irrelevant

i was dealing with the reality of cancer and some of the emotions one goes through when faced with this disease is crippling. i dealt with it the only way i knew how. i wrote about it. this is another unfinished peice that i plan on coming back to when my emotional state can handle it and i can grasp and research a little more...

1.




Everything remains irrelevant.

Perhaps rephrasing such a statement would be a little more poignant, but in the end, that’s everything the following pages represent. Irrelevancy.

The tumor is at stage 4. not necessarily a popular number when viewing trivial polls of every ones favorite numbers, or favorite foods, and the like. But when a doctor tells you this, your mind stops and focuses on trivial things.
“it’s at a stage four, Mr. Dunn.” The doctor stated, “and with this kind of cancer, it doesn’t fare well on the treatment end.”

Where does a mind go at this point?

It floats. Like a case of shock, you think of every cigarette you ever smoked, every whiskey you ever drank, every joint and chemical you ingested in your earlier years. Then begins the regrets. The women you hurt, the children you scolded, the chances you passed up. Pretty soon, they gang up on you like a crowded room and you’re the talk of the party.

When you finally snap yourself back to your doctors appointment he’s finished everything he needed to say. He asks you if you have any questions and you have myriad questions that could last longer than your $30 co-pay.

But you don’t voice them. Because they haven’t taken form yet. They will when you get home. When you tell the wife and she barrages you with well formed questions, the ones you should have asked. The only thing you know at this point is that your PSA is high and that you’re going in for blood work and a CT scan this and next week.

But to you, that’s fairly pointless. The doctor said “with this kind of cancer, it doesn’t fare well on the treatment end.” Didn’t he? So really, what’s the point?

The two children you brought into this world. That’s the point. But for a selfish moment, you can only think of you. That large pool of mud with a sign posted: Mr. Dunn's Pity Pool, awaits you. Do you dare wallow there? You test it with your bare toe.

So the first call goes to your mom. You were a mamas boy and sometimes, when things are really bad, she’s the only one you can think to tell. At least, be the first in line in a series of calls. She deserves that much.

“Hello, son.” She says with that ‘finally, a call from my son’ voice.

“Hey, ma.” Then silence because you’re trying to figure out how to say it without crying and upsetting her.

“What’s up?” she probes.

“I….” and after that first word, the tears start to drip and you choke on them, “…I have some bad news, ma.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I…uh…well, I have cancer. Pancreatic, in fact.”

Then it’s silence on her end.

“Mom?”

“Can I call you back, son?” you know she’s on the cusp of tears and when mama cries, it’s like Niagara Falls.

“Uh…yeah, okay. You okay, mom?”

A loud wail is cut off by her receiver hanging up.

You let out a sigh as you hang up on your end.

“How did she take it?” your wife asks.

“Not good….not good. She hung up….think she’s crying.”

“I told you it was a bad idea to call her.” She starts, “she doesn’t need to deal with this when she’s dealing with her own health problems. What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know!” you shout, “I guess I’m just one big fuck up!”

You walk outside and shake a cigarette out of it’s pack. You think twice about lighting it up because this is probably what got you in trouble in the first place. But your lighter works faster then your mind does and you inhale. Breathe out. And you dial another number.

“Hello?” it’s your dad.

“Hey, pop.”

“Oh…hey, how are you doing?”

“Not good. Not good at all.”

“What’s wrong now?”

“Just got back from the doctor…..he said I have cancer.”

“Prostate or….?”

“Nope, pancreatic.”

“….because prostate is 100% treatable if they catch it early enough.”

“No, it’s pancreatic. I’ve got stage four.”

“You know I had prostate cancer, and it was a simple operation and it never came back…so…”

“Well, it’s not prostate, it’s pancreatic. The really bad kind.”

Then it’s his turn at silence.

“Is it treatable?” he finally asks.

“Yeah, but the doctor said that at this stage….well…it’s a bit irrelevant.”

“So when do you go in for treatment?”

“Well, I have a series of tests I need to take and lab work.”

“Did you tell your mom?”

“Yeah. She didn’t take it very well.”

Silence again, and then finally, “So other than that, how are things going?”

“I don’t know, dad. I’m not really thinking about anything else other than that. I…I really think I should just skip the treatment and finish out without all the