Things we Remember
So today marks the one-year anniversary of being diagnosed with tongue cancer, and what a year it’s been. I am so fortunate to report that Slim (my tongue) has regained most all of its functionality and taste and the physical side effects from surgery and treatment are mild. The mental side effects of cancer are the ones that linger. There hasn’t been a day since diagnosis that I haven’t thought about cancer. To me this is the part that requires more attention. Writing became a huge part of my cancer journey. I am grateful to Sheri Reynolds for allowing me to join her writing classes at Wofford College. This semester’s Personal Narrative class has been the perfect medium for me to write out my feelings and experiences from this journey. From diagnosis to the best recipe for blending up chili dogs, my small workshop group and the class has provided support, feedback, and the motivation needed to push myself and my writing. What follows is the first essay I submitted in class. I thought a fitting one to post today.
Things we Remember
It was just after lunch, and the Barnett Hotel in the French Quarter of New Orleans was buzzing with conference attendees and businesspeople. The place just reeked of old school business, maybe even a mob movie. The walls were deep green, moody, as many HGTV hosts would say. Color drenched from the floor and onto the ceiling. The chairs seemed both inviting and antique, the leather and wood worn just enough to convey they were comfortable. It even smelled of business, coffee, and bourbon. Both phrases “timeless retreat” and “limitless experiences,” from my pre-trip website searches, seemed to ring true. I stood at the bar, admiring the selection of small-batch bourbon and a brass espresso machine, eavesdropping on conversations about new launches, weekend fundraisers, and vacation plans.
I was there for a career development professionals' conference. I was slated to speak at 2:30 pm, and my colleagues and co-presenters had met in the bar to make a game plan. I felt we knew our stuff – it’s what we do every day – and felt like we could just meet briefly and set a time to be in the ballroom for our talk. Honestly, there was a lunch spot I wanted to check out. While the vibe of The Barnett was great, the conference food was dry chicken at best. We had just started talking when my phone rang.
The caller ID said “healthcare,” and I excused myself to take it. The week before I had a biopsy on my tongue. I was a habitual tongue biter, had been for six years. I spent my late forties painfully enjoying ketchup and other acidic foods, and worrying if this was indeed scar tissue, as the first biopsy had said. My mind oscillated between “damn, I am never going to eat without a stinging sensation in my mouth, and that’s ok” and “ok, I have cancer, and it’s spreading throughout my body.”
I ignored the helpful concierge as I walked outside. The sun was bright on Carondelet Street; Dr. Worley’s tone was not. Maybe this is just how he talks on the phone: monotone and direct. Maybe he had a rough morning of dealing with tonsils, adenoids, sinus problems, and the like. The street was treeless, and it was midday; sweat trickled down my back as I moved closer to a building for the shade.
“I am sad to say the biopsy came back positive for squamous cell carcinoma,” was the sentence that still brings tears to my eyes. There was a flush of warmth through my body and movement in my legs. It was as if I could walk away from the news as I went around the block. I knew what that meant; we had talked about it. I would have surgery to remove part of my tongue as well as my lymph nodes.
“Ok, Doc, when can we have the surgery?”
“Well, we need to get you a CT scan to see if it’s anywhere else before we operate.”
“When can we get that?”
A black Cadillac Escalade XLT with black tinted windows and parked on the street close to the door of the Barnett. I looked to see if a star got out.
“Usually, we can schedule them between 7 and 14 days.”
“Fuck, sorry… that seems like a long time.”
“It’s typically a little faster than that.”
Everyone I passed had a blue lanyard and a career leadership conference logo. I was happy that the tears were currently at bay.
I think I walked around the block three times and said – “ok, I have one more question” at least a dozen times. I knew I needed to call Molly, but I wanted to have all the information. I couldn’t recall a cancer narrative that ended well or could be called positive. Everyone I knew either died or suffered mightily beforehand. There was one question I had to ask, but my throat would close each time I tried to.
“Ok Doc, I don’t know how to ask this, am I going to…” My voice cracked, and I could not get the words out. Thankfully, Dr. Worley understood.
“Curt – you don’t need to get all your affairs in order if that’s what you're asking, but this is something you should take very seriously.”
Dr. Worley explained that we would schedule a CT scan to see if the cancer spread, and his scheduler would reach out in seven to ten days. I held the tears inside when I returned to the Barnett, my colleagues still at the bar, anxious to hear the news. They both knew the importance of the call and knew from my expression that the news wasn’t good. There were hugs, encouragement, quoted scriptures, and they both said they would handle the presentation at 2:30 pm.
“If I can pull myself together, I plan to be there,” I said, walking to the elevator, “It will take my mind off of this.”
I have spent enough time in therapy to know that memory, or more specifically, the things we remember, must mean something. Childhood experiences processed with my therapist brought closure. In my fiftieth year, I have memories that will forever need processing.
I remember lying on the bed in my hotel room, looking up at the ceiling, unable to finish my sentences telling Molly how sorry I was that she had a husband who now had tongue cancer. I remember the annoying buzz of the lights that drove me crazy while trying to do that. I remember taking questions about how our Career Center prioritized working with different groups of students. I took these questions because it was something I could control, and I was about to crawl out of my skin to get out of the ball room. I remember walking up to a group of colleagues from around the country, apologizing, and telling them I needed to get home to sort out some things. I remember walking around the Miami airport, the only route home that night, crying, thinking about whether I would sleep or not. As time go by, I am sure I will remember more, and maybe one day I will want to return to New Orleans.
This community has been such an important part of my healing journey and will remain such. Feel free to share your comments and if you are on your own journey of self discovery, from cancer or some other teacher, feel free to comment or message me, I am happy to talk.
Thank you for sharing! You always handle situations with care! This essay was written with the utmost sincerity and care! You have a whole community rooting and caring for you too!
curt, powerful as always. I can’t imagine the strain of presenting after such heavy news. To sit with your writing is always a gift.