THE FUNNY THING ABOUT BLADDER CANCER

I wasn't surprised to see an attractive young woman step into the exam room. I knew that before the doctor came in, there would be somebody else first to take my blood pressure and ask all of those personal questions again. She quickly finished that then said. "OK, let me explain what is going to happen."

Now I was sitting in a urology clinic to have the doctor shove a camera into an orifice one would not normally expect to accommodate a camera. I pretty well knew what was going to happen. But she had a job to do, and far be it from me to thwart the industry of a dedicated professional, so I let her go.

"OK Mr. Wheatley," she began. "You'll need to drop your trousers and underwear to your ankles, then lay face up on the exam table. You can cover yourself with this sheet. I'll step out until you're ready. Then I'll prepare the area with betadine and inject lidocaine into your urethra."

I remember seeing her lips continue to move after that last sentence, and I vaguely remember sounds like human speech. But there was nothing in the form of information reaching my brain. It was too busy screaming inside my skull, "WHO'S going to do WHAT?

I felt strange enough even acknowledging to such a young woman that I possessed those parts. I thought I'd taken quite a step being able to discuss their function in a small, academic way. But now, she was going to actually treat them. Fortunately, this was such an emotional overload that I just went numb. I again began to discern actual communication in the sounds she was making.

"I'll step out now. You get ready on the table," she told me. Then true to her word, she left the room. I don't know why.

I dropped my pants, then lay back on the table clutching the sheet like a life preserver. A second later there was a quick rap on the door and she called, "Ready?"

"Yes ma'am," I timidly responded.

She stepped around the table pulling on a pair of latex gloves, then lifted the sheet. And there I lay, sheet up, pants down, while a woman younger than my daughter surveyed the area. I can assure you that nobody would have been the least bit impressed with anything found there at that moment. I couldn't have been less impressive sitting in a tub of crushed ice. I consoled myself with the thought that this would not be the first scared to death, little piece of malfunctioning equipment, desperately trying to hide she'd have seen. Nor was it likely to be the last. And with the next victim, I'd just become one in a forgettable procession. At this point, I expected her to go into cold, clinical, robot mode. But that's not what happened.

I remember when my father-in-law passed away. He had been confined to the hospital for quite a while. I have twin nieces, about my daughters age. One of them became a nurse. I remember being fascinated, watching the girl I still thought of as a child switch to nurse mode. Suddenly, where one of my daughter's play mates had stood, was a competent, professional nurse. But in this case, mingled with the professional care, was the love for a beloved grandfather. It was an incredible mix of confident, competent medical care delivered with a tenderness that exceeds my ability to put into words. I remember thinking how fortunate Mr. Greenhill was to have her there.

That memory came to me in this moment because this young woman was doing almost the same thing. I don't remember any of the actual words she used. I don't remember her tone of voice. I do remember her looking into my eyes as she asked how I was doing, or if I was hurting. That's odd, because I remember definitely planning to not make eye contact. In some way, she conveyed genuine concern with out demeaning pity. I would have been surprised for a seasoned nurse, calling on a long lifetime of experience to pull that off. How someone so young did it, I'll never know. But I don't have to understand it to be grateful for it.

She finished what ever it was she was doing, then gently replaced the sheet. "The doctor will be right in," she assured me. Unbeknownst to her, the doctor was tied up and would not be right in. As much as I wanted this over with, I dreaded what was to come too much to be able to wish he'd hurry up. As I lay there with conflicting emotions, another factor soon began to make itself apparent giving me cause to reconsider my strategy for that day.

I'd made the 74 mile trip on this 105 degree day by motorcycle. There were several reasons for that. One was gas. At 3-and-a-half dollars a gallon, I saved quite a bit by taking the bike. Another reason was that I rarely pass up a chance for a ride. Unless there's a compelling reason to take a larger vehicle, I'll usually go on the bike. And finally, I don't know how many more rides I'll get to take. While I had not pulled it out and looked it over real close, somewhere in the back of my mind was the idea that I might not be able to ride much longer. So, 105 or not, I'd taken the bike.

