me, it wasn’t naïvety, I simply didn’t believe that it was cancer of any sorts. On top of that, there was NO way I could have a biopsy done. Though not a complex procedure, it would require time from school, work, etc. Also, now slightly grasping the insanity of the US insurance system, I would have to pay for all, or at least a great portion of the procedure, from my dwindling savings or, again, charge it. If it was an emergent situation (such as after the seizure and being rushed to the hospital). But this wasn’t emergent, not yet, at least. I couldn’t do that; I couldn’t take the time away from school or work. I was so close to graduating, so close to being done. I thought I could just finish up and fly back to New England, once there I could have the biopsy. Yes, that was my plan, and, to me at the time, it made perfect sense. I was only a matter of weeks away from completing my graduate degree and could be back home, back within the network of my insurance plan, and then could have this procedure done. Plus, I was a “strapping you man,” remember, and certainly wasn’t sick — not a single symptom, except for the dry cough.

But I was sick. In fact, I was worse than just sick; it was worse than a dry cough I couldn’t kick. I was told that, in a healthy, young person, cancer can spread far and wide inside the lungs. However, the brain has limited room… about 1.5-2 weeks after I was told I would need a biopsy to understand if this was cancer or not, I had the infamous seizure. The cancer, undoubtedly, was already spreading and had been doing so for months. At the time of my CT scan, there was unquestionably a growing lesion already in my brain.

April is testicular cancer awareness month. A list of symptoms/signs one can have might indicate having it. Be mindful of your body, perform self-examinations at least once a month, etc. — early detection is key. Even “strapping young men” are not invincible or immune.