An Uncertain Journey Into The Cancerous Abyss

A look back.

Like a thunderbolt ripping through the dead of night, I jolted awake with a start. A cold sweat coated my skin and a foreboding sense of dread pressed heavily down upon my chest.

My eyes darted across the dark hotel room as the cobwebs in my mind slowly disappeared and reality began to sink in.

Today was the day.

Three months after an unexpected discovery was made, I was set to have a cancerous tumor removed from my body.

A few hours from now I would be cut wide open and lying on an operating room table.

Not a pleasant feeling to start the day with!

I quietly sit up and swing my legs onto the floor, making sure not to wake my sleeping wife. She needs her rest and energy as very tough times lie ahead.

I stumble across the strange room until I reach the large window. As I look out, I am entranced by the beauty of the falling snow.

The first snowfall of the year has blanketed the street below. Everything appears fresh and new once again. Almost as if nature has hit the reset button.

As I look out at the scene below me, I cannot help but wonder if this will be my last morning on earth. The pristine beauty to be replaced with an eternal darkness.

I am tempted to make a quick escape. To just go get into my car and begin the two-hour drive back to my home. I will just run away from all of this and simply live with the cancer.

I give my head a quick shake.

No… too late for that.

I head off to the shower and prepare for the battle that lies ahead.

As we drive in silence to the hospital, I look sideways at my wife. There is a look of pure fear and worry etched across her beautiful face. I cannot help but feel intense guilt for what I am putting her through. Her whole life has been turned upside down and uprooted.

I promised to always be there for her. It is beginning to look like I lied.

Snow continues to relentlessly fall against the windshield. Perhaps Mother Nature is providing us with an escape route? Creating too much snow for us to safely navigate the treacherous roadways.

This fantasy is quickly extinguished as we slowly pull up to the dreaded destination. Like the proverbial ship sailing towards the horizon and embracing the inevitable sunset.

Safely checked in, I take a few moments to look around the cancer surgery unit.

I am not alone.

Others sit patiently as they nervously wait for their name to be called. Husbands and wives shedding warm tears as they approach what may very well be their final goodbye.

Minds filled with flashbacks of what once was, and may never be again.

Some of these kind souls will not witness the beauty of another sunrise.

My reverie is shattered as I hear a voice come over the P.A. system.

Leonard Tillerman!

I have now transitioned from the large waiting room into a more intimate setting. My wife remains by my side as the final preparations are made.

Vitals checked.

Gowns adorned.

Stockings slid on.

And a ridiculous hair net is attached to my skull.

The cancer soldier is now ready for battle.

It is time.

My wife and I share a final embrace and she can no longer hold back the tears. They flow like an endless river and follow me as I enter my final destination.

As I sit on the operating room table, I quickly scan the room. Bright lights burn from up above, and the sickly smell of antiseptic and latex permeates the air. At the side of the room, a tray of instruments remains visible and on display. Scalpels, forceps, scissors and clamps all stare back at me.

Once again, I am not alone. Four nurses and three surgeons crowd the small room.

Why are they all here?

I am told it is due to the complicated nature of my surgery.

Good to know!

A wave of anxiety and stress begins to crash within my chest as I am told to lie on my side.

Looking over, I see one of them approach holding a mask in their hands. They have all become shadows and their words are fuzzy and muffled. The mask is slowly placed over my nose and mouth.

As I fade to black.

Note from the author:

The words above are my actual feelings and experience during the day of my cancer surgery. Expressing them here allows me to further process my cancer journey.

Five months have now passed since that day, and despite some very precarious times, I am much better now.