I'd been told to drink 2 quarts of water 40 minutes before my appointment. I filled up an insulated quart  water bottle with crushed ice and water and slung it around my neck before heading out. By the time I got to Shreveport, it was empty. I checked in at the desk, then filled the bottle from a water fountain and drained it again. I did this three more times before finally being called to the exam room.

By the time I was making my way down the hall toward the exam room, my eyes were floating. I'm sure I'd sweated out a lot of water on my ride over, but that 5 quarts I'd downed in the last hour-and-a-half had apparently been more than enough to top me off. Now the excess was demanding release. I knew that I was going to be called upon for a specimen, so in just a few more minutes blessed relief would be at hand. Sure enough, the exam room shared a bathroom with another exam room. The lady who escorted me here instructed me to go inside and provide the sample. I quickly filled the thimble sized specimen cup, then began to seriously tax the clinic's sewerage system. I eventually finished and somewhat to my astonishment neither ruptured the pipes nor washed away the buildings foundation.

But shortly after leaving the rest room, I again felt the waters building. Absent from my previous narrative was that I made one more pit stop before dropping my trousers and laying on the table. I figured that would surely get me through the ordeal to come. And without the doctor's delay, it might have.

My kidneys, apparently excited by the sudden attention of a renal specialist, were determined to put on a good show. They were moving water at a rate that would have done Niagara Falls proud. My poor diseased bladder was less ambitious. It was, in fact quite adamant in its displeasure. By the time the doctor arrived, there was no hope that I could make it through the exam.

"Sorry doc," I said, " but I've got to go."

"That's alright." he assured me patiently. "You go ahead."

I slid from the table and modestly clutched the sheet around me as I shuffled to the bathroom, pants still around my ankles. I finished my business and returned to the exam room where the doc gave me an apologetic look and said, "I'm sorry, but we'll have to prep you again."

The attractive young woman began pulling on another pair of gloves.

My doctor's name is Spinazze, pronounced Spin-oz-zee. For some reason, my brain insists on reading it spin-uh-zee. Every time I call the clinic or check in, I wind up stammering, "Spin uh, uh spin uh," until somebody will helpful offer "Spin-oz-zee?"

"Yes," I'll reply embarrassed. This guy has touched me in ways no other human, including my wife, has. Under normal circumstances, dinner and a movie would be the minimum prerequisites for such contact. On second thought, make that jewelry. Expensive jewelry. You'd think I could at least remember his name.

I called upon a technique I'd learned in Dale Carnegie where you picture the person in an amusing situation with some mnemonic visual cue. In this case, I used my neighbors big black labrador. Her name is Oz, but of course we all call her Ozzy. So I just pictured the doc, spinning like a ballerina holding a big black labrador over his head. I figured the slippers and a tutu would have been overkill, so he was in scrubs in my mental image.

But standing at the end of the table now, he wasn't holding a dog. The object was black and knowing what he was about to do with it, it looked huge. But it didn't look at all friendly. I laid back and looked at the ceiling. He said something. I don't remember the exact words, but it was basically a warning that he was about to start and that I might feel a little discomfort. If one would describe being impaled on a Roman pike as a little uncomfortable, then yeah, I felt a little discomfort. When the good Lord designed this particular passage, it was his intention that it conduct only liquids. And those only in one direction.

Now it was suffering a solid object traveling the wrong way. It was not happy, and it was lighting up my neural pathways letting me know that it was't happy. The doc apologized and assured me he was almost there. He then shoved another 20 or 30 feet of that thing into me. There was a pounding in my skull that I'm sure was the end of that thing trying to exit the top of my head. Then he pulled it out and said, "OK, That's it."

The whole ordeal lasted less than 30 seconds. It was intense, but it was thankfully brief. Part of it involved filling my bladder with sterile water. I now had to hit the restroom again.

"You can use the sheet to clean yourself up," the doctor told me. "Then we'll talk." Then he and the young lady left the room.

