The Biopsy

About a year ago I developed an ulcer on my tongue. No big deal. I've had them before. However, this one didn't want to go. I'd spent the last few years catching up on dental work that I'd neglected since I was a teenager, so naturally I thought it was connected. I'm obviously biting myself, I thought. Perhaps when I'm asleep. It's been known to happen.

I happened to be getting a wisdom tooth removed, so I showed my ulcer to the Oral Surgeon. He said it was probably my wisdom tooth that was causing the problem. So out went the wisdom tooth (in the chair I might add - but that's a blog for another day). In the coming weeks the hole where the wisdom tooth was healed up, but not the ulcer.

So I went to the Dentist to get a check-up. I also wanted a follow up on the wisdom tooth. Just to check everything was OK. The Dentist didn't know what the ulcer was and couldn't understand why it wouldn't heal up.

A couple of months later I went to the doctor for a totally unrelated reason. I casually showed her my "ulcer" (notice how I know put it in inverted commas?). "Oh my god", she said. "You need to get a blood test". So I did. And I also went back to the Oral Surgeon. The Oral Surgeon said that he would do a BIOPSY -- just to "rule things out".

I started to think about the classic doctor quotes: "get your affairs in order"; "consult a priest"; "have you made a will?"

When I went back for the biopsy, the Oral Surgeon said he wasn't going to do the biopsy. My "ulcer" appeared to be getting "smaller". I danced out of his office. I sang on the way to the car. I whistled on the way home. "It's not cancer", I thought. Ok. Calm down. It still could be a mistake. Then it hit me: it’s not cancer now, but someday, who knows?

A few months later, I had further blood tests. The doctor told me I had "pernicious anaemia". It could be the reason why I have an "ulcer" on my tongue. A low B12 count.  She sent me to a specialist. The specialist said he didn’t know why the Doctor sent me to him, because he doesn’t handle pernicious anaemia. I "fired" that Doctor and found a new one: a nice man who had a glint of "bedside manner", something that most doctors fail to acquire in the year 2013.

First he sent me for another blood test. On the one hand I was relieved when I found out that my B12 had returned to normal, but on the other hand, a bit frightened to find out that there was no explanation for the ulcer.

Type “ulcer” or “canker” sore that won’t disappear into the Google Machine and you’ll find out that you have Oral Cancer. No two things about it. If an ulcer hasn’t healed in a few days, it’s cancer. I’d now had mine for a year.

All sorts of things went through my head. If it’s cancer, wouldn’t it get bigger? Wouldn’t there be more of them popping up? I don’t feel sick. At least I don’t think I do.

My new Doctor said, “Right, let’s do a biopsy. I can do it here. Make an appointment”. Good, all business. Let’s get it done.

I’ve had 3 wisdom teeth removed in the chair with a local anaesthetic. I remember asking the Oral Surgeon before he removed the first one if it was going to hurt. He didn’t beat around the bush, “yes, very much”, he said. And at the time I remember slithering down the surgeon’s chair as his tools twisted and turned and the sound of bone cracking made me wonder whether life would ever be the same (or if it was my tooth cracking or my jaw).

Having a wisdom tooth removed in the chair was a truly delightful experience compared to getting a biopsy taken from an ulcer on your tongue.

The doctor said I wouldn’t feel anything because of the local anaesthetic. What I really needed though was a local anaesthetic to stop the pain of the needle that was going to give me the local anaesthetic. Furthermore, I had to hold my tongue steady with a tissue as he inserted the needle. Then for a further 5 minutes as he took the biopsy. The nurse asked him if he was going to put in stitches. At first he said no, but then he called the nurse back, and with some hesitation in his voice, said “yes I think I will put in a few stitches, it doesn’t seem to want to stop bleeding”.

“Come back and see me next Tuesday for the results”.

Next Tuesday I went to see him. After a week of worry and fear, the results weren’t ready yet. There was a back log due to a public  holiday. “I’ll call you with the results tomorrow”. Tomorrow came. Not ready yet.

Great, another sleepless night. I’ll add it to the collection.

By this time I’d already mentally distributed my prized possessions to those who have done me good in my life. I was sad that I’d never be a father. I worried about my wife. I worried about the annihilation. The black emptiness.

