By Joe Hobby
Joe Hobby, Tribune Columnist
I drifted back into consciousness expecting to see smiling faces; after all, it wasn’t supposed to be major surgery. Yes, they removed a knot on my neck, and yes, they called it a tumor, but the ultrasound and biopsy indicated everything should be fine, even though the bump, about the size of a deviled egg, was officially classified as “suspicious.” No one seemed worried. We even gave the tumor a name: Tyrone.
I was told that after about an hour under anesthesia, with a few precise cuts by my capable surgeon, I’d be on my way home by early afternoon. No problems, aside from my throat, which would feel like two tomcats had fought a death match in there.
However, there were complications. Fortunately, I wasn’t aware of them before the slicing and dicing began. But when your post-surgery visit begins with the doctor shaking his head and saying, “Your procedure was one of the most difficult ones I’ve ever done,” everything changes. In that moment, my minor surgery became major surgery.
Tyrone, as it turns out, was a troublemaker – much larger and more invasive than the tests had indicated. Instead of one hour, the procedure lasted almost three. Instead of going home, I spent the night at the hospital – sporting a large drainage tube near my esophagus. I anticipated a small incision on my neck; it ended up being almost six inches long. I looked like I had lost a fight with Jack the Ripper. Things got so complicated that a second surgeon had to be called in to assist with the undertaking. That was a bit disturbing because I remembered the old cowboy movies; they never called in the cavalry unless the good guys were losing.
As if that wasn’t enough, he bludgeoned me with his next sentence.
“It’s almost certainly cancer,” he said.
I just stared at him.
“Are you positive?”
“We’ve sent tissue samples to pathology, and we won’t know for sure until we get the results back. But I’ve done lots of these, and I’m certain that it is cancer.”
It was a cold slap in the face. I always thought someone else got cancer – until now. I managed to slow down my spinning thoughts just long enough to ask, “So, what happens?”
“Probably radiation,” he said, and paused before continuing. “This type of cancer is very responsive to that therapy. The best way forward is to use it to get the parts I couldn’t reach. We got this.”
That didn’t stop my mind from heading to places it didn’t need to go. Like, would I see my granddaughters grow up? Would I be there for the cheering, the prom, graduating high school, even going to the lake? And I have a couple of books I haven’t finished. I began to think of the things to see and do in this world that I may not see or do.
A couple of months ago I had been told by more than one person that if this tumor turned out to be malignant, it was definitely treatable with radiation – it could be cured. But still, it is cancer. And it is inside me.
Typically, the way I respond to something like this is by being blunt and to the point. So, I asked, “What will this do to my quality of life and to my longevity?”
The doctor replied, “If I’m wrong and it’s not cancer, you win. And if I’m right and it is cancer, you still win. Joe, we got this. Just live your life.” Then he added, “You might have the raspy voice for a little while.”
His confidence and assurance began to settle me down. So, I followed up the number one most important question:
“What about playing golf?”
“Whenever you feel like it.”
“What about exercise and yoga?”
“Whenever you feel like it.”
“When can I get some decent solid food?”
“Whenever you feel like it.”
I quipped, “Okay, then. Go get me a bag of Doritos.”
From the look on his face, he didn’t know whether to laugh or call DoorDash.
I let him off the hook, saying, “Joke. It’s a joke. You don’t get me yet.”
So now, even though I’ve been thrown off the horse, and hit the ground pretty hard, it’s time to saddle up again. Fortunately, for me, I have my faith, friends, family, and the Great Healer on my side.
I didn’t ask for Tyrone, and I sure didn’t want him hanging around, but life doesn’t always go according to your plans. Now that he’s gone and knowing whatever he left behind is going to be handled, I will follow doctor’s orders: I’m going to live my life. Whether it’s yoga, golf, munching on Doritos, loving on grandkids, or writing more stories, I’ll do it whenever I feel like it. Because no matter what the pathology report says, I’m still here. Still standing. Still me. And for now, that’s more than enough.
