I’m just saying…

May 2 surgery went well. Started and ended with a minimalist, laparoscopic procedure. That was good. It meant they did not find a bunch of other junk which would have necessitated opening me up completely. Doc made small half inch incisions, inserted plastic tubes and then introduced camera. He found a plumb size tumor deep inside 23ft of small intestine and removed through a wider incision @ belly button. Scarring is minimal so I should be ready for that Siberian bikini competition I’m planning on crushin’ next month. You’re mine Viktor and Anatoly, gonna cry-cry-cry all the way back to the gulag.

Some of you have been asking for details – thanks – so here’s some additional trivia regarding the whole affair (probably more than you wanted in most cases):

  • They found the thing after doing capsule endoscopy. Swallowed a little satellite that took pictures during its epic journey through my small intestine with stops on the isle of Pharos, then Calypso and Scherie before getting ship wrecked on the Tumor island. Highly recommend one of those procedures if you are experiencing prolonged abdominal pain and have already had the joy that is endoscopies, colonoscopies, x-rays, ct/pet scans, ultrasounds, physical exams, suggestions you might just be insane or a wimp or both discussions, and/or cavity searches by green men in spacecraft with long, oddly curved implements of mass destruction procedures.
  • Surgeon told me that these things go undetected quite often. Comforting thought but at least its over.
  • Yeah they shaved my chest to get to the thing. Think “40 year old virgin” when Carrell decides he’s going to put the kibosh on the wax job prematurely. Thankfully I was not awake for this part else I too would have been screaming, ‘Kelly Clarkson’ along with other not-so-nice words. Then again I could have asked, “hey man do you do bikini wax jobs too? I mean I got that deal in Russian coming up and want to represent for the good old US of A.”
  • 40 year old virgin
  • The biopsy of the thing revealed that it was indeed melanoma. This was actually good because it meant there were no secondary cancer present. The chemo, which appears to be working on all other areas, will thus continue.
  • The thing did not look like melanoma- white instead of black. I’m choosing to believe this was also good. My “white” blood cells are in the game.
  • We suspect this thing was there for @ the last three years. That’s also good. Normally they incubate and infiltrate, rapidly pumping out mini-me-melanomas and conquering surrounding territories. Does not appear to be the case. He was all by his lonesome, evil fricking self.
  • The thing was partially obstructing the bowel which solves the mystery of emergency room episodes and extreme this-pain-goes-to-11 all night cramping sessions. Also explains why discovery of taking hydrocholoric acid instead of proton pump (acid blocking) inhibitors along with probiotics was helping me at the end; as well as why fiber and other hard to digest items were going all medieval. Food needed to get decompiled prior to choke point or my body was literally choking on it.
  • The thing was also perforated so there was acid and food junk getting into the rest of me. That explains some of the ulcer like symptoms I was having.
  • I was in the hospital for 3 night/4 days. Recovery time @ 4 weeks. Back to work/no more Bohemian lifestyling. That’s a good thing. I’m pretty sure Sarah will agree to this without even being tortured a little bit or, okay, like at all.
  • At my request they were able to attach 8 large breasts to my chest. Alas I have not found the strength, for some odd reason, to leave the house in weeks. Hope that custom bra with nipple rings arrives soon, along with case of Bengay to ease those tired, over worked hands.

Speaking of not leaving da house, I have been completely unmotivated to post anything here. For one, I felt the need – other than the requisite chemo and doctors’ visits – to forget about the word ‘cancer’ for the last few weeks. For two, I think I’m suffering from a mild case of Post Traumatic Cancer Syndrome, PTCS. That’s not really a thing, other than for me. I don’t mean to make light of the guys and gals who have PTSD either. Am merely attempting in my own lamish way to describe how I feel.

This has been a haul. We have been through a few knife fights. I have the scars and 8 boobies to prove it. Yet right now, despite the tiredness and recovery from being sausage on the cutting board, I feel GREAT. To eat, sleep, watch tv, shower, read, write lame posts, watch boy’s lacrosse, put on socks, breathe and blink like a BOSS without pain after going 900 days longer than I thought humanly possible I could go, well that’s nice.

Part of me is/was afraid to cop to that. To say, “oh man, I feel alright” because I’m afraid I’m gonna get my jinx on, gonna make that other shoe drop to the concrete, pow! Yes, not a very faith filled statement. But I seem capable of juggling only mustard seeds anyway. For now that’s enough.

Love,

Lelan-derp

Post Scriptum: If you would like to investigate real Poetry with a capital G then Google my brother, Gibson Fay-LeBlanc, the resident Poet Laureate of Maine. He is pretty much a bad ass – in a rich tradition of bad asses who write poetry- and his near recent poetic turn through the subject of hockey is proof of that undeniable fact of his cosmic bad-ass-inating-ishness. http://www.pressherald.com/2015/06/28/portlands-newest-poet-laureate-writes-about-playing-hockey/ Btw it’s his birthday today. May 23rd will forevermore be known as the day of The Bad Ass G. Happy birthday.

Anyways, here’s my first and likely last sophmoronish attempt to be like my brother Gib the Bad Ass from Badasserlandio. It was written while whacked on dilaudid and proves that morons who claim the greatest achievements in human thought are conceived while high are, well, high.

Some context: I had just been told I had to stay another night in the hospital due to a failure to poop. Sinking into my hospital bed I thought I might lose my marbles cuz I couldn’t lose a brownie. Though by the looks of this ‘crap’ I believe I may have, har-har-har.

My Dark Resume

Has a mangled neck and a broken skull

With a messy stomach

And hair falling out

Stretching the furthest reaches of more

with less and less.

I fear when fear is gone

I will grow afraid of my lack of fear.

Worse than some

Better than many

Trying to grasp

A dream of a hope of a dream

About hope

About kids

without compunction

or guile

or bile

or style

I care

that wearing black socks with shorts and sandals is a privilege.

Fever, itches, dumb stitches

rotten plumbs conceived on vines in caves made out of tubes

Scar the landscape

Like carpet bombs dropped indoors

Human headaches

Apocalyptic milkshakes

Down the hatch

So minute man doctors can scan

Internal horizons

Seeking coarse things in the lightning darkness

that usually are not there

or can’t be found

Ever to give up

what I surrender.

But know this

Write this down

Below my name and address

During the interview

And underline it twice with a red pen:

Cancer may be the diagnosis for now

but it’s not my sign man

never will be

I’m a Capricorn motherfucker.