Life Imitates Art

I was diagnosed with esophagus cancer today following an Endoscopy. It appears to be an early stage. I need to arrange a CT PET scan and meet with a surgeon as soon as possible. In the meantime we will hear the results of a biopsy, but Dr. Shields says that the 3 cm growth at the base of my esophagus is very likely to be cancer and will require surgery even if it isn't. I had the Endoscopy because I was scheduled to have one every three years. Three years ago, I had my first one after complaint of a minor (really minor) discomfort in my stomach following sit-up routines. They found that my esophagus was irritated. The condition is called Barrett's. It increases the chances of cancer in men significantly but it's still rare. Even though it is rare, it requires a close watch with an Endoscopy every three years or less. It had only been two and a half years since my last one.

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There is no good way to hear bad news, but it helps to be in a Demoral haze. It was an 'out of body' experience. I came out of my anesthetic as the doctor walked in. Sharon was in the room. I flashed back to the day before.

On December 19, I was working with a client group of 30 people who were going through a major organization change. I reviewed the grief processing model with them because they were experiencing a significant loss. To bring the model home, I played two minutes of a Simpson's episode called "One Fish, Two Fish, Blow Fish" in which Homer hears from a doctor that he has 24 hours to live because Homer believes he accidentally ate a blow fish. It's a funny piece and it demonstrates what happens when a person hears bad news. In fact, I had conducted many of these meetings in October and November and talked about this model with over 600 people.

I smirked because I was sitting in my 'johnny' right where Homer had sat in his underwear. Sharon was sitting where Marge was. The doctor walked in just as the doctor walked into my recovery room. With a look I could only describe as 'heavenly concern', he says that he has bad news just as Homer's doctor did. It appears I have cancer of the esophagus. He's pretty sure. He says it's good that we caught it early. We need to know if it has spread and we need to talk to a surgeon, Dr. Richard Whyte, as soon as possible. And he leaves. The door opens again and my internist is saying something about how we are going to beat this thing. The words have the familiar ring of endless cancer patient dramas that we've all seen, too many times, on stage and screen. She, also, looks very concerned. Then, she's gone. The nurse takes a needle out of my arm and says we can go.

In the Simpson episode, Homer runs through the whole grief cycle in less than a minute and says, "Oh well, we all have to go sometime!" I can't even take it in. Sharon does take it in. She is not on Demoral. She is the designated driver. She and I hug hard. I'm in a daze.

As the day wears on, I go on the web and learn that this is life threatening cancer. Surgery is the only answer along with radiation and chemotherapy. Realty sets in. The Demoral wears off. Real grief processing begins and it's not as funny as it was on the Simpsons. We are overwhelmed with emotional waves of fear and sadness.

There is no good time to hear news like this, but Christmas holidays don't lend themselves to telling family and friends.

There is no way to prepare yourself for the word, Cancer, but I have no symptoms. I am totally unprepared. This was a routine exam. Physically, I feel great. I would never have known that I have a problem until it was way too late. I am lucky, but I feel unlucky.

I am constantly choked up with emotion. How am I going to talk with anyone? How will I go back to work? How will I talk to 30 people a day about the grief processing model? How can I show Homer Simpson blinking at the news in his underwear.

Heads up for physicians: Don't announce bad news while your customer is in a "Johnny" with his bare butt on an examining table and needle sticking out of his arm. Wait until the customer is dressed and bring him into an office and take more time. At a moment like that, dignity may be the only emotional anchor that can be preserved.