An hour before I started writing this, I was soaking in my bathtub, listening to Back to Work, feeling crappy about my week and sorry for myself.
On Monday, our son’s latest MRI reported that his cancer remains stable. While his tumor will never go away, he’s now been off chemo for almost two years with no new growth.
On Wednesday, he had a subdural port removed. This hardware was used to deliver medication (including chemo), donated blood, fluids and more to his small system when he was undergoing treatment.
The day might come that he goes back on treatment, or that the cancer wins. But today is not that day, which is a reason to celebrate.
Sadly, I’ve cut my celebration selfishly short. I found out today that on May 16, I’ll be going under the knife for surgery to release a trapped nerve in my elbow.
I’ve been having pain and numbness in my right hand on and off since the holidays, but have mostly ignored it or worked through it, not wanting to take the time (or energy) to deal with.
In the last few weeks, however, it has grown worse. Myke noticed me trying to stretch out my hand against my steering wheel several times during his visit to Memphis this past weekend. That was the catalyst for me getting back to the doctor — that, and that fact that my wife made an appointment for me.
I’m not nervous about the surgery itself. Josiah has been under anesthesia too many times to count in the last three years, and has faced much scarier operations. (I am a little uneasy about the idea of having six inches of arm held together with staples, however.)
It’s funny how easily I get overwhelmed with such things. Yes, this is a big deal, and yes, it could go badly. It could make my pain worse, or do nothing at all for it (which seems worse, in some ways). I could lose function. As a guy who works in IT and writes for a hobby, that would be a serious setback.
On my scale, this is big. On Josiah’s, it isn’t. That’s important for me to remember. Just as important? That’s it all on a scale.
Long-time readers (hello!) readers will know that I’ve been fighting (long-term, drug-resistant) depression for some time now, having wanted to take my own life 13 months ago. I didn’t act on those desires, but instead decided to take the first steps toward getting well. I’m not better, but I’m better than I was then. Slow and steady.
It’s tempting to let this whole arm surgery thing knock me off track, especially when I feel so nearly out of control some days without thinking about Josiah’s tumor, my arm or whatever else life throws our way.
I’m bummed out about it. Then I got bummed out about being bummed out.
Soaking my aching arm in the tub, I just kept thinking about getting older. I’m 26 — younger than a lot of you, and older than some of you — but the miles have been really hard.
Really fucking hard.
I’ve aged over the last three years.
So, really, what’s one more scar? Sure, this one will be visible, while most of mine aren’t (most days).
What’s one more restless night before a trip to the hospital?
What’s one more text file in my Dropbox full of hypothetical questions?