Yin and Yang . . .

As I lay on my right side, waiting for the trigger on the nail gun to launch that stinger deep into my left butt cheek, I couldn’t help but reflect on the differences between my visits that day to Eastern and Western health practitioners.

The Chinese herbalist conducted an extensive interview (including questions such as how often I sigh), pulse diagnosis (my pulse is “wet” with a little bit of “Chi stagnation”), and a tongue examination (that revealed “toxicity”). He then asked whether I wanted ingredients to make a bad-tasting tea that would support Western medicine treatment or ingredients to make a horrible-tasting tea that would be capable of slowing or even reversing tumor activity. I chose the horrible tea. He cautioned me to not breathe when drinking it and to follow it with a chaser of just about anything to immediately drown out the bitter taste. I asked if I could sweeten it with honey. He said I could but that it wouldn't help the taste at all. Man, this must be some really nasty stuff. He then spent the next 15 minutes in his “pharmacy” putting together a concoction from which the “decoction” (tea) could be brewed. I was given four brown bags of material that looked to have been freshly collected from the forest floor. Enough to make 12 cups of horrible tea.

The five steps to the surgeon’s procedure table were preceded by a screening of images depicting a pelvis full of tumors. He determined which one he was going to grab a piece of and requested that I lie down on the table. The moment had come. He said he would only take one sample. He used an ultrasound imaging machine to precisely locate the tumor. I was injected multiple times with a local anesthesia (yes, it hurt more than being asked how much I sigh). He then pricked me with a pin and asked whether I felt it. I did. He requested another syringe of anesthesia from the nurse and injected me some more. He then made an incision and aimed the nail gun at the tumor.

“Okay, I’m ready” he said. I braced for the impact, trying to focus my attention anywhere but on my butt. It didn’t work. My mind quickly returned to ground zero, and I waited for the hammer to fall. After what seemed to be a cruelly long waiting period (it was like waiting for a firing squad to conclude a silent countdown from a thousand), he pulled the trigger. I was prepared to shriek or swear, but it was unnecessary. I barely felt a thing. It’s amazing what you can tolerate after a gallon of anesthesia is injected into your butt.

“Is this a better instrument than you used seven years ago?” I asked.

“It might be faster” was the reply. Thank God for that.

“If you promise another one won’t hurt anymore than that one did, you can take another sample if you need it.” Me and my big mouth. He took me up on my offer.

That one didn’t hurt very much either.

“Why don’t you just take the whole thing out that way?” I joked. That comment earned me a third nail in the butt. I was done talking for the afternoon.

He put a rush on the biopsy and said the results should be available on Thursday. He also scheduled me for Thursday CT scans of the pelvis, abdomen, and chest, with contrast. At that point the disease should be able to be definitively identified and staged. The results of those tests will be my calling card to get me in the door to see the experts of my choosing.

In the meantime, I’ll be dining on horrible tea. I wouldn’t have it any other way.