Brown Sludge

The Father’s Hand Upside Your Head

November 1st, 2006

There are surreal moments in every fully lived life.

Moments where The Father reaches over and stabs the “SLOW-MO” button on the great VHS tape of your life - and you feel time begin to drag - and you’re forced to watch in horror as scenes play out that you’re powerless to avert your gaze from.

I was faced with such a moment recently.

I was sitting in the Dr.’s office, trying to help him make sense out of a bizarre series of health problems that have been plaguing me lately. Limbs that don’t work. Sudden and unexplained weight loss. Lots of weight loss. Other symptoms so bizarre that they defy my ability to even guess as to what might be wrong with me.
He listens carefully. He writes a lot. He asks a few questions.
Then… after a few long moments he fixes me with a strange, sad stare.

“You’re a smoker Mac?”

“Ex-smoker” I reply. “Been quit for over 7 years now.” I say proudly.

And it’s true. 7 Years ago last month I quit smoking.

It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life. I was 38 when I quit.
But I did it.

I’ve been really proud of myself about it. So many people try, and so many people fail, but… I didn’t. I did it. I got past it. I count it as one of the more important achievements of my life.

Whenever I hear of a friend or someone I know or knew having cancer, I’m sad of course, but I breath a little inner sigh of relief for having found the strength to quit before I let it kill me. I have aunts and uncles and parents that smoke - and I’m really afraid that someday one of them will catch a bullet.

“We need to get you some lung ex-rays immediately” he says.

The stress he puts on the word “immediately” is… unsettling.

“Why?” I’m so nervous my voice cracks a little.

He explains that there just aren’t many things that would explain most of my symptoms, but that there is one thing that explains them all. Especially the weight loss.

Lung cancer.

I’m pretty well educated on that particular subject. When I was quitting I read everything I could get my hands on.

I know the truth.

And the truth is… typically… by the time you’re manifesting symptoms - it’s generally pretty well advanced. It’s a very quiet type of cancer, that often doesn’t let it’s presence known until it’s… pretty far along.

I sit a little stunned for two or three heartbeats, and then he shoots up out of his chair, and begins to write frantically. His tone sharpens. There is no time to waste.

He orders me to go get a chest x-ray. It’s late in the day for a doctors office. After 3:00pm.
I’m rattled, and scared, and not thinking as straight as I need to be.

“I’ll make an appointment right away” I say.

He smiles at me like I’m a child.

“No appointment, son” he says with a strange little smirk “When I said immediately I meant right this minute. You may not wait. I mean now.”

He calls his assistant in. He hands her a handful of paper and notes and files and instructions. “Get him to an x-ray laboratory now” he orders.

And then… he’s gone.

Less than an hour later I’m standing in front of an x-ray machine in a paper gown with my ass hanging out for all the world to see wondering where in the HELL this came from.

I go back to the doctor. He’s still there. After hours. Waiting for me to return with my x-ray. I’ve never known a doctor that stayed after regular hours before. It scares me even more.

I give him my x-rays.

I guess I was standing there looking at him kind of funny, as if I was waiting for him to look at them at that second and tell me everything was going to be alright. Or not.

He puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

“I can’t read these myself, son” he says. “I can look at them and make assumptions, but I need to get them read by someone who’s an expert at reading them, so that we can be absolutely certain of what’s going on.”

This is hard news for me.

It means long… long… hours of waiting for answers…

“But… I quit…” I said, my voice feeble and small.

Again the sad look. “You’ve only been quit for a few years, son” he offers. “It takes 10 or 15 years before your risk drops to anywhere near someone who never smoked.”

So much for pride.

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