In the spring of 2012, it was discovered somewhat by accident that I’d had a football-sized tumor growing in my chest cavity, attached to my heart, my right lung – which it collapsed upon growth – and my diaphragm. Having had numerous scans of my chest cavity through the years up to then, I- I mean… How could the doctors who’d ordered them not seen this thing? According to the surgeon who eventually removed it, it was a slow-growing thymoma that must’ve started on its way years before, so all the money and time put into fuckers’ pockets only to have them tell me “you’re doing fine” steamed me. Still does. I’d even had a lung test at one point to gauge breathing capacity or some such shit that the doctor who’d ordered that signed off on as a pass, though the nurse who’d first performed it and did so repetitively due to the fact that I’d had “the lungs of an old man” and it wasn’t making sense to her in conjunction with my age at the time. “Are you sure you’re not a smoker?” she asked once more. Again, I assured her I’d not touched tobacco nor any example of a smokable in my life and the same rings true today. She shook her head, attempted the test once more, then – in exasperation – reported to the doctor the readings. He glanced over them, huffed, then announced he’d do the test himself and did. Upon conclusion, he said, “Looks fine to me.” I’d needed the test for a job I was applying for that required its applicants to have good lung health. I don’t know why. It was in the shipping office of a diatomaceous earth plant that assuredly would fuck one’s lungs in the end, anyhow, and – for some – did. The guy may have thought he was doing me a favor but, ultimately, didn’t, as I was operating on just the one lung even then and nobody – myself included – knew.

The thymoma – a benign growth – was successfully removed a month or so after its discovery. During the operation, its connective tissue was partially left behind so as not to damage the organs to which the tumor was attached, and the collapsed lung was reinflated and it’s been choogling along since. After recovery from surgery, it was established that I’d go in about a year hence and annually after that for a CT scan to check for tumor regrowth from the tissue that couldn’t be removed. Fourteen years later, I went in for my latest scan, this being just a week ago. “If,” the surgeon’s assistant had told me, last spring when going over 2025’s CT, “if there’s no regrowth upon the next scan, we’ll consider you ‘graduated’ and you’ll not have to return.”

The results came back a couple of days later, indicating there, indeed, had been no regrowth, closing that chapter of my life.

I continue to suffer some discomfort in relation to the aftereffects of busting into my ribcage to get at the thymoma. It’s difficult to get into a comfortable sleeping position as my right side lights me up, nightly, but I’m breathing and don’t have some alien thing clutching at my ticker. Blood oxygen levels went from the low seventies up to, on average, ninety-five percent. Overall, I’m happy with how the operation turned out and am indescribably grateful to the surgeon and team who excised the tumor as well as to those who’d found it. One malady down.