by Nate Allen
Don’t be confused, I don’t want to be the getaway car, I want to be the highway. Not the vehicle that will take you “there” as if “there” existed. We have many vehicles over the course of our lives, we exhaust them, grow tired of them, outgrow them …they no longer meet our needs, but the highway is endless and ever-changing, challenging us, “smacking” our ass ;) …and yet, …rising up to meet us as well ;) You say I’m gentle, sweet, and I am …with you at least. But don’t make the mistake of casting me in one …or even two roles Rae. I am those things and more, the blue-collar man/the white-collar man, the cerebral man/the fool, the poet/the comedian. I’m the patient impatient man, the rough looking bastard with a boyish grin, the insightful single dad, YOUR faithful infidel. I’m a REALLY nice guy …who’s the asshole that fucking another man’s wife.
Want to know what I’ve seen down the road a ways, the path narrows, they always do, and we only get to take a few trusted, proven friends with us. Beyond that very liberating point where you learn to say “yes” to temptation comes an even more satisfying place where you can say “no,” where you don’t have to take advantage of every fucking opportunity because in the wholeness of that moment you recognize that you have all that you need inside yourself.
There’s even a place beyond the question of “Can you be unfaithful to another, to be faithful to yourself?” where the real quagmire and paradox arises when being unfaithful to another is being unfaithful to yourself… how fucked up is that? But you and I, we can’t be unfaithful to each other unless we betray that trust and honesty. We’re beyond the introductory bullshit required classes. I know you’ve got curiosities that I can’t satisfy. But I’ve proven my mettle where that’s concerned ;)
I like this place of ours where we get together and our needs are mutually met… will you meet me there? Can you feel my warm breath on your neck, my hand on that pretty ass, my cheek to your cheek? I’m always with you, that part of me that only belongs to you. I’ll be out and about, let me hear from you if you wish. As usual, and always…
Love,
-Jake
He knew he wouldn’t hear from her, but he had to write just the same. She had predictably fallen into a post-New Orleans funk and he needed her to hear something contrary to the voice in her head. His son was at a friend’s house for the night. The static was visiting him like an aftershock from the previous weekend’s earth shaking. He would call Nicole and they would get a bite to eat, and then return to his place. “Nice tattoo” she admired as he bared himself and they headed to bed, touching it gently as it was still healing. “Thanks, it’s been a long time in the making,” is all he offered. Beyond that, she wouldn’t ask about his weekend and he wouldn’t volunteer any details, the nature of their arrangement didn’t require it, and they picked up where they had left off, enjoying each other’s company and growing closer, or as close as they could…
It was now late October, “a beautiful time in North Carolina,” which also coincided with his yearly physical and visit to Dr. “V.” While no man above forty years of age looks forward to these occasions, he generally welcomed the annual opportunity for her to tell him how healthy he was. Everything was great, except for a lump on his prostate, a nodule she called it. It had been there the previous year and she had subsequently sent him to an Urologist, a man he couldn’t forget because of the disheveled mad scientist look …and the brown stains on his white jacket. Jake’s blood-work was great, and he was of such a young age the specialist dismissed it as a 1% chance of being something of concern. This year however, “V” wasn’t going to be as understanding, and like a mother, and the prudent professional that she was, she prescribed a biopsy for the man she was genuinely fond of to eliminate any doubts.
It was mid-November before the procedure took place. Rene, bless her heart, would accompany her son’s father because he would need a driver afterward, and she would accompany him again the following week when he went to get the results. Take note that anytime your doctor won’t give you the results over the phone, it’s not a good sign. A 1mm spot would accomplish what a half-dozen or so good men hadn’t, and bring the man sober to his knees, or at least cause him to take a seat. “You must have me confused with someone else,” he blurted out as the word cancer echoed in the small room, there was some shock and disagreement in the minutes that followed and almost immediately things took on a pace and a sense of urgency beyond his control.
He’d had time to ponder the potential outcome since the possibility arose a year earlier, but the news and accompanying sensation was something he was unprepared for. He was momentarily dismantled. If coffee is a diuretic, the word cancer is a laxative, because he damn sure ’bout shit his self.
He had learned about the teenage fallacy in his developmental psych class, it was presented as an explanation for some teenage behavior. Because they are teenagers, adolescents naturally think they’ll live to be old, a valid assumption, and one we don’t want to deprive them of. But the problem arises in the accompanying misguided notion they can therefore afford to be reckless because their entire lives are ahead of them …the fallacy being that youth in itself is a defense against death. As a middle-aged teenager he was now experiencing a modified version. While as adults we have witnessed mortality and have an active awareness of our own, our fallacy is that we’ll live to that age of average life expectancy at least before dealing with it beyond that awareness. But the fallacy had abruptly succumbed to reality, as if the lifetime warranty had been violated because he hadn’t rotated the tires or had some other necessary maintenance.
