Leaving the Box

"Perhaps all pleasure is relief."
- William Burroughs

It was this quote that came to mind several times during this whole ordeal. Once, last week when I discovered that my AFP markers were at 5, well within normal range, and thus I was cancer free. Another time was after taking a particularly painful shit. Now I understand why childbirth provides so much pleasure. Its the pleasure of "Finally!! The unbelievable pain is starting to go away!!!"

And after that, its amazing how quickly everything else stabilizes.

I was on the bus last week, heading to work, and my phone started buzzing. I knew who it was, and didn't waste a second thinking about what the news could be, I picked up apprehensively and cringed "hello" into the phone.
A few seconds later.
"What? I'm okay??" I was shocked and... alarmed and ecstatic. Even being optimistic can't prepare you for the joy that is normal alpha feta protein levels. Excitement grabbed me by the face and pulled me off the train. Don't listen to people who think it's a good idea to expect the worst so that if it turns out okay you'll be pleasantly surprised. Trust me, there is no way of magnifying the intensity of emotion I felt at that moment. Pure uncut relief. Flowing to every part of my body. I wanted to scream. I wanted to stomp on the ground and reach into the sky. I wanted to get wasted beyond recognition, run through the streets naked and bleeding. I wanted to punch a hole through a windshield, tears streaming down my face.

Instead I smiled. My feet managed to get me across the street and 10 minutes later I was at work, glowing and raving to my co-workers about the good news. 2 hours later it was like it all hadn't happened.

With chemotherapy you get to enjoy an accurate time-line. The doctor places you on the line and points, "There! That is where you have to go! Just make it to there, and you'll be okay!" So you walk and walk and walk, and eventually you make it. Then you get picked up and tossed back into the real world, with its uncertainty and unfathomable length. Back to being an adult. Back to a more complicated existence.

Let's say it requires a certain reframing of priorities.
But make no mistake about it, not a single bit of me wants to go back in the box.

Reckless Optimism

I highly recommend not dealing with your problems if you can possibly avoid doing so. You will always be faced with difficulties that will only resolve themselves with time. These can not be dealt with by employing the labor of hard work or heavy concentration. You must wait, it is out of your hands, and there is little you can do. It is for these problems I recommend being optimistic and getting fucked up. Drink! Go raging! Optimism does not come without a shot of something. Try 40 proof.

Look, I know people probably think I'm fucking around here, but this is something I'm pretty sure about. I have these AFP marker results to look forward to tomorrow and the only thing I can do right now is wait. The only thing I can control is my own personal psychological health. I've decided there is no reason to prepare for the worst. When something bad happens, we deal with it. In the mean time, I've decided that I'm cancer free until someone says otherwise.

I went and got fucked up this weekend and had one of the best times of my life at a club. I walked in, not in the greatest mood, and walked out at closing time in a state of complete bliss. Not because of alcohol, although that definitely assisted me in letting go, there were just so many attractive women, and I was so on my game... I don't want to oversell this, I'm just happy I've gotten so much better in clubs. I easily could have been at home wallowing in despair like I think I did on Friday night. But I didn't.

I saw Babel on Saturday afternoon, and maybe that had something to do with my decision. There is one particular scene where this lonely deaf Japanese girl is drinking and taking pills with her friends before heading to a club. I watched that scene, and suddenly realized what I've missed the most over these last few months: Getting fucked up.
Not that I used to take pills, or go overboard with drinking, but just seeing people putting their problems to the side so they can have fun and do what they want... it touched me.

Never again will I take for granted what it means to get drunk or twisted or high. How incredibly special it is to be able to do something reckless and physically damaging in the pursuit of mankind's most precious commodities: Our happiness and sanity. Think about what it means to make that sacrifice. To say, YES, this is what is more important to me. This is what makes life worth living. Cause its not merely breathing that makes existence valuable. And it's not merely our heart pumping blood through our veins which makes us get up in the morning. There is a difference between being alive and being alive. Anyone who goes through chemotherapy or lives in Connecticut should understand this distinction.

The truth is, life on its own is not worth living. Let that fact guide you where it may.

Day 63 - Uncertainties

This was supposed to be a celebratory post. Hooray! I survived testicular cancer and made it through 9 weeks of chemotherapy! I might even add something about what lessons I had learned, and how I've grown a lot and how this whole experience has made me a better person. I might even add that I'm glad I got cancer, just so finally I can say something significant happened to me. Something I had to fight and defeat. This post was supposed to be all of these things. But it won't be.

After I got my right testicle removed, about 3 months ago, I had a doctors appointment where my urologist expressed surprise at the results. My AFP markers had gone up. At first he thought it was a mistake, if anything they should have gone down a little, so I got a second test. But it wasn't a mistake. I was not cured. At that point I was told I would need chemotherapy, and so I started this site to help me through it.

This is my last week of chemo. This was supposed to be my very last day. It was. Then about an hour ago I got a phone call. My last AFP marker results report my count as having gone up to 11 from 4. The nurse assured me it was probably a mistake, and I should come in on Monday to retake the test. She said it would be very unusual for the markers to go up, and my doctor is confident that the results are incorrect. I can't say I'm quite as confident. Intellectually, I understand how strange these results are. My counts had been going down, so the cancer was clearly responding well to the chemotherapy. Also, I got this test this Monday, which is nearly right in the middle of my 3rd cycle of BEP. Indeed, it seems strange that the cancer could start increasing before the treatment has even ended!

I understand this fact... but I don't feel it. I feel uncertain, I feel scared. I feel like I'm back to the beginning, sitting in the urologists office, listening to him explain that there's probably some kind of error with the test. It's been 9 weeks since then and after all I've gone through I still feel the same nerve endings in my brain firing. The same warning bells blaring. I can tell myself be calm, don't worry, just wait for the tests.
But my emotions don't understand English and, in any case, will not listen.

Day 51 - Sleep with Dreams

Ow. Ow my eyes. Ow. The light at the end of the tunnel is getting really bright. I'm almost done here, but I already feel like the worst is over. The end of last week was pretty bad for me. I didn't get sick, but I genuinely felt in the gutter, and getting shots every day felt a bit like routine torture. I made a pretty big realization about chemo this weekend though: A lot of the torture we do to ourselves.

The worst thing about chemotherapy is that not much is going on, but there's a large amount of time to reflect upon it. You're waiting for your body to flush out poison and you have dozens of hours to reflect on what that means. What that feels like. What it smells like. I noticed I didn't smell like me. I'm not sure if the chemo affected my sense of smell or I if could literally smell the chemo in my sweat and piss. Whatever the reason, while I lay up in my room it was a constant morbid reminder of the sickening nature of what was happening to my body, and this had a proportional affect on my psyche.

My vacation from having a life was stupid. Yes, I was slightly immobilized by chemo, but to just give up and stay inside during heavy chemo sessions was a horrible idea. The human brain should not contain itself in such tight quarters for such a long time. You need to allow yourself to think about other things. Go on walks, go to coffee shops. There's always other things to do besides partying. But if you put your life on hold, you'll just make things worse and become more consumed by the chemo. More immobilized.

I honestly think I didn't dream during the whole week. Maybe when you're focused exclusively on chemo, there's nothing to dream about. But on Saturday night, I sat in the darkness for hours thinking about my life, my career, and exactly where I was going next. It felt so good to be thinking about something other than chemo, I kept it up all night. I had my first dream in a week, and then another and another. And none of them were about chemo. They were about opportunities, goals, and women. That night I figured out where my life is going to go next, instead of wallowing in where it has been.

