So this is edited. Yay, right? Strange, right? Give thanks, and worship, and tears to our fantatic new Beta, Greta! Fucking amazing and clean. :)
Chapter 1: Congratulations
I have a brain tumor.
That's what the doctor just said. I imagine him smiling, and giving me a ribbon reading 'congratulations'.
It's a tumor that grows from time to time as well. The best sort of tumor, the grand prize, the Pulitzer, the Eisenhower, the Oscar of all tumors. Meaning I have cancer. Cancer. Astrologically, I'm a Cancer. Now I have cancer, too. Pronouncing it with more of a "k" sound seems appropriate, more shocking right?
"Do you need some time alone?" Before leaving, the good man politely points out the tissue box covered in red-cheeked Santas. Maybe he just needs some time alone. And it must be hard to do this all day long. Ruining people's lives, and whatnot.
Maybe I should cry. That seems more appropriate than planning out my next class with the Community College kids. Seems more appropriate than wondering if my brief on the genome will be informative as well as thrilling, and might even inspire some of the younger kids in the class to dedicate their lives to science, thus improving the human condition.
But I don't cry.
Cancer.
Did I TiVo The Amazing Race?
Cancer.
Need to tell Raven that mom's package arrived, with all those horrid Swedish cookies she likes from IKEA.
Tumor.
I really ought to get the light bulb in the fridge replaced.
Fuck.
Will I lose my hair?
You'd think they would call call you cab after the whole ordeal, or least sit you down and force you to call your mother. I couldn't even bring myself to ask about the prognosis. Walking these three blocks has never felt worse. And it's really my fault, I could have called Raven or Hank or even Erik, and any of them would gladly come fetch me and take me home.
Maybe the walk is a good thing. I pick up some groceries from a produce stand, and meet a lovely oriental lady who keeps calling me 'Doctor Who'. And most importantly, I come up with a good excuse to where I was for my flat mate.
"There's this new flavor of frozen yogurt at that place, you know, down the street. And the line was monstrous. I waited a good two hours for a flavor described as chocolate dipped watermelon. It may have been possible genius, but probably not. At least it was free, right?"
"Sounds terrible." Erik then resumes watching television, seemingly entranced by a program featuring people in real life doing sort of real things while never having to go to work or school, or talk to their parents, or deal with brain tumors.
"Right. Absolutely horrid. Couldn't tell them that though. It seemed like the shop owner really thought it was a fantastic idea."
"That sounds like you. Your altruistic ways devolving mankind slowly into taste deprived monkeys." He's bought it. "Want me to cook tonight?"
"Isn't that a bit domestic for you?"
Erik shrugs his shoulders, and takes the groceries from my hands. "Since your sudden transformation into a menopausal woman, I wouldn't want you to get dizzy and end up with your face in a pan."
"It's not that bad." I hope he doesn't notice the way my voice breaks. "I mean, really, it's just a passing thing."
"Yeah, after the first few weeks of your pregnancy the vomiting should stop as well," he adds.
I laugh. The image of Mr. Ed, after crushing a small animal underneath is hooves while laughing maniacally surfaces in my thoughts, and I immediately stop. I need to stop. Erik is quick about these sorts of things, and I'm acting as though I'm hiding a body. Or, you know, a brain tumor. "What the hell was that?" he asks, already aware that something is off.
"Just a little sleep deprived. Stayed up all night studying."
"Or doing drugs..." Erik says, more to himself than me. He looks at me. This is disconcerting - this is not the impersonal and generally lighthearted Erik that is usually around, this is the dead serious one. The one who is a bit melodramatic and bit tragic, but full of genuine concern. "Did you get dumped or something? Failed a test? Realized being professor sucks?"
"I told you, late night of mathematic calculations. And there was a really horrible marathon of Jersey Shore that I just couldn't turn off." I need to get out of here. "Call me when dinner's ready, okay?"
He nods and I dash across the floor into my room, where I proceed to tear printer paper into strips for thirty minutes, and when dinner is finally ready, I have no appetite. And all the symptoms suddenly make sense.
The hindsight bias starts to kick in, and I should have known, or at least suspected. Constant nausea. The flickering white lights in my left eye followed by migraines, that had been my right lobe trying to warn me something was wrong. Lack of concentration and forgetfulness came along with the tumor. I had assumed it was stress, with graduation fast approaching. But I had barely been able to pick up a textbook, and being twenty five years old, I should be able to bench like four or five of those suckers, heavy as they are.
Yes, all the signs had been there, and I missed them all.
"You don't like my food?" Erik asks, looking at my untouched plate.
I shake my head, and take a sizeable scoop of the peas. "Three years of eating it and it's almost bearable."
"Good. Wouldn't want to spoil you." He smiles, and God damnit, it always throws me. I try another bit of peas, and it goes down fine. "Well, anymore," he adds.
Feeling a bit braver, I try the grilled chicken. It's plain and bland. No butter. No nothing. Erik likes the illusion that we are poor. Well, he is, and he just won't let me pay for anything. "Ready for class tomorrow?" I ask.
"I suppose. You gave me an 'A' right?"
"Only because you deserved it." The chicken stays down, and now I'm confident enough to try the salad.
"You rounded it up a whole point," he points out.
This time I smile, and I'm sure there is lettuce stuck between my teeth. "Well, you weren't able to attend the last lecture, with that welding job uptown, so I thought it would be a bit-"
Unfair. Really. This all is.
