One year ago today I went to see an ENT doctor – I had felt something foreign in my throat when I swallowed – and was told I had a tumor. She gave me no hope that it was benign and told me to prepare for radiation and chemo.
Surgery at the end of March – after a biopsy, a CT scan, an MRI, weeks of anxiety – left me with a scarred tongue and throat but, up until now at least, no further treatments. I consider myself lucky but not unscathed. I still have lymphedema, and wear bandanas to cover the bulge in my neck, and I still don’t swallow as easily as I used to; the waiter who asks, “Are you still working on that, sir?” is for once using the right verb.
People with cancer often say it gives them a greater appreciation of life. I always had a healthy appreciation of life, so what I got instead was a greater awareness of death. But it has allowed me to regain my boyish figure.
