Finally Ready

I think I'm finally ready to talk about my second surgery. I have been hesitant to talk about this for some time now because, well, it was a low point for me and it was the toughest thing I have ever gone through.

Many of you know me, and know I can be a dumb ass at times. I've been arrested, I've landed in the ER, I've made an ass out of my self while drunk. All things I am not proud of but I was never ashamed to tell people what happened.

Chemo was an absolute motherfucker, I could feel it breaking down my body, I was in a state where I needed other to help me, something I feel ashamed about.  The drugs and support around me helped me write about my life during that time. My gratitude is endless for all your support.

My second surgery was called a lymph-node dissection surgery, where surgeons cut me open from the base of my chest plate to below my belly button, all to explore my insides to see if the cancer spread. I spent 6 days in the hospital and each day was another slow recuperation hell.

The first memory, I remember from the surgery was waking up crying in a recovery suite, I was crying for my parents, I needed them more than ever. I felt broken.

As soon as I saw them enter the suite, I'll never forget the looks on their face. I cried even harder, and my parents looked terrified for my well being. I thought the looks on their face was because of what I just went through, but turns out I was wrong.

5 days passed as I pumped my body full of morphine, by day three I had memorized how long I had to wait until I could press the red button for more drugs to release the constant burn of pain.

By the end of my stay I was able to walk, take a shower, shave, just do the day to day basics. My mom decided it was time to break the news to me of why she looked so sad earlier in the week.

She told me that the cancer had spread to my abdomen and they are not sure if they got it all. My initial reaction to this was to vent, I was so angry that it took my mom 5 days to tell me the news that I kicked her out of my room. By days end I apologized and realized she knew I couldn't handle that news in my weakened state.

The next morning I was released to go back into the 'real world' they put me in a wheel chair and started to drag me to the entrance. I get in the elevator with 6 or so people around me, all in good health, all able to walk out the hospital.

I just cried the whole trip down to the lobby.

I got into the passenger seat of my mom's Jetta, rolled down the window. The fresh air and Carolina blue skies were welcomed sights. As we were pulling out of CMC Main, I started to cry again. I realized this shit wasn't over. For the first time I almost lost hope, I wasn't sure if I could fight this fucking disease anymore.

Gil Scott Heron - Home is where the hatred is.