In the month between my diagnosis and my surgery, I approached my cancer with confidence. “It’s the very best of a very bad kind,” I told friends, assuring them that we’d caught it just in the nick of time.
The reporter in me, honestly, was a little excited. If a country singer had cancer, I’d have been all over the story, doing research, calling doctors. The way I figured, having it myself was the same, I just had better access. It was the best story I’d get to tell all year. Besides, I could stand to lose 20 pounds.
I was in cancer’s honeymoon phase.
That may sound horrific, but that’s how I felt. My wife, Nancy, had gotten me involved in a walking program, and, after the diagnosis, I ramped that up, walking between two and eight miles every day. I’d get out of bed and hit the street, my iPod loaded with brand-new music. I’d walk until I heard at least five unknown songs that I liked. Some days that would take an hour; other days it would take three. And those were hours I wasn’t eating.
I didn’t eliminate red meat, desserts and fried food, but I made eating them intentional — and I’ll take a cup of fresh strawberries over a brownie almost any day of the week. I switched out sodas in favor of high-quality juices.
Between the increased exercising and the healthier eating, I began dropping weight — 10 pounds in four weeks. I had cancer, and I was in better shape than I had been in years.
But cancer is sneaky and lies in wait for you.
I got my first mugging when the results of my genetic screening came back. Only about 3% of people with colorectal cancers have Lynch syndrome, a genetic condition that increases the likelihood of developing colon cancer before age 50 more than a hundredfold. My family didn’t seem to meet the standard diagnostic criteria —which include having two successive generations and a first-degree relative with any type of cancer associated with Lynch — but, sure enough, I tested positive.
Suddenly, the best story I’d get to tell all year turned into a multi-generational epic. I’ve got four kids, each of whom has a 50/50 chance of inheriting my broken chromosome. My 74-year-old father, who had never had a colonoscopy — and who, we eventually learned, had three first cousins diagnosed with colorectal cancer in their 40s — would need to get one. So would my little sister.
Just like that, the honeymoon was over. Even if the surgeon got all of this cancer, it could come back. And not just in my colon. Lynch syndrome increases my risk for cancers of the stomach, the small intestine, the urinary tract and the brain, too. If I’ve passed it on to any of my kids, I might have to watch them go through the same things.
I tried to take the news in stride, but my body started to show the strain. I carried the tension in my jaw, which began to ache and pop when I chewed. A friend at church asked what, specifically, I feared. I hadn’t thought things through that far, but I focused quickly on two areas: 1) finding out the cancer had spread farther than expected, and 2) not waking up at all. Sure, both of those things were unlikely. Just like getting colon cancer in the first place. Or having Lynch syndrome. I was on a run against the odds, but I didn’t like the direction I was headed.
The Sunday before my surgery, I gave my preacher a USB drive filled with songs I wanted played at my funeral. Just in case. “I’ll need this back the next time you see me,” I told him. “One way or the other.”
If I felt great before surgery, afterward was an entirely different story. As I came out of sedation, I dreamed I was curled up in the far corner of a dark room, arms wrapped around my belly, knees folded into my chest, grimacing and clenching every muscle as tightly as possible in an effort to force the pain out of my body, or at least into one manageable spot. Even with the morphine pain pump, I couldn’t relax any part of my body the entire first night following surgery.
As for the procedure itself, my surgeon felt confident he’d gotten all the cancer by laparoscopically removing four feet of colon. Recovery went remarkably quickly. Having made a habit of walking paid dividends: Three days after surgery, I put in a mile, making multiple laps of the hospital floor throughout the day. The nurses began calling me The Walker. On the fourth day after surgery, I went home.
As soon as I lay down in my own bed, though, nausea hit. When my surgeon took me off the pain pump, he put me on Lortab, a mix of acetaminophen and hydrocodone. I hate hydrocodone. I took it twice the time I tore up my hand, and it made me so sick that I decided I preferred the pain. Hydrocodone kills my appetite, and when I take it on an empty stomach, it makes me ill. Twenty-four hours after leaving the hospital, I lost what little I had eaten in two quick heaves, and I headed to the ER to make sure I hadn’t ripped anything open.
Fortunately, I hadn’t. The doctors switched my prescription to Percocet, which not only doesn’t make me sick, it gives me the Best Dreams Ever — colorful, electrified pop-culture dreams. Warren Zevon returned in a wheelchair for the first one. The second imagined a complete renovation of downtown Nashville, courtesy of Disney, Frank Capra and the WWE.
And my recovery’s back on track. For now. But I know better than to make assumptions. Statistics are meaningless, whether they’re for five-year survival rates or the likelihood of a genetic condition. Good news, when cancer’s involved, is good news for that day alone.
And that’s enough. It has to be.
Music that makes me want to live
Cancer has changed the way I hear music, more than any other life event except my marriage. Songs I once appreciated only on a surface level now strike deep at the core of my soul. Some inspire me; some terrify me. Others that I might have liked before, I’ve got no use for now. I’ve also got more time to listen, whether it’s during my morning exercise time or while lying in a hospital bed. These songs form part of the soundtrack to my cancer story.
1. Dance in the Graveyards, Delta Rae
2. Unto the Hills, Julie Lee the Baby-Daddies
3. Deep Dark Wells, Joe Pug
4. Lawdy, The Vespers
5. From This Valley, The Civil Wars
Next week: Lynch syndrome? What the heck is Lynch syndrome?
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