Things are going to be different after this is all over. Convensional wisdom promises everything returns "back to normal," but why should "normal" be behind you? This experience has changed me, and it has become a part of who I am, perhaps more so than where I grew up, or my heritage. The new normal will not be the old normal. It will be better, more enlightened, more aware.

The light at the end of the tunnel is bright, and when I look behind me, the light at the beginning of the tunnel is so dim in comparison. And so I step forward to normal.

Day 46 - Lucky Numbers

I just cracked open a fortune cookie. My fortune is: "A good time to finish up old tasks."
Hmmm... that's inspiring.
On the back I have some lucky numbers, but I think I'll just skip over those.
Chemo patients do not play the lottery.

Cancer is a luck based disease. You have something like a 33 percent chance of getting cancer in your life time. If you get cancer, you become a percentage. 33 percent. Once you get used to that identity, you find out that out of people with testicular cancer, Embryonal Carcinoma accounts for 20 percent. Guess a number between one and 5. You got it. Lucky you.

Then the doctor starts telling you how if you opt to go with surgery on your lymph nodes there's an 80 percent chance the cancer will stop right there, and you won't have to go into chemo. But you're not listening. You already know you are 20 percent. 80 percent chance of success might work for someone who is 33 percent. Not you. You'd ending up going into chemo anyhow. Might as well get it over with.

Besides, a 98 percent cure rate sounds good. Then you start thinking. Could I be 2 percent?

Day 43 - How to Stare at the Wall

- so one day your white counts don't go back up as expected
- so the doctor prescribes a subcutaneous injection to boost them artificially... Of course there's side effects
- so your arms start swelling up painfully like you've lifted 300 pounds, and the doctor tells you to get ibuprofen for the pain,
- so you start taking pain killers and your stool gets hard and jagged
- so you shit blood and the nurses say the swelling has swallowed up your veins,
- so they stab you in the arms as you silently record the more painful angles of attack with closed eyes and convulsing hands.

***

It's Monday as I write this, the first day of my last cycle. 7 more days of shots. Tommorrow, 6 more days of shots. Wednesday will be particularly special: 5 more days of shots.
Thursday is getting ahead of my self.

I will be devoting this week to getting by.
Stop trying to enjoy yourself.
Drink more water. Eat more Protein.
Get used to the idea that protein is crunchy and comes in chocolate shake form.

This week I will devote to staring at the wall.
You'd be amazed at how satisfying staring at the wall can be.
You sit. You don't think. You don't blink.
You uncross your legs. This is not meditation.
You are not reaching a higher plain of existence. You are staring at the wall.
You are not drawing greater appreciation for inanimate objects. Do not pay attention to the wall.
Sit, stare, and expend as little energy and thought as possible.

Do not develop a mantra.
Do not fantasize.
You do not accept calls from god.
You are sorry, you can not come to the phone right now.
You are sorry, but you are not here.

Day 38 - a happy idiot

I made a video to go with one of my songs, I quite like it:


I've noticed that I tend to make good art when I'm feeling somewhat shitty, which sucks, because it potentially means I might have to choose between being unproductive and living a happy life, or being unhappy and producing a lot of great art. Maybe if I'm really lucky I won't get to make that choice. Thats the kind of thing I'd rather someone else decide.
It's a false choice anyways.

Someone once asked my philosophy teacher, would she rather be brilliant but unhappy or be a happy idiot.
She replied, "Well if you want to be unhappy you're already an idiot."

True that.

Day 35 - Temporary

I'm taking a vacation from having a life. Instead of going out partying/drinking/clubing, I'm staying home, watching movies, playing games.

This is not as bad as it sounds. I want to be careful with my health, and in 4 weeks when this is all over, I'm simply going to go crazy and get drunk and smash things. So I don't feel too bad about my current arrangement. It's a temporary solution.

Oh funny story. At work there's this guy, we'll call him Gary. I'm cool with Gary. He likes to party and likes women a lot and I respect that. However, Gary has a really mean spirited sense of humor. He thinks as long as he's smiling like a jackass he can say whatever he wants. I don't get the feeling that he's trying to hurt people, but the way he says stuff... shit I don't know. Here's the first thing he said to me after not seeing me for a few weeks:
"Hey, going for the chemo patient look?"
Now if anyone else had said this, I would of probably just let it go, but you have to understand, the WAY he said this was soo annoying, I just didn't want to take it. I smiled, and leaned forward.
"UH YES actually."
He didn't believe me.
"No seriously, why would you want to cut your hair like an 80 year old man." Still smiling like a jack ass.

I was in kind of an amused disbelief. This wasn't hurtful to me, cause I actually like the new look, and I'm not planning on keeping it for too long. But you can't just go up to someone who's mysteriously changed their haircut and start making jokes about going through chemotherapy. What if they actually do have cancer? Like, in this case for instance?

I explained to him some more details, he still didn't believe me.
"If that were true, you would lose your eyebrows."
"No, you don't." I think I would know.
Finally he believes me, but doesn't stop smiling, he's just like, "oh."

I walk back to my desk feeling that its about time someone stuck it to Gary, and I also got to thinking, what if I had taken the easy way out and didn't tell him I have cancer, and he found out from someone else that I did? THAT would probably have been much worse than me confronting him.

Day 26 - symptoms and side effects

All I want to do is sleep. And I don't even want to do that.
My stomach feels funny. My room is cluttered with empty containers of water, ensure, poweraid. Piled with half eaten snacks, chips ahoy, pretzels, macadamian nuts.

I find if I can get the right amount of food in me, this feeling in my stomach goes away. Right now, for instance, I'm almost certain that crackers with half a block of monterey jack cheese would do the trick, but preparing a meal like that... It would require turning on the light. Getting out of bed. Taking my dirty plate off my radiator and scraping the crumbs into the sink. So we'll see about that.

Cycle 2 sucks so far. This week consisted of 4 hours of injections every day. I just want to sleep it off, but sleep is neither fun nor easy. I thought this would be a good time to catch up on lucid dreaming, but I can barely catch a normal dream much less work up some level of awareness. I think my hunger senses have been replaced by a dull queasiness in my abdomen, that tells me I need to shove another cookie down my throat. Most of the crumbs get in my bed sheets.

My phone has two voice mails. I haven't even listened to them. I'm not even thinking of going out tonight. My only goal is to get by. If I can just make the next 12 hours warp by... I don't know what happens then. But it seems like the right thing to wish for.

I do not look very healthy now. But I'm not sure if that's because I actually don't look healthy, or just because I don't feel healthy. Everyday after chemo I look in the mirror and my pupils float at the top of my eye sockets like dead fish in a bucket. I shaved my head yesterday, and discovered that there's a difference between actually losing your hair and just shaving it. I was hoping I'd be completely bald this time around, but only patches of hair on my head have died, leaving disgusting patterns just below the surface of my skin where I can't clip them.

The skin on my face looks blotchy and dry, and whats left of my facial hair stubble feels crusty and dead. I've lost most of my pubic hair, which is alright, I like the pornstar look, but my chest hair seems to be thinning out, which I think makes me look pale and sickly. I swear my nipples are turning gray.

