Before reading this column, grab a paper bag. Throw all of your modesty into it and toss it away. We are going to talk about anal cancer. This is what "Five of Seven" would say.
Last year, after several months of pain, my life partner was diagnosed with anal cancer shortly after our 22nd anniversary. Devastating, it instantly started shredding the core of my very being. It has been a rough and tough year.
Cancer is brutal and shows no mercy to anyone in its path. Anal cancer treatment is poorly researched, a minority to other cancers. It is also highly stigmatized, like AIDS, a result of the sexually transmitted HP virus. Farrah Fawcett's recent death and her documentary "Farrah's Story" shed some light on this taboo of cancers.
Watching, knowing that every procedure, every new chemical introduced into his system is lethal enough to kill, is a frightening, continuous wild ride. There is no getting off. There is no way of knowing when it will end. For a long time, you simply live with very little hope.
It began with surgery to remove a tumor. Though the surgeon was optimistic, it left him with a two by three inch hole next to his sphincter muscle. As painful as this was, he would put on his best Irish accent, look you straight in the eye with a smile and say, "By golly, I have an extra hole in me bum!" He instantly burst into laughter. At that time I saw nothing to laugh at.
Surgery results were unsuccessful. With the cancer in early stages, his choices being few, we decided on nine weeks of chemotherapy and full pelvic radiation treatments. We knew we had harder times coming.
Three days before the beginning of treatment he had surgery to place a port implant in his chest. This is a small device, a container attached underneath the skin with a tube connected to a main artery in the neck. A one-stop shop for intravenous, it saves veins in the arms and hands from the multitude of times a needle is needed.
Once the procedure was complete, sitting in recovery, we got a first-hand look at this implant. With the swelling of surgery, it looked like part of Frankenstein, a large lump with a steel rod from his chest up his neck. As he looked in the mirror for the first time he said, "I look like Borg" the automaton alien villains from "Star Trek."
This is when I fondly nicknamed him Five of Seven.
"I'm feeling fine," said Five of Seven to the nurse. "But tell Sigourny Weaver to run. Something is getting ready to explode out of my chest, run across the floor and come after her ass!"
Along with the nurse, I laughed until I cried. Tears flowed in fear, anger, sorrow and joy—yes joy. It had been so long since I had laughed and a tremendous amount of joy overcame me. It did not take away the fear and anxiety, but it told me that he was ready for the fight ahead, and laughter soothed me like never before.
Chemotherapy and full pelvic radiation is not a pretty sight. It is as personal and private as it gets, with only those who go through it and the ones who stand by their sides can see. Five of Seven always found humor, even in the worst of situations.
One of the chemo drugs is called FU5. Attached to the port and carried with a automated pump this chemical is slowly pumped into the body for five days. This gives a clue of just how toxic this drug is. Doctors give it a really long, unpronounceable name for a layman. After the first dose Five of Seven told the doctor, "I know why you call this drug FU5. It is really because it F's U up for 5 days."
"Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated," I would say on days when he did not want to eat or drink.
With his first problem of incontinency, I saw Five of Seven running down the hall screaming and laughing. "Hit the decks! Toxic turds! Don't touch them, they will make you glow in the dark."
As he began losing his hair, it started with his face. He shaved one day, then did not have to shave anymore. Every day more hair would fall as he showered or combed. One morning, after spending his normal two hours in the bathroom screaming and crying from the pain, he came out with a most peculiar look on his face. He grabbed the elastic of his underwear, stretched it out as far as he could and looked straight down.
"I lost my toupee, but I just found it in my underwear," he said.
With full pelvic radiation, he had lost all of his hair, down there, overnight. Most would be embarrassed or horrified, but not Five of Seven. This just set off a series of one-liners that still are helping us to laugh in the face of cancer on a daily basis.
Many of us take obstacles in life too seriously. Laughter really is the best medicine. Learn to take all of life's difficulties with a smidgen of humor. A laugh quickly cools the flames of despair, making it bearable, at least for a moment. Follow the wisdom of Five of Seven.
"I find myself hysterically funny," he said. "I am laughing my ass off—literally. Look, there's a piece of it lying on the floor!"
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