The words.
A quick intake of breath. A darkening around the edge of my eyes. Closing in until all I can see is pin pricks of light.
Sounds disappear from the room. All I could hear was the pounding of my heart.
Slowly the doctor’s voice comes back into focus on the phone.
It was nothing like that.
Instead, it confirmed what I knew in my gut. Yes sometimes you just know. Sometimes you suspect the worst because you know it’s the truth before you’ve heard it.
A thank you for the doctor. A list of phrases to google and start learning more and then I hang up.
Nothing else.
I get up from my desk and go back to work.
I hold that information all day long. Pretending to care about a customer’s problem. Which really isn’t a problem but I pretend it is.
Wondering what they would say if I just blurted out, “I have cancer. I don’t care that your zipper came off your three year old jacket. Things wear our. Things fail, like my body has failed me. Take it to a seamstress. That’s what they do. Fix zippers. Maybe they will care.”
As the day moves forward. I worry. Not about the cancer, but telling my wife, Ashley. I don’t want her to worry. I know she will.
I tell her. She worries. I tell her not to. It doesn’t help. She’s worried and upset. They’re tears and hugs. It helps but it doesn’t.
The clarity has been building all day. This is a bad thing. Cancer is no joke, but it’s also a kick in the ass. My ineptitude to act over the last couple of years to make changes in my life is put into focus.
I have to change the direction of my life. Redefine the passion. But first….
I’ve got to kick this cancer.
The anxiety builds day after day. Not because I have cancer but I have to now start sharing the news.
There’s a reason people like to use text. It’s way easier to say, “I have cancer” when you are not looking someone in the eyes. I try to avoid doing it that way but some people just don’t pick up the phone when you call. (Looking at you little brother and sister). They call quick when they get the text.
Two weeks in and I am still telling people. The act of calling and talking is exhausting. Some days I have a list of people to call, but I don’t. I get worn out just thinking about it.
I could get back on Facebook and tell the world. That feels like an overshare.
Back to the clarity. It continues in spurts and starts. This blog. My first. Is part of that.
The anxiety pushes away the clarity at times. There are more tests to be had. The You Have Cancer Test is just the first. The next one, We Need to Figure Out Where the Cancer is in Your Body Test, brings on several nights of inner dialogue while laying in bed waiting for sleep.
“What if it has consumed my whole body and I only have a few weeks to live?”
“How could I have cancer? I feel fine.”
“Will I go bald?”
“What if they have to operate and cut out a huge chunk of my neck and maybe my tongue? Is that how I want to live?”
“I don’t want to die. What will Ash do?”
Nine out of ten times when you tell people that you have cancer, this is what they say…
“What? I don’t know what to say.”
No one ever knows what to say and that’s okay.
Back to that clarity. It’s still coming and it feels good. I still don’t know where it will take me but my eyes are open wide and I am ready for the ride.
Bikes Kill Cancer 