A week or so ago I went in for a physical. Several months ago I lost a lot of weight, and ever since I can eat two horses a day and still not gain any weight. I love that part, but was worried about the cause.

In the physical, I took barium sulfate and they used a medical imaging technology that I’m not really familiar with to check my vital organs. (Not a CT scan; PET scan, perhaps.)

At the time of the exam, I could tell the technician was concerned. She kept taking pictures of a certain organ, over and over, from several different angles. The organ turned out to be my stomach. The doctor asked me to make an appointment for an endoscopy, citing the possibilities of an gastric ulcer or gastric cancer.

Cancer. There’s a word that’ll scare the snot outta you.

I’m somewhat of a boy scout in the sense that I like to be prepared. So I wrote out the possibilities:

Ulcer - deal with it.

Cancer, operable - operate.

Cancer, metastasized - die.

The last option was the one that was hardest to get a grip on. Even though, in this day and age, death from cancer is not a done deal, it does occur. While realizing the improbability of it, I was determined to be prepared for all options, including the fatal one.

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