Could someone please check this paper for grammor? I really need a good grade on this one.

If You Have to Have Cancer, this is the Kind You Want

“I never get sick,” I’ve said it a million times or more. The summer of 2001 changed my perspective quite abruptly. Having survived a felony conviction and a divorce the year before, I thought I had no where to go but up. What could be worse than loosing your family, house, job, and credibility in one seemingly infinitesimal period of time? One letter of the alphabet defined the very essence of what could be worse. For a long time, that one letter was all many people could bring themselves to utter when speaking of the terrible scourge. “C” is the first letter in wonderful words like concern, compassion caring, courtesy, and courage. “The Big C” as cancer is referred to by those who fear the disease, would teach me volumes about the “lesser” c words I just mentioned.

A lingering ache that I passed off as an abdominal strain became an insufferable pain isolated in my groin. My next assumption was that I had a hernia, because I did do some heavy lifting unloading stock at Burger King, and I had just finished helping my best friend Charles with a carpentry job. I asked around; friends, family, the guy at the lumber yard with a tattered leather weight belt, and finally a doctor my son’s grandfather Jim had his morning coffee with. “Doesn’t sound like a hernia” Dr. K, as we knew him said, “You better go get checked out.” I’d met Jim at the Portage Café at 5:00 am and stayed till about 7:30 am. To keep from bringing everyone down so early in the morning, the topic of conversation was changed and no more was said about my predicament. I sat there sipping thick, muddy coffee that no amount of cream and sugar could have made less bitter, and all I could think of was what could be wrong with me. I finished my coffee, thanked the Dr. and then thanked Jim when he told me he had the tab. The five blocks from the café to my house went by as an unconscious blur. Worry, fear, and uncertainty distorted my thoughts. When I got home I started looking for a clinic that accepted my insurance. Portage, Wisconsin where I was living has a total of 7 clinics and one hospital. Only one of the clinics had ever heard of the insurance company that I had through Burger King and when I asked for an appointment, the receptionist kindly informed me that only one Doctor was taking new patients. This happened to be Dr. Pinckney, a pediatric specialist. I barely registered her specialty due to my state of mind and my symptoms. I needed to see someone soon and I had been a child once, so I didn’t hesitate to set an appointment for the next day.

Divine Savior Clinic had only been open for patients about two months at the time, so the freshly painted, yellow lines in the parking lot looked as if they had been painted that morning. I entered the lobby that bright, breezeless Thursday afternoon and approached the white on white reception desk. The waiting room was empty except for a little red haired girl playing with some blocks; I assumed the woman sitting close by reading a book was her mother. I checked in and found a seat where I could watch the girl play and try to get the impending diagnosis of my problem out of my head. By now the pain in my groin had changed from an insufferable pain and felt more like a vicious, angry dog was hanging by its teeth from my flesh. When I moved the dog shook its head and growled. The nurse called my name and I got up and followed her down a short stretch of hallway to a door on the right. I wasn’t surprised to see Elmo on the door and Mickey Mouse posters in the tiny room. I knew I was seeing a baby doctor and to be honest the vibrant, colorful environment eased my mind a little. When the usual medical history questions and blood pressure check were out of the way, the nurse left me with an assurance that my new doctor would be in to see me promptly.

Dr. Pinckney knocked on the door and came into the room like a soft whisper. She was a diminutive female doctor in a pristine lab coat over a Donald Duck scrub shirt; her hair was pulled back tightly in a bun, probably to prevent the babies she usually saw from yanking on it. She asked about my symptoms and after a thorough examination, including a remarkably painless blood draw. Mary, as I was instructed to call my new doctor, informed me that I did not have a hernia “but there was definitely a mass.” I was scheduled for an ultrasound the following Friday next door at the hospital. “I can’t really say for certain what it is,” Mary told me. “Let’s just wait until after the ultrasound before we try to pin it down.” The clock and calendar slowed to one third speed that week as I waited to find out what came after the phrase “definitely a mass.” I can not blame Dr. Pinckney, nor can I blame the tech who did my ultrasound for not telling me “yes you have cancer.” I began to sense the urgency when the radiologist who analyzed my ultrasound images, told me he had scheduled an appointment for me before he even came in to see me. 8:00 am Monday morning, was the soonest he could get me in to see the urologist at University Hospital (UW) in Madison, WI.