I feel scatterbrained and unfocused most of the time. And I don't care. I don't care about work, I don't care about girls, I don't care about music, I don't care about movies. All I care about are symptoms and side effects. Chemotherapy has stopped being an excuse. Now its the only thing happening.

Day 22 - A Long Journey

My site name almost got changed to "70 days of chemotherapy" today. That would of been horrible, and not only because the number 63 is slightly more interesting than the stoic combination of seven and zero.

"Your white counts are down... I didn't expect that. We'll have to postpone treatment. A week."
I sat cringing in the doctors examination room trying to put a finger to what I had done wrong.
Could staying up all night diminish the ability of your white counts to rebound? Could stressing over women do the same? Damn't, I knew I should have handled that differently.

"Just a moment, I'm going to talk to someone to get advice on this. I'm half thinking of going along with treatment. One second."
I sat there, slight subdued from the small hint of hope I'd just been given. I began imagining what his voice will sound like if he came back and told me I really do have to wait a week.
Straightforward and confident, peaking at the beginning and stretching out matter-of-factly. "Yup, I figured. We're going to have to wait a week."
Okay okay. Don't get any ideas yet. You don't know what he's going to say. And he knows what he's doing. If I truely shouldn't be getting treatment, then I shouldn't WANT to get treatment. He knows whats best for me. I don't want to jeopardize my health here.

I looked around the office to keep distracted. A couple of stock art paintings were set up on the wall, a poor attempt to create the illusion of a personal environment, rather than a generic work space. Of course it was a facade. No one would select these bland and talentless artists to liven up their home. They probably bought a bunch of discount paintings in bulk and randomly tacked it up around the hospital.
The sink had two strange pedals under it that somehow allowed hand-less use of the sink. There were dozens of rolls of paper underneith the examination bed, in two different brands. I wondered if patients could tell the difference. I wondered if they complained when they got the poorer brand.

"Okay, so we can go ahead. We want to keep within that 99% cure rate."
I sigh, relieved. "Yeah sounds good to me."
I guess I'm going to have to pay a bit more attention to my physical health, and my psychological health.

Got my self stranded 45 minutes away from the city last night. It began innocently enough. My friend Mack gave me a call and told me about this party he knew about, with a lotta cool people and a lotta girls. I told him I'd have to call him back.

In terms of being active, I had not been on a good streak. Last week I had just got a new laptop, which I allegedly got so I could make more music, but also got the game adventure game "The Longest Journey" from a relative, and that required a lot of free time. Actually I can't think of any better excuse for my inactivity other than chemo, as I pointed out in an earlier post.

Anyways, as I was mulling over this, Mack had called me, and now I was faced with an immediate choice to make. Do I, stay in and do nothing? Or do I go out on an unplanned, unrehearsed, adventure to a place I've never been with no sure way of getting back? Yeah, it was a pretty easy decision.

Turns out, after all my weekends of bar and club hopping I'm still not completely comfortable at random house parties. I prefer the darkness of the bar, the anonymity. The constant rotating of key characters. I had a really hard time psyching myself up. There were about 70 people in the house, with a very good ratio of guys to girls. I started up a few conversations that might have led somewhere, but I let them trail off. I wasn't feeling it. I wasn't on my game. I felt a bit trapped, honestly. Like I was surrounded by people who were either ignoring me or telling me "no." We had arrived at 11 oclock, and I knew I could catch the train at 12:30 if I left with a friend I had run into at the party. However, he had mysteriously disappeared. It was not going to be easy to get home tonight.

[Thud] "Oh my god, are you okay?"
A very drunk girl takes a dive into the hard wood floor, somehow landing head first. She doesn't feel a thing, and immediately rises to her feet. She stumbles into a girl with a drink, and grabs her arm for balance. The drink plops to the floor, releasing its contents across the floor with much bravado. Everyone has noticed the spectacle, especially the blond girl who lives here.
"Get the FUCK out of my house!!" Whoa. That was a little unnecessary.

A dozen more people leave. Their absence has left an air of hostility. Suddenly, a big white guy comes from the kitchen and tells me to turn down the music. I comply, fully.
He begins a speech which at first seems to be intended to getting the party rolling again, but ends of turning into a rant about how people made a mess in the kitchen too, and FUCK I HAVE TO BE THE ONE TO CLEAN THAT UP. EVERYONE JUST BE FUCKING COOL.
Jesus. Between the blond snob and this prick we could set up a reality television show that would be canceled in its first season.
More nervous people edge to the door.

The cops come.
Again the blond girl takes command.
"TURN THE MUSIC OFF EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!"
People begin talking to each other. All of them are bored of this quickly down-spiraling mess of a party.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!" Blond girl is easily the loudest person in the room.
A guy nicknamed Harry Potter fucks with the volume.
"TURN THE MUSIC OFFF!!!!"
We sit in silence for 10 minutes, looking at each other with faces that say, "when the fuck are we going to get out of here?"

House parties are hit or miss. We pile into a car and drive to the next one. No, literally, we pile into a car. It's a two door sports car, and we managed to fit at least 7 people in the back. I'm sitting across the knees of two guys I don't even know. Its a good way to make friends.
Everyone is talking in Spanish and Portuguese and I'm the only white boy there, which is cool with me. I rather like the role of the minority.
The Latino guy in the seat in front of me, turns to me, joking around, and says "White people, can not party like we do."
I hesitate for a moment.
"Well we gotta get up in the morning. We have jobs."
He laughs. "Good one."

We get to the party which instantly becomes a Latin dance floor, which gives me a considerable disadvantage. Even if I had felt like dancing, I'd have a lot of serious competition on my hands. So I chill on acouch, nurse a beer and look for an exit.

It's 3 am, with no exit in sight.

Now it's 3:30, and me and Mack are standing out in front of the house trying to flag down a taxi. Problem is, there are no taxi's.
I've called up a few cab services, one guy laughed at me and gave me an outrageous estimate.
Suddenly a couple realizations hit me. We have no car. The trains are closed. A cab ride is 75 dollars. We are trapped in the middle of no where. We don't even know where we are. And I can't crash here; I'm not the least bit tired.

3:45: we manage to convince a friend of a friend to give us a ride back to where he lives in the city. Mack and I take a cab back to our apartments.

It is 5:03 am. I have made it home finally.
I think thats worth a slight reduction in white blood cells.

Day 20 - used

My philosophy on developing a healthy emotional life is to recognize that what we desire most are not the people we meet, but the emotion of attraction. We want to feel attracted to another person, and for them to feel attracted to us.
The person themselves is not so important. What I mean is, once you stop feeling attraction while around someone, you should recognize that, and not continue on pretending that person is somehow special, and building them up to be more than they are.

I think people get too hung up on people, when they should be aware of the emotions they are feeling instead.

I called Cindy up a week ago, and we hung out, and it was actually pretty cool. I felt more in control and more clear on her feelings towards me. She enjoyed being around me, and felt bad when I didn't call her. Cool, so I feel special.

Until tonight. She called me up cause she was bored and stressed out and needed someone to talk to. I figure why not, I'll hang out with her for an hour or so and then maybe invite her back to watch a movie with me. It was a good plan.

What ended up happening is she sat me down for 50 minutes and began a monologue about all her problems. Health, guys, family, etc. I'm trying to enjoy myself, but I'm feeling more and more like a therapist and less like a friend or potential boyfriend. She's talking about how her ex was really busy at work, and when I asked her what he did she said,
"He plays an instrument."
"What instrument."
"An instrument."
"You don't know?"
"Yes, but I don't want to tell you."

