I feel great for having had a testicle removed.  The loss of “Leftie” is not painful.  My pain comes from cutting through my groin.  They incised a roughly 4-inch wide by 8-inch deep section in the lower portion of my abdomen.  The pain is very manageable so long as I do not move too much.  I forgot how much connects to my abdomen — laughing hurt until last night and I cringe when I sneeze.

My stamina is fair.  I have indulged in my share of catnaps, and I’m slowly getting my feet back under me.  It’s amazing how much the anesthesia and narcotics worked on me (first experience with Percocet – good stuff).  I think I treated my visitors to some interesting conversations – sorry everyone if I said something that rubbed you wrong.

Regarding my diagnosis and prognosis, I received “the call” from my doctor on Thursday of last week and he confirmed I have stage 1 (hopefully entirely contained) seminomas testicular cancer.  The pathologist found five separate tumors roughly 3-5 millimeters in size each.  The good news is that “Leftie” did not die in vain.  My post-operative follow up appointment is tomorrow, and he will be sending me to a radiation oncologist.  I should be better than ever after a little glow in the dark time.

I would like to leave you with a lighter story.  My mother has been great, and I would be ready to canonize her if she had not spoiled my dog rotten.  If you know anything about my Mom, she will not confess her age and you never wish her happy birthday (we say happy “special day” instead).  For some reason though, she started calling herself Grandma around my puppy Bridget.  Now, I see a brown streak hurtle towards the kitchen anytime anyone goes near my pantry.  Hmmm…I guess spoiling is what Moms and Grandmas do best.

Thank you all again.  You’re the best.

Cheers,
Eric

My Thanks and Official Diagnosis is a post from: Made For Denim: The Blog of Eric Stroud

What’s Going On

Last week, my doctor informed me there is a 95% chance I have testicular cancer.  Inevitably, people gasp when I say “cancer.”  Please breathe, don’t worry, you can’t get it — it’s not contagious!  [I hope you smiled or giggled.  I am trying to laugh as much as possible throughout my treatment.  I encourage you to smile and laugh with me.] Consequently, I scheduled myself for surgery tomorrow.

The Good News

I am incredibly lucky and blessed.  Thankfully, I exhibited pain from “Leftie” (which is apparently rare).  My body must have sensed something was off.  Assuming the doctor is correct, only “Leftie” is abnormal, the tumors are at their earliest stage of development, they are entirely contained, my C/T scans show no other worrisome activity in my body, and there are currently no tumor markers in my blood.  I live in America, and I have health insurance — such great news!  I am also going to get some new nicknames – Ace, Uno, and The One Nut Wonder are front-runners right now (maybe not good news, but humorous nonetheless).  Your suggestions are welcome.  I just ask that you please be gentle.

The Bad News

I am about to lose a body part.  I will undergo a left radical orchiectomy tomorrow- a technical way of saying “Leftie” is going “bye-bye.”  Thankfully, God graced me with a spare.

My Response

I hope you do not mistake my humor for flippancy, as I can disguise only so much of my fear.  While I can laugh about losing a testicle, I’m having a much harder time laughing about cancer.  I am afraid and pray “Leftie” is benign (still a slim chance).

Cancer is beyond insidious, as my body is mutinying against me.  I dread something is inherently wrong with me.  I do not feel I am able to confront this fear directly.  I told a friend this isn’t a tarantula to hold, a plane to jump out, or a cold call to make.  I am the problem, and I am most afraid of my own body right now.

Yet, I’m not trying to ignore my emotions.  I am trying to experience my anxiety, to fall with the hollowness in my stomach, and languish in the uncertainty of the future.  It’s counter intuitive and yet I find my fright become less paralyzing when I allow myself to experience these sensations.

Ezra Bayda introduced me to the concept of experiencing “bad” emotions.  I feel the following story from Being Zen best exemplifies the concept:

This reminds me of a story Pema Chödrön tells about a childhood friend who had recurring nightmares in which ferocious monsters would chase her through a house.  Whenever she would close a door behind her, the monsters would open it and frighten her.  Pema asked her what the monsters looked like, but she realized that she never really looked at them.  However, the next time she had the nightmare, just as she was about to open a door to avoid being caught by the monsters, she was somehow able to stop running, turn around, and look at them.  Although they were huge, with horrible features, they didn’t attack; they just jumped up and down.  As she looked even closer, these three-dimensional colored monsters began to shrink into two-dimensional black-and-white shapes.  Then she awoke, never to have that nightmare again.

