Under the Knife

In a couple of days (Thursday 1st of February) I go 'under the knife', a title I borrowed from an HG Wells story which begins "What if I die under it? ..." This unwelcome thought has crossed my mind too.

Death is such a waste of life.

My cutting is to remove a kidney that according to a bevy of specialist has a not-so-benign growth attached to it. They call it a tumour, a Renal Cell Carcinoma, RCC for sort; CANCER. It is oft said that Cancer is just a word, not a sentence; this I thought a fine pun until they applied the word to me.

I been told that RCC is not amenable to chemo or radiation therapies, the only treatment seems to be removal of the kidney before it metastasises (spreads beyond the kidney). Removal is supposed to be a complete and permanent cure. Notice how cleverly I couched the above - 'I've been told ...' , '...seems to be...', '...supposed to be..' Nothing is certain.

The real problem is this: no one can tell me at what point it metastasises. The last test I had, showed it hadn't. Left alone, some time in the future it probably will. So the sooner it comes out the better, however, it's possible it could metastasise in the period between the last test and when I go under the knife. What then?

Well that's just bad luck, or god's will, which ever you prefer. Not that I'm scared of the actual dying only of leaving an unfinished life.