And so it begins...

This story starts two days ago, on the morning of Friday, July 20, 2012.


I was still groggy from the anesthesia when the doctor showed me the photograph. "It's...it's not good," he said. I could hear my wife crying but I didn't take my eyes off of the picture. What was I looking at? "That's the tumor," he said, pointing to a glob on the left side of the image, "and that's the rest of your stomach," he said, pointing to the right. I had assumed it was a picture of Cleveland.


You hear stories all the time about someone with a "golfball-sized" tumor on their brain or a "tumor the size of a grapefruit" on their liver. These are the quality, round masses of grim death that the cool people get. My tumor is the size and shape of a spilled puddle of pancake batter, and by the look on my doctor's face it will be the thing that kills me.


Twelve hours earlier, I was sitting in the right field grandstand at Fenway Park with my wife and our two kids, struggling to push the butt end of an Italian sausage down my gullet. I followed that with half an order of fried dough and a trough of sickly sweet lemonade. The discomfort in my throat was familiar, something I had felt for months every time I ate or drank. Whatever I consumed--hot, cold, liquid, solid, spicy, sweet--got trapped halfway down my gaping maw, bringing with it a brief moment of panic, followed by a slow, stubborn downward crawl to my stomach. 


As I sat there watching the Red Sox do their own slow, stubborn downward crawl (to last place), I was actually looking forward to the endoscopy I had scheduled for the following morning. I assumed it would lead to a simple solution--antacids, a pill or, in the worst case, an unpleasant liquid cure--that would allow me to resume my pursuit of even higher cholesterol without the hindrance of a narrowing esophagus.


Actually, that's not exactly the whole truth. I did not assume that the endoscopy would lead to a simple cure. I knew, I absolutely knew, that there was something profoundly wrong with me. I didn't think "cancer" or anything that specific, but I knew something about my body was in crisis. Over the course of those same few months when the throat problems started, I noticed a marked reduction in stamina. At the start of May, I tried to get back on the bicycle to ride off a portion of the pounds I had put on over the winter. The first few rides of the year are always awful but, this time, I could never get over the hump. Even ten miles became an act of torture. After a couple of weeks, I stopped trying. 


Soon I noticed that the walk from the train station to my office, a mere four blocks, was becoming a problem. What used to be one of the more pleasant parts of my day became an odyssey of flop sweat and nausea. And climbing the stairs once I got there was off the table. These days, when the elevator I never used to use releases me on to the second floor, I walk as fast as possible to the bathroom, hoping nobody sees me on the way, so that I can mop my brow with a wet paper towel until my heart rate levels off.


So, in a bizarre way, this diagnosis has given me a morsel of comfort: I'm not out of shape and lazy. I'm out of shape and lazy WITH A TUMOR. 


I should clarify something here. As I write this, I have not yet been officially diagnosed with cancer. A biopsy was taken and, within five days, it will be the final word on the matter. But the doctor, with a frankness that I genuinely appreciated, did us the courtesy of eliminating any painful false hopes and made it clear that we are dealing with a malignant tumor here.


My wife and I both independently Googled "stomach cancer" in the hours that followed. For my wife, this was a terrible mistake that led to an enormous amount of sadness. For me, at this moment, I consider it the best thing I could have done. There is no way one researches stomach cancer and comes away with even an iota of false hope. And I am strangely at peace with how the odds are stacked against me which, if I ran a casino, might read as follows:

It's not cancer. All we need to do it cut out most or all of my stomach: 100-1


It's cancer, but we caught it early and it hasn't spread. If we cut out all or most of my stomach and start chemotherapy, I have a shot: 25-1


I'm fucked: 5-2


It turns out that it was a picture of Cleveland. My stomach is fine: 10,000-1

Next step: In two days (one day after my 41st birthday), I take a CAT scan to see if whatever I have has spread.