For the rest of the conversation I slowly distanced myself from the table, and my concentration wandered up and down the walls of the bar.
"Are you okay? You look like you're somewhere else."
"I feel like I'm a therapist..."
I convinced her that if she didn't let me ask questions, then I was essentially being a therapist rather than a friend. So, reluctantly, she told me.
"Violin"
What a trivial secret to hide. This is not the first time this has happened with Cindy, and all it shows to me is that she doesn't feel like opening herself to me. But she doesn't mind using me to air out her personal problems.

I know girls like to talk, and if we want to make any connection, us guys want to listen. But what if you don't want to make a connection any more? Then you stop listening.
"Hey,I have a story too!" I begin telling her about last night, how I ended up 45 minutes away from the city at 4 am with no way to get back.
She wasn't interested, her eyes ran to every corner of the room. We paid the check and headed out into the street.
I'm trying to develop my story but she doesn't care and starts walking away from me down the street, intending for me to follow her.
"Nah, I think I'm going to head home, watch a movie, as I said I had a long night yesterday. You wanna come?"
"No. I'm going home." Rejection. I dunno, maybe she thought I was being an asshole for not paying more attention to her and coming with her down the street. Maybe she felt rejected and had to throw it back at me.

"Pshhh."
"Bye."
I say bye, trying to keep civil. But I feel used, and I feel let down, and I feel pissed off. I walk away, thinking to myself, "bitch."

I don't know, maybe I am a bit of an asshole. That's certainly an asshole thing to think. Maybe if I had focused a little more on her needs, she'd be more willing to meet me half way. Maybe I should have paid more attention, and then she'd feel close enough to me to actually show some attraction.
But fuck it. I'm not attached to her. And I have too much self respect to let myself get trampled on and used up.
So that's it. On the plus side, it seems like my instincts are good. Somewhere in my head I knew I was being used. I'm easily accessible (somewhat). Maybe I'm one of her only friends she can talk to about this stuff. But there's something disingenuous lying underneath the surface.

It's interesting, in one way, she's done nothing to help me grow, but in a another way, I've grown so much through meeting her, dating her, and forgetting about her. It's no great loss. As I say, I was I looking for attraction, not just a person. And whatever attraction there was is not to be found there anymore.

I start my second cycle of chemo on Monday.

Day 18 - Accomplice

Chemotherapy is a great excuse.
It's an excuse to come into work late.
To leave early (too tired).
To lash out.
To be down.
To slack off.
To give up.
To not go out tonight.
To stay in and watch movies, play video games, sleep.
To not write, to not read, to not sing, to not create.
This and about a dozen other things can all be excused with such ease, and with such sincerity, I might say I wish chemotherapy would never end.
So I could always be a willing participant in the decay of my own life.

Day 11 - Living Forever in Pain

My life is currently cut into three slices: chemo, cancer, and women. Out of those three, only chemo hasn't hurt me.

Had my bleomycin shot on Monday, and other than a little redness on my stomach and chest, I feel fine. No nausea, no tiredness, if I didn't have a shaved head, I probably would forget I'm going through chemo.
Speaking of which I applied some sunless tanner on my pearly white dome to get a tan and now I have bright orange streaks down the back of my white head. I don't know if it's a good look or not. I can't see back there.

Anyways, that's not on my mind right now, as you probably deduced from the opener.
I'm currently trying to figure out what to do with this one girl... we'll call her Cindy. Cindy is the most beautiful girl I've ever dated. Although it's up for debate as to how many dates I've had with her. After the fifth or so, I started to get the "friend" vibe. Then I took her out one night to a bar with some people and she seemed really into my one friend. And then I cut off all communication with her.

Let me say this, ladies, it is not necessary for you to like or enjoy the company of the friends of the guy you are dating. In fact it's better if you hate them.

I couldn't stop imagining my friend ending up with this girl, even though he probably wouldn't do that cause he's a good guy. However, that very thing, only made him more indifferent to the girl, and therefore more desirable. The one thing I can not tolerate with women is being in second place. If I'm not your number one interest, I'm not interested.

My thought for the rest of the night was getting this girl away from my friend before they exchanged phone numbers and ended up together, which would have really fucked up my friendship. Not necessarily cause I'm a jealous bastard, but it's difficult to see your friend take a girl you like and not feel some twinge of emotional devastation.

She called me a week or two later and I let it goto voicemail. She was wondering what I was up to, and to give her a call if I was going drinking with my friends. Thank you, I was looking to put another nail in the coffin before I buried it.

So that was that. Of course, I felt kind of bad just ignoring her. She didn't do anything wrong. I fucked up. I failed to get her interested in me quickly enough. Beginner's mistakes. Missed the opportunity to kiss her when things were peaking. Oh well, my bad. Won't happen again. Still - not her fault. I had to give her some kind of reason for not seeing her again. Fortunately, roughly around the time I received the news of my rising alpha fetaprotein markers, and the need to have 9 weeks of chemotherapy. What luck!

"[BEEEEEP] Hi Cindy, this is Seth. Look I know it's like I fell off the face of the earth, but I've had a lot of stuff happen in my life right now. I've just been diagnosed with testicular cancer, and I'm going to be going through 9 weeks of chemo therapy. I'll give you a call in like 3 months. Bye."

Okay, so that's still pretty terrible, but hey, she knows it's not her fault, she doesn't feel rejected, and I don't have to deal with her ever again unless I want to. (3 months is the dating equivalent of never)
So I figured that was that. But it wasn't.

A couple of hours ago, Cindy called me, I silenced the ringer and let it goto voicemail. I don't need that kinda stress in my life, not now, but if she's got something to tell me, I'm willing to let my voicemail plead her case.

Pretty standard fare. It's been a long time since we talked. Give me a call if you feel up to it.
"I miss you... bye"

I'm such a sucker for "I miss you." Maybe it makes me think about everyone I've ever wanted to say that to. Everyone important to me who've left and I've never seen again. Maybe it's the sincere way she said it. Like we had a bigger connection that I thought, and I was just oblivious to it. Maybe she feels sorry that I have cancer, and somehow that makes her want to be with me.

Maybe it's a trap.

Maybe I call her up, and we hang out, and I find out we're still just friends, and I'm just one of the guys she keeps around to make her self feel good, and then one day we're hanging out with people and she ends up hooking up with one of my friends and I feel like a loser who can't close a girl he's picked up.
Beautiful girls fuck you up. You look at them, and suddenly you can't tell if you like being with them, or if you're just hypnotized and you actually feel like shit hanging around them; you only think you like them cause they're hot.

If she wasn't so fucking attractive, I'd be able to consider having her as a friend, but that's not an option here.
Being friends with Cindy would be dogshit torturous hell. And then I would jump off a bridge and shoot myself in the head.

Let me explain my "rule of friendship." If Person 1 just wants to be friends, but Person 2 wants MORE than friendship, then Person 2 is condemned to die a slow painful death. Obviously Person 2 will accept friendship. Person 2 will take whatever Person 1 offers, because Person 2 likes Person 1 so much. What Person 2 forgets is that friendship is not a step towards a relationship. So, Person 1 will be happy that they are friends. And Person 2 will be forever in pain. Well. Sometimes Person 2 will do something like confess undying love towards Person 1, and Person 1 will get creeped out, and then Person 2 will be able to move on. But living forever in pain is the standard I think.

