Recently, I published a blog on the unfortunate encounter our dog Angie and I had with a skunk. Most of my freinds who read that blog thought the incident was hilarious. So, I thought I'd reach back a number of years, 53-plus to be axact, and give you another self-deprecating tale of woe.
My significant other and I had been married less than a year. I was teaching at a high school in Dallas. Back in those days cancer was incurable if not deteted in its earliest stage. The newspapers, radio and television all carried frequent warnings about "the seven danger signals of cancer." You guessed it - I had at least a couple of those suckers. Of course, so did just about everyone else. My danger signals consisted of chronic abdominal pain and excessive gas.
As we were approaching the two-week Christmas-New Year school break, I decided I would apply for a medical examination at the Dallas Veterans Hospital. When I was accepted and told I would be hospitalized for at least a week, I suggested to the wife that she visit her folks who lived on a farm in Oklahoma just across the state line from Kansas. Because we did not have enough money for her to fly, she decided to take the "milk train," a term used to describe a train that stopped at every small town on its route.
In those days, if you were an ambulatory patient in a VA hospital, you went to eat in a chow hall rather than in the ward. You also helped other patients get around whenever you could. The hospital had a theater and during my third evening there, I decided to go see a movie. After the movie, another patient in a wheel chair asked me if I could push him to the elevator so he could return to his ward.
On the way to the elevator this patient, a middle aged man, asked me what I was in the hospital for. When I described my symptoms, this guy broke down completely and started crying. I asked him what was the matter. "Three weeks ago, I checked in with exactly the same problems. Last week they opened me up and found out I had cancer and they've given me only a few months to live. And, you're so young."
That was another one of those "oh shit" moments. I felt like I'd been kicked in the stomach by a horse. My legs started to buckle and I had to support myself on his wheelchair. As soon as I got him to the elevator, I turned away and staggered to the nearest pay phone. I called my bride collect. She had only arrived at the farm a few hours earlier.
When she came to the phone, the first thing I blubbered out was, "Honey, you gotta hurry back, I'm dying!" You can imagine her reaction. After we both calmed down somewhat, I explained to her that, according to the dying patient with the same symptoms, I had cancer. She said she would catch the milk train back the next morneing. That made me feel a tiny bit better.
The next morning I skipped breakfast, remaining in bed and stewing in self-pity. When the doctors came by while making their rounds, the lead physician noticed my awful appearance and asked me what was wrong. When I told him that I knew I had cancer and had only a short time left on this earth, he wanted to know what gave me that idea.
I told him about my experience of the previous evening. Then he really lid into me. "You dumb shit, we don't know yet what's wrong with you, but we do know you don't have cancer and your're certainly not dying." I replied, "Oh yes I am." When he wanted to know what I meant, I told him about my phone call to the wife and said, "When she gets back here, she's going to kill me!" The doctor said, "I'll help her."
Anyway, I've learned to live with my spastic colon, now referred to as irritable bowel syndrome. And, it was a miracle - the wife did not kill me, kick my ass, or divorce me. But, the honeymoon was definitely over.
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