I abandoned my children tonight. I plugged them into a glowing rectangle of one form or another, told them to make good choices, and headed out to where I could sit in a dimly-lit space with alternamuzak and drink a pint or two of amber-colored calming tonic in a room with few humans, zero of whom want me to mediate an argument-turned-fist fight, explain why I get to have seconds of dessert and they don’t, or who might accidentally walk in on me while I’m trying to go to the bathroom because they forgot to knock. Again.
I found out yesterday that I will be going in for thoracic surgery on December 17th. Do I have cancer? Unknown. First the nurse practitioner, then the doctor explained to me that there is a 1.8 mm nodule at the bottom of the third lobe of the right lung. (Did you know the left lung only has two lobes? I didn’t either until yesterday.) They’re unable to biopsy it. I won’t bore you why. They explained it using charts and shit and it all made sense, even though it was kind of hard to pay attention, kind of like the way Walter White could only concentrate on the mustard stain on his doctor’s lapel when he got his diagnosis. So, no biopsy. Surgery it is. While I’m under general anesthesia, they’re going to put an incision between four ribs – two incisions total – and remove my nodule, which I’ve named Alberta, very carefully – like John Travolta in The Boy in the Plastic Bubble – so that it doesn’t shed cells on to the presumably-healthy tissue of the rest of my lung. Then my surgeon and his team are going to…eat a sandwich? Balance their checkbooks? Exchange clever banter? Something…while somebody with, at a minimum, a community college certificate does some scientific wizardry to assess whether or not Alberta is malignant or benign. If he’s benign, they’re going to stop right there – hopefully not leaving any of their ink pens or mustard packages inside me – sew me up, and send me on my way to the recovery room. If he’s malignant, they’re going to increase the size of the top incision, spread my ribs wide, and perform a lobectomy on the bottom quarter of the third lobe of my right lung. In case you’re keeping score, this accounts for approximately 20% of the breaths I take (for granted…) There’s a 1% chance of dying during surgery and a 2% chance of developing some sort of something unpleasant and dying within 30 days of the surgery. Continue reading “Just another cancer blog”