Anyways, I'm going to call her. I have to. I can't resist "I miss you"s. I hope round two of chemo is more painful.
I think I'm going to need something to distract myself.

Day 8 - the pointy hats come off

You should of heard me. I was brilliant.

"Birthday cake, makes life worth living another year."

Being jolted awake by the telephone during an extended power nap yields strange revelations about the world.

"But you notice, that the second time, you need twice as many candles to get the same effect."

Especially when the dialog takes a deliberately combative tone.

"And then the next year, you can't just have two, you need a third one to feel the same effect. Otherwise you'd be like fuck that and then the pointy hats come off and start flying around like serious projectiles, poking peoples eyes out. It's horrible. Thats why they make you blow them out before you eat the cake. In a fit of birthday cake induced rage, there could be a fire."

I got off easy today. Got a quick shot of bleomycin, and the anti-nausea drug, lorazepam, which comes with a pleasant groggy high. You kind of slide back and forth down the street, with slightly more control than a drunken stumble. Later in the day, you get tired and decide to take an hour nap. You sleep 3 hours past your goal and wake up to a phone call from a friend from home.

I swear, getting waken up at this point opens up part of your brain to the infinite wisdom of the universe. I become a genius for the ensuing half an hour conversation. I state that "Langston Hughes' success with the poem "A Raison in the Son" is largely due to the people who interpreted it for him. Without the right interpretation, it's about decomposing grapes.
To further prove my point, I quickly make up a poem about corn, which ends with something like:

"And as the light shown down on the fields,
who knows what comes
of the mouse when it squeals."

It's a metaphor for existence and the wonder of youthful discovery. I just made that up on the spot. Give me the award!

Then the conversation turns to the topic of pollen, which my friend seems to think can be eaten.
"Pollen can not be eaten. Do you know why?"
"...because it's pollen?"
"ITS pollen!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Oh."
"POLLENNNNNNNNNN!!!!"

Note: Conversations end quickly when you yell "POLLEN" over and over again. I imagine that's how brilliant people end conversations all the time.

Day 5 - Phantom Testicle Syndrome

Do I miss my right testicle?
No. I'm glad its gone. We separated on bad terms. It's amazing how quickly you can go from love to hate. But then again, it's not. Any body part which starts harboring hard lumps is asking to be removed. Yeah, that goes for all of you, hear me?

I will not tolerate cancer growing in MY body. That is unacceptable. I don't care who you are.

Of course, I was a little apprehensive at the idea of only having one testicle, mostly for aesthetic reasons. I suppose I imagined one side of my scrotum would deflate, and leave me looking asymmetrical, like a car with a flat tire. But let it be known, the body is not a car. And my testicle is not a static piece of rubber. He will accommodate, move to where he needs to go, and accomplish whatever he needs to do. I call him my lucky left testicle. Apparentally, he's working overtime producing sperm and testosterone so I have the same amount as I did with two testicles. That's pretty amazing. I should give him a raise. He must be exhausted. Sorry big guy, no help is on the way.

I researched prosthetic testicle implants, but ultimately decided against getting one.
Testicles are not breasts. I'm relatively certain girls do not fawn over testicles, or surf the web to get closeups of testicles, or want anything to do specifically with testicles. They just aren't sexy to begin with. One testicle is just as sexy as two. (Or just as not)
Also, I don't need a fake testicle to make myself feel better about myself. I mean, I would KNOW it was a fake testicle, so if it had any effect on me it would be me feeling like a dumb ass for having purchased and installed a plastic ball in my scrotum.
The small risk of infection is the final nail on the coffin. How much would it suck to get an infection from a fake testicle? I definitely would not feel too proud about that doctor's appointment.
"You know that fake testicle? The one that you installed to make you feel better about yourself? It's killing you."
Fuck that. Even if it worked okay and felt like a real testicle, it would probably just make me think of cancer every time I touched it.

Come to think of it, the only time I touch my balls is when I'm looking for cancer anyways.

I wonder if there is a limit to how many prosthetic testicles I could have inserted in my scrotum? 3? 5? Maybe they could install some kind of battery so they would flash like Christmas ornaments, or make a squeaking noise when pushed together.

I'd like to find some prosthetic testicles, and just go around throwing them at people. Or maybe 250,000 and do something like this:



Muhahahahaha

Day 4

I made this track today, which probably captures how my day felt more than anything I can get my fingers to type.
a general human property [mp3]

Day 3 - Metastasis

I think I can pinpoint the moment for me when "Testicular Cancer" became "Cancer."

Notes from before my surgery:
Most cancer stories are concerning the heroic battle for life, filled with wisdom, memories, and hope. Not mine. I'm just losing a testicle here. Clearly, I've been robbed.
This is a memoir, a requiem for a testicle, if you will. (That would have been the name of the site if I had wanted to be ridiculously cheesy.)
I'm currently sitting in a waiting room awaiting blood work, thinking about how I'm going to turn this semi-critical health problem into an award wining novel. Writing is the therapeutic process of transferring misfortune into pleasure and profit. Well, pleasure anyway.

Before surgery I viewed testicular cancer as kind of a pseudo-cancer, much in the way I view my Jewish heritage allows me to be kind of a pseudo minority. Like, as a Jew I can say I'm a minority, but no one knows unless I explicitly tell them, so I don't face any of the potential hardships of a minority. With testicular cancer, you technically have a life threatening illness, but it's pretty easy to treat, and you don't really have to deal with it on a day to day basis unless you go around telling everyone you meet. Thats how it seemed to me. Until I saw my mom's face one day.

Alpha-fetoprotein markers indicate the presence of liver and germ cell tumors. My AFPs were at 9 when I got bloodwork before surgery. A week afterward, I got blood work again, and scheduled an appointment so my family could come down to the urologist with me and discuss the results.
I was whisked into an empty examination room and told to take off everything from the waist down and get under a paper blanket. The urologist came in, and quickly checked to make sure things were healing correctly, and after approving with a confident nod, opened the door and signaled my parents to enter. My mom stepped in, first smiling, then she saw the blanket, and a mortified expression took to her face as she realized that it was the only thing I was wearing below the waist. "Are you ready for us? He's not even dressed yet!"

Again, I found myself smiling stupidly, wondering why this consultation required me to be half naked in front of my parents.
The doctor walked over to the desk and picked up my file and started talking about my AFP markers, saying he hadn't yet received the latest AFP results, but...
"Wait. No here they are, the marker is at 15, it went up... Should have come down after the surgery. That's probably a mistake."
Confusion thickened the room, but I already knew what was going on. My cancer-lite was turning into real cancer. Right in front of me.
"You should see the oncologist, he'll be able to tell you more." His tone was grim, but caring. He stuck out his hand.
My Urologist had done all he could. He had cut out the cancer he could see, but now there was some invisible cancer floating around in my system that no blade could touch and no CAT scan could identify. I shook his hand, and he gave a comforting smile to me and my family, and then walked us out of the room. I knew I was stepping into new territory.
When you're dealing with a urologist, it means the problem is localized to a general region.
I had looked up "Oncologist" earlier in the day. I was now officially in the care of a cancer specialist.

A week afterwards, my AFP marker had risen to 20. My cancer was spreading.

Day 2 - Routine

I feel the need to check in. Hey how you doin?

Its two am, I think I just passed out for 4 hours or something. Sleep is a rather irresistible bitch. I had a long and indepth dream about airport transportation.

