December 1, 2015.
It was a fairly normal day, non-remarkable in
almost every way. I took the day off work to see a Dr. I had been dealing with
a hemorrhoid since the pregnancy with my daughter. No big deal, most moms get
them. This one, however, was getting worse. It was growing and bleeding. People
do not, however, talk about their anus. Even the word inspires jokes, and makes
people clench their own butt and change the subject. I have always tread where
others fear to go, but even I shy clear of discussing my anal area.
So I went to a colorectal specialist to see if
it could be removed. I described my symptoms: bleeding, itching, pain, feeling
of fullness and occasional leakage.
He did an exam and immediately told me it was
cancer. He asked me to listen carefully because he knows that when someone
hears the word cancer they stop listening.
Cancer.
Cancer.
Cancer.
It is hard to focus.
He said Cancer.
Cancer.
Cancer.
He explained that he needed a biopsy to prove it
is cancer.
Cancer.
Cancer.
I would need radiation and chemotherapy to treat
the cancer.
Cancer.
Cancer.
It is a small and treatable anal cancer.
Cancer.
Cancer.
I sat in my car and sobbed. I could not breathe.
What about my daughter? I fought so hard to have her. What would happen to her?
I will fight this thing, this cancer, but how will it affect her? How did I get
cancer? My world was spinning.
Cancer.
Cancer.
Cancer.