I’d pretty much resigned myself to my fate. Finally, on the Thursday night, around 4.30pm, my doctor called. “Good news”, he said, “you don’t have cancer”. A sigh of relief. The explanation for my ulcer, which doesn’t come up in the search engines of Doctor Google, is a complex one. It is something. Something with a long name that my doctor didn’t even try to pronounce. He’ll tell me the next time I see him, but the main thing is whatever is on my tongue is harmless. He did say I could have it removed if I choose. Maybe I should keep it as a reminder not to fear the worst if I don’t need to. But perhaps not. This time the biopsy was negative, but next time, who knows?

Nevermore?

Nevermore

When I was at writing school, I wrote a short story called Sicker and Sicker, a largely satirical piece that described one day in the life of a married couple in contrast to the entire timeline of the earth. The theory was that if the planet earth had been surviving for 13.77 billion years, and this was contrasted in "24 hours" (as a timeline), the human race only entered the picture in the last “two minutes”.  Therefore humans haven't been around all that long really. Of course, the story was written as a piece of fiction so there are no historical accuracies, but I do remember writing one anecdote in the story that came from one of my own personal theories. Now, bear in mind that was a lot younger, a lot less knowledgeable, and most of all, had no reasonable understanding of science that could make a claim to a reasonable scientific theory.

My theory was simple. The dinosaurs were a result of a nuclear war. Yup. You see, the world had been around twice as long as many had thought. Civilisation was wiped out by a nuclear war; destroying everything and leaving the planet inhabit less. As a result, strange creatures began to emerge from what was left of the slime. This is why when you see pictures of prehistoric activity, the sky is always a pale red – that’s the result of nuclear fallout. The dinosaurs survived for a period of time before they were wiped out by an asteroid or meteor, and humans began to evolve (once again).

The humans survived for another period of time. Then they invented the nuclear bomb (again). And yes, as per cycle, the human race once again destroyed themselves and the dinosaurs again emerged from the mess.

Now, I never thought this theory was without flaw. But I thought it was a reasonable theory fit for a satirical piece of fiction, and for what it’s worth, the short story received a High Distinction and much applause from my peers (one of my happiest moments).

My point to this blog entry isn’t to talk about a short story from 1995.

I find that the older I get the more I think about the why, what, when and how’s of the universe, like I guess most people do. Or perhaps they don’t, I don’t know. If they do, they probably don’t talk about it, just leaving it to keep them awake at night, or by spending most of their energy on a daily basis trying to ignore it. I always knew that death was an inevitability, but like most people, you don’t really stop to think about it. When you’re younger it doesn’t bother you much, because you know you have your whole life ahead of you. When you get to 40 you realise you’re at the middle part of your existence (assuming you don’t get a serious illness or die tragically before your time).

While most people fall back on their religion, some people don’t have one to fall back on. I had always hoped that religion would find me. I never wanted to force it, or look for it. I saw the Deli Lama do a talk once when he came to Melbourne many years ago. I liked a lot of what he said and for awhile I thought I might be a Buddhist. I have always said that every creature has a right to life. I no longer kill spiders or flies (my wife doesn’t rest until the spider is caught, killed, and the body is identified), preferring to put them outside. After all, they couldn’t help being born a spider or a fly, could they? Just like I couldn’t help being born a human.

And just like any other creature on this earth, why would we not be annihilated when we die just like insects and animals? I could never fathom why someone would believe there is a heaven and a hell, a concept that would have both heaven and hell packed to the brim with centuries of people of both good and evil temperament. Why are humans so special (egocentric) to believe that we are the only species to have the privilege of some sort of after life?

The concept of nihilism scares me beyond belief. The only positive I can find about it is that I will have no memories, nothing at all to take with me – hence the name “nihilism”. When you’re dead you’re dead. There’s nothing after life like there’s nothing before life.

I have no memories of before I was born – I simply didn’t exist. And that’s death as far as I’m concerned.

Question: Are there dinosaurs in heaven?

1977: Sunshine And Rose Coloured Glasses

I read somewhere that 1977 was one of the wettest in Melbourne's history (or since records have been kept or since records were kept). It's strange that, since my memory of that year is based on sunshine and happiness and not floods, rain and storms. It's true that over the years you kind of remember the good things rather than the bad. I remember the hot summer nights when me and my sister would be outside under the sprinklers, because you could "waste" water in those days, but I don't remember a single wet day. I remember the sound of crickets at night after Mum or Dad had watered the garden or as the still of the night tended to make the evening a standstill.

In fact, the warm summer nights I remember in ALL of my childhood had the sound of crickets, the smell of sprinkler or hose water on the ashphelt. I remember the "smell" of the air at night and staying up until the sun would disappear over the horizon and we'd have to go inside to escape the huntsman spiders that would always somehow be in the doorway to where we'd go inside.

