Way Back Machine Activate: The Diagnosis...Cue the organ music with a side of sad trombone..Dun dunn

Happy Anniversary Colonoscopy:

May 20, 2019. The thirtieth anniversary of our first date. After a grueling night of colonoscopy prep, showing up at the clinic feeling as if I had been in battle, (honestly, it should be mandatory that everyone who prescribes the clean-out protocol experience it first), I noticed colorectal cancer advertising wherever I looked.

Charles asked me if I wanted to shift positions so I wouldn't have to see cancer advertising in 4D. But I felt too miserable to move unless I had to. Finally, the nurse got me and set me up with an IV. I felt better instantly.

My anesthesiologist gave me the drug Propofol. "Isn't that the Michael Jackson drug?" I asked him. "Yes," he said. "And I really wish people didn't associate Propofol with the death of Michael Jackson, because it is a really great drug." "But, it killed Michael Jackson." "Yes, but I wasn't administering it to him. Now count backwards from one hundred." I don't think I even started counting, though. Propofol is really, really good.

Side note: Seriously, if Propofol doesn't kill you it is a pretty awesome way to be knocked out. You wake up as if nothing happened, no grogginess at all...amazing.

Anyway, once I got dressed, the nurse put Charles and I in a room. I didn’t suspect anything. In hindsight though, when do they put you in a room to give you good news? The doctor, a young, handsome, matter-of-fact man, took his sweet time getting to the consultation room. At which point, he told us he couldn't do the colonoscopy because I had a "mass."

I felt Charles crumple beside me. “It’s okay, babe,” I said to him.

To the doctor, I said: “Mass? You mean, like cancer?” He said yes, and asked if I had time to do a CT scan. I did the scan.

Happy anniversary, Charles.

One of many sick couch selfies and proof of life however limited that had become.