200682351343_fat elvis

Originally uploaded by CaraMaya

The good news is, the cancer’s probably not going to kill me directly. However, there is this:

I’m in a fair bit of pain from the surgery. It’s not like they gave me a belt of whiskey and a broomstick to bite while it happened, but still. I’m constantly hooped to the gills on Vicodin, which eliminates most, but not all of the searing yank I feel 4 inches below and 3 inches to the left of my navel every time I cough, laugh, or move.

My coworkers were colossally thoughtful and sent over meals for me and my mom for a week the day after I came out of the hospital. Included was a massive tray of velvety, sensual macaroni and cheese. I’ve been having a spoonful or two every time I have to take a Vicodin — you’re supposed to take it with food.

Thing is, Vicodin’s not exactly a laxative. Neither is mac and cheese. Quite the opposite, actually. Like drinking a glassful of Quikrete, really.

So I may not die from cancer itself. But I could well go out like The King himself: lit up on painkillers, chock full of mac and cheese and straining my way to an aneurysm hunkered over the can.

I am Elvis Aaron Presley, minus the hair and the hits. I’m either going to have a heart attack or all that mess is going to come streaming out of my incision in a hellish imitation of a Play-Doh Fun Factory.

On the other hand, my heart is soaring with hope about once a day. I either get a great phone call from someone, a letter, or a visitor drops by. Its been so great hearing from everyone, seeing everyone, and I really feel loved and supported. There’s no substitute for it.

Maggie came up on Monday, and we took a walk around Williamsburg, up to my favorite bookstore and back. It was magnificent. I could see every crag in every brick like it was the first time, loved every tag on every wall, every tiny broken beer bottle in the gutter was like a little pile of diamonds. Being out in the air, in the sun for the first time felt like coming up out of a yearlong stay in an undersea biosphere. Each breath was a jewel. We stuck our heads in bars, fiddled with pinball machines, got a cup of tea and browsed in little overpriced boutiques. It was magical. Like Disney World when I was eight.

Then on the way back I got the fear again, really bad. Felt this clenching inside, like my organs were making a fist. I broke out in a cold sweat and had to lie down. For about sixteen hours.

But that fog, that dog-breath malaise that’s been panting all over my life for a month is gone. It’s replaced by opiates for now, but that’s going to go too, and I’ll be myself again. And that feels really, really awesome.

Tomorrow we’re going back to Sloan-Kettering to get the biopsy results, the CT/PET scan results, find out if I’m done with all this or if I’ll spend the summer getting chemotherapy. But one way or another, I’ll be back in action by the fall, I think. I hope.

I keep joking about this because really, I can’t do anything else. I default to clowning around every time I open my mouth. And when I see other people laugh at the jokes I’m making about all this, it makes me feel better — because if they’re laughing at it, it can’t be that bad.

So if I can keep making you laugh about it, then you won’t be scared. And then I’ll see that you’re not scared, and I won’t be scared either.