I have a memory of Dad painting the guttering in 45 degree temperature and Mum telling him to go inside. In those days there was no "Sunsmart" rule -- Dad was bare chested, no sunscreen or hat, painting the guttering or whatever he was doing, while Mum kept us kids inside the hot house with no airconditioning and only a fan that would circulate the warm air - in fact, I'm not even sure we had a fan back then.

I always wondered why so many Dad's would wait until the temperature would get over 30 degrees before they mowed the lawn or did some outdoor home maintenance. Perhaps it was an excuse to sweat. Maybe it was an Aussie thing. As an adult male I never subscribed to this. I'm always the first to turn the split system on before it gets over 25.

Kindergarten was a particularly happy time. Perhaps that's what made it "sunny". The Kinder photos are colourful though, and show a happy kid, somewhat overwhelmed by the attention. At first I hid in the bathroom. I knew the photographer was coming because I'd been warned beforehand. Mum was there that day because she had kitchen duty. When the photographer arrived I remember hiding - I never understood why, but I hate having my photo taken. Come to think of it, I still do. They found me eventually and I had some nice photos taken out in the yard. My fair haired mop-cut came out loud and clear on the Kodak and to this day there's a surviving photo of me somewhere on one of those tire swings. There's also one of me with a "real" hammer in my hand. Yes. A real hammer.

My other memory is about having the group Kindergarten photo taken. I was standing next to Nicky. When the photo was taken, Miss Hayes asked us one row at a time to move away from the stands. I was the only one who didn't follow the instructions. I followed Nicky.

Happy times in 1977. And I'll always remember it as sunny. And so it was.

Who Am I?

I find it completely strange that one person can be seen completely different through the eyes of many different people.

I look back over time, and I find that the perceptions people have had of me over the years, in turn, makes me feel different about myself. Some people who's personality I have clashed with, give me the feeling that I am not the person I am. Other times, when I have been praised and well-liked by an individual or a group of people, again, I feel like a different person. The question still remains though - who am I?

To one elderly lady I work with, I will always be treated as a child. This dear lady is the authority on everything. She always advises me (even though I often don't take the advice, or pretend I have), but I find myself nodding in agreement or acting "stupid" - "Oh yeah?", I'd say, "you're right, I should do that" or  "yes, I never thought of that". Sometimes I find myself asking her questions I already know the answer to, just to make her feel like she's the authority.

To my father, I will always be 14 years old. To my sisters, I'm probably the person they can't forgive for my childhood misdemeanors. To the parents of the children I care for, I am highly considered. My wife worships the ground I walk on. I never understood that. In the ten years I've known her, we've never had a crossed word. I truly believe that she's the only person who's ever understood me. She accepts me when I snore. She understands me when I drink too much. She puts up with my moods. She knows when I'm upset and don't want to talk about it, and she's listens when I do.

And it's Valentine's Day today. My wife had a terrible day at work. Mine was about average, but when I heard about her's I felt miserable for the rest of the night. You see, I feel bad when she feels bad. I feel happy when she feels happy. It's the same for her. That's part of what makes it special. As for understanding what makes a relationship work... buggered if I know. Sometimes it just does.

Expressions

Next person who uses the expressions "My bad", "Don't go there", "like I mean, it's like" or "it rocks"... OR starts a sentence with the words "basically" or "obviously" is going to be tarred and feathered and forced to listen to the Justin Bieber Christmas album. Furthermore if anyone uses the expression "I agree 110 percent", they will receive likewise punishment.

The Royals (William's Wedding Day, 2011)

The Royals. I don’t get it. Prince Willy’s going bald. You’d think with all that money he’d get a transplant or a rug. They do great rugs now. You wouldn’t even know he was wearing one. And how about Charlie? He’s grey now. Why doesn’t he just go to Coles and get a rinse?

And as for the wedding. So spectacular! Can you imagine the size of the hors d’oeuvres they’d have? Top shelf. Extravagant. I’m sure Willy’s just looking at his watch the whole time thinking “Christ, I just wanted a small thing out in the backyard. This is massive.”

Doctors Part One

Why is it, when you're sitting in the waiting room, and the doctor calls you, the first thing they say - even before you've walked down the hallway to their office - is "Hi. How are you?".

What do they expect me to say?

"Great! How are you?!?"

Yeah, that's right. I want to spend $65 sitting in their office telling them how great I feel.

For $65 you wan't to feel crap. You just have to.