And so. The frightful year 2014 began with a solemn meeting with my latest, fourth oncologist, the dignified Dr. Hughes, to discuss my latest
Positive Cat Scan.
Of course, this is the moment every so-called “cancer survivor” is dreading. Or, trying not to the think about. Or, pretending will never come. Or, ignoring while they go play the slots…
The sudden news that I had a cancerous tumor lodging in the right wing of my liver came as no surprise to me. Back in 2009, when I had first begun my on-line research into stage 3 colon cancer, I had informed myself of the high probability that within five years of his arrival, and, departure with my sigmoid—colon surgery and chemo aside—
Senor Cancer would in all likelihood be wining and dining at my expense in the Hepatic Hotel he prefers to frequent on this stage of his epic journey to
the end of the line.
the end of the line.
So there he was. My old enemy… el angel de la muerte. Now my best guest… most demanding tenant? Ensconced in blood-rich opulence. Enjoying the full spa services at the Uxorious Oxygen Bar piped directly from the hepatic artery. Unrivaled room service, available twenty-four and seven, with a simple tug upon the falciform ligament. Chowing down and guzzling royally—daily and nightly—with his own reserved booth at the infamous sidetrack tap, the Inferior Vena Cava Tavern… his own reserved table at the five-star Portal Vein Restaurant… growing quite plump and contented… in his ever-expanding deluxe suite in the penthouse of the right hyypochondrium.
Right lobe[edit]
The right lobe is much larger than the left; the proportion between them being as six to one.
It occupies the right hypochondrium; on its posterior surface by the ligamentum venosum for the cranial (upper) half, and by the ligamentum teres hepatis (k.a.k.a. Round ligament of liver) for the caudal (under) half. The ligamentum teres hepatis turns around the inferior marging of the liver to come out ventral in the falciform ligament.
The right lobe is much larger than the left; the proportion between them being as six to one.
It occupies the right hypochondrium; on its posterior surface by the ligamentum venosum for the cranial (upper) half, and by the ligamentum teres hepatis (k.a.k.a. Round ligament of liver) for the caudal (under) half. The ligamentum teres hepatis turns around the inferior marging of the liver to come out ventral in the falciform ligament.
The right lobe is functionally separated from the left lobe by the middle hepatic vein. A common misconception is that the falciform ligament separates the two lobes. However, from a functional perspective (one that takes the arterial, portal venous, and systemic venous anatomy into account) the falciform ligament separates the medial and lateral segments of the left hepatic lobe.[5]
The right lobe is of a somewhat quadrilateral form. Its under and posterior surfaces being marked by three fossæ: the fossa for the portal vein, the fossa for the gall-bladder and the fossae for the inferior vena cava. These separate the right lobe in two smaller lobes on its left posterior part: the quadrate lobe and the caudate lobe.
The right lobe is of a somewhat quadrilateral form. Its under and posterior surfaces being marked by three fossæ: the fossa for the portal vein, the fossa for the gall-bladder and the fossae for the inferior vena cava. These separate the right lobe in two smaller lobes on its left posterior part: the quadrate lobe and the caudate lobe.
I knew that old rapscallion, Senor Cancer with his silver spurs and ten-gallon hat, was headed for Dallas the moment he broke out of the sigmoid jail. Of course, I knew his likely agenda.
I read it on line in 2009. I read it on line in 2009. I read it
I READ IT ON LINE IN 2009!!
That ought to be my mantra. My chant all the way to the pearly gates and beyond.
So. Anyway. I knew hell was coming. I knew el ultimo tiroteo en el corral correcto… The Alamo rental car agency? El Diablo was waiting… was just up the gulley wash not too far past El Monte Sagrado on the right
What I did not expect on the basis of my studies, or anticipate in my worst nightmares was—
A TUMOR THE SIZE OF DARTH VADER’S DEATH STAR!!
Especially with my “high-tech defensive early warning system”… my “star wars” death donut radar and… my patriot missiles and
My costly!—twelve-thousand dollars a year!—cat scans!
My rock hard faith in western medicine
My rock hard faith in western medicine
My brand new PCIP… Pre-existing Condition Insurance Plan.
That’s right, folks. I had recently qualified for an advanced form of—
Foolproof Obama Care!
Which allowed me to pay approximately $500. a month… $6000. a year… for a “bronze level” Blue Cross health insurance policy with a twelve-thousand dollar deductible like anyone else with a generous father to pay for it.
The first health insurance I had ever had in my life!!
I was invincible! Not.
I was speechless. More like it.
I was stunned by the yearly cat “scandalous” report. By the audacious, unappetizing results. By the sudden—always sudden… though never unexpected—
Appearance of this massive life-gobbling monstrosity in my midst.
Could we make it an 1873-CC-Liberty Seated-No Arrows-dime-sized, non-malignant neoplasm, please?
Or a dime-store-bought goldfish-sized… or, better yet… a perfectly harmless, not pregnant guppy
Instead of a carnivorous ichthyosaurus rex!!
So. To make a long-winded introduction short:
The dignified, soft-spoken Dr. Hughes entered the examination room quietly and said, “You’ve read the lab report…”
A nod of his noble head, then
“When would you like me to schedule your surgery for?”
And I said… as I tried to catch my breath, the wheels spinning out of control in my brain, “I need some time to think about it.”
At which point, Dr. Hughes turned pale, then blushed. Catching his breath next moment, he said,
“BUT. YOU’LL DIE!”
Pause, for emphasis. Looking me in the eye for the first time, briefly—then looking down at the floor again,
“WITHOUT THE SURGERY. YOU’LL DIE.”
It was a compassionate, heart-rending plea… as far as western oncological pleas go—I’ll give him that.
And I said, “I have a question, Dr. Hughes.” And without pausing—
“How can a tumor grow to the size of a grapefruit in one year?! My last radiological report showed nothing! Has there been a mistake!?”
And he… stuttered. Shuddered? Started pedaling his oncological unicycle backwards?!
I don’t know. I can’t remember what he said next. Because, suddenly—always suddenly…
I was spiraling into infinity.
That— “Help me, Mr. Wizard!”—moment of sheer terror was upon me again. Not the best of times to make an important life-altering, possibly life ending decision.
I could not understand for the life of me. How the elusive Senor Cancer had grown so conspicuously large—so hideously, maniacally fat—in such a
short five years. The end of 2009—almost 2010–2014. Or rather, if the cat scans were correct. How he had gone from invisible to formidable in one year?
I politely told Dr. Hughes, as I backed out of the examination room warily, “Yes. I understand the consequences of not getting surgery. I just need time to think about it…”
And, I left him. Standing there—all six-foot-five of him draped in a white lab coat—looking bewildered and forlorn.
