The Ride Of My Life

Roller Coaster – Get on Board

Webster’s dictionary defines roller coaster as “an elevated railway with cars and sudden sharp turns and drops” (noun), and also “anything resembling a roller coaster with behavior, events or experiences characterized by sudden and extreme changes, such as an emotional roller coaster” (noun).

If you’re from the northeast, particularly the New York metropolitan area, you know that the Cyclone at Coney Island is one of the all-time greatest roller coasters in the world. Despite the fact that it was built more than 80 years ago, and has been surpassed in size many times over by the giant steel and wooden super coasters of today, it remains one of the “must rides” for coaster enthusiasts the world over. You walk up to it, and you can’t believe how small it is. This can’t possibly be what everyone talks about. There must be another Cyclone down the street somewhere. After going on all of the newer coasters, this looks like it belongs in the kiddie park. Then you get on, take that first drop, and you know. A couple of minutes later, it’s simply, “My gosh, that was incredible…wanna go again?” That’s the Cyclone.

My first ride was when I was probably 9 or 10 years old. My mom took me to Coney Island for the day, just the two of us. My brothers were much older and weren’t all that interested in going to amusement parks with their mom and kid brother. The first thing I did was play the game where you get to throw baseballs at plates, trying to break as many as you could. Heck, I’d been breaking plates at home for a long time, and I never won any prizes for it! Then it was on to the big stuff, the Bobsled, the Wonder Wheel, and finally, the Cyclone. Most of Coney Island’s amusements are long gone now. But the Cyclone lives on.

As I walk into the examination room for my first set of MRIs, I don’t realize it at the time, but I’m about to get on the Cyclone again, last row.

And I’m not getting off anytime soon.

You Think You Had a Bad Week?

By now, you should be realizing that I’m able to find something positive and (frequently) funny in most everything that comes my way.

As I sit on the all-too-familiar gurney waiting for Dr. Optimism to give me my second pre-biopsy pep talk, I start to fully comprehend the scope of this test. Confirm the negative results and we’re still removing a pancreatic mass, but one that is benign. If the test comes back positive, then I have pancreatic cancer. No more looking for something, we will have found it. I’m not making any more witty quips. I’m damned nervous and scared.

The doctor explains that we need to know for sure, and that he’s going to take as much tissue as necessary, working with a pathologist in the procedure room, who will analyze the tissue as we go. I tell him that I appreciate that, and that I’m ready…let’s go.

When I wake up, Linda is sitting next to me. I ask where the doctor is and she says that he’s doing another procedure, and that he’ll be a while. “Great, now we’ve got to wait,” I sigh, and I look into her eyes. She’s spoken to the doctor already. She knows, then I know.

“It’s positive. You have cancer,” she says with a look on her face that I had never seen before. Then she says, “No matter what, we will get through this,” with a conviction that carries me to this day.

I lose my breath and my ability to focus for a while. I’m starting to cry again, and I can assure you that for once, I don’t find anything positive or remotely funny. I immediately think of Linda and the kids. How will we all cope? Can I actually beat this type of cancer? Does anybody? How long will I have? How will they move on, what will their life be like without me? Will Taylor and Colton even remember me? My mind keeps reverting to just one thought: I’m a dead man walking.

Dr. O appears and fills us in on what they found, echoing what Linda told me a short while ago. He continues to somehow talk optimistically, but he adds something that he hadn’t told my wife. The surgery is off. I now have to see the chief of oncology instead. It seems that my small, early-detected tumor is wrapped around the superior mesenteric artery. There is no surgery to remove a tumor with that complication. So you see, I don’t just have pancreatic cancer. I have Stage III Inoperable Pancreatic Cancer. Bottom of the coaster.

Linda drives us home from the hospital. We don’t say much to one another, except some absurdly trivial stuff like what we should make the kids for dinner. Or maybe whether we should have Amanda, our nanny, take them to her house for the night, rather than having them see their dad as a complete basket case. About halfway home, we silently reach out and clasp hands. We don’t let go for a long time.

I was terminated from my job and received the worst possible medical diagnosis in the span of a few days. Last week, I was Bob Brown, living and enjoying my life as I knew it, preparing for a fight if there was one coming. Now, after two short, serious conversations, I am being propelled to a completely different world. One where I will be in for a real fight – for my identity and for my life.

How was your week?