Then we'll talk. I wasn't prepared for the impact those three words had. I wasn't sure I wanted to talk. My knees felt wobbly as I shuffled toward the bathroom yet again. Up until this point, I hadn't considered that he would have things to tell me after the procedure. I had concentrated on the mechanics of it to the point of ignoring the reason for it. With the exam complete, there was now nothing between me and the news to come. Suddenly having a camera shoved into such a small sensitive hole was no longer the scary part.

I tried to concentrate on removing the gelatinous goo covering my groin area. Most of it seem to be a clear substance, but parts of it were streaked with a reddish yellow material. The linen sheet would only smear it into successively thinner layers. I couldn't seem to get that last little bit off. My bladder insisted I was clean enough though, and it was time to take care of business.

Something interesting happened here. My bladder dumped about 50cc of sterile water. But my urethra passed about a gallon-and-a-half of flaming acid. The shock that paralyzed my upper torso and constricted my throat turned what should have been a window shattering scream into a sickly gurgle. Struggling to retain consciousness I recalled the doctors' warning that for the next day or two when I urinate, I might experience a little discomfort.

We had the talk after I got dressed. I've had several talks since then. They all sort of run together to the point I'm no longer sure when I was told what. As I left that day, I had an appointment to be back in four days for a day surgery where the doctor would go in through my urethra and remove a tumor he'd seen. If it was confined to the lining of my bladder, that would be it. I'd be done. If he discovered during the surgery it had spread any further, then we'd talk about what came next.

Back on the Valkyrie headed for Texarkana, I had almost a two hour ride to digest what had just happened to me. I may have fudged the speed limit a time or two hitting 80 mph or better as I circled around Shreveport on I-220. The furnace hot blast washing over me somehow felt good. For the next two hours I was a biker again. The frailty I'd felt dropped away with a twist of the wrist. The 1500cc flat six howled my defiance through the six into six cobra pipes, and it seemed that surely not even the big C could catch me while mounted on my powerful phat lady. I knew it was only an illusion, but it was one I came to cherish more with each subsequent trip.

The roughly four hours I spent in transit on each trip gave me time to come to grips with what was happening. An opportunity to build some perspective and start coming to grips with it emotionally. Riding the bike has always been soothing for me, and now the drone of  the engine and the wind in my face helped calm the fear waiting in the wings for an unguarded moment to pounce.

As I rode, I reflected on how I had come to this place in my life. May of 2011 was the beginning of a record hot summer in Texas. I spent the last week of that month camping at Dinosaur Valley State Park near Glen Rose. I just couldn't stay hydrated enough to knock what felt like a reoccurring bladder infection. The last contraction as my bladder emptied was becoming increasingly painful. What's more, I would feel as though I needed to relieve myself, even after urinating. I also discovered that soft drinks made it much worse and restricted myself to water.

Some time in early June, back at work only a few days, I dumped the first bucket of blood. I was on my way home, and decided to make the trip with an empty bladder. I stopped by the men's room before leaving the building. Standing at the urinal, something felt different. As the stream began, that too was a  different sensation from anything I'd ever felt before. I glanced down to see an opaque, bright red stream splashing onto the porcelain.

"Well this certainly does not look like a positive development," I remember thinking.

The stream finally slowed to a trickle, leaving the inside of the urinal stained pink from the splatter. It took several flushes before it was again white. But try as I may, I couldn't seem the shake that last crimson drop from myself. No matter how vigorous my efforts, one more drop would appear waiting to stain my clothes. I finally realized I was going to need a piece of toilette tissue, which meant a trip to a stall. Just as I turned away from the urinal, legs bowed to keep blood droplets off my pant legs, and equipment still dangling from my open fly, the door burst open and a couple of guys from the press came in. I was spared from a rather awkward scene by the fact that they were talking to each other and hadn't noticed me. I quickly twirled back to the urinal and taking a sigh, put every thing away and left. It didn't really matter. Within a couple of weeks, every piece of underwear I had would be stained.

My iPhone was in my hand as I exited onto the back parking lot. I called my General Practitioner and made an appointment. It usually takes a week or so to get in. I was surprised to get an appointment for the next day. Flipping over to my calendar, I noticed that I had a chiropractor appointment for the same time. I made an executive decision at that point and canceled the chiropractor appointment. I figured that until I knew why I had blood coming out of my pee-pee, I didn't need some guy twisting me up like a pretzel and cracking my bones, or anything else.

