Saturday, September 5, 2015

I'll pay for my sins when I get paid

I need proper fuel for this one.

I spent the better part of yesterday angry. If you follow my social media (especially Twitter) you likely saw some of it.

Here's the deal, when your wife is diagnosed with cancer it comes as a surprise. It also starts out with a seemingly innocuous doctor's appointment followed by a phone call regarding test results.

That matters because it becomes a repeating pattern. One that never becomes trivial. Even after the euphoria of them getting all the cancer, your life becomes a series of appointments, tests, breath holding until the results come in, living.

The thing about cancer is: just because they get it all through treatment or surgery, doesn't guarantee it won't come back.

So, take all the above information and add to it that the check-up before this last one lead to another surgery because the doctor found a couple of spots he did not like the look of. Mind you, before the surgery and after the check up, we had to wait a week and a half to get test results. We called to inquire and were told 1. the internet is down so they can't access test results and, 2. not to worry because no news is good news (it should be noted, the doctor himself is not the one who said this). Fast forward a few days laters and we get the call that the tests were not normal and we would have to schedule surgery.

Fortunately, the surgery was simple enough and all is well. But it was fucking surgery and biopsies and that is never fun. Turn your head and cough is fun. Relatively speaking. Especially if your doctor is a smoking hot little blonde. Of course, the subsequent boner was awkward, but she giggled, so...

What were we talking about?

Last month was her first check up since the last surgery. Until yesterday it had been a month and still no test results. TGB's anxiety levels were getting really high. Flashback to no news is good news and, well, her head was spinning.

And here's the thing nobody ever prepares you for as the spouse of a cancer patient/survivor - you are helpless as fuck to do anything about it. Cancer isn't like your wife calling and saying, I got a flat tire on the way to work and you get to beat your chest, I AM MAN, I WILL FIX. You could be Ronda Rousey level spousal badass and cancer will still make you his bitch. It's as frustrating as it is infuriating.

She called and called and got no shortage of bullshit excuses again and a promise to call back with results. It's been a fucking month. They won't give her answers over the phone. If you've been paying attention, you already know where her mind went.

So I did what I do. I wrote. And wrote. On youtube pages, on twitter, on reviews sites, in facebook groups, and then I fucking wrote some more. And she kept calling leaving voicemail after voicemail after voicemail. And I kept writing.

Guess what? They fucking called. And her test results came back normal. A fucking month of not knowing turned into instant relief.

My guess? They had the test results and just figured, fuck it, it looks good so we'll call after we catch up on FB. Only, it is IMPOSSIBLE TO CATCH UP on FB.

In the meantime I have an apologetic email to respond to. I got it last night, but my anger was such that I wanted to wait til this morning to respond. Last night I wanted to go Al Pacino on the fucking cancer center to the ground. Last night I wanted to make a grown ass man cry. Last night I wanted to go Boyle on a motherfucker.

My anger hasn't completely subsided, but I am going to try to focus it into a well worded email that will, hopefully, light a fire under someone's ass at the Sacred Heart Cancer Center to get their shit together.

Goddammit, I really wanted to beat the ever living piss out of a motherfucker yesterday. It's really good that I don't drink anymore or I might be writing this from jail.

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