THE BLOODY JOKE

Two days ago I participated in the Relay for Life fund raiser at the Blossom Heath Park in St. Clair Shores. My mother-in-law and I do the survivor walk every year; it’s become tradition. In past years I didn’t mind doing this walk, except I refused to wear the sash; Something about being observed walking around like a beauty pageant contestant with a majority of breast cancer survivors didn’t set well with me (I know: men can get it too.) This year I decided to wear the sash but they no longer have them; survivors get medals instead.

When I first heard of my cancer the doctor scared the hell out of me. He said I had melanoma and that I needed to go to Ann Arbor, that I needed to have surgery a.s.a.p. Supposedly "going to Ann Arbor" meant getting the best health care treatment available, which meant, at least to me, that it was serious, so serious that I had to be dying. My mother-in-law experienced "Ann Arbor" some twenty years ago as part of a test study for breast cancer, and at the age of eighty-two, she’s doing quite well. But that was her and THIS IS ME. I knew without a doubt, because my luck is usually bad, that yep, death was right around the corner. I asked him what needed to be done and he drew a line with a felt tip marker parallel down the top of my forearm. He said they needed to cut away at the melanoma to make sure it doesn’t burrow down to the bone. "And if it’s in the bone?" I asked. "Then you have six months to a year," he replied. After a brief moment of silence, he said I was entitled to a second opinion and that he’d send my medical file to one of his colleagues if I’d like. So I scheduled an appointment with his colleague.

For my next appointment, I brought my wife along. The doctor examined my forearm and my medical file, and joked around in broken English with my wife about the cost of malpractice insurance. My wife’s cousin is a doctor, so naturally, she struck up a conversation quite easily. Personally, I believe he was willing to do the surgery right in his office all along and wanted to see if we were comfortable with that. He drew a line perpendicular on my forearm. Puzzled, I informed him that the other doctor drew it parallel. His reply, "If I cut, it heal much quicker, no pull on stitches." Then he pinched my forearm one way, then the other way, to demonstrate my skin’s elasticity. "See." It made sense. I nodded in compliance. "I do here," he said as a matter of fact.

As I turned to look away from the arm in question, he continued to joke around with my wife while making the incision. "Oh my, I think I hit blood vessel," he said to her, " get me sutures there on desk." He was a real joker. After he finished sewing me up, he showed me a grub-sized piece of meat. "That’s it?" I asked. "Yes, you go now. We do follow-up, make sure no more cancer."

On the ride home I noticed blood on my nice Christian Dior shirt. "What the hell is this?" I asked my wife, who was concentrating on her driving. "He hit a blood vessel," she answered. "I thought he was joking," I said. "He was," she replied.

I’ve been cancer free for seven years now and go for check-ups every six months. Wearing the sash was probably my way of paying tribute to the second doctor who took care of my cancer before my anxieties killed me. In life we don't always get what we plan for, I wanted my sash, but that doesn't mean I can't still joke about the outcome.