Cancer is Crap (And This Title Is More Hilarious Than You Know)

So.... um, let's just put it out there. I have cancer.

I want to be clear: I'm not saying that my astrology sign is Cancer. (Somebody once misunderstood my diagnosis and said, "But I thought you were a Scorpio." Not lying...) Nope. I have cancer. And I have the kind that makes me gain 80+ pounds in the course of two years because there is a tumor attached to my fat pump (aka. my thyroid).

What I HAVE

What I AM

VS. 

Now, lest you think the purpose of this post is for whine-baggery, let me just give you a heads up: it ain't. But we'll get to the heartwarming takeaway message a tad later. So, please stick with me on this one. No, really. Hang in there. Because there's some awkward, overtly personal stuff coming your way, but I PROMISE it's worth it. 

For now, let's start with a story:

Once upon a time (last week) my cousin, Rachel, called and said: "I totally thought of you the other day! I was at the cash register, and this little old lady came up to the check out, and while she was standing there, she stopped talking and clearly took a dump in her pants. And when she walked away, her butt was totally lumpy. You know, like there was something in there that shouldn’t be. I think she was wearing an adult diaper, because nothing fell out of her pants as she walked away.”

I wish that I had no idea how I'd gotten to the point in my life where an  incontinent octogenarian reminds people of me. But I knew. Oh, sadly, how I knew.

Alas, dear reader, ‘tis true. I regretfully admit to this crappy habit (pun TOTALLY intended.) I shit my pants. Regularly. And unexpectedly.

DON’T LEAVE THIS BLOG!!!! I KNOW YOU’RE THINKING ABOUT IT!!! Your brain is all like, “Sweet. Baby. Jesus.  I did not sign on for this!  This lady is off her nips.” And I don’t blame you. Because it’s weird. It’s not like this is a point of pride for me. So, PLEASE, don’t abandon me yet.

This whole drama started when I was sitting in my OBGYN's office. I refuse to regale you with the sordid details of that appointment, but let me just say that the next few hours passed in a flurry of sonograms, scans, touchy/feeling awkwardness, blood work and a big diagnosis.

I. Have. Cancer.

I’m sure that there is an actual medical description of what all this thyroid cancer (mixed with a lovely condition known as polycystic ovarian syndrome) entails, but for time’s sake, let me just give you a rundown of the more salient points:

1)      I was going to experience severe depression. A LOT of it.

2)      Piggy-backing on the depression would be extreme anxiety disorder, so I could expect constant paranoia and regular panic attacks. 

3)      I was going to grow a beard. No, seriously, the guy in the sky is cruel enough to make this a common symptom for my situation. Maybe not a Santa Claus beard, but a good, dark 5 o’clock shadow.

4)      I was going to balloon up like a bloated badger left on the highway, because weight gain is just a known aspect of these conditions.

5)      I was going to start shitting my pants.

I know right now is a WTF moment for you, and I sympathize. If it's that uncomfortable reading it, imagine how uncomfortable it is living it. For those wondering what this looks like, I invite you to imagine a fuzzy-jowled, psychopathic, rancid, weepy version of post-gum-chewing Violet Beauregarde of Willy Wonka fame.  Yup. That’s me. Hi!

Sorry about the quality, folks, but it's my first time ever using an editing program to doctor a picture.

A key point: My doctor only informed me of the first four symptoms. She totally omitted the constant crapping part. So, imagine my surprise when I picked up my first batch of meds and noticed an unexpected side effect. In the teeniest scrawl, the pharmacy had kindly warned me that I might experience some “spontaneous defecation.”

First, what the HELL? “Spontaneous defecation?” What does that even mean? Second, why wouldn’t you type that in ALL CAPS?!? It seems sorta important. And finally, for the love of compassion, WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY ACTUALLY TELL ME WHAT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN TO MY POOR BODY?

Dear reader, I apologize, but it’s time. You need to prepare yourself. A painfully pathetic pun is about to happen.

Here it is.

