Bombs Over September (Part I of II)

Continued from “My Cancer Story": Welcome to the Cancer Life (Part III of III)
Read "My Cancer Story" from the beginning: The Golden Age (Part I of III)

My radiation nurse gave me a Hershey’s chocolate bar and a hug on my last day. I’d miss her a little and I’m guessing she'd miss me. But, we both knew we’d never see each other again. That was her job—to send people on their way back to normal life or on the road to death.

The entire nursing staff on my clinic and hospital floor, as well as all the doctors, wished me luck with a “Congratulations” banner. Some of them made a major impression on me and I hoped I did the same to them. I didn’t want them to ever forget that I was the teenage patient who physically and psychologically beat the fucking shit out of bone cancer to the extent they’d never before seen.

I always thought it was interesting that I became cancer-free one year after I learned of my tumor, almost to the minute. Not symbolic, just coincidental.

My friend, RiddleMeThis, invited me over to his house that night. I had always thought RiddleMeThis was a cool dude, but never hung out with him outside of school. Now, he was inviting me over on a Friday night. As it turns out, my core group of friends had been spending more time with him, including some Friday nights. This made me wonder when this had happened, and more importantly, where was I?

When I arrived they were on his deck listening to Outkast’s Bombs Over Baghdad. When the verse “Cure for cancer, cure for AIDS” played, PepperoniNip turned the volume all the way up. “That one’s for you, buddy,” he said.

Everyone congratulated me, including one of the more popular kids, Mr. Clean, who gave the most sincere props of anyone. I wondered when I earned the privilege to converse with him, and thought it was cool that he knew and cared about my freedom.

Other things had changed. I noticed early in the school year that some friends had begun drinking and most were dipping. I had been unaware that one of my good friends was sent across the country to rehab until he already left. I didn’t know he was coming back home until he already arrived. How is that possible?

Aunt Marchi sent me a $50 gift certificate to Outback Steakhouse for being done with treatment. I saved it for a special occasion, like taking Veronica Varekova out on a date. I ended up using it three years later for my anniversary of beating cancer. Veronica Varekova wasn’t there.

We had an editor’s meeting in Journalism class with our pregnant teacher, who mentioned her morning sickness. “Oh yeah?” PepperoniNip butted in. “Well, Ben just beat cancer.”

“You win,” my teacher proclaimed.

Which is worse, pregnancy or cancer? I’m pretty sure I’ll never know.

My port—a device surgically implanted in my chest to make chemotherapy easier to deliver—was removed earlier than usual, by my request. Pulling out was like removing everything cancer entailed. It was the last piece of physical evidence that proved I ever had cancer. I left the disease in the BIOHAZARD receptacle right alongside my port.

The only reason to retain the port is you think there’s a chance the cancer will return. It’s kind of like getting health insurance, where you’re betting on getting sick. Well, I gave cancer recurrence a nearly 0% chance and wanted the port out of me. My head doctor authorized the removal which showed that I wasn’t the only one with confidence. Besides, if my cancer did come back then having my port surgically implanted a second time would be the least of my worries.

Keep reading: Bombs Over September (Part II of II)