I found another lump.
Last Wednesday night I was in bed. To be perfectly honest, I have not "explored" "the area" or "said hello to Edward (the left testicle)" since Henry's death and removal. Again, if I could afford therapy, we could go into that.
So there I was in bed. And I found "it." And "it" scared the shit out of me.
I couldn't tell if it was attached to Edward or not. And frankly, I didn't want to touch it. The next morning I was supposed to be in Westwood at an early call time to help
Zen with her fitness shoot at Exercise TV and then I had a pitch meeting at my manager's office at 4PM.
In the late morning, while Zen was changing in between takes, I went outside and called my urologist. Left a message and later I missed his phone call in the middle of a shot. Went outside and called him back.
"So I found a lump." He wanted to see me that afternoon, but a) I couldn't leave in the middle of the shoot. b) I had a meeting. c) I never would have made it to mid-Wilshire from Westwood before he closed.
He was closed Friday. He wanted to see me first thing Monday morning. I could tell from his voice this wasn't good.
I went back into the little studio room and continued with Zen and then left to get to my pitch meeting. Except for a momentary flash in my head of the words, "you are going to die before you see 37," I put it out of my mind.
My mind started to slowly go at this point. An hour later, I was completely freaked out. I sat and pitched and then made my way home. I'm up to rewrite a script for an actress who I'm obsessed with. You know who she is. I love her. She has really good instincts. Some might even call them basic. I met with the two writer/ producers on the project who are absolutely lovely. They seemed to like my take on the project. While I sat there and pitched and asked questions, I could practically see a neon sign above me that read: "He's going to be dead soon" above my head and I was afraid they could see it. I smiled and did my best to act as normal as possible.
Sheree was in the meeting as well. She called me later to tell me how happy and impressed she was with the pitch.
I waited Friday. I watched Michael Jackson footage all day Friday and Saturday.
I went with Summer to the Palisades 10K, but I was too freaked out to run. I was convinced I was going to start spitting up blood and then to make matters worse, I saw Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt and had visions of them using my lifeless corpse as a photo op.
I went to a party Saturday night at the home of one of the writer/ producers from the pitch. And then I went to work.
Oh, right. I have a job now. In Manhattan Beach (below LAX) at a hotel doing the night audit and working as the night manager. Basically, I will turn into a vampire in the coming weeks, working from 11 PM until 7 AM.
Catie got me the job. She started training me that evening. I was freaked out when I walked in, because it's a high-end boutique hotel and the lobby has a hip bar in the lobby. It was like a scene out of ALIAS. PACKED with hipsters. Welcome to your new job. Fortunately, I will be working during the week when it's quiet and not the night of July 4th.
My brain was fried by the time I got home. I went home and went to bed. When I woke up, I watched Michael Jackson footage.
And Sunday I began to obsess over my impending death. "THIS is why I didn't get VAMPIRE DIARIES. THIS is why I'm not in Atlanta. Because I'm going to be dead by Christmas. THIS is why I'm coughing. Because the cancer has spread to my lungs." This ran on loop in my head all weekend long.
I even began to worry about the job. How do you tell your new employers that you're about to undergo surgery to have cancers removed and go through chemo? Should I just quit now?
And a better question: WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME AGAIN!?
I only told a few people. I didn't want my parents to worry. Plus, the more I talked out loud about, the more it became real.
I contemplated going to see MY SISTER'S KEEPER because I love Cameron Diaz. But I decided seeing a movie about a girl dying... probably not the best selection for me.
Last night, I took a Tylenol PM to knock me out. While I was in the bathroom, I heard what sounded like the kitchen being ransacked. Thinking it was my roommate, I walked in and saw... there's no one there.
I turned around... and there it was again.
I woke Linc up (since I am deathly afraid of small things with tails and he enjoys killing them for sport) and he groggily walked into the kitchen. He looked around and saw nothing.
"Dude there's nothing--" and what looked like a very fast full grown cat ran out from under the refrigerator. I set a new world land-speed record to my room and screamed, "what was it?!"
Linc didn't say anything for five minutes. I asked him "where did it go?" "How big was it?" "Is it a rat?" Nothing.
He finally said, "it disappeared between the sink and the stove." There's nothing between the sink and the stove. But there is a hole under where the cabinets jut out just above the baseboard and it ran into it. We set a clue trap and I went into a Tylenol PM induced coma. As of now, the bastard has still not been caught.
When I got to the doctor's office this morning, I spent ten minutes diving for change to pay the meter. (Seriously, why don't parking decks in medical facilities in Los Angeles take Visa!?)