For reasons unbeknownst to me I'm supposed to be taking tylenol every 4 hours. Seems kinda like a shot in the dark to me. Don't think, just do. [Gulp]

My new hair cut rocks. I just looked in the mirror and thought I saw a huge mole on my forehead staring back at me, but it turned out to be a piece of lint. I take the moment for silent celebration.

Chemotherapy's not at all bad so far. I sit in a comfy chair for 4 hours surrounded by pleasant staff and other patients, and watch air bubbles creep into my catheter using my peripheral vision. Sneaky mothifuckers, but completely harmless it turns out.
"You need to consume tons of air for it to do any damage," a smiling nurse informs me. Good. Cause it is kind of scary watching a potentially lethal air bubble proceed through 4 feet of tubing, all the while getting closer and closer to the port where it suddenly disappears into your body.
"The media has done a great job of terrifying people about it," she says.
Agreed.

After chemo I work from home for about 3 hours a day. After that, I watch a movie. I feel like I'm on a lazy vacation. At least I have routine to keep me company.
K, time to watch The Wire. Night.

Day 1 - Dreaded Responsiblities

The mass began in the stomach area, and having spread from there, quickly infected the eyes, and the limbs. Once the cells were in metastasis they were difficult to stop. In all likely hood they would simply take over the entire entity, shutting it down from head to toe, and draining it of any visible signs of life.
The disease is prevalent and there is no known cure.
It is called "boredom."

To say I am familiar with the condition is an understatement. I lived in it. Officially, it's called Connecticut.
Don't worry this isn't about to turn into a, "I was born in..." post. Really the only thing I have to say about Connecticut is that I lived there for most of my life, and it was really fucking boring. I used to think there was nothing redeeming about it, but now I realize that I wouldn't be so motivated to get stuff moving in my life if I hadn't lived in a place where I had nothing going for me. I know what boredom feels like, I don't need to slump around my room doing nothing to get a taste of it.
So I guess an uneventful childhood can play a big part in shaping who you are.

I was getting bored the last week or so. I guess cancer is just not as exciting as getting hit by a car, teetering on the precipice between life and death. No. Instead you're sitting in a waiting room for an hour and half to get a unimportant blood test, or get a baseline for your respiratory functions. It's not all particularly exhilarating.

But today, I got to sit down and get my first dose of chemo. Etoposide (VePesid), and Platinal (Cisplatin) injected over a 5 hour period, is definitely new territory for me. I memorized the names of the drugs, and then delved into a great book called Mom's Marijuana by Dan Shapiro. I highly recommend it for it's wit and inspiration. It's written by a guy who went through chemo, radiation, bone marrow transplant, and probably some other stuff. Much more serious stuff than I'm going to have to go through. It's a relief to read. I want to get a life changing experience out of this, but not at the expense of my health, and that of my family's. And that really is what this is about.

No one goes through cancer alone. If I did, it would probably be easier. I wouldn't have to call up friends I haven't seen in months just to tell them I have cancer. I wouldn't have to respond to emails from concerned and loving relatives, thanking them and reassuring them I'll be alright. I wouldn't have to worry about whether my parents are worrying too much about me. I feel bad that I can't deal with this by my self and not bother or worry or burden anybody else. But it feels even worse to keep secrets, to keep people in the dark, to not be able to tell them whats going on with my life. So I compromise. I've been putting it off for as long as possible, but as of yesterday, all of my close friends and family are aware of my condition, and I've written or talked with them all on the phone. It had to be done. Just as the doctors are responsible for making sure I get through this okay, I'm responsible for showing everyone else that I can.

I'm not sure I'm doing the greatest job.

I specifically wrote down on my agenda to tell the girl i met in Florida the next time we talked that I'll be doing chemo.
Instead I ended up calling her up at 2:30am drunk, while playing a tribe called quest song 40 times in succession and repeatedly asking her "Can I kick it?" Insisting she reply, "Yes you can!" That conversation lasted an hour.
...Next time then.

digging shit

Oh my god. Rain. Winter. Doom. Gloom.
Its all coming down. Where did summer go?
Where did the fucking days of sun and joy disappear to?

Nah, I'm just joking. The weather is shit, but I'm lookin up. Pretty much, I'm lookin forward to getting a new hair cut.
I really just needed an excuse. How else am I going to justify cutting up the hair on my head and the chin straps that I've been rockin for the last 4 or 5 years? Only cancer can give you that kind of excuse.

Okay, let me confess why I'm writing today. My last post was really good, and I don't think I can out do it. So I've been putting off posting anything day after day after day. I've seen this happen before. Some guy starts all ambitious and writes for like 5 days in a row and then one day he just stops, and theres like a week of silence. Then he comes back, and he's like, "I'm sorry I haven't been posting lately, just I've been busy." Fuck that. No one cares. Thats the thing with writing, you either do it or you don't. No ones going to sit there and be like, awww geee why don't you write anymore? There are no epitaphs for bodies never born. I just made that up on the spot. Look how clever I am.

Okay, so in case you haven't figured it out by now, in order to write, I need to start over with something really unimpressive. Like this rambling pointless entry about nothing. Gotta face the facts, its not all going to be gold, but you're not gonna find anything at all if you stop digging. Look how clever I am.

If this is going to be a shitty journal entry I might as well go all out. Next week I start 9 weeks of chemo, and the thing most on my mind is how I can pull off the bald look. I want this hair style change to be a choice, not an unfortunate necessity. I bought some sunless tanning foam. It's probably going to turn me orange. Whatever, I'll try anything.

My oncologist says I'll be getting some drugs that are going to make me feel drunk all day long. FINALLY! That oxycodone shit wasn't fun at all. I'm excited to get some treatment that might actually be fun. We'll see.

Nother reason I haven't written shit is because I have a really good story to tell. You see, I think I'm pretty good at pulling good writing out of shit. But when something actually DOES happen? Thats when I drop the ball.

Remember how I said going to the sperm bank was the least fun you can have with your pants off? Well, I figured out a way to make it fun. I highly recommend the following:
Download lots of porn. Put it on your laptop. Bring it to the clinic.
Thats what I did.
Theres absolutely no reason you should have to put up with one or two porno mags as your only inspiration. It's not like they search you before you enter the room. You can bring whatever you want. Although I recommend bring headphones with you. Otherwise, they might wonder whats going on in there.

I also got a chance to talk to the main doctor at the clinic, where I confessed what she could be doing to make things better. That's another strange phenomena about the clinic, 95% female staff. Guess guys don't want to be touching jars of semen all day. The problem is, girls don't know shit about masturbation . What's really interesting is, at the clinic you will never hear the words, "masturbate," "cum," or "ejaculate." Instead you hear sperm, semen, and collection. The nurse actually told me, "Come find me after you collect." I think I'm going to start using that word.
IE. I accidentally collected in her eye. etc.

Anyways, I told the doctor about how bad the process was.
"You really took the fun out of masturbation. Thats difficult."
She said she knew, but they had no budget to spend on providing masturbation materials. So I told her, well, you can just tell people to bring their own materials. She looked at me thoughtfully and said, "That's a very novel idea!"
I left the clinic with some self satisfaction, knowing that the wheels of reform were in motion.

Note: I had been drinking before I wrote and posted this. I guess I'm not going to get that book deal now. Fuck it.

