The Bullet
by Andrew Meblin
I had just returned home from a brief shopping trip after a diagnostic imaging session at Providence Newberg Hospital – CT and ultrasound/ekg – and my phone notified me that I had a message from the medical providers on the iPhone app “My Chart.” That was fast, I thought. The imaging had been performed just a few hours earlier. I opened the message and read the words to dread, “mass” and “metastatic disease.”
Earlier in 2025 I had produced a bit of urine for my medical professionals. Notice the euphemisms, “medical professionals” and “produced.” In years past I would have written, “I peed in a cup for my doctor.” In the report on My Chart referencing the urine trace amounts of blood were noted, and it was suggested to follow-up on that. I then contacted my doctor’s office and was issued a referral to a urologist. Soonest appointment was in April.
Doctor Tycast presents like a TV doctor, handsome to a fault, tall, with a great smile. And he projects confidence. He was the one who requested CT and ultrasound examination of my bladder, liver, and kidneys. The report featured the depressing words in paragraph one; metastatic and mass. Cysts were noted in one kidney and in my liver. Great.
Anyone who knows me well is aware of the degree to which I am a hypochondriac, readily complaining about aches and pain. Many times I have suspected the presence of cancer in various parts of my body. Other ailments have floated through my worry way. One time I even thought I had a hair growing out of one of my teeth. I know, not cancer, but still.
The follow-up with Dr. Tycast included a “scope” of the bladder. In this procedure, with the simple sounding name, a small television camera is shoved up the urethra into the sack of urine. Never mind that the urethra is a bit sensitive, a medical assistant numbs the path of least resistance into the bladder with a giant swab coated with come ‘caine derivative. Of course, the swab goes into the un-numbed pee-pee, so not something to enjoy, for most people anyway.
Then the numbed penis was held in the vise-like grip of the medical assistant, in this case and young woman, but who cares, right? And the TV camera was driven home, so to speak, where Dr. Tycast saw it. The “mass.”
“Uh-huh, there it is. Wanna see it?” My eyes were clenched shut, but I could sense his smile. I cracked open one eye and peeked at the monitor. And, yes, there it was, looking like a hot air balloon. Swell, no pun intended.
“My surgery day is Thursday (it was Tuesday) but they (the hospital at Newberg) have probably already given away my spots (open time periods for surgery), so we’ll go in next Thursday.”
That meant I had nine days to wait to find out how badly the cancer had spread. I react poorly to change. I don’t even like going on long trips, especially if it means leaving the country. But for some reason I found myself readily accepting the possibility of being diagnosed with inoperable cancer. I did not look forward to months sickening chemotherapy, or painful sensations as my organs gave in one by one. But death did not frighten me, for some reason.
Surgery day came and proceeded unremarkably, and after a lengthy couple of hours devoted to shrugging off the drugs required to knock me out, I was discharged.
The first dozen times I urinated the pain was intense. This was brief, but nothing I ever want to go through again. And the blood in the urine was more than spooky. Clots of blood passed, and glared at me from the toilet bowl.
The pathology report came as excellent news! The tumor was non-invasive and of the low-risk type, presenting all the signs of a bladder cancer, not one that originated elsewhere in my large body. A follow-up appointment with Dr. Tycast reaffirmed the optimism I felt. A bullet dodged. A weight gone.
After two weeks and a few days, the blood faded away, and then I began to feel guilty for my previous state of miserableness. The thousands, or is it millions, of people who go through multiple surgeries, countless procedures, seared by radiation or poisoned by chemicals every year, including one reader of this ‘stack. Sure, cancer treatments have become more effective and far less destructive to the human body over the years, but what I had to go through is but a grain of sand to some cancer patients’ Rock of Gibraltar, relatively nothing.
The Big C scare knocked me off of Substack, heck, almost all writing ceased as I chicken-littled around. But now I am back, albeit with a self-serving, auto-pitying tale that is too embarrassing to post, but here goes…
(There is another reason for my shirking my Substack responsibility, far more embarrassing than the above confession. It will be revealed soon.)
Ongoing well wishes to you 💕