Then I'm up and dashing towards the bathroom, and I ignore my plate hitting the floor, sending bits of that thick plastic cheap table wear is made of and food everywhere. The bathroom is downstairs, right next to the front door, and it's never really been inconvenient (at least when sober) up until now.
Even after I empty the contents of my stomach, the heaving carries on. "You okay?" Erik asks from behind me.
Obviously not. "I'm terrific," I retort. It echoes throughout the toilet bowl, and I'm a little pissed that Erik hasn't cleaned it like I asked him to. "I'm fabulous."
He sighs and marches out of the bathroom. I'm tempted to rest my forehead against the seat, and just fall asleep. "Go see a fucking doctor," Erik huffs, and I almost laugh.
"Open on page 154, and look at the second diagram." Opening the book myself, I don't look at them. I just can't. It's horrifying really, all their eyes trained on me. Luckily, the community college has relatively small classes. "Magnificent, isn't it?" I comment, looking at the diagram of the gene.
"Riveting, really," Erik mutters.
"Please refrain from interrupting me, Mr. Lensherr." I see Sean drop his hand to his lap. "Oh, no. It's not like that. Go ahead Sean."
"I was just wondering what time you're doing the study group Wednesday?" Wednesday. Wednesday is the day I have to go back to the doctor to discuss the options. Or, maybe, he'll tell me there's been some mistake. Maybe he'll say there was a mix-up with the scans, or the tumor is benign, or maybe, it's some physical manifestation of a superpower, like telepathy.
Probably not.
"Actually, we will have to move it to Thursday. I have some unforeseen things to attend to." I wish Erik didn't look so surprised, or that Raven hadn't decided that waitressing wasn't a career, and joined the class I would be TAing. Or that Hank, my lab partner, decided he wants to see me in action.
"What are you doing then, Charles?" Raven never raised her hand, no matter how much I insisted. I didn't want anyone to think I favor her (even though I do). "You've haven't mentioned anything."
Why would she assume I'd tell her? (though, normally, I tell her everything). "Nothing important. Some school stuff. I need to finish a paper."
"We had a paper?" Hank looks confused, and a bit terrified. "I don't remember anything? Oh no, don't tell me-"
"Oh, no. It's for my seminar on how the apple in the Garden of Eden was most likely a pomegranate." Yes, the one class we are not taking together. My head starts aching with the effort to mind trick them into believing me.
Alex laughs. "Sounds pretentious as fuck."
"And irrelevant," Darwin adds.
"That's graduate school for you." My chuckle sounds more like a giggle. I think I might be losing it. And why isn't Moira here? She's the one who gets paid to teach. "Well, let's finish up with the current chapter and then we'll end early."
Each page goes by at the speed of my own stumbling consciousness. And I try not to look up as I'm talking at first, but than realize that would be out of the ordinary for me, so, I spend my time looking at students, at Angel, and sometimes at Sean, because they probably wouldn't pick up on any strange behavior. At one point, I read the same sentence from my notes three times, but luckily nobody says anything.
"God, I'm exhausted." Erik stretches his arms over his head. "Gotta nap before work. What're you up to tonight?"
"Just going to look through some pa - oh, God, I need to buy Raven her birthday present still." I stop in my tracks and shake my head, and somebody bumps into me on the busy sidewalk.
"Yeah, about that. Need help with that surprise party on Thursday?"
"What party?"
"The one that's a surprise." Erik looks at me. "It is a party, right? That's why you moved the class?"
Oh. Now I get it. "Oh, yes the surprise party. Yes, I'll need help." A lot of fucking help.
For the first time since I met Erik three years ago, I hate him for being so sharp. He figured out I was gay the first week we knew each other, and that I was closeted Trekkie the second. But mostly, I hate him for dropping the subject. It makes the three blocks back to our apartment seem awkward. He's such a drama queen.
Hawaiian seems a little prepubescent. But Vegas comes off as trashy. Maybe a costume party? No, Hank would wear his Einstein costume and Erik has overdone the Bond getup. We could do a hospital theme, where the girls are naughty nurses, and the men are, well… never mind.
I decide on just buying a keg and telling everyone we are suffering through a Tart and Vicars bash. Twenty-one and a keg seems appropriate. Inviting all her friends through mass texts and emails is easy enough, and so is booking out the little bar on the corner. But getting Erik off my back is hard, and it takes me to almost thirty minutes before my appointment with the good doctor to convince him he should go pick up the keg.
"So, about my chances?" That sounds weird. Chances. The last time I asked that was when I was interviewing for my Teaching Assistant position.
Doctor Shaw looks like he's done this a lot, and I'm amazed he can stay so sincere. "It's good. Well, for cancer, anyway." Good. Good. This is good. "To put it bluntly, there's a fifty-fifty recovery rate in other patients with similar to yourself in terms of treatment, age, sex, tumor size, etcetera. That's really great news, considering that we caught it pretty early."
Yes, great news. Great. Tony the Tiger great. The U.K. dominating the world of football great. The idea of making our Tarts and Vicars surprise party gender swapped great. "Great."
"We will have to start treatment immediately."
"Great."
The doctor lays out all of the possible routes to go, experimental treatment, the schedule, the side effects, surgery, other hospitals and clinics, support groups, breaking the news to family and friends, insurance issues, payment plans, how to prepare for treatment and things to avoid. He hands me a pamphlet so I don't forget, than pats my shoulder when I get up. "Fifty-fifty is great news."
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