It is the pushing away of our “monsters” that makes them so solid.  As we begin to see through the solidity of this resistance, our life becomes more workable.  Although we may not like our life as it is, we still don’t have to wage war against it.  We can start by noticing all the ways that we avoid this moment, all the ways we avoid practice, all the ways we resist.  We can see it in virtually everything we do.  We can see it in how we don’t want to sit, how we don’t want to stay with our physical experience for more than a few seconds, how we choose to relentlessly spin off into thinking about the past or the future.  We can see it in our commitment to believing thoughts such as “This is too hard,” “I can’t do it,” “I’ll never measure up.”  We see how we’re just a well-oiled resistance machine!

I’ve had a few months to process the possibility I have cancer.  Sitting with my fear allows me to laugh a little, and more importantly, it’s like turning a closet light onto the Boogie Monster.  Cancer is just another challenge to overcome.

Why I Am Sharing This

I am not the type of person that hides trauma well.  I could never be like Chris Lofton, who privately battled testicular cancer his entire senior season at Tennessee.  You would know something was wrong from my demeanor.  You’d see a troubled face behind my smile.

I also remember how I felt when my mother underwent her treatment for cancer.  She is an incredibly strong and private individual, and kept a lot of her medical condition to herself.  Not knowing created a different kind of tension for me.  I hope to eliminate some of that tension through candid discussions and a good sense of humor, as it troubles me when I see people upset by my news.  I hope my sense of humor, however warped, helps lighten others burden.  I hope others sense of humor helps lighten my burdens.  I hope that in being open and honest about my fears they become less real for other people and myself.

How You Can Help

I am not seeking sympathy or pity.  There are many far worse off than I am.  As I said before, I believe I am one of the luckiest guys in the world.  I won the lottery when I was born, and I won the lottery in discovering my tumors extremely early.

I would appreciate your prayers and your thoughts.  I would appreciate it if you treated me just as if nothing was wrong with me (at least no more than usual ).  People inevitably give you a screwy look when you’re sick.  We’re all sick.  Some of us just hide our diseases better than others.  My disease might be called cancer.  Yours might be loneliness, anger, or apathy [I have those too by the way!].

I would invite you to sit with me, to come be with me.  In my past, I’ve done a great job of pushing painful and difficult things out of my life, thinking avoiding my pain would lessen it.  I don’t want to push things away any longer.  I don’t want to push people away any longer, even under the auspices of protecting them.

So if it’s all right with you, instead of visiting me when I’m sick, could we merely mourn the passing of Leftie?  He was a good and faithful friend, took a lot of abuse for his buddy Rightie over the years, and he will be missed.  I thank him for helping make me the man I am today, and recognize he has nothing to do with the man I will be tomorrow.

I wish you all the health and happiness and in the world.

Cheers,
Eric

[3/23/2009 -- 10:23 PM -- Update on tomorrow:  Thank you so much everyone for your support.  Visitors are welcome to stop by my house after 4PM on Tuesday.  I will be home from Tuesday-Thursday.]

My 95% Chance For Testicular Cancer is a post from: Made For Denim: The Blog of Eric Stroud

As noble as my friend’s parents were, something very sad struck me about a childhood without Santa.  While my friend never had the heartache of realizing their parents were sneaking presents into the house, they also never had the wonder a child experiences on Christmas Eve.  They grew up in a world without magic.

I long for the magic of Christmas, the magic of the nativity story and the magic of Santa. I might have children one of these days, and I had been pondering what I would tell them about Santa.  I was torn between my friend’s truthful parenting ideology and the desires of my imagination.  Then, I received the following story via email:

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid.

I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: “There is no Santa Claus,” she jeered. “Even dummies know that!”

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me.

I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her “world-famous” cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me.

“No Santa Claus?” She snorted… “Ridiculous! Don’t believe it. That rumor Has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad! Now, put on your coat, and let’s go.”

“Go? Go where, Grandma?” I asked. I hadn’t even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun.

“Where” turned out to be Kerby’s General Store — the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. “Take this money,” she said, “and buy something for someone who needs it. I’ll wait for you in the car.” Then she turned and walked out of Kerby’s.

I was only eight years old. I’d often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, and the people who went to my church.

I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock’s second grade class.

Bobby Decker didn’t have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but we all knew Bobby Decker didn’t have a cough. He didn’t have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat! I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.

“Is this a Christmas present for someone?” the lady behind the counter asked kindly as I laid my ten dollars down.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied shyly. “It’s for Bobby.”

The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn’t get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, “To Bobby, From Santa Claus” on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker’s house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa’s Helpers. Grandma parked down the street from Bobby’s house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. “All right, Santa Claus,” she whispered, “get going.”

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven’t dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker’s bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: Ridiculous.

Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team. I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.

My friend’s parents were wrong about Santa Claus.  The truth isn’t always what we need. People deserve more than just a truth filled world, and my children will know the joy of Father Christmas.

Merry Christmas!

Cheers,
Eric

The Truth About Santa Claus is a post from: Made For Denim: The Blog of Eric Stroud