His child was the first concern that crossed his mind, but Rae would be the first person he thought to tell, and the first call he made from the parking lot. She had initially expressed a desire to go with him to the visit …but he knew that to be unrealistic. It was obvious the news caught her off guard as well and he could hear the undeniable concern and sincerity in her initial, honest reaction …then a disconnect of sorts, an uncomfortable pause and awkward silence as if the reality of what a prostate cancer diagnosis comes with was racing through her mind as well, and her concern, being evident as it was towards the man she loved and cared about, was not as great as her concern for herself and her needs, and that “there ain’t enough of me to go around” tone in her unspoken words he had become painfully too familiar with, was inaudibly loud to the man who had guessed her password. It had to be deafening. Everyone he would tell afterward, was a matter of responsibility and personal business.
Rene had done more than her position as ex-wife demanded, so over the course of the next month he would drive himself to six different doctor appointments at area universities and nationally renowned Cancer Centers of Excellence. He had time to educate himself, and showed up at each one with a list of questions, statistical data, and other disease specific medical terminology and the questions he asked got ambiguous answers, and only gave rise to more questions.
The more he studied the subject, the more he realized there was an atmosphere of uncertainty, they were essentially offering treatment more out of fear of what they didn’t know, than what they did. Make no mistake, the only time Cancer is ever mentioned in a positive sense is in the daily horoscope. The word is scary, but it represents over two hundred different diseases, and they are not all created equal. Prostate cancer is especially ambiguous since it is often slow growing and inane, …more men die with it than from it. But he was unusually young, the average age of diagnosis sixty-eight, and he had a boy to raise and he wasn’t ready to forfeit his spot on the planet either.
It presented quite a dilemma for the man. For every article in a medical journal that came out espousing one theory or hypothesis, there would inevitably be an opposing or contradicting one in another publication. It was akin to politics, the politics of the prostate, surgeons and radiologists the respective republicans and democrats so to speak, and let’s not forget the independents …the research community, and Jake’s prostate appeared to be the bill before
congress. Everyone was in agreement he had prostate cancer and that it needed to be treated, except of course him.
Chunk went with him to the first appointment, but only for support, if asked he would confess he was scared shitless, those settings are as intimidating and ominous as a courtroom, your fate is being determined, but Jake was extremely calm and prepared, and his friend taken aback as he put the expert in a corner on the issue, the numbers didn’t add up, autopsies of men who died of other causes suggested there was an X-minus-10 factor, or essentially 40% of 50 year-olds had some degree of the disease, 50% of 60 year-olds and so on and so on, it rose proportionately with each decade of life, for men his age it was suggested only 1 in 1000 cases were detected, and roughly 1 in 6 or approximately 18% of those “diagnosed” died from the disease, and he had the least possible amount of the disease detectable.
As with any scientific data, the numbers were often subjective and cooked, and the abundance of information only added to the confusion and concern. He had seen three surgeons and three radiologists, and the last of the men, shut the door and told him he thought Jake to be right, and he was extremely knowledgeable, not a hack.
The absent-minded professor as Jake came to think of him, because he usually started their appointments by asking him how his wife and daughter were, knew his business, and he confirmed to Jake that in fact they were over-detecting and over-treating the disease, and that he would follow him if he chose to wait, and monitor him. Jake had not been seeking someone to tell him what he wanted to hear, but an honest perspective, and while the last thing the doctor would always say was that “Ideally we’d like to remove it …but I don’t believe that’ll be necessary just yet.” He had now found an ally in his battle.
From there on out it was as if he was Sherlock Holmes and the case of The Eighteen-Per-Cent Solution, or dilemma as it were, set out to prove his prostate innocent …the innocence project of Jake’s prostate, before its proposed execution. Prostate cancer is the Rodney Dangerfield or Vanilla Ice of cancers …considered curable, it doesn’t get any respect. What’s often not revealed in that discussion is how curable is defined in that sense …a ten-year disease free period is considered cured, until that one molecule of cancer that slipped out the backdoor as the knife was being wielded or the laser irradiating the gland resurfaces, angry at the initial onslaught, its home in the gland now gone and thus relocated and colonized elsewhere, and it has typically brought friends with it …more cancer. What is also less publicized about the statistics they promote for the high success rates is that they are very doctor dependent …the average SAT score may be 1000, but not every student is making that grade, and likewise some doctors are more experienced and have better results than others and no one seemed to know their own individual statistics, or were prepared to share.
Lastly, and perhaps what was central to this for Jake was the fact there is also little said of the consequences that follow treatment, incontinence and impotence, and Jake was uncomfortable with the idea of stuff coming out of his penis when he didn’t want it to, and nothing coming out of it when he did. You’ve heard the word cock a number of times, it’s a sexual phrase, but in many respects prostate cancer is more about pussy and the fact there wouldn’t be any in his future. Despite the propaganda, sex as he knew and enjoyed it was all but a memory after either treatment. Radiation or surgery …it amounted to a sexual lobotomy, and if you’ve gathered anything about the man during the course of this tale, it’s that he was a sexual being and he loved pussy, a lot of it, and if you remove that from the equation, that man would cease to exist.