By the time I submitted a specimen, my urine looked clear again. However the lab detected blood in the sample. The doctor suggested it could be a bladder infection, and put me on antibiotics to see if that would clear it up. We scheduled an appointment for two weeks later. If there was still blood in the urine, he'd set me up with a urologists.

Throughout the next week and a half, I'd clear up for a couple of days, then go pink for a day or two. A couple of days before my appointment, I called and told the doctor that I cold still see blood. He said he would have his staff go ahead and make an appoint for me with the plumber. A few days later, I got a call from Column and Carney. It was as educational as it was shocking.

You could say my troubles with them started a couple of years ago, with my attempt to stay healthy. I'd been feeling a fluttering in my chest. Almost like butterflies were flying around in there. I'd also turn beet red and my ears would feel hot. I'd get a deafening ringing in my ears. I was 54 at the time. The same age my father died of a massive heart attack. I don't want to come off here as a Nervous Nelly, but with that family history, I figured those symptoms deserved at least a look. My General Practitioner set me up for a  Cardiolite Stress Test. This involves hooking up several million wires, then having me lay on my back with arms over my head while balancing on a 2x4. The position they wanted was easily achievable by dislocating both shoulders, and forgoing breathing for the 20 minutes I was required to lay half in the maw of some machine that was spinning things around me while it decided whether or not to finish eating me. This was before the "Transformers" movie, but looking back, that machine must have been the inspiration for the one that was sucking up all of the good guys.

Surviving the transformer, I was then dragged across the room to a treadmill. As the the test continued, they would raise the upper end of the treadmill making me run up hill. They did this several times, increasing the angle to the point I would soon need spider powers to stay aboard.

Through out this test the specialist kept warning me not to pass out, to let them know if I was becoming too fatigued. They didn't want me falling off. As I ran, they scrutinized the machines into which the wires they had attached to were hooked. They would mutter to each other, then check off items on a clipboard.

Some time during the test, they injected the radioactive marker. This is a completely safe substance, brought into the room in a lead cask and handled by the specialist, now wearing radiation shielding, with a pair of tongs. Somehow, the opening scene of  "The Simpson's," with Homer at work came to mind. I don't think I saw a green glow.

"You might feel a slight burning," I was warned as the completely safe radioactive substance was injected into my veins.

I kept running. It became important to me to finish. To "pass the test." It seemed that I was trying to outrun heart disease. That by my endurance, I could stave off bad news. I still had a few more minutes  in me when the finally shut the thing down.

As I finished, the cardiologist looked at me and said, "The only other person to completely finish this was a marathon runner in here for a required physical. Why the heck did your doctor send you over here?"

It turns out the chest fluttering was esophageal spasms caused by acid reflux. The red face, blotching on my neck and chest, the burning and ringing in my ears, was a histamine flush. My heart is in great shape. What a relief.

A few months later I was back in the doctors office for a leg injury. He had been telling me I needed to get a colonoscopy and brought it up again on this visit. I told him to go ahead and set it up.

I won't go into the details of this procedure because I don't remember them. My experience was drinking some nasty stuff the day before, wearing an embarrassing outfit the day of the procedure, laying on a table getting ready for it, then being told it was over with. As horrible as the expectation was, the experience was far easier than the Cardiolite.

The results came back fine and it appeared I was an exceptionally healthy individual. If I didn't live forever, it wouldn't be colon cancer or a heart condition that got me. If things don't go well, it's strange to think that what will get me may be not reading my insurance policy.