Sperm Banking, Part 1 - The End of Masturbation

My least favorite sexual experience dates back to before I had my first kiss. I was in a playground at night, we were too old for kids stuff, but it was nighttime, so we snuck in. I was standing next to my girlfriend at the time, and she was sitting on the swing set, and something in the conversation indicated that I should kiss her, so I leaned over and brought my lips closer to hers. But she wasn't coming up to meet me halfway, and I was too neurotic to continue the kiss on my own. So what did I do? I fell over. On the ground, into the dirt, under the swing.
I laid there on my back in a self-loathing comatose state, pondering the futility of existance.

After a minute or so, I regained my senses, got up, and pretended like nothing had happened, but if I had to look back on my past and select my single worst sexual experience it would be this. A sexually frustrated kid, lying in the dirt after fucking up his would-be first kiss.

Why am I telling you all this? Because we have a new horse in the race.

Yesterday, I got to experience for the first time, the joy of sperm banking. And what a joy it is.
I'm not sure what I was expecting when I started following the nurse to the back of the fertility clinic. Maybe a shag rug, a water bed with wooden columns and draped velvet curtains, some Barry White playing in the background at a tasteful volume, dimmed lights.
But when the nurse with the large hoop earrings opened the door, I was very disappointed. It was a regular examination room. The same kind of room I was in when I found out I had cancer in the first place. I think I'd be more comfortable jerking off in the middle of a job interview.

After taking in the inherently hostile environment, examination bed and all, the nurse directed my attention to the technology I'd get to use for my visit: Two porno mags. TWO PORNO MAGS. I would now like to deviate from the topic at hand for a moment.

Not too long ago I went to Montreal with some friends. At a strip club, they ended up spending somewhere around 350 dollars to watch two strippers get naked and essentially fuck each other for an hour or so. Here, I'm paying 350 dollars for the opportunity to jerk off into a little plastic cup in the back room of a fertility clinic, and what do I get? Two porno mags. I mean, who jerks off to still images anymore? Is this the 1940s? Get me the fucking Internet!

The nurse left and I gathered my supplies and stepped into the adjacent bathroom to begin the arduous task of masturbating under these harsh conditions, although I wouldn't quite call it masturbation. It felt more like I was milking myself.
(Cows probably have a more erotic experience... I hear they have machines.)

Imagine trying to position the tip of your penis just inside the rim of a plastic cup that's not much wider. Imagine the hard plastic edges of the cup hovering dangerously close to the most sensitive part of your body during your moment of climax. Oh, and as a final insult, whatever bodily fluids you managed to eject while in this precarious position, ends up in a tall measuring cup. The notch at the top reads, "120 ml." I think they want you to take your score and divide it by this number to find out how much of a man you are.

So anyways, after I was finished crying...
Just Kidding!

After I finished up, I stood there, pants around my ankles, with a cup of semen in my hand, and laughed for a good half a minute.
The ridiculousness overwhelmed me. These ivory league PHD geniuses had figured out a way to make masturbation unfun. They had succeeded in taking the one activity that by definition guarantees ones own pleasure, and completely sucked the joy out of it.

For committing this unspeakable crime, I can do nothing else but advocate violent vigilant justice upon those responsible.
Spare no mercy.

The Beginning of the World

I'm literally taking off work tomorrow to go masturbate.
It's my first sperm bank appointment. In many ways I feel like I've spent years training for this moment. Dilligently slaving away at all hours of the night, perfecting my sperm production abilities. In fact it was during one such night when I found the bump for the first time.

It was late, and I was masturbating vigorously when my fingers brushed up against a hard spot and every muscle on my face froze.
I knew. Instantly.

Cold panic sweat shot out from every pore and I became frantic. I checked, and then checked again, and then again. It was small and difficult to find each time, but it was there.

That moment, right then, that was probably the worst I've ever felt. Complete utter despair. I couldn't believe it. I thought I was dreaming. In fact, it wasn't all that unlikely that I was dreaming. I'd had plenty of lucid dreams in the past, and as any lucid dreamer knows, dreams can be 100% realistic. Well almost 100%. (Clocks don't work very well)

I examined my alarm clock and did a reality check. And then again. And again. I've never been so unhappy to realize I wasn't dreaming. This was really happening. It was all happening, live, right in front of me. I sat there helpless, while I felt my entire life changing around my ears.

I knew it wasn't the end of the world. But I wasn't yet willing to accept the kind of world it was the beginning of. The kind of world which involved embarrassing doctors appointments, and worrisome parents. The kind of world where you have to worry about disease and death. The kind of world where you exist only with one testicle.

It's pretty incredible what you can accept when you have no other options.
I stepped through the door, and found my self in the world of testicular cancer. Let me say, once you're here, it's actually not so bad. There are friendly doctors, 98% cure rates, and some humorous life experiences to be had.
For instance, tomorrow, I'm taking off work to go masturbate. Oh yeah, and its PTO.

Sexual Eccentricities

Testicular cancer is easily tricked.
You can lie to it, and it will believe you. You can misdirect it and it might not find you for days on end.
But at some point you end up looking at it from across a doctor's office or listening to it mumble through a cell phone, "I found you!"
...and then you're back in it again.

I went to Florida this weekend for a wedding. I didn't tell anyone I had cancer, and for that single weekend, I didn't have cancer. I met a friend of the bride, a sexy white girl with the ability to fake an irresistible British accent, and we ended up in my hotel room, fooling around... literally.

"I feel like I'm fucking a transformer." The stiff structure of the dress's whaleback frame felt unusual beneath my hands and I decided to let her know.
She laughed, "You're not fucking anything."
This was correct, as we were merely grinding against each other on a hotel bed comforter.
"Whatever."
I started singing the transformer theme song in between toungings.
"...more than meets the eye!"
"What??" Her face showed a touch of twisted amusement.
"...robots in DISGUISE!"
Clearly I have issues.

But those issues, have nothing to do with cancer. I feel fortunate to be able to take a break from dealing with a serious medical condition to explore my worrisome sexual eccentricities. They're much more fun anyways.

As an example, today I just found out I'll be going through three cycles of chemo instead of just two. Which means I'll be in chemo for 9 weeks instead of 6 and I need to get some sperm banked, just in case I become sterile. Which means my treatment will probably be pushed off for another week so I won't be able to say my chemo start date is September 11th anymore. I think it also means I get to jerk off in a medical building, which sounds kinda exciting.
Clearly I have issues.

Etiquette Black Hole

My urologist is a middle aged white guy with an air of serious wisdom about him. Exactly the kind of guy you want applying pressure to your balls with his middle and index fingers.
"I can feel it much better from this position," he remarked in a doctorly voice while expertly pressing into my right testicle.
"YUP!" I enthusiastically agreed.

Enthusiasm is especially easy to muster when your balls are the object of discussion. He began talking about what the lump on my testicle could be, how we could get rid of it, and what the next steps were, but all I could think of was, "does this conversation really require your fingers poking into my scrotum?"

You see, back in the beginning, testicular cancer was kinda funny. I mean, you're living a normal healthy existence and then, out of nowhere, the world takes on an immense fascination with your testicles. Suddenly you have doctors looking after your testicles, nurses caring for your testicles, insurance companies checking in on your testicles, coworkers praying for the health of your testicles. It was the first time in my life where I could talk about my testicles to complete strangers and not be breaking some unreasonable social taboo. My testicles were feeling quite special.

