Russ’s Ravings: The Doctor Called To Tell Me I Have A Tumor

Editor's note: The following is Patch Field Editor Russ Crespolini's, hopefully, weekly column. It is reflective of his opinion alone.

“I’m sorry, what?”

I asked the doctor a second time because a sound not unlike the ocean was swirling around in my ears. I could feel my cheeks flushing and getting hot. My pulse was racing and my palms were getting sweaty.

“The results show there is a growth on either the adrenal glands or the pituitary gland,” she replied.

I struggled to process what I was being told. A growth? What the heck does that mean? A growth like...

“Like a tumor?”

“Yes.”

A tumor. Well they can be benign or...

“Could this be cancer?”

“Yes.”

“So this...isn’t just take a pill and it goes away. This is serious.”

“Yes, it’s serious.”

“[Expletive deleted] me.”

I had considered several things before that phone call with the doctor that could explain what I had been dealing with for the better part of a year. And quite possibly for longer. I thought that my lethargy, irritability, moodiness and difficulty concentrating were coming from being pre-diabetic. Or maybe from some other growing-older ailment that threw my body chemistry out of whack.

In fact, I almost didn't go to the doctor or insist on the tests, except for one thing: I was sad.

I was despondent. And it was something I couldn't shake. And for anyone who knows me, that is not the norm. I don't get sad, not like this. Waking up feeling it, having to fight to fake it to get through the day.

But I also told myself it could be due to something else. Maybe it was the upheaval of changing jobs and the struggles my extended family were having or maybe it was the pressures of the new classes I was teaching at a new school.

But it nagged at me.

So I went to see an endocrinologist. And told her about how I was feeling. I told her how my lifelong struggle with weight was getting harder and that I know it would be easy to dismiss me, but I really think there is something wrong.

Reluctantly, she ordered tests.

And after a few weeks of those, she gave me my first concrete answer. There was something wrong. And the tests told her it was a growth, or tumor.

Immediately a million things flashed into my mind. How does she know? Maybe she's an idiot! I knew I was right! I can't have surgery until after the semester ends. I need to make sure I don't burden my team at work. I've got to tell my family. How do I tell my daughter?

My daughter.

My incredible, intelligent, sensitive, empathetic daughter. The one who worries if I get a cold or sprain an ankle. It is my job to be indestructible. It is my job to be her superhero. I am her Dad. I can't be sick. I just can't be. What in the hell am I going to tell that eight-year-old who is my entire reason for living?

As a rule, I don't lie to her. And I want her to look at hospitals and doctors not as things to be feared, but as places you go and get well. I want her to have confidence and faith in the system and not to be worried and anxious in the weeks leading up to the surgery.

So I should probably tell her after the surgery.

Unless it goes badly. Very badly. So maybe I should make some recordings of myself. Telling her important things she needs to know in case this takes me off the board. I should probably cover big life events like birthdays and graduations. Maybe even proms and weddings. I should cover important topics too, like drug abuse and being kind above all else and how to deal with bullies. I also want to make sure she hears some of my stories and knows more about my sense of humor.

I could probably do them in all in a night or two but I should change shirts so it looks better...

"Mr. Crespolini?"

I was still on the phone with the doctor. All of that flashed through me in a wave of internal noise in less than five seconds.

"Yes. I'm still here."

The rushing sound of the ocean in my ears had subsided a bit. I was able to make out her next instruction, which was to schedule more tests (which the doctor said narrowed it down to the pituitary gland) and then the MRI to get an idea of what we were dealing with. And the truth is we really have no idea. This thing could have been growing in there for decades as far as we know. And it could have been wreaking havoc on my system or doing very little.

I don't know.

And like GI JOE says, knowing is half the battle. The other half is red and blue lasers that hit no one.

So as I write this I am sitting in the waiting room about to get my MRI. In my mind I will look like Bill Bixby in the opening credits of "Incredible Hulk" before an accidental overdose of gamma radiation alters his body chemistry. I've had MRIs on my spine, but never on my head. But from what I understand it is going to be claustrophobic and loud.

And I am afraid.

I am so very afraid. And not of the test.

And it isn't the hormone imbalance talking. I am afraid to know, and I am afraid of not knowing. I am afraid of running out of steam. I am afraid of letting down my family, my friends, my students and my colleagues. I owe so much to so many people and I am afraid I am going to run out of time and energy before I can repay them.

My employers and colleagues at Patch are among the hardest working people I know. They are exceptional and so generous with their time. The thought of burdening them is one I can't stomach. My two immediate supervisors were so kind to me when I told them of what was happening, when they didn't have to be, and I can't articulate how much that meant. I've worked places where the only thought of an illness was how it was going to impact my workload. I am so grateful that is not the case here.

My students, who I try so hard to keep positive and focused. So many have come to rely on me as a sounding board. What if I can't provide that anymore?

What if I won't be able to take care of my family because I am too ill?

What if I can't be the father my daughter deserves?

What if I’m already not?

I simply don't know.

So I am coping the way I know how. I am writing about it. And I will continue to write about it, no matter what comes next. I am going to share my journey in the hopes that others will gain something from it. Maybe it is the impetus to not ignore when the "check engine light" is on in your body. Maybe it is the reminder to share your burdens with those who love you. Or maybe it will serve as a reminder when all of this is behind me to not get too far ahead of myself. Maybe all of those racing thoughts, immortalized in writing, will be put in perspective later.

There are so many people that go through worse. And part of me feels guilty for being afraid of this and guilty for not having been more supportive of others as I maybe could have been. I have watched friends battle terrible illnesses. Some have won, and some have lost. I hope that I can face that next step with the half the dignity and strength they possessed.

But what it boils down to is, I don't know that next step. Except that it is my turn to lay in the scanner.

Stay tuned...

Russ Crespolini is a Field Editor for Patch Media, adjunct professor and college newspaper advisor. His columns have won awards from the National Newspaper Association and the New Jersey Press Association.

He writes them in hopes of connecting with readers and engaging with them. And because it is cheaper than therapy. He can be reached at russ.crespolini@patch.com