Nasopharyngeal carcinoma
(SAY THAT FIVE TIMES FAST)
NP carcinoma (close-up)
If you can pronounce that first word and/or you have a vague idea what 'carcinoma' means, you're in slightly better shape than I was in April, 2005. A seventeen-year-old in his final year of high-school, I was starting to look forward to the end of the semester and the beginning of the rest of my life. I had a girlfriend that meant the world to me, a close group of friends that did everything together, and until that point, my health.
To the dismay of my parents, I never really applied myself in school, but I was beginning to get excited about the prospect of college. It was a fresh start. I'd go to Camden County first, test the waters, get the grades and spend less money, and once the two years were up, I'd then transfer to a four-year school and finish my degree. At that point, I assumed it was going to be something in Engineering -- all throughout high-school, I took Drafting and Computer Aided Design classes that challenged me in ways Math and Science never did.
At the time, I had no idea what the words "nasopharyngeal carcinoma" meant.
All that changed on Easter Sunday, when that girlfriend I loved so much found a bump on the side of my neck. I showed my parents, showed my friends and classmates, showed my family physician, showed the nice folks at South Jersey Radiology that took my CT scan, showered my physician again, and lastly, showed a doctor named Greg Halligan. Turns out, he was the one I should have gone to first. Halligan works as an Oncologist at Saint Christopher's Children's Hospital, and on the day that I met him, he delayed a flight out to California where he was attending a conference in order to examine me. My parents and I rushed over the Betsy Ross into Philadelphia, sat in a waiting from full of parents with dark circles under their eyes, full of children connected to IV poles or wearing hats or sporting Mr. Clean style haircuts, and we waited for our name to be called.
To the dismay of my parents, I never really applied myself in school, but I was beginning to get excited about the prospect of college. It was a fresh start. I'd go to Camden County first, test the waters, get the grades and spend less money, and once the two years were up, I'd then transfer to a four-year school and finish my degree. At that point, I assumed it was going to be something in Engineering -- all throughout high-school, I took Drafting and Computer Aided Design classes that challenged me in ways Math and Science never did.
At the time, I had no idea what the words "nasopharyngeal carcinoma" meant.
All that changed on Easter Sunday, when that girlfriend I loved so much found a bump on the side of my neck. I showed my parents, showed my friends and classmates, showed my family physician, showed the nice folks at South Jersey Radiology that took my CT scan, showered my physician again, and lastly, showed a doctor named Greg Halligan. Turns out, he was the one I should have gone to first. Halligan works as an Oncologist at Saint Christopher's Children's Hospital, and on the day that I met him, he delayed a flight out to California where he was attending a conference in order to examine me. My parents and I rushed over the Betsy Ross into Philadelphia, sat in a waiting from full of parents with dark circles under their eyes, full of children connected to IV poles or wearing hats or sporting Mr. Clean style haircuts, and we waited for our name to be called.
My cancer is up there under the Embryonal, to the right of the word "Duct." In very, very tiny letters.
I knew what it was without knowing that carcinoma meant cancer. As soon as I showed my parents the bump, I told them what it was. They brushed my declaration off, but I was right. Halligan was an oncologist -- and even though they didn't tell me what that word meant, and I had no reason to know beforehand -- I knew what he was. He told me he was the "Bumps Doctor", and he asked me all sorts of questions. "Were you recently scratched by a cat," featured a lot in those early days, but there was one question I remember most of all.
With a serious look, the Bumps Doctor started pressing against my throat, telling me to cough, asking me to say "Aah," and he went through a list of questions I'm sure are normal procedure. He asked if I had any nosebleeds, and I told him no. He asked if if I'd had any earaches, and I told him yes. He asked if I'd been vomiting at all recently, and I said no, but I had been nauseous.
The one question I remember? Doc asked if I'd had bad breath recently. Not seeing how that related to the golfball on the side of my neck, and concerned that he was commenting on my current lack of fresh breath, I told him with a stutter, "Um, n-no, but I did just eat a bag of Sour Cream and Onion chips . . . sorry."
He looked first at me, then over his shoulder at the other doctors gathered around. They were all smiling. Doc turned back to me, shook his head and smiled, and then told me no matter what happened, everything was going to be all right if I kept my sense of humor. Then he told me if I was ever going to ask my parents for a muscle car or something expensive, now was the time to do it before they figured out nothing was wrong with me.
I listened to him on both counts, but I never got the expensive car. I did, however, keep that sense of humor, and it carried me through the next year and a half through treatment.
With a serious look, the Bumps Doctor started pressing against my throat, telling me to cough, asking me to say "Aah," and he went through a list of questions I'm sure are normal procedure. He asked if I had any nosebleeds, and I told him no. He asked if if I'd had any earaches, and I told him yes. He asked if I'd been vomiting at all recently, and I said no, but I had been nauseous.
The one question I remember? Doc asked if I'd had bad breath recently. Not seeing how that related to the golfball on the side of my neck, and concerned that he was commenting on my current lack of fresh breath, I told him with a stutter, "Um, n-no, but I did just eat a bag of Sour Cream and Onion chips . . . sorry."
He looked first at me, then over his shoulder at the other doctors gathered around. They were all smiling. Doc turned back to me, shook his head and smiled, and then told me no matter what happened, everything was going to be all right if I kept my sense of humor. Then he told me if I was ever going to ask my parents for a muscle car or something expensive, now was the time to do it before they figured out nothing was wrong with me.
I listened to him on both counts, but I never got the expensive car. I did, however, keep that sense of humor, and it carried me through the next year and a half through treatment.
Good news, everyone!Masturbation can prevent prostate cancer! news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/30… #twitterive
— Dave Lucas (@sellar_door) February 28, 2012