Six whole years ago in June, I carried a golf-ball sized tumor in my pelvis all the way down into the Grand Canyon and back up again. Red mountains, aqua blue waterfalls, nights sleeping under the stars--it was the best vacation of my life. After conquering those wicked switchbacks like a desert mule, I had convinced myself that I was in good health. That protruding little devil from my abdomen, in my mind, was nothing more than a bubbled-out muscle that stuck out of place for the time being. Denial became my bosom buddy. I laugh now at my ridiculous way of thinking, but when it comes to my health, taking immediate action requires a painful and necessary trip to the Emergency Room. And that, is exactly how it all went down several weeks later. I don't need to fill in all the deets, but two surgeries followed and I had my first encounter with Percocet. Let me state right here that if I were on Percocet for the rest of my life, my storytelling would fall within the genre of Agatha Christie. In my constant drowsiness, I dreamed of thrilling mysteries with elaborate plots that ended with a twist. Kids, don't do drugs.
After six years and seven post-surgery CT scans, I'm done with this whole shindig. Throughout it all, I've successfully gagged down several liters of contrast fluid and I now don't bat an eyelash when somebody stabs my arm with a needle.
To make matters more celebratory, the large bottle I had to consume this time around was by far the best-tasting contrast I've had. In the past, my puke reflexes have been told to behave themselves, but chugging on this new metal-flavored water was improvement--to say the very least.
The latest results showed everything clear. It feels good. I wish I didn't have to battle my body the way that I do, but at least this particular one is over. Here's to hoping for more healthy years and no more scary stuff.
