Ten points is all you get for using "cancer" in a game of Scrabble.
Well I think that's pretty crappy. Not that cancer should be worth more, that's not really how the game works, but ten lousy points for confronting certain pain and sickness and possibly death?
I realize that cancer treatment has come a very, very long way over the years. For instance, I have an uncle who is doing incredibly well following treatment and a best friend's father who is in remission. Just a few years ago I'm sure both types had lower probabilities for successful outcomes and almost a certain guarantee of maximum discomfort before death.
Sometimes, however, I think cancer gets a bad rep because folks believe cancer is associated with poor behavior (i.e. smokers brought it on themselves, etc.) and they deserve their sickness. Perhaps the magnitude of cancer gets swept aside because of people like Lance Armstrong who beat cancer, but ultimately end up being assholes and cheats and liars and frauds.
Regardless, I think cancer is still a pretty big deal. This was especially so last summer when I had a bunch of weird moles and bumps appear on my stomach and face.
Now I know that I don't take the greatest care of myself and that I have some bad habits, but I was shocked when the on-base psuedo-practioner-of-medicine that the Air Force lovingly calls a "doctor" referred me to an off-base dermatologist.
Of course my mind cross referenced everything I'd ever "learned" on Grey's Anatomy and I was certain that I was going to die like Izzie Stephens since she found a weird mole on her back that ended up being brain cancer and then she had hallucinations and...
Yea, I know that thought process is idiotic, but when it takes 90 days to get seen off base you have a teeny tiny amount of time to go all hypochondriac on TRICARE.
I was reminded of all these feelings this past week when I volunteered at the animal shelter and interacted with a cancer-ridden Rottweiler named Sheba. This is a really rotten situation as I pointed out to my mom with the use of a blunt, formulaic equation:
Black Dog + Full-body Cancer + Aggressive Breed = Certain Death
I know the vets are trying to treat it, but the little girl is only two and it's not like the shelter is swimming in donations.
I pushed all of this aside, however, and just focused on having the best walk I could based on her energy levels.
She seemed really good. She took two nuclear-certified poops (from the chemo) and walked 0.5 miles taking in the sunshine.
And that's when I started to recount my own experience.
Simply, I waited three months to be seen only to have the derm extract some worrisome bumps from my face, which meant I had to wait a few more weeks for the results.
The waiting was the worst followed closely by the big black stitches on my upper lip.
Of course I went back to work after the initial procedure (what else was I going to do besides watch more Grey's and write my own eulogy?) and tried to focus on my projects. Sadly, only my guys and the civilian leads noticed my inability to speak clearly (numbing) and the stitches. They showed genuine concern and wanted to know how everything worked out.
Then there was tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum. They had no idea anything was wrong despite the fact that I had to make repeated requests to miss work for these appointments. After three years in their organization, nothing.
Now I didn't expect them to give me time off to mope around or to show any true concern, but a feigned amount of indifference would've been nice. I mean I was one of three other officers in the organization at that point. A simple, "Let us know if you need anything" would've been sufficient.
But I guess that's what happens when you're busy talking about barbecue and your lawn and other douchebaggery.
Whatever.
Oh, and it ended up being a case of overactive sweat glands. "Grody," the nurse said as she opened my results like we were at the Emmys.
Fine by me, I thought, fine by me.
Well I think that's pretty crappy. Not that cancer should be worth more, that's not really how the game works, but ten lousy points for confronting certain pain and sickness and possibly death?
I realize that cancer treatment has come a very, very long way over the years. For instance, I have an uncle who is doing incredibly well following treatment and a best friend's father who is in remission. Just a few years ago I'm sure both types had lower probabilities for successful outcomes and almost a certain guarantee of maximum discomfort before death.
Sometimes, however, I think cancer gets a bad rep because folks believe cancer is associated with poor behavior (i.e. smokers brought it on themselves, etc.) and they deserve their sickness. Perhaps the magnitude of cancer gets swept aside because of people like Lance Armstrong who beat cancer, but ultimately end up being assholes and cheats and liars and frauds.
Regardless, I think cancer is still a pretty big deal. This was especially so last summer when I had a bunch of weird moles and bumps appear on my stomach and face.
Now I know that I don't take the greatest care of myself and that I have some bad habits, but I was shocked when the on-base psuedo-practioner-of-medicine that the Air Force lovingly calls a "doctor" referred me to an off-base dermatologist.
Of course my mind cross referenced everything I'd ever "learned" on Grey's Anatomy and I was certain that I was going to die like Izzie Stephens since she found a weird mole on her back that ended up being brain cancer and then she had hallucinations and...
Yea, I know that thought process is idiotic, but when it takes 90 days to get seen off base you have a teeny tiny amount of time to go all hypochondriac on TRICARE.
Link: I know I'm an idiot, but come on!
I was reminded of all these feelings this past week when I volunteered at the animal shelter and interacted with a cancer-ridden Rottweiler named Sheba. This is a really rotten situation as I pointed out to my mom with the use of a blunt, formulaic equation:
Black Dog + Full-body Cancer + Aggressive Breed = Certain Death
I know the vets are trying to treat it, but the little girl is only two and it's not like the shelter is swimming in donations.
I pushed all of this aside, however, and just focused on having the best walk I could based on her energy levels.
She seemed really good. She took two nuclear-certified poops (from the chemo) and walked 0.5 miles taking in the sunshine.
And that's when I started to recount my own experience.
Simply, I waited three months to be seen only to have the derm extract some worrisome bumps from my face, which meant I had to wait a few more weeks for the results.
The waiting was the worst followed closely by the big black stitches on my upper lip.
Of course I went back to work after the initial procedure (what else was I going to do besides watch more Grey's and write my own eulogy?) and tried to focus on my projects. Sadly, only my guys and the civilian leads noticed my inability to speak clearly (numbing) and the stitches. They showed genuine concern and wanted to know how everything worked out.
Then there was tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum. They had no idea anything was wrong despite the fact that I had to make repeated requests to miss work for these appointments. After three years in their organization, nothing.
Now I didn't expect them to give me time off to mope around or to show any true concern, but a feigned amount of indifference would've been nice. I mean I was one of three other officers in the organization at that point. A simple, "Let us know if you need anything" would've been sufficient.
But I guess that's what happens when you're busy talking about barbecue and your lawn and other douchebaggery.
Whatever.
Oh, and it ended up being a case of overactive sweat glands. "Grody," the nurse said as she opened my results like we were at the Emmys.
Fine by me, I thought, fine by me.
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