On the last day of February, I walked out of Moscow Family Medicine with a single sheet of paper that said I could have cancer.
The suspicion arose from a mass in my left lymph node and an irregularity in my white blood cell count. Doctors tiptoe around the “C” word — especially when dealing with young people, who Lord knows are caffeinated, irrational and fueled by hormones and hard-core music. Look how long it took us to get over Kurt Cobain. We don’t take bad news well.

But I got my orders and I diligently began the American-medical-treatment shuffle. Into one office and out another. I signed checks and forms and HPAAS. I scheduled and rescheduled appointments. I started carrying a pen, my insurance card and a calendar at all times. I learned to adopt an attitude of cheerful ambivalence when dealing with receptionists and lab technicians.

A few weeks after that initial piece of paper, a surgeon I only met once slit my throat and removed a pink bump the size of a lima bean. I woke up from anesthesia in Gritman’s recovery room, heavy, cold and itching like hell from the lingering medicine. A nurse held my hand and I cried. I went home to an empty house.

Three months ago, I moved to Idaho alone, bringing only my car and Western notions of law and adventure. I have no family here, no sense of familiarity. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never filed an insurance claim in my life. I’ve never had to wade through a conversation with an insurance representative about deductibles or decode the jargon of a lab report. I’m 21 years old. I can tell you all you’d ever want to know about trampolines or whiskey or Brangelina’s latest acquisition, but I’ve got nothing when it comes to prescriptions and referrals. The more I learned about my bump, the less I knew. Doctors are experts in delivering deadly news delicately, but at the same time, they don’t tell you shit. No one was going to tutor me about my tumor. I had to learn myself.

So I did. I learned that I could have lymphoma, a complex form of cancer that could sour my blood and shorten my life. I learned that America is in a deadly struggle against a mysterious and prolific disease. I learned that every year, 1.45 million people in this country are diagnosed with some form of cancer. I learned that Kentucky has the highest cancer death rate, followed by Louisiana. I learned that one glass of red wine a night is helpful, but two increases my chances of breast cancer by double. I learned to look up to people like Lance Armstrong and Elizabeth Edwards, who aren’t afraid to talk about having one ball or bad bones.

I learned that people, mostly those closest to me, are the least willing to look at this thing reasonably. The numbers speak for themselves. While it’s unlikely, it is still possible that my bump is something bad. Just because my mother thinks I’m special and I have big plans for my future doesn’t mean I’m safe. I learned that finding a bump in my neck and needing a biopsy is a surrender of control. I learned I can’t control bad things inside my body.

When one announces something like a tumor, there’s an onslaught of rationalization, both from the outside and the inside. For some reason, 21-year-olds in this culture who aren’t symptomatic are not allowed to have cancer. My rationalization process had more to do with superstition than logic. My parents, however, approached the concept of cancer like a math problem. Pure logic. Our talks were much like ones given to get a suicidal person down from a ledge. For them, merely entertaining the possibility of cancer was surrender.

“Don’t even think about it! You don’t have cancer! Are you crazy? You have no genetic history! You eat well! You don’t smoke! You’ve never lived near a power plant or been to Mexico or played with mercury! You’re fine! You are fine!”

I told my friends, my top eight. The calls trickled in.
“How are you, really? Really? Really?”

It’s a verbal wrestling match. The second “cancer” becomes part of the conversation, being “OK” is no longer an option. People just don’t believe you. An otherwise honest person is no longer trusted if they say they’re fine when there’s a chance of cancer. The one thing I’m good at — communicating — has become the area in which I’m doubted the most. Stoicism is now a disguise for disbelief; I’d show doubt and it becomes a signal for surrender. Nothing I say was taken in the way it was meant.

After the first week, the panic finally quelled. I began making superstitious, super-secret deals with myself. If the shampoo bottle fell in the shower without being nudged, it meant I didn’t have cancer. If I made to class in 10 minutes, if I didn’t fall my bike once, if I got the summer job, all that surely meant I was cancer-free. If I avoided black cats, stopped bleeding after a minor scrape, paid off my late fees and called my parents everyday, I did not have cancer. But I also made plans for the flipside. If I have cancer, there’s no reason not to go to Africa or raise cobras or start using a chainsaw with some regularity. If I have cancer, getting a C doesn’t matter. If have cancer, there’s no reason I should leave Idaho. If I have cancer, I’ll still study for the LSAT.

Outside I was cracking vampire jokes about my scar, staying hopeful and holding out for the biopsy report. Inside I was forging irrational deals with the universe involving shampoo bottles, cobras and blood clots. It’s a mess.

I don’t know anything about my body anymore. But I do know that school didn’t stop. I do know that I’ve had to cook dinner every night and vacuum and hit the gym and go through with my Spring Break plans. My world did not crash down. It kept moving even faster. In terms of my body, I simply had to surrender control.

So when Elizabeth Edwards says that she’s going to put her two young kids on a bus and campaign alongside her husband in the face of bone cancer, I get it. The main difference between Mrs. Edwards and me is that she knows what’s going to kill her. She’s surrendered control.

After two seasons of working in Yellowstone and jogging every day on predator-riddled trails alone except for my iPod on full-blast against every shred of warning of the rangers, I reasoned that if a bear wanted to eat my dorky ass, it would be my time to go. It was funny to surrender control then because it was a toss back to biology and the natural world. But if cancer is going to kill me now, it’s still biology.

Thursday, at 2 p.m., my world hushed and I walked into Palouse Surgeons. I learned that I didn’t have lymphoma, that sometimes a tumor is just a tumor. The nurse told me the good news and offered me a celebratory soda. It was over.

This experience didn’t come for free. I lost sleep, I lost trust in my body. But I gained an appreciation for my limited sphere of control and what it feels like to have every part of my day affected by a two-centimeter swollen node. I scored a scar, a pair of fresh eyes for an old killer and a swelling heart for anyone who has had to live in the limbo of a lost sense of control.

–Originally published in the University of Idaho Argonaut, 06 April 2007