Just like that, I've got cancer

The sedation from my colonoscopy hadn’t quite worn off when the doctor told my wife that I had cancer. I still had the presence of mind to attempt a slurred wisecrack.

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“We-ell, thasshh not good!”

The doctor was not amused. He was, however, surprised, Nancy told me later. I think he expected to find internal hemorrhoids, not a 5-centimeter tumor that had eaten into the wall of my colon.

When she heard the news, Nancy’s ears started ringing. The walls didn’t close in, like they had three years ago when I fell through the attic floor and flayed open my hand, severing nerves and tendons in two fingers. Instead, the doctor’s words came through a hum, like the kind you hear when you stand next to a guitar amplifier that’s turned up way too loud. She thought maybe she’d heard wrong. Then he brought out the pictures.

The sedative probably saved me. I absorbed the information without reacting to it. By the time it could sink in, it had already sunk in, if that makes any sense. I had moved on to getting a CT scan (to see if the cancer had spread beyond the colon) and meeting with my surgeon.

I was more perplexed than frightened: I always had thought of colon cancer as an old man’s disease. The American Cancer Society recommends that screening start at age 50.

Maybe that’s why my family practitioner — who may not be my family practitioner much longer, frankly — didn’t send me straight to a gastroenterologist last November when I told him I had passed blood when I had expected to pass gas. If it happened again, he told me, I might want to go to the emergency room. It never did happen, not quite like that first time. I got a few red streaks every couple of weeks, but not often enough that I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t really happening and never the black, tarry stuff that I’d read indicated real trouble.

So I did nothing until April, when frequent heartburn that I couldn’t attribute solely to diet sent me to a gastroenterologist, who suggested a two-pronged approach: Prilosec for any problems in my upper digestive tract and a colonoscopy to check the lower tract. After all, I wasn’t that far from 50. Even then, I wanted to delay.

“Can I wait until after Memorial Day?” I asked. I live-blog American Idol two nights a week, and the season finale was coming up. I could, he replied, in a tone that clearly indicated he wouldn’t.

I did. Then I waited two more weeks, so I could report from Bonnaroo, too.

In retrospect, I should have done more after the first sign appeared. And I definitely should have gotten the colonoscopy the week my doctor recommended it. But people under 50 account for only 11% of colon cancer cases, according to a study published last year in Archives of Internal Medicines. So nobody was expecting cancer at that point.

Unfortunately, it won’t be the only time I’ll find myself in a bad minority, cancer-wise, but more on that later.

Putting off the colonoscopy was a really bad idea, but it did allow me to create some memories I’m glad I have to take into the days ahead. Like playing catch with my 10-year-old daughter in the outfield after the Nashville Sounds’ Father’s Day minor-league baseball game, two days after my diagnosis. Watching that Field of Dreams-like moment from the third-base stands, my wife cried for the first time since learning about my cancer.

A few days after that, during one of my morning walks that assumed a new focus and intensity as I used them to get into shape for surgery, I discovered a gravel path at the end of a neighborhood cul-de-sac. It ran parallel to a railroad track for a quarter-mile, then opened into a meadow, showing me that, if you pay close attention when you come to a dead end, you often find it’s not really the end. (And sometimes you see bunnies.)

Surgery is Monday, and the doctor plans to take out all but the last 6 inches of my colon.

Will that make it a semicolon?

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. Better Than Today, Don Williams

2. Days Go By, The Offspring

3. Day Will Come, Keane

4. Sing ‘Em Good My Friend, Kenny Chesney

5. Don’t You Give Up onMe, Milo Greene

6. New Horrors, Devin

7. Running on Pure Fear, Martin Zellar The Hardways

8. Haunted, Kelly Hogan

9. We Are Alive, Bruce Springsteen

10. Healer, Rumer

Next week: Breaking the news, and when “How’re you doing?” becomes a loaded question