(Edited and Reposted on 29/01/2014)
This is my first erotic story -- I welcome all feedback.
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I am pretty sure he was saying something, but all I could hear was a dull rush. The last words I remember clearly were "pancreatic cancer". I sat in the doctor's examination room while he continued doing whatever he was doing, which I now presume was explaining my options to me.
I had a friend with pancreatic cancer -- he lasted six months after the diagnosis. That was three years ago. It's a death sentence every time. I didn't need to hear from him what my options were. I was fucked.
Something changed. He was now silently staring at me, waiting for something. I returned to earth. I think he was waiting for me to speak.
"I'm sorry. I ... ah ... didn't hear what you said." A graceful bedside manner replaced his clinician's demeanor. He was obviously skilled at breaking this kind of news.
"I was explaining that we should do an explorative procedure as quickly as possible. I don't want to offer false hope, but there is a chance this type of cancer is treatable, or at least we can slow it down." He checked for my understanding before continuing. "We need to do a biopsy. I prefer to schedule one right away -- tomorrow if possible." He added for emphasis, "this cancer can be very aggressive -- we need to know exactly what we are dealing with as quickly as possible. But if there is a compelling reason to wait a day or two, we can hold off."
"Okay," I said, realizing even I wasn't sure what I was agreeing to.
"Okay to tomorrow?" he asked.
"Yeah ... no," I contradicted. "I need ..." I cut myself off from vocalizing that thought. "Can we do it on Wednesday?"
"As long as the O.R. has a slot," he agreed.
"O.R? Isn't this just a biopsy? Like just a needle, or something?"
"Most pancreatic biopsies are," he confirmed, "but in your case the location and nature of the cancerous tissue contraindicates a simple biopsy. We can't know what we're dealing with without going in and taking a look." He paused, gauging how much of the medi-babble I was taking in. I was mostly alert now, listening, so he continued. "We will do a laparoscopy. It is a relatively simple procedure in which the doctor inserts a camera and a surgical instrument through tiny holes in your abdomen.
"When I say relatively simple," he continued, "I mean compared to many surgeries, this is an uncomplicated procedure. But it is still surgery, which always has small, but definite risks. Risks come from a potential reaction to the anesthetics, a surgical site infection, and in any cancer surgery, there is always risk of metastasis." Dr. English (why do doctors always have such weird names?) spent another fifteen minutes explaining the risks, the reasons, the alternatives.
At last I asked him "What is the cost of doing nothing -- just wait it out?"
He didn't seem put off by the question. He took a moment before answering. "Our real problem right now is we don't have a detailed understanding of what you're dealing with. Your test results don't tell us if your cancer started in the pancreas or somewhere else, so we don't know how to treat it. If we don't know how to treat it, then it runs its own course.
"Don, I'm not going to sugar coat this. You have an uphill battle ahead of you, but right now, we don't even know which way is up, so there can be no battle until we go in there and take a look around." Dr. English was aptly named. He had a way of explaining complicated matters clearly.
My focus drifted back to my present hospital room. A pulled curtain across the middle of the room created the illusion of privacy between me and my fellow oncology roommate. Outside the window, a grey Friday afternoon beheld the infinite loop of a million faceless commuters plodding their way back home again, like streams of countless ants tracing along their insect highways.
My recollected conversation with Dr. English was on Monday. The biopsy procedure was scheduled for Wednesday morning, but an apartment fire with a roof collapse in the wee hours filled up the operating rooms with emergency surgeries, bumping me to Thursday morning. The procedure was uneventful. The doctors wouldn't tell me any results though, which I was taking to mean bad news. I figured they're waiting for the biopsy lab results to confirm what they already knew.
While the laparoscopic surgery was fine, the nurses started to worry at the fever I developed overnight -- possible signs of a postoperative infection, so the resident doctor ordered antibiotics and decided to keep me in for observation until I stabilized. Looks like I had the weekend with my thoughts. And with Billy.
Billy was my semi-private room fellow oncology patient. We spoke a few times. I'm guessing Billy is in his early thirties. Divorced, no kids. Billy had testicular cancer -- one of them had to go. I had heard Billy ask his doctor about having sex after the operation. I get the impression Billy considers himself a player, and the thought of losing half his manhood terrified him. I overheard his doctors tell him that everything will return to normal after a few months, but I could tell he didn't believe it.
My thoughts were interrupted by the nurse who came in to check my vitals. She's 50 pounds overweight and I could smell traces of cigarette smoke on her breath. I am always intrigued by such ironies. She checked my IV drip, blood pressure, and temperature -- 102.3. She asked if I needed anything for pain -- I vaguely ached all over from the fever, but I was fine otherwise, so I declined the offer. There wasn't much for her to do for Billy -- he arrived that morning as a pre-op patient -- his nut-ectomy was scheduled for Saturday morning. They took him away earlier on Friday for a manscape shave, but health wise he was an ordinary guy waiting for someone to cut his left ball off -- not much for the nurse to fuss over.
"I'll be finishing my shift in a few minutes," announced the nurse on her way out. "Claire will be your night nurse."
"Okay," I replied.
"Do you know Claire?" Billy asked after the nurse left.
"She was on last night."
"Nice?" I knew what he was asking. The guy was still fixating on his sun setting manhood.
"Cute face. Hot little hard body."
"Ah man," he moaned. "On the night before. If only ..." he couldn't bring himself to finish the impossible thought.
"You never know," I mused. Billy didn't dignify my optimism platitude with an answer, but he had no way of knowing I was in the early stages of planning a going away party for Billy's left nut.
