The Price of Progress — NDE #6, part one

So I found out in November ‘07 the cancer had not only come back to me but brought a friend to shack up in the lungs. It had officially metastasized, making it eligible for inclusion in a New Yorker article. (I tried submitting a piece there but it was too inchoate.) This was serious business, something not to be left to the bumbling docs of the Midwest. It was time to go straight to the top, to the front-page-of-the-Times shaman, the only one who could save me.

LMAO. Literally.

Winter was spent scanning and planning. Three months, or a third of my expected lifespan back then, gone away. Finally in February the treatments began: The FOLFIRI regimen with a kicker of Avastin. Dr. Times (or probably his nurse) warned me the side effects of Avastin may include something, something, and something else. I wasn’t paying close attention because when you get chemotherapy they warn you about 200 problems that could crop up and 199 of them never will.

So I had to go back and check the website to remember that “Treatment with Avastin can result in the development of a potentially serious side effect called GI perforation. In clinical trials, these events occurred throughout the course of treatment and in rare cases resulted in fatality.” In case you hadn’t figured out by my getting colorectal cancer when I was a 34-year-old vegetarian,* ladies and gentlemen, I am a rare case.

It went like this: Working out at the Y, leg pressing 500 120 pounds, I suddenly feel something snap in my posterior. Arrrggghhh, perhaps it’s time to cut this workout short. I go home and it’s sore (my ass, not the home) but I figure it’ll go away. Next morning, still hurting — worse.

Next day is Thursday and it’s unbearable. It feels like there’s nothing in between the bones and the chair whenever I sit down, and whatever I sit on seems to be made of concrete. Early afternoon I drive myself to the ER, wait five hours, and tell my story to the doc. He examines me briefly (i.e. pokes around until he hears me scream) and we agree to treat it as a sprain. I’m sent home with happy pills and instructions to ice it.

Friday, pain.

Saturday, pain.

Sunday. What do I remember about Sunday. Wasn’t feeling so hot. Had a turkey-on-bagel sandwich for lunch. Hour later, BROARRRRGHAGHHGH puked it up. Still didn’t feel so hot. Around dinner time I went into the bathroom, closed the door, and wondered why I was looking at the ceiling and why my wife was making so much noise.

Oh, right — I’d fainted!

Paramedics get me on the stretcher. This time I don’t have to wait five hours to be seen by the ER medics. I tell them how I strained a muscle in my ass, but they seem skeptical. Because I seem septical — the skin over most of one rear hemisphere has turned red. The surgeon on call came in for a chat with the wife.

“Your husband’s very sick.”

“Could he die?”

“Yes.”

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*A Judd Apatow film starring Seth Rogen and Paul Rudd! Coming soon!
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