BEKAH’S SHIT LIST (of only 2 items):

SHIT LIST LINE ITEM UNO: Wherein a bird provides a lousy perspective on irony

The first time I noticed my foul bowel situation, I was driving to my cousin, Rachel’s, wedding. Yes, that Rachel. The one who at the beginning of this tome equated me to a decrepit, diaper-wearing bag of old bones. My husband, Chris, and I were on the open road when a sharp pang stabbed my side, and I instantly noticed that my seat seemed … soft. Mushy, if I were forced to provide the most accurate description.

“Um, Chris. I think I shit myself." 

“What do you mean you ‘think so?’ Don’t you know?”

“Not for sure.”

(Cue the sound of my sobs.)

Short version: Yes, I had shit my pants. Long version: I found a disgusting gas station and cleaned myself up in a bathroom that lacked both toilet paper AND paper towels, and with no trash can in sight, I had no choice but to wad up the poor, polluted panties and shove them into the world’s most unfortunate jeans’ pocket. I emerged from the restroom, and the man behind the counter saw the bulge in my pants and thought I was shoplifting. I *almost* reached into my pocket, yanked out the unlaundered undies, and threw them at him, all while screaming, “YOU WANT PROOF? YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE PROOF!!” Instead, I assured the man that I would never commit such a crime, and to show him that I was a stand-up citizen, I purchased a pile of candies and sodas, because I'm nice and Midwestern like that.

(Epilogue to Shit List Line Item Uno: Chris and I had eaten all of the same things that day, so he was convinced that I had food poisoning and that he, too, would suffer my filthy fate. For the remaining two hours of the trip, he kept repositioning himself in the passenger seat, saying, “I don’t feel anything squishy, but that doesn’t mean anything. Pull over here. I need to check.” And who says marriage isn’t romantic?)

(Epilogue to the Epilogue: Fate apparently forgot that it had already shit in my eye that day, because as the beautiful bride, the aforementioned Rachel, made her way down the aisle at her stunning outdoor wedding, a bird flew over and left me a globby present. No shit. That bird took a big ol’ dump right on my lap.)

SHIT LIST LINE ITEM DOS: Wherein nice nerds unintentionally lose at the game of life

My husband is the best thing to happen to my world since sliced bread, banana splits, kittens, and the entire Harry Potter series. But I join the ranks of the befuddled when it comes to wondering why he married me. Every day I am convinced that this is the day he’s going to pack up his Dungeons and Dragons cards (footnote: Chris pointed out that there are no cards in D&D, and I told him I couldn’t give two rat’s asses),  and get out with his 20-sided dice while he still can.

Seriously, he is a nerdy saint, and I love him more than that other guy I was engaged to before him. So, for my second Shit List Line Item, I wish to ask the Church to consider my husband for Canonization and that he be declared Saint of The Sexless. Pope Francis has yet to recognize said request, so I turn to the people.

On the date of Feb. 14, 2011, Mr. Christian Sandy heretofore suffered the following martyrdom and performed a miracle of mercy: His wife approached Mr. Sandy with some massage oil to spice up their holy union. After all, it was the Day of (would-be fellow) Saint Valentine. Mr. Sandy recognized his wife’s efforts, and he embraced her.

In response to his advances, Mr. Sandy’s wife promptly proceeded to shit in her lacy lingerie.

Yeah. So, that actually happened. Because of my medicine and the nausea-inducing side effects, I had deprived my husband of … ahem … adult activities for two months. Finally feeling better, I decided that I would make Valentine’s Day super special, and we started what was a promising beginning to a wonderful evening.

Until I ‘spontaneously deficiated’ myself.

(Cue yet another sobbing meltdown.)

I could continue. I wish this two-line-item "Bekah's Shit List" was a comprehensive composition of my life's least pleasant moments. Unfortunately, shitting my pants in public is right up there with “grocery shopping” on my list of things I’ve done lately. (I wish I were joking, but as I was writing this today, I had a violent reaction to the “spontaneous defecation” medicine and had to run to the bathroom, and in the game of not shitting yourself, “Good hustle” counts for exactly nothing, other than another extra load of laundry.)