Waited twenty minutes. He arrived. Got right to it. He groped around and asked, "so where did you feel it?"
Oh, thank God. It was all in my head. I felt around and couldn't find it, then... there you are. He felt it, backed up and said, "okay let's send you for an ultrasound."
He wouldn't go into what it could be, other than, it could be a cyst or a tumor. And we "would go from there."
I went two blocks over and go the ultrasound. As soon as I got off the elevator, I remembered this is where I came for the CT scan. "Heaven's Waiting Room" as I called it. A room full of people waiting to get scans that will tell them how much longer they have to live.
The technician had the bedside manner of sandpaper. She sent me behind a curtain as if I were at H&M and told me to put on a gown, opened at the front. Apparently these gowns were made for dwarfs, as my gown barely covered my one dangling ball and unidentified floating object.
"I need your head on the pillow. Is it on the left one?" she snapped.
"There's only one left. So... yes?"
I asked her if she would know what it was when she saw it. She said "yes. Will I tell you? Absolutely not." I didn't argue. I just laid pack as she prepared my scrotum like a Thanksgiving turkey: covering my penis as if she was handling the Hope diamond, stuffing a pad near my hot pocket. This took about five minutes. I was about ready to scream, "oh please, it's a penis, get on with it!"
With only my scrotum exposed, she poured enough gel over me to see France on the monitor. She wouldn't let me see the monitor unlike the other imaging center when I first had an ultrasound, so I could only stare at her furrowed brow with a "this isn't good" expression.
And then that was it. She handed me a washcloth and a towel to "clean off" the gel. And I left.
I went home and for the next four hours I laid in bed planning my funeral. Since Michael Jackson is doing his at the Staples' Center, that's obviously out, because who wants to do the same thing.
I had a brief conversation with Zen at one point over the weekend when I said, "if it is cancer, I'm not doing chemo again."
Chemo made me so sick. I'm STILL sick. I've interviewed too many people and researched too many people to know that if it comes back that quickly, I'm not going to be around to see 50. And in my head, I was like, "you know what? I just don't care. It's too expensive. I refuse to put up a losing fight. I would rather go with some dignity. This cancer thing is too exhausting. I'm tired of trying to make a go in Hollywood with this writing thing. Unemployed (save for a new "job" that is not a "career." Given up on relationships. I mean, so much for someone being there "in sickness and in health." I'm tired of fighting. For everything. I'll just make a bucket list and then everyone will wake up November 1st and think about how sad it was I was planning on running the NYC marathon. But then I died.
I contemplated all the numerous conversations people would fight me on. "But you have to! You have to fight!" No, I don't. I can go gracefully. Or as gracefully as someone dies with cancer.
I looked around my room, thinking about what I could sell. What I could box up and donate. I'll just move back to Atlanta and live out my last few days.
Then I thought about my other option. If I DO have to go through all of this again, then I'm damn well getting implants. Two HUGE testicles.
Next time, they should put a zipper or a velcro piece in, so when we keep cutting me open, it's easier to get to. I got angry and wanted to know why my body was turning on me and my scrotum had turned into the Death Star.
And I even thought, maybe it's not a cyst. Maybe it's not a tumor. Maybe it's a miracle and Henry is regenerating! Henry is coming back, reincarnating! My balls are so magical, you can cut one out and it will come back!
Five hours later, while sitting catatonic in front of the television, Dr. K called. "Well, I've got your results back. It's a cyst."
So it's not dangerous?
"No. We don't have to do surgery. We'll just watch it."
So I'm not going to die?
"No, you'll live," he said, laughing.
The cyst is attached to my epididymitis. It is not connected to the cancer. My balls are just bad. In the Michael Jackson way. Heh, jamon. Jamon.
I hung up. And I lost my shit. I cried for a solid hour. I didn't think I was ever going to stop crying. I've never been so happy to hear "you'll live." I've been convinced I was going to be dead for days and suddenly, I just found out, it's going to be okay.
I promptly went to Trader Joe's for wine and dark chocolate.
I called my parents to tell them. I let my friends know.
I can't tell you how exhausted this has made me. I feel like every nerve in my body snapped when I hung up that phone. It was a relief, but a reminder that this is going to be a part of my life for years to come. On Monday, I have a scheduled blood test.
But I'm grateful that I'll still be around for a bit longer.
So do yourself a favor: if you are a woman, get your boobs checked. If you're a guy, get your balls checked.
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