I remember going to get an ultrasound on them, after the above doctors appointment. I found myself surprisingly calm upon finding an attractive girl in the ultrasound room. She told me to take everything off from the waist down, and then get beneith a blanket on the bench next to the machine. Then she left the room while I got undressed and considered what was about to happen.

This attractive girl was going to touch my testicles. Okay, looking for cancer. AND she was going to be touching them with a metal scanning device. For some reason the whole thing wasn't very arousing. I'm going to take a guess, but I'm thinking it was probably the "looking for cancer" part which was the turn off.

Which was just as well. I imagine the medical staff aren't as comfortable dealing with erections. I wonder if there is a training seminar somewhere: "What to do in case of an erection." They probably have emergency measures they're trained to take.

I laid down on the bench and tried to get comfortable, giving a final adjustment to my penis-testicle arrangement before hearing her knock on the door.

She got right down to business.
"Which testicle is it?"
"The right one."
"Does it hurt?"
"No. Well, not before the doctor started squeezing it."
She giggled, and I realized I was instinctually trying to flirt with her. Not cool.
In her hand she had a metal device which vaguely reminded me of an electric shaver. Except this one had jell all over it.
She began softly pressing it into my balls, going up under the blanket, so all I could see was her arm extending between my legs.
I realized at this point that there was a very real risk of two things occurring.

First of all, I could get an erection, which as stated earlier, would make for a very awkward moment for both of us. I mean what is the socially appropriate response for that?
Do I say sorry? Oops?
I think that's pretty much a etiquette black hole right there.

Secondly, I could smile, which again would not be appropriate.
However, since I had already considered the possibility of getting an erection, the socially inappropriate smile was quickly surfacing. I had to think fast.

Immediately I brought out the mantra I had often used to keep from laughing while purchasing food while high. It's a simple, usually effective phrase, and I began repeating it to myself furiously:
Not cool. NOT cool. NOt Cool. NotCool! Not cool not cool... not cool. NOT. cool. not not cool. Not cool. Not cool not cool not cool not coolnotcoolnotcoolnotcoolnotcoolnOTCOOLNOTCOOL.
It wasn't quite working. In fact, the image of a guy lying on his back with a girl spreading jell on his balls, while he repeats "Not Cool" over and over again was too impossibly funny not to envision fully in my head. I was going to lose it.
But then, I had a moment of clarity.
What is the one thing that is sooo not funny, the one thing that would cease any potential erection, and would essentially be the only thing to restore control in this situation?
Cancer! Cancer. cancer. cancer. cancer. CANCER. cancer. Cancer.

After all that was what I was there for.

"I can't find anything unusual. Are you sure its there?"
"Um..." I was pretty damn sure.
"Have you lifted anything heavy lately?"
"With my testicles?" I raised my eyebrows for emphasis.
She laughed again, and excused herself to go look at enlarged pictures of my balls. For a minute I was hopeful that the whole thing had been a false alarm. Like the bump was just a small swelling, that would go away over time.
I watched her leave, and then began the unpleasant task of wiping the clear jell off my genitals with the provided rag. It was all over the place, like after a particularly intense wet dream. Maybe that's all this whole ordeal was. She was certainly cute enough to be in one.
Suddenly it struck me. "I should ask her out.." I liked this idea instantly. It would be hilarious, even if she said no. I had to do it.
But when she walked back in, her eyes weren't looking at me.
"We found something."
Shit. Well that's that. Who wants to date a guy who has a lump on his testicles?
I sighed as she closed the door behind her and finished cleaning myself up.

Cancer Groupies

For approximately 23 years of my life I've been completely ignorant about women. It was a willful ignorance, a kind of principled stand against conformity and normality. Or it became that way. Before that, I just wanted a girlfriend so badly that I couldn't get one. If I had to decide between the two, between desperately caring and not caring at all, I really can't say which I'd choose. On one hand you can get hurt pretty badly, on the other hand you live life as an inanimate object. I wouldn't recommend either.

More recently though, approximately around the time a bunch of cells in my right testicle decided to begin replicating themselves ad nauseam, I'd made a breakthrough. I discovered that approaching random women is a skill, not an innate ability. Like all skills it can be learned, through knowledge and experience. I discovered that, for 23 years, I had been seeking the wrong thing. Understanding of the universe, mastery of thought, lucid dreaming, all pale in comparison to the emotional rush of approaching a girl on a park bench and asking, "Can I ask you a question?" In a single month, my entire worldview shifted, and I found that I was capable of filling a hole that I once thought was unfillable.
I was ecstatic. Then the month drew to a close, and I found a lump on my right testicle.

I still am not totally sure if this was the best time for me to get testicular cancer or the worst. Either way there's no denying the irony. At the very same time I had begun to understand women, the very organ which I was doing it for had come under attack. I had a hobby to distract me from the cancer that was spreading inside of me, but at the same time the cancer was distracting me from my hobby. Let me state something obvious. There is no best time for cancer.

However, I think if I had found a lump just a month before hand, my life could have spiraled in a completely different direction. My ego is just where it needs to be in order to make it through this. My previous self-destructive identity would not have been able to handle it.

Here's a conversation I had just a moment ago, with a well intentioned but woman-ignorant friend.
Sedric: "Hey, you can use the whole cancer thing to talk to girls."
Me: "Oh my god, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. All I'll get out of that is pity. What do you get with pity?"
Tammy: "A pity fuck!"
Me: "Ha, yeah. From all those 'cancer groupies' out there right?"

I'm fully aware that testicular cancer isn't going to help me get girls, but that doesn't mean I have to put my sexual self on hold till this is all over. Cancer or no cancer, this last month has been the best month of my life. You can't let a little cancer ruin a good time.
Oh wow. I ended this post on an up note. Here's a smiley face :-)

Boy in a Box

I'm 23, I am not a kid anymore. But you don't feel like an adult when you're trapped like this.
When you're a kid you don't wander too far, you behave yourself, you use your indoor voice. You don't make decisions.
You can't. You do what you're told to, because people who know better, know better than you.

But I'm 23 and I can't make decisions because I have cancer. There's none left for me to make. My decision making privileges have been temporarily revoked. Everything is all worked out for me. My parents are still in the picture, but now doctors have entered the frame. They are part of my extended family. Helping me. Curing me. Making sure I don't wander too far.

On September 11th I will begin my treatment, which involves 6 weeks of chemotherapy. 6 weeks, where I will essentially be removed from normal existence. Stuck in my apartment, with books, and videos, and this computer. I will be bald. I will be prone to disease. I may be sick, or weak, or tired. Piece of cake. But first I have to make it there. And when I make it there, then I just have to make it 6 weeks. I'll get through this, and then everything goes back to normal, says conventional wisdom.

But that's a long period of time to give up. Even for testicular cancer.

Surgeons removed my right testicle earlier this month.
When general anesthesia is administered it numbs the brain, so not only do you not feel a thing, you're not even there. For the first time in your life you experience sleep without dreams. Well, you don't experience it. What you experience is the pinch of the needle as pain killers are pumped into your system, followed by waking up in a hospital bed, feeling groggy and noticing a bandage around your groin. My point is, time does not pass, it simply isn't there at all. You jump from one point of time to another without touching anything in between.

I wonder what that would feel like over a longer period of time.

I wonder, if I had the option to pass up the next 2 months - skip the whole thing - and come out cured on the other end, would I do it?
I think I can say I'd at least like the option.