And so he did the unthinkable, which was nothing, but it was well thought out, not out of denial but awareness, not because he was uninformed but because he was educated. That decision was not an easy decision to arrive at, to live with the knowledge that something inside of you is conspiring against you, but he appeared content with his choice. It’s not a decision that’s widely advocated, about 5% of cases, mostly elderly men who opt to go the “Watchful Waiting,” or “Active Surveillance,” route. But he had searched himself for the meaning between living and being alive, and he saw it as trading one kind of waiting for another, waiting for it to possibly progress and worsen vs. waiting for it to come back. Besides, it was his cancer, and if it were anything like him it would lack ambition and have a hard time finishing what it started.
He was essentially saying that it wasn’t going to be a problem, but the knowledge it was there, and potentially meant to do him harm might be difficult for the Obsessive/Compulsive man, except it changed him instead. The static that had always lacked a purpose, a reason for its existence, found one in the cancer and in the process had strangely given it balance. But this is not a story about cancer, or those personal choices, only how it was a piece of the puzzle that both clouded the picture, and yet brought clarity to it as well.
At first there was a great need to tell others, but that soon passed. There’s only one thing worse than telling people bad news and having them not care, and that’s having them pretend to, and the cancer’s appearance on the scene had been like a litmus test for friends. It had shown the true colors of some folks, some people ran towards him …and some others ran the opposite direction as fast as they could. He hated to break it to Nicole, it seemed extremely heavy for the casualness of their relationship, but she was in that group of people that ran toward him, and she would be there waiting for him in the weeks to come.
She came to see him the weekend before Christmas, and for the man who felt his sexuality and masculinity threatened she would give herself to him in a most loving and reaffirming way, erasing all doubts to his value as a man, or her feelings for him. In the morning she awoke to find him staring at her as if studying her. “What is it?” She said, halfway embarrassed, halfway concerned. “Nothing,” he replied reassuringly, moving the hair from her face as if posing her, “I’m just sketching a mental picture of you, now pretend to be sleeping so I can finish it.” If Rae was the woman he would have designed for himself, Nicole was the woman the people who knew him best would have designed and desired for their friend …and he couldn’t help but notice the resemblance.
She didn’t know about Rae, but she knew in that way women do. She had appreciated his honesty and respectfulness of her. What concerned her more was the path he seemed to be leaning towards with his health. It bothered her and she told him so, told him she would still be there, you won’t find a kinder, more wonderful gift in the entirety of this tale.
For single adults with children, meeting the kids is like a teenager meeting the parents, except in reverse order, it’s the last thing you do relationally. After the informal screening process that occurs, it’s an indication of a relationship moving in a more serious direction when you invite someone into your child/children’s lives, and Nicole did just that. It was Christmas, only a month after he had learned of his illness, they had been regularly involved for four months now. It was that point where grownups do those things, and the point at which he had historically bailed, become the “asshole that didn’t show up at the picnic with her friends, the Holiday dinner with the family, or who simply stopped calling,” it was that inevitable moment of truth, and he didn’t blink, but politely declined.
Her intuition told her that he probably would, but it was on a proverbial check-down list as she was heading towards a conclusion of her own. It wasn’t as easy as it usually was for our man, but these were difficult times and while he wanted to be selfish and keep her in his life, that ace in the hole, he couldn’t mislead her.
When all was said and done he wanted to see the woman he had grown close to and extremely fond of, but he needed to see the woman he loved. And he and Rae had made plans to get together the holiday weekend. It would be the first time since the diagnosis. It was the last time he’d see the woman he called “pebble.”
She left sometime during the course of the next evening while he slept. He found a note the next morning, it would appear s
he had brought it with her. Unusual perhaps, but like the individual who had deservingly asked for a promotion, yet anticipated its courteous refusal she had come prepared to tender her resignation.
It read:
I was optimistic for a time, there were some nice moments and the potential was there. You’re good for a woman’s ego you know, not a pretty boy but a beautiful man. I appreciated the honesty, it’s rare these days. She’s a lucky woman, I hope what you have with her is what you need it to be. My grandmother would say this to friends when they parted, so I say it to you now, “May you go in a good way, and love and happiness follow.” Take care of yourself. Don’t bother to call, we both know you were never really here …even when you were.
And the rolling stone gathers no pebble… She didn’t sign it …just a red lipstick kiss. Chunk wept when Jake eventually shared it with him, and a guy called “Chunk” don’t weep. If he’d known at the time how things were going to unfold he probably would’ve tried to knock some sense into his friend, but he was in such a fragile state it might have ruined the boy, he was already fractured. She had brought peace to his life at a troubled time when he needed it, and he would miss them both. To be sure, you could find the note alongside that yellow barrette …and his other amorous keepsakes.
As for the woman, he wouldn’t know where to file her, “N” or “P” …and maybe he wasn’t ready to. He didn’t have the accompanying sense of relief this time, but began to tremble, an indication perhaps of the uncertainty in the decision he had made, or that had been made for him… As if the low fuel indicator on the dash had lit up telling him he had 15 miles left in the tank and he was 30 miles past the last station that boasted “Last Gas For 60 Miles.” You do the math. We’ve all heard there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely. It wasn’t apparent just yet, but that difference is somewhere about here.