Ron's Blog

I assume that most cancer survivors live with this nagging feeling that the cancer is still lurking in their body, just waiting for another opportunity to show up on a scan, in bloodwork, or as a suspicious-looking blemish. While remission is a welcome reprieve from treatment, there is always the fear of a recurrence hanging over our heads. So, we dutifully show up for our checkups and tests as a way to avoid as many surprises as possible.

As luck would have it, during a routine scan, my doctor discovered a rogue lymph node in my abdomen that looked suspicious. Nobody likes to hear the word “suspicious.” It’s like doctor’s code for, “I’m not sure what this is and due to the rising cost of malpractice settlements, I’m not willing to commit to anything right now.”

But from the patient’s perspective, the word “suspicious” leads to all kinds of conjecture. We worry that the cancer has returned. Or we wonder if we have some new rare illness that might not even have a name. Or, worse yet, that there was a medical instrument left in our body from some past surgery. That would be very suspicious—but totally understandable. I mean, I’m always missing parts when I repair my lawnmower or build a shelf from Ikea. The bottom line however, it’s never fun to hear the doctor say, “Hmmmm. That looks suspicious.”

The first responsible thing to do when one discovers a suspicious lymph node is to get a biopsy. My particular biopsy would be tricky because the lymph node in question is in the back of my abdomen, right next to my aorta and my spine. The aorta is the largest artery and is responsible for delivering blood from the heart to the rest of the body. The spine is, well, the backbone of the body. Both of these areas are pretty darn critical for keeping me upright (both literally and figuratively). So anything suspicious in that area, including left-behind surgical tools, is a tad bit concerning.

My biopsy required inserting a tiny needle through my back, bypassing the spine and aorta, and removing some tissue for the pathologist to analyze. It did not sound like a fun procedure but I assumed I would be sedated. However, when I arrived at the hospital, the nurse told me I would be fully awake the entire time. But she did assure me that they would give me some fentanyl to help me relax. My college-aged self would have said, “Rock on, dude! I’m onboard with a little fentanyl.” However, the sixty-five-year-old wuss that I am said, “Are you sure I shouldn’t be asleep? I would hate to move at the wrong time and screw up the biopsy. I probably ought to be asleep. Don’t you think?”

The nurse denied my appeal. Dang it.

The biopsy process required the radiologist to use a CT machine to guide the insertion of the needle. I was positioned in the machine on my stomach with multiple pillows to support my head, shoulders, and chest. I was then told not to move “at all”. Did I mention that I was going to be fully awake? Geez.

As the nurse prepped my lower back for the procedure, she said, “Honey, I’m going to pull down your underpants so that I can get to the area of interest.”

It got very quiet. 

I broke the tension by calmly mentioning that this was the first time in my life that anyone had referred to my backside as an “area of interest.” She laughed and said, “What do you think I should call it?”

I said, “Perhaps a fine specimen of a derriere.”

She laughed and said, “Nope.”

I was disappointed by her lack of appreciation for my bum but we all had a good laugh. And then I asked her for as much fentanyl as she was comfortable giving me.

The procedure went fine and I didn’t feel a thing. Rock on, dude.

Unfortunately, the biopsy came back positive for squamous cell carcinoma. It seems that a few cancer cells from two years ago went on a cross country trip and landed in my abdomen. Luckily, only one small lymph node is affected and there is nothing “suspicious” anywhere else in my body—except for a large vacant area between my ears. But that seems to be normal for me. 

In the big scheme of things, this is not a major problem. I’ll get a little radiation and that should take care of it. I’m grateful that I don’t have to venture into the world of chemotherapy or surgery. And honestly, the biopsy was probably more involved than the actual treatment.

But one thing did occur to me after going through this recent experience. We all encounter difficulties in our lives and we have no way of predicting what each day will bring. I think we hope that everything will go smoothly. Unfortunately, it just doesn’t always happen that way. So, it’s very easy to get cynical and see nothing but dark clouds. I am no expert on sour grapes but I’m certainly guilty of producing a good whine from time to time. However, for one brief moment during my biopsy, when the nurse was focused on my “area of interest,” a humorous approach made a difficult process much more fun and much less worrisome. 

I guess what I’m saying is that we all have choices in the way we view whatever our situations may be. A cranky older person once said, “It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.” I wonder if it might be more beneficial to try to enjoy some fun and games when we get hurt?

That might be the area of interest on which we should focus—even when things get a little suspicious.