Diagnosis: Afterparty

One day you wake up in a hungover haze going over the highlight reel of the gig you DJed the night before. The next day you wake up in a different kind of haze reminding yourself you were just told you have cancer. For someone who loathes cliches to the point where I think I may be allergic, I was not prepared to live, breathe, speak, embody, and fully become every cancer cliche all at once. Immediately confronted with my own mortality, forced into a battle I didn’t sign up for, clinging to delusional optimism, immediately flooded with so much support it was almost too much to handle, and shocked at how instantly priorities changed and perspective shifted.

I had been dealing with some stomach issues since we got back from Greece. Thinking I picked up some kind of bacterial infection, I went to see my doctor, who told me to start taking MiraLAX twice a day, and eventually this will subside. When it didn’t months later, I went to a Gastroentologist, who after a slew of testing diagnosed me with “Type I Dyssynergic Defecation” which basically means the muscles aren’t working together to evacuate the bowels. Fair enough, I scheduled the corresponding physical therapy treatments to start at the end of February.

Until this last week, when things started getting worse: absolutely backed up, more bloating and gas than one should experience in a lifetime, severe abdominal cramping, and stomach noises that would’ve probably conjured a whale’s response had I been near an ocean. Cut to Friday afternoon, when I finally decided to see if the Emergency Room could help- and luckily my husband was able to get out of work to take me.

“What’s your reason for being here?” Replying to the ER intake specialist with “constipation” felt so embarassing and awkward, in hingsight (incoming cliche) it’s wild how insignificant that problem that would turn out to be.

Assuming I just had a simple blockage from everything not functioning correctly, my personal goal was to get some kind of image done to see what’s going on. When the ER doctor told me I was getting a CT scan, I was beyond thrilled. I’ve only had an X-Ray of my abdomen done in July, resulting in the MiraLAX plan. As someone who tries to drink 100oz of water a day, I was even more thrilled for the 2 styrofoam cups of barium contrast mixed with ice water that I had specific direction to drink each hour before the scan. I don’t typically like cold water, but my little ER room was so warm, it was so refreshing. I offered Jimmy the rest of my 40oz water bottle I had brought with me, since he runs hot and I was fully cooling off.

They ran a urine test and a couple blood tests, 7 total, and as the results came into MyChart, I did what every doctor hates and read them before the doctor came in. Mostly normal other than some abnomalities to be expected from someone who hadn’t eaten in close to 24 hours. The CT scan was quick and was mostly an unremarkable experience, other than I also got the IV constrast as well. Which is also unremarkable except for the additional gastrointestional cramping this caused the next day (on an empty stomach no less) Waiting for the CT scan results took about an hour and a half- which felt like an eternity because we were really getting hungry, and planning our evening’s GrubHub order.

Then, the MyChart test result email hit for the CT scan. It was written out, and extremely long. I started to get dizzy as I read words describing the size of masses found, and using words like “metastatic.” Sure I can’t fully and accurately define the word metastatic, but I do know what it’s related to. Surely this can’t be cancer. Immediately I stopped reading MyChart. I’ll let the doctor let me know what’s up, I have no idea what I’m reading.

Roughly 10 minutes later, the doctor came in. Having set my own expectations with pre-reading the findings, it was oddly not shocking when she got a box of tissues down and put them on my bed as she said the word I knew she was going to say. Cancer.

She went on to say that she can only guess exactly where I’m at from the limited information from the CT scan, however it’s looking like Colon Cancer, that has spread to my liver, ballparking at Stage III. With nothing more the ER could do, I was granted discharge papers with all my next steps, and booked it home- where my parents came and met us. Followed by several FaceTimes to all of our family and close friends.

Dealing with this brand new identity of someone who has cancer and processing the shock of it all is honestly not as soul crushing as watching every single loved one have to process this information before my eyes. While this life changing news was my life changing news, I was cognizant of the fact that each call was about to change someone else’s life too. And all of this would be a challenge for someone who slept a full night or has eaten recently. Mix in sleep deprevation from contrast-induced-cramping, the inability to eat from both nerves and the general pain of which digestion contributes to, I can honestly say I never realized I was this brave or strong. I thought I knew what strength was, but there is no cliche in the world to describe how distant that version of strength is to me now.

So what’s next? (incoming cliche) Getting comfortable with the unknown. For now. The oncology referral I received isn’t open until Monday, which is the earliest I’ll be able to talk to someone about even getting an appointment. Which will be followed by a colonoscopy & PET scan. Which will be followed by more waiting for results, before I know exactly where I’m at and exactly what the plan is to attack this. And attack this I will; (another incoming cliche) Cancer picked the wrong gal to fuck with. Does cancer know I’m a Chicago marathon fininsher? Does cancer know how many dozens of half marathons I’ve run? Does cancer know how good I am at functioning on 4 hours of sleep after drinking a warm cup of tequila in the DJ booth the night before?

I don’t plan on abandoning DJing at all during this battle; in fact scream singing along in the DJ booth while a crowd is scream singing and jumping in unision is one of my top favorite personal therapies. Obviously, at the shock of this news I cancelled this weekend’s gigs, and I’m clearly going to prioritize my health, strength, and rest when the inevitable chemotherapy or radiation is going on. However, I know to keep my head on straight I need my theraputic outlets. I know running, another major mental health aid, will temporarily dissapear at some point to preserve energy and strength to beat this. And then there’s writing. Something I have all but abandoned, not including some minor journaling, since I was majoring in it. In college, I wrote a relationship column in the Towson University paper called “Life After Last Call,” replacing the more risque column “Between The Sheets” with something more palatable for the everyday sorority girl. In spirit with living life after last call, I present to you dear friends and family, Diagnosis: Afterparty. I promise each entry won’t be as dense as this, I clearly had a lot to get out (after all, it’s only been 24 hours since I found this news out.) This may or may not include the clinical descriptions of goings on, but with this blog I definitely want to explore my own mental state, along with what I’m feeling each step of the way. And the dissonance between something as frivoulous as being a figure in nightlife vs a cancer diagnosis. Cancer for the 365 partygirl, if you will.