and I'm mean to cats." - John Cheever
I am not at this point. I probably will not be at this point. But I worry, especially since the first time around, it was unexpected, a little pain, a little embarrassment. Colon cancer brings everything back to poop.
Stage 0, it was removed, I was fine. Now it's second verse, same as the first. I'm drinking Fleet phospho-soda (ginger-lime, I mean really, what made them think that ginger-lime is the best flavor for this?). I'm running to the bathroom. I desperately want to sleep until ten tomorrow, then wink at a cute nurse and get extra Demerol during the procedure.
But mostly I want to know that everything is okay. Things are different than last time. My doctor has looked deep into my eyes with more seriousness. Blood tests are as wonky as Paris Hilton's eye (oh, God, forgive me for that awfulness).
My son made me a Fleet cocktail - no alcohol. One part Squirt, one part diet Rite black cherry, one part orange-ade, and one part ginger-lime intestines-cleaner-outer. If you refrigerate it, you barely notice the Fleet. Oh, and plug your nose while chugging.
I've filled out the paperwork. I've scheduled time off from work. I've thought of the worst case scenario, and I've fantasized about the best news. I've thought of donating my hair to Locks for Love. I've thought about keeping it all and dying it sassy-slutty red. I've thought about colostomy bags bursting during sex. I've let my mind wander, but then remember that I don't know anything for sure yet. Tomorrow.
I read. I read a lot. And if I couldn't do that, you may as well kill me on the table tomorrow.