Monday morning was a long way off from Sunday night. I couldn’t sleep and lay there staring at the chalky, smoke stained tile ceiling in my sister Terri’s cold, musty basement where I made my home. I left Terri’s at 6:45 am and was in the hospital parking lot by 7:45 am. Thinking I’d be waiting for hours, I was in no hurry. I got to the waiting room less than five minutes before my appointment. As I checked in, the seriousness of my situation became crystal clear. I barely had time to turn around and find a chair in the waiting room when I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and a silky, feminine voice said “Andrew, how are you? I’m Robin and I’ll be your attendant today.” “Your room is right this way” she said as she guided me down a corridor to a room unlike any hospital room I’d ever seen or heard of. The clean, white, sterile quality of the hospital was gone, replaced by a warm, calming space filled with plants and pastel colors with earth tone walls and a carpet so deep and plush my feet sank when I stepped on it. Shortly after Robin sat me down, offered me a fresh cup of coffee, and gave me a reassuring touch on the forearm. Three doctors and an intern named Holly came in, fully involved in a conversation that had started who knows how long before they came though my door. The calming influence Robin had on me was gone instantly as she left saying “good luck Andrew, nice to meet you.” The trio of doctors introduced them selves as my urologist, my surgeon, and the anesthesiologist who would be knocking me out for my surgery at 1:00 pm the next day. There was no discussion, no talk about what my options might be. I wanted to ask questions and hear answers; I still hadn’t heard the “C word” and I’m being told they’re taking out my left testis tomorrow. I couldn’t stand how vague everyone had been up to this point, so I finally just blurted out “is it cancer or what!” They showed me the ultrasound images, pointed to a large, foggy spot inside a larger less foggy spot and said “this mass is what we’re after; we won’t know what it is until we get in there.” That was when the urologist said something at the moment I don’t believe a man with a soul or a conscience would say, “But if you have to have cancer, this is the kind you want.” I can not say weather or not he was trying to be reassuring, but I do know I wasn’t amused. I did not leave the hospital that day with a considerable amount of confidence. That night and the next morning I was understandably restless. My friend Charles was kind enough to drive me to the hospital so I could try to relax and get my head together. When we arrived, Robin came out to greet us as if she was my personal little auburn haired angel. Like she had nothing to do that day but make me feel as ease. I introduced her to Charles and said goodbye to him with a substantial hug.

The UW is a massive complex not unlike a wheel with five spokes branching out from the center atrium. Every color of the rainbow is represented by a line on the floor leading this way and that. Robin and I followed the green line to a waiting room just off the surgical wing. She stayed with me this time and waited until the prep nurse Nancy came out to get me ready for surgery. Again I was saddened when my angel said goodbye, this time taking both my hands, looking me in the eye and saying “you’re going to be just fine, Nancy will take good care of you.” Nancy was wonderful, as was everyone who helped me through this, including the ill spoken urologist. I received exceptional care from a superior group of people. The surgery was successful; I was informed that they had removed a malignant tumor the size of a golf ball along with all the connecting tissue. The prognosis was good, with a 93% chance the cancer would not return. As a bonus, I had apparently mentioned how I thought it was a hernia when I was under anesthesia. After a little investigation the surgeon discovered a small hernia near my incision and fixed it for me while he was in there. “Kind of a two for one special” he said.

This was little more than two weeks in what has now been 14,822 days filled with memoir writing material. I could write perhaps two or three more memoirs about the radiation treatments I endured and the fellow cancer patients I met the three months after my surgery. Not one of the dozens of other cancer patients I met ever made light of my cancer compared to any other type of cancer. I met a man so ill they had placed radioactive material directly into four different parts of his body to try to shrink the tumors. He showed sympathy to me. “The big C” is now one of the c words that bind me to a specific community of incredible human beings. Who regardless of their type, can be identified by one of my truly favorite words, survivors.