The two tests were done several months apart. My insurance company will only pay for one of these "elective" test in a calendar year. They refused to pay for the colonoscopy. It looks like I owe $1,200 to the doctor and $1,200 to the lab. I set up payment schedules and started sending in checks. A short time later Column and Carney sent me a past due notice. I checked and found where I'd sent the checks to the lab. I called them and told them I'd been sending payments. The lady said she'd make note of it. This happened about twice more, with me calling them each time. I'd get the same result, with the lady apologizing and saying she'd make note of it. The bills from Column and Carney eventually stopped only to be replaced by a phone call from a collection agency. Needless to say, I was livid. When I told the guy I'd flippin well been sending payments in, he quizzed me about how they were made out, where and when I'd sent them. Yes. I'd been paying the lab, but I also owed the clinic for the use of its facilities. The total bill wasn't $2,400, but $3,600. My red face this time had nothing to do with a histamine flush. Subdued and chastised, I set up a payment schedule and started sending checks to Column and Carney's collection agency as well.

Fast forward now to a few days after my GP said he'd set up an appointment for me with a urologists. I get a call from Column and Carney telling me that my doctor wants to set up an appointment, however, I still have a balance with them of $350.00. The lady was very apologetic, but said their accounting department couldn't allow me to incur any more debt with them until I reduced the current balance, and that the $50 per month we'd previously agreed too wasn't sufficient. They wanted $100, down, and a $100 payment. The next payment would was due within a couple of weeks. So I was basically going to have to cough up $300 in a couple of weeks. Embarrassed that I was in such a financial bind, and stunned that I was being denied medical care, I told the lady I'd see what I could do and get back to her.

Reviewing my finances, I realized that my only hope of getting the money involved a ski mask, a hand gun and a liquor store. Ruling out that option, I took the only one other course of action available to me. That was to pretty much just cross my fingers and hope it wasn't serious.

I would go a few days without seeing blood. I'd convince myself that it had probably been an infection and I'd finally gotten over it. Then the crimson tide would return. And I'm not even an Alabama fan.

I'd try to convince myself that the relapse was due to some factor that I could control. I'd been raking leaves and gotten hot the day before, so maybe that was why the blood returned. On one occasion, I'd indulged in a favored soft drink. Maybe that was the reason for the relapse. Maybe if I was careful to not get too hot, or to not drink soft drinks. Maybe if I'd wear purple polk-a-dots and hop in a clockwise circle on my left leg. Deep in my gut, I knew this was all superstitious nonsense. But I had to try something.

And then it got a little worse. One morning as I attempted to relieve myself I had difficulty getting the stream started. Just as I began to realize that something was blocking my urethra, it came loose and passed through, landing with a splat in the urinal. It was an oblong object, dark brown in color and covered in pits or small holes. It looked for all the world like a slice of liver. I'm not sure what shocked me more. The strange sensation of the thing passing through my penis, or the sight of some part of my innards laying there in the urinal.

As a hunter who's cleaned his own game, I've got a decent idea of what most critters, including humans, look like on the inside. I couldn't see a way a piece of liver could get into my bladder, so I quickly dismissed that as the potential source. But could it be a piece of a disintegrating kidney? I had to know. Bending close with my face almost in the urinal, I began to poke at the thing with something I picked up from the floor. I don't remember what my tool was, but it was stiff enough to use as a probe.

This was taking place in a restroom at work. It wasn't the same one I'd almost been caught exposing myself in earlier. This one was in the news room. The one the reporters used. I knew if somebody came in while I had my face inches from the porcelain, it was going to look strange. I didn't care. I needed to know just what it was laying there.

Probing away, I again called on my experience cleaning game and was able to identify the object. It was a blood clot. Not the hard kind that forms when exposed to air like you see on the outside of a wound or bandage, This was a gelatinous clot that forms immersed in liquid. The coloring and surface pitting was caused by the acidic environment where it formed in my bladder. Though that first one was by far the largest, it was not the last blood clot I would pass. They got to be quite common.

I was drinking a lot of water to keep myself flushed out. But this now caused me to have to go to the bathroom more often. I didn't want to have to explain the chunky blood in the bowl or urinal to a coworker. It's bad enough to have a problem like this. But if somebody started asking questions about what the doctor said, or what I was doing about it, it would get even more embarrassing. I didn't want to admit that I couldn't afford it. I earned a decent wage, and should have been able to deal with this. I was in this boat as a result of my own irresponsibility. I didn't want to have to admit that, nor did I want to have to outright lie. The best way to handle this was to be sure the conversation never came up. I got quite adept at catching the restrooms unoccupied. I always had a piece of toilette paper in my pocket to wipe away any blood spatter. I was able to keep anybody at work from finding out.

