the lighter side of having the Big C

I have the Big C. But this is not about my on the spot realization of how transient life is nor is this about a quick makeover of my priorities and attitude in the face of a dreaded disease. I’m saving all that for my own version of “A Purpose Driven Life.”

Just because my friends tell me I have a great sense of humor doesn’t mean I can’t allow myself a few days of depression, cancer being its super mom. But surprisingly, I found out that depression is not for me. In fact, I was more depressed of not being depressed.

Okay, let me correct that. Not in the way others and I expected it to be. Maybe because my doctor said mine is not a terminal case; that it’s a “friendly” cancer. But still, who needs cancer for a friend?

I haven’t been hospitalized in all of my 30 plus summers such that when I was told to undergo thyroidectomy, I panicked. Going under the knife I can live with but catheter gives me the shakes. When I asked my doctor if I would be fitted with one, he deadpanned: “Only if your genitals are lodged in your throat.” Uh-okay.

Six weeks after my operation, I went back to Cebu for radioactive iodine (RAI) treatment. The amiable Dr. Bles Pono told me it was the most appropriate treatment for my thyroid condition. Most of the radiation would be absorbed by my thyroid gland and would decrease the function of the thyroid cells and inhibit their ability to grow. The RAI would remain in my body only temporarily and would be reduced with time. But to eliminate the possibility of radiation exposure to others, I had to be isolated for seven days.

At the briefing, I asked doc’s secretary for suggestions on what to do during my sequestration. She said I had three picks: slip into a coma; do time travel by self-hypnosis; or self destruct and do a phoenix after a week. My friends suggested reading books, writing an article, cross-stitching and yoga. The last one made me blink. If I had the gift for inaction and concentration of a tethered horse to do yoga, then I’d be this generation’s oldest living catatonic.

The thought of turning recluse for a week heightened my natural proclivity to pig out on food. If someone had only seen me seconds before I was admitted, he would think I was opening a convenience store, what with all those bottled water, tetra-packed juice, bakery products, chocolates and other chitcherias, to say nothing of toiletries.

After taking the RAI capsule on the very same day it was flown in from London (it’s imported and has a 24-hour shelf life!), I went straight to purgatory. No visitor was allowed; nurses were not to take my blood pressure, heart rate and all. With intercom and cable TV as my only links to the outside world, I turned into a monk. And that was when I knew that boredom is the family name of RAI treatment.

Let me digress just this once. The RAI treatment is very expensive, costing me a month and a half of my salary for that single capsule alone, such that when I checked out of the hospital, I felt how a piggy bank feels when a child empties it of his savings.

My room of 7mx5m was cramped with a bed, a table, a chair, a built in cabinet, a 3mx2m toilet and bathroom and a TV set that was perched close to the ceiling. It must have been management’s way of discouraging patients from squirreling it away and/or regulating its use because after a few minutes, I sure got a stiff neck from all that looking up that I had to turn it off.

I could have easily turned into a bed-potato (no couch there) and vegetate but I had a great task at hand: flush radiation off my system! I had a narrow latitude though because radiation leaves the body only through urine, saliva and sweat. Now, pray tell: how many gallons of the prescribed distilled water can I gulp for me to take a hundred leaks an hour? How do I sweat myself dry inside an aircon room? And what other ways to dribble saliva besides chewing gums?

With heightened creativity, I discovered many ways to jog and stick chewed out gums under my cot, making them look like rivets.

On my first day, after tuning in to HBO and shutting off the aircon (which made my room costly in the first place!), I started to jog and pumped sweat while Nicolas Cage pumped lead into his enemies. In the evening, with the TV running a persistent high fever from continued use which was my way of compensating for my having to pay the aircon even if it was off most of the time, I was practically living my worst nightmare as I jogged down imaginary Elm Street. The next day, as sounds blared from MTV, I jogged in the raw, unmindful of lascivious stares from Madonna, Britney and J Lo.

Given the room’s dimension and maze-like configuration, it was a bit restrictive but still I jogged the way of the ants. You know, doing it on all fours. But then I got this scary notion that a stroke of paranormal bad luck might actually turn me into one. Not that I have qualms turning into an ant (it doesn’t get cancer, right?) but being Baygon-sprayed to death is for me not exactly a cool way to call it quits.

I tried almost everything, all in the name of profuse sweating. From push-ups (I was not up to it!) to doing body contortions (too risky for my freshly sewn-up neck!) to crawling over and under my bed (my flabs got in the way!).

Looking back now, I don’t have the faintest idea how I survived the longest, most solitary week of my life. Except that I counted each passing day in terms of hospital billing.

I went home to my province without touching the pile of bestsellers I brought with me. And with enough foodstuff left, I threw three separate children’s parties.

After all those post-RAI scans, I was given a clean bill of health together with a list of do’s and don’t’s. But with cancer, you have to leave everything to God because you’ll never know what will happen next. Meanwhile, I can’t help feeling amused each time people ask me if I’m a terminal case because hello, aren’t we all coming to pass?

(note: six years after this was written, i'm still around. thank God for that!)