While I don’t expect that many of you spontaneously shit yourself on a regular basis, I do suspect that at least some of you have been diagnosed with either a thyroid tumor, polycystic ovarian syndrome, or some other unpleasant condition that leaves you heavier, hairier, unhappier, or holding your ass checks together with a concentrated intensity that Richard Simmons would admire. 

To my fellow soldiers of suffering, here’s what I wish I had been told  at the beginning of this shitty debacle:

1)      Tweezers are a girl’s best friend. Have a pair near your couch, in your car, in your purse, and by your bedside. You never know when that beard/mustache hair is going to pop up, and you need to be ready to yank that trespasser from its unrightful place upon your face and fling it into the wind, never to be remembered again. Also, don’t get your chin/neck waxed. All it does is leave a ruby ring under your growing double chin, and instead of looking like you just have A beard, it looks like you have neck rosacea AND a beard.

2)      Never call yourself fat. If forced to describe your physical condition, say you are corpulent. America’s education system has assured us that nobody’s going to know what it means. They are only going to know that it sounds sensual and decadent, much in the same way a strawberry crème puff does. And by all means, eat a damn crème puff now and then. Because let me tell you who are the most interesting, humorous, thoughtful, and just downright lovable people I know – they are the ones who enjoy their effing dessert and don’t ruin the conversation by whining about calories. I’m not advocating that you eat yourself into an obese oblivion, but I am saying that life is meant to be enjoyed, so please embrace substance, not shallowness.  Be a person, not a Paris Hilton. Check out my before and after weight pics. So what? I still look vaguely human in the last one, right?

Me at 140 pounds, when I was running, rocked a single chin, and could fit into a sizes that didn't involve numbers Xs.
P.S. That's my adorable nephew, Cal. 

Me at 230 pounds, rocking a triple chin, a belly big enough to house triplets, and arms the size of tree branches.

3)      Fight back. Depression and Anxiety are evil, stalking parasites that smash and snake their way into every aspect of your life. Get professional help to find the best way to tell those two emotional thugs to bugger off. My psychiatrist has been a great body guard, and I now know that I am a being worth saving from the likes of those two skank wads. You are, too.

4)      Get over yourself. So you’ve shit your pants. This is life with cancer. And if you're not actively dying from that cancer, then you should clap your hands every time you crap, because it means it's another day where you're alive and relatively healthy compared to all those other people who really, really aren't. And besides, who the hell are you to think that you’ve got the market cornered on unpleasant shit? I bet plenty of people out there with fatal cancer would gladly give up control over their bowels just so they could have more time that included loved ones and adult diapers.

I found this stash of adult diapers at a recent estate sale. I should have purchased them, eh?

5)      Perspective: Get some. Because what you look like and how your body malfunctions doesn’t define you. Check it: Frida Kahlo had a mustache. She embraced it, and that fine line of hair was her trademark, and people worldwide still think she’s beautiful. Plus, she was confined to bed for months as the result of a horrific car accident, so you can’t tell me that she didn’t defecate in her drawers at least once during her recovery. And her husband, Diego Rivera, was a bloated, rounded man. And guess what? Nobody gives a shit that these two paradigm-altering artists a) had facial hair, b) had unexpected bowel movements, and c) had three chins. Why? Because we are remembered for WHO we are, what we DO, and the people and causes we LOVE. And anyway, if I die and the only thing people can think of to write on my tombstone is “She spontaneously defecated with abandon,” I’ll easily be the most interesting person in that cemetery, and I still win!

Following these steps is not easy. But then again, neither is shitting yourself. So, if you have to look at the toilet roll as half used or half full, pick the latter. Or, you know, just go buy more toilet paper, because, really, you don’t want to run out of it. That’s just gross. 

{P.S. I make light of my cancer situation because I realize exactly how lucky I am to have one that is treatable and curable. I know how fortunate I am that I will have more birthdays, anniversaries, weekends, trips, and sprints to the bathroom. Gratitude abounds in the Sandy household.}