Schrödinger's Ass Tumor

Is it Cancer?

Dear Internet,

Today I find myself in a quantum conundrum. A liminal state I shall dub Schrödinger’s Ass Tumor.

Technically it was a polyp, but that doesn’t pack quite the same punch.

I’m 34 years old and have been having weird shits since the birth of my second daughter, fifteen months ago.

Unfortunately due to the state of medical science in this country (see also: Sexism), when one is pregnant any symptoms or ailments one might experience are frequently dismissed as being “normal.” Or “within the range of normal.” “Oh, your foot fell off? That’s normal.” So after some googling about my ferocious flatulence and sludgy five-times-daily piles of dung, I decided to make like the doctors and dismiss my symptoms as “normal.”

When I started noticing occasional bright spots of blood on the toilet paper after I pooped, I thought it was spotting from my still-irregular, newly-returned period. I was still breastfeeding, and my period hadn’t really come back in full or with any consistency. I eat a lot of beets. Could be hemorrhoids. Maybe this was normal?

Last summer I had appendicitis. The appendectomy was followed by a protracted stay in the hospital for post-surgical complications. The surgeon ruptured my appendix during surgery and his nursing staff told me “there’s covid going around the valley” and “eat more fiber” when I called in the days after the procedure complaining of weird bowel movements and a fever. Turns out I had a raging infection and an abdominal abscess, which I learned when the pain finally became so unbearable that I went to the emergency room. And just to clarify, I’m not a pussy. I endured two unmedicated births to babies with heads in the 95th percentile. The second time, I delivered and caught my own baby. I’m a fucking monster. This shit was verifiably painful. But I digress.

I stupidly hoped that the appendicitis would maybe explain why my digestion had been weird for so long. No one really knows what the appendix does or what causes appendicitis, so I figured maybe the buildup of fecal matter in my appendix and the resultant infection could explain some things. Who the fuck knows? Not me, and certainly not doctors.

But my symptoms did not abate, and since I’d hit my $6500 insurance deductible with the appendicitis and the abdominal stent and multiple nights in the hospital (which were the kiss of death for my milk supply, bye bye breastfeeding!) I decided to finally take seriously the various medical issues that had been plaguing me. I got diagnosed with sleep apnea and started using a CPAP machine at night (it sucks), yet my fatigue persisted. But then again I’m a full-time mom to two small children and a part-time book editor, so a certain amount of fatigue is to be expected, right?

My GP referred me to a gastroenterology specialist and I got a colonoscopy. I’d been avoiding the GI doctors because I thought they’d make me do an elimination diet for six months and continue to not take me seriously. So I was pleasantly surprised they agreed to the colonoscopy (I might have fabricated some family history to encourage this, shh), but also not excited because I thought they’d tell me to stop eating gluten or dairy or something miserable along those lines. I didn’t really want to receive a diagnosis that would impact my life.

Ha! It’s cancer.

At least, that’s what the doctor said from the visual examination of the 30mm polyp in my rectum. He cut it out with a hot snare, but didn’t think he had clean margins. He needed to send the polyp to pathology to get results.

One of my nurse friends told me that there’s a type of polyp that looks like cancer and tricks a lot of people but is actually benign.

My husband won’t believe it until the pathology comes back.

I don’t know what karmic rabbit hole I’ve gone down to get ass cancer - this summer I did pray that Trump would publicly shit himself to finally pull the wool from the eyes of the voting public; could this be my retribution? I don’t, as a strict rule, ever perform any mean magic. I only do nice magic like cooking delicious food that makes people feel warm and loved, or growing flowers for the bees and birds to enjoy. So perhaps this mean spell rebounded on me threefold in the form of butt cancer? There is a certain poetic justice to it, I must admit.

Or maybe I failed to learn some important lesson in my early childhood when my dad was battling cancer? Am I doomed to repeat his journey? My kids are so, so young and my three-year-old was entirely traumatized by seeing me in the hospital after my appendectomy. She still talks about it. It provoked a massive potty training regression and so much clinginess - what will seeing me go through chemo do?

This moment of not knowing is interesting. It reminds me of election night 2024, when all the votes had been cast and we just needed to open the box to find our fate. Would there be a dead democracy cat, or a living one?

It reminds me also of my second pregnancy, when I was eight days past my due date with no signs of labor. I didn’t know the sex of my baby, or her birthday, or whether I would be able to have the successful natural birth I envisioned or if I’d be rushed from the birth center to the hospital, hemorrhaging out in the back of a van. Schrödinger’s baby.

How badly can I beat this dead horse (should I say cat?) of a metaphor?

I notice a sick part of me actually wants to have cancer. There’s a dark glamour to it. Big “treat yourself / I deserve this” energy - I’m already planning the beach vacation I’ll be able to justify on the grounds of cancer. Play the cancer card to buy the outrageously overpriced and unnecessary fuzzy blanket I’ve been eyeing from Anthro. Monthly massages, maybe even a hot tub! Hell, a weekly babysitting bill and a monthly house cleaner are nothing compared to what I’ll be spending on chemotherapy so why deny myself those simple luxuries?

I’ll need to watch out for Munchausen, clearly. The outpouring of love and support and sympathy is sort of intoxicating. I find myself eager to tell people. How many people’s day can I ruin with this news? The cashier at the grocery store who foolishly asked me “how’s your day going?”? What about my daughters’ music teacher? What will her eyes look like, welling up with concern? Will people begin coming out of the woodwork to cook me dinner and watch my children? How far can I ride this wave of concern?

Such selfish, horrid thoughts. I’m already aggrandizing myself as a martyr and a hero. Maybe I’ll become an instagram celebrity with my heroic tales of conquering cancer. Ass cancer won’t know what hit it! It messed with the wrong ass right here let me tell you! Scientists will be stunned with the sudden sweeping global remission rates after I’m done with it.

The surgeon just called back. It is cancer. Schrödinger’s Ass Tumor is dead and my quantum state is over.