A Lump In My Throat
By David Swope
This PET scan, taken before my treatment began, confirmed the golf-ball-sized lump was indeed throat cancer.
I have an “unremarkable brain”. That’s the good news, and I always kind of figured that was the case. But according to the PET scan I took in April, there was other news. I had cancer. The doctor who biopsied the golf-ball-sized lump on my neck said it looked like throat cancer. But maybe not? We’ll get back to you in a week, he said.
So I went home and got a second opinion from Dr. Google, and found out it was likely 70% fatal. How? I never smoked? For that week, I tailspinned. The lyrics to “Bohemian Rhapsody” looped through my head: “Nothing really matters.” It instantly put things into stark perspective.
I’m not a particularly religious person. I was baptized Catholic and spent way too many Sundays kneeling at hard wooden benches while friends lay on couches watching 49er games. As I got older, I saw the fallibility of the institution I had looked up to. I wondered why couldn’t women be priests, and why couldn’t priests be married? So while I wanted the Church to change, I also never had the guts to change churches instead. So I stopped going. Now I won’t argue whether or not God exists. I don’t know—but I’m not going to throw away my lottery ticket and say she doesn’t.
I got lucky. Doc Google neglected to tell me there’s more than one kind of throat cancer. I actually had the “good one,” which apparently is 85% curable. A lot of people would Thank God if they got this news. But then again shouldn’t those people Blame God for their cancer? It’s kind of like the athletes who Thank God for helping them win the game. You never hear the losers Blame God for their loss.
This is not a pity party. Long story short, I put my trust in the excellent doctors at UCSF and got through it. After a tonsillectomy, 35 radiation treatments and a half dozen “low-dose” chemo infusions, I just took an MRI that came back clean. The golf ball is gone. My doctor said in his view, I’m “cured.” Long exhale.
The mask is a plastic restraint that locked my head into place for radiation treatments. I couldn’t move even a few millimeters—but then you don’t want the lasers to miss their target.
I don’t know many people who have been cured of cancer. My Dad battled various cancers for a decade and lost. So I feel a little guilty being a “cancer survivor”. Sure, my treatments sucked—for about four months I couldn’t taste anything, and it hurt to swallow. But now I’m in that 85%. And I feel awesome.
So should I Thank God? I’ll be just as happy to Thank Malachite. My wife had given me a smooth little green stone to hold during my treatments. Dr. Google says (again, believe him at your peril), “Malachite is often used as a protective stone in the spiritual realm, believed to absorb negative energies.” At least it had nice hand feel. So who’s to say it didn’t help?
About the radiation treatments—to keep my head from moving while they pointed a giant laser at my tumor, I was strapped down with a plastic Hannibal Lecter-like mask over my face. I couldn’t move 2 millimeters. Then everyone would leave, closing the heavy nuclear bomb-proof door behind them, and the treatment would start—accompanied by piped in music. The tracks they chose seemed to have a certain schadenfreude: Stayin’ Alive. Mercy (Why Won’t You Relase Me?) And most unbelievably, This Will Be The Day That I Die. Fortunately, I didn’t.
I got a bill from my health insurance company the other day. The kind where they make you damn glad you have insurance by showing you how much you would’ve had to pay if you didn’t have it. In my case, the bill would have been — drumroll please — $9,533,285.25. ‘Scuse me? That had to have been a typo, but since they also said I owed $0, I decided not to go raising any red flags. It’s my new mindset to let these things go.
Here’s the not-so-revelatory revelation: Nobody’s getting out of here alive. So while we’re here, let’s make the best of it. I’ve been thinking about how many of you I’ve wanted to collaborate with. And about how many times we’ve agreed that we “should” have lunch or drinks. So let’s do that coffee. Let’s make a thing. Or let’s just chat and talk about what really matters. I’m pretty sure it’s not work. I’m betting it’s our friendship.
If you’ve ever lost your sense of taste, it’s disorienting. Everything tasted like cardboard. Or socks. Or cardboard socks. And the chemo infusion made me constantly nauseous, as if I’d just gone on one roller coaster ride too many. I had been warned to keep my weight on, or risk getting a feeding tube shoved up my nose. That was enough reason to choke down daily protein powder, peanut butter and spinach smoothies.
Some people don’t get their taste back for six months. Again, I was lucky. After two months, and just in time for Thanksgiving, my buds came back, and I was able to taste the whole spread. I’d always loved the holiday, but now it will take on much more significance each year. My gratitude is real, to my family and to my friends.
And sure, I Thank God. Or at least, I Thank Docs.
About David
David Swope tells stories in print and video as an award-winning creative director and filmmaker. He lives in Northern California, and is grateful for his family and friends—especially Jon Anderson, who has guided him for decades in good times and tough ones too. David’s work can be found at SwopeFilms.com.