But there was one person I couldn't keep it from. About the time I found out I wasn't be going to see a specialist at Column and Carney, I had one of my longest clear stretches. So when my wife asked me about it, I honestly told her that it looked like the problem had cleared up. Later, when the blood came back, I just didn't mention it to her. I built a wall of denial, excusing every relapse as the result of some external factor that I would avoid in the future. As long as she didn't ask again, I wouldn't mention it. If she did, then that would be it. One thing I knew of an absolute certainty after 32 years of marriage was that I could not lie to her. Once she locked those lovely green eyes on me and asked a direct question, there was no chance of my deceiving her. I've only tried a few times in our lives together. And I can say those were the result of my misguided macho attempts to spare her from some unpleasantness. But once her suspicions are aroused, I've never been able to pull off a lie. She can see right through me. So the goal was to not raise those suspicions. Unfortunately, every nocturnal trip to the bathroom was an opportunity for exposure. I was very careful to be sure there were no tell tell red spots left once I'd finished. But after several weeks, one managed to elude me. She found it the next morning, and that was it.

I explained to her that I couldn't get in to see a specialist at Column and Carney, to which she said, "Well call Texarkana Family Practice and have them set you up with somebody in Shreveport or Little Rock."

I'm sure it was an interesting image. Me standing there in the bathroom early one morning in my blood stained underwear, blinking my eyes in the early morning light and wondering just why that idea never occurred to me. I called them as soon as the office was open and soon had an appointment scheduled in Shreveport with Dr. Spin uh uh spin uh, a urologist.

Sharon asked if I wanted her to go with me. I was able to honestly say no. I was sure that this first visit would be a shake your hand, what seems to be the problem, type of meeting. Any tests would be scheduled for another visit. If she went with me, we'd go in the caviler. If I went by myself, I'd take the Valkyrie. I love my wife with all of my heart and soul and treasure each moment spent with her. But not even her presence could make four hours in a caviler equal to four hours on a Valkyrie. Thank you sweetheart, but I'll just go by myself.

The first meeting went mostly as I expected. There was one small surprise. I don't know why I didn't realize that a urologist was going to check me for testicular cancer. But of course he did, and the first small piece of my dignity got chipped away. I gave him a brief run down of what had been happening, He ask some questions and I answered. He then set me up to come back and have a cat scan of my bladder and kidneys. He also explained that he would run a camera into my bladder through the urethra to see what it looked like. Depending on what he found from these tests, we'd discuss the next course of action.

I headed home with out any real information, but strangely relieved. Seeing the doctor and having tests scheduled gave me a sense of accomplishment. At least I was doing something now, fighting back.

A source of stress I hadn't really known was there was suddenly gone. I called Sharon, as promised, before leaving. I gassed up, then enjoyed one of the most relaxed and leisurely rides I can remember in a long time.

Over the next four days a few things started to take shape in my mind. I knew we were in a tight spot financially. Even though I have insurance and long term disability, there would be deductibles and co-payments. We were living paycheck to paycheck. If this turned into some sort of extended treatment, I wasn't sure where the money would come from. We had assets enough to get us back on good footing, but they weren't liquid. It would take time to convert them to cash. It was time to get started. But until then, things were tight and we were pinching pennies. As time went on, the financial pressure became more of a strain than the medical issue.

On the day I returned to Shreveport for tests, we decided for me to go by myself on the bike. Sharon asked me if I wanted her to go with me, but I said no. There were several reasons for that. One was that if things got more serious, she'd need to get in all of the work time she could before having to take time off. Secondly, going by myself, I'd be on the bike and using less gas. Thirdly, and strangely, the most important reason was that, even riding through 105 degree weather, the time on the motorcycle was therapeutic. I was beginning to suspect that I soon might not be riding for a while. I didn't want to pass up any chance for time in the saddle.

So four days after the first visit, I found myself sitting in an exam room, waiting on the urologists. I wasn't surprised to see an attractive young woman step into the exam room.