Kali J Desautels

“Your husband has rectal cancer.” The surgeon said this in the calmest, most matter of fact way. There was nothing harsh or careless about it. Just a fact.

This has to be a bizarre joke, I thought, as I quickly looked to Dave. Dave was not smiling, but rather nodding ruefully. My face arranged itself into its usual pinched expression when I do not understand something, or feel leery.

“I could see it through the scope. We will need to do a colonoscopy and a CT Scan and bloodwork right away,” the surgeon continued as he typed away at his computer. And armed with that information, on December 19, 2018, we held hands and fell down the rabbit hole.

….

In 1999, I turned 16 years old. My parents had a rule that I may not date anyone until I was 16, and that year, my friends decided to have dates to the high school Valentine’s Day dance. Even my Irish Twin younger brother was roped into taking one of my girlfriends as a date. I was not keen on the idea of dating, and was less than thrilled when my brother began asking his friends if one of them would be my date. My brother and I had a matching friend group – we spent our break and lunch times together, our friends all interacting, and hanging out, regardless of the weather, on a patch of cement outside of the Art classrooms. One morning, waiting for the bell to ring, I found myself sitting on the ground while one of his friends, a boy that I had been in split class with through most of elementary school, until he began homeschooling for a couple of years until middle school. As he kicked a wet tennis ball around the cement pad, he casually said “if you can’t find anyone else to take you to the dance, I guess I can”, without looking at me. For years afterward, my brother would say that that was the most successful pick up line he had ever heard. After my awkward agreement, we went to the dance, and have been together ever since. In fact, our second child, our son, was born on the 11th anniversary of that Valentine’s Day dance.

Over the ensuing 20 years, we have had our ups and downs, our fights and our honeymoons. In 2006, we were married; in 2008, we welcomed our daughter; in 2010, our son. We have held together, sometimes by the tips of our fingers through chronic illness, major depression, job changes, goal changes, forks in the road, and have never reached the conclusion that we would be better off apart. When asked by friends how we have “made it work”, it is simply a matter of regardless how hurt or angry we are, there is no vision of our future that does not include the other one. I cannot picture myself old and grey without Dave sitting next to me, or across from me. There is no sleep in a bed alone. There is no instance where we will not come back together. There is a history, a shared life, a story of us. For the first time in 20 years, I do not know if that story will have the ending that I have so long imagined.

……

Over the past year I have suggested many times that Dave should see someone. He was often tired and his coping skills were sorely lacking. He was critical of the kids, frustrated at work, and spent a lot more time playing video games. The only times that I felt that my Dave, my best friend, the love of my life, my partner in all things, was present was after the kids had gone to bed and we were alone. Then he would laugh and smile and cuddle. Then he would tell me about his day. His go to is to always be “fine”, but I felt in my gut that he was not fine. He continued to resist and I continued to worry and to work to keep all stresses that I could control out of his life. I didn’t know what to do, and I was becoming frustrated with his lack of willingness to work to find his happiness.

As if in direct opposition to this pervasive mood, I discovered Rachel Hollis and began a year of following my dreams and goals, trying to inspire him to do the same through behaviour modelling. Nothing worked. And then…

And then one day in October, I was at work, trying to beat a deadline, when he called and said “hey sweetheart, I think that I need to see the doctor. Something’s not right.” I felt both anxiety and relief – he had finally noticed that he needed help, but also – he was now scared enough to want a doctor. He told me that he had been having bloody stool since February, but that in recent weeks it had increased to the point that he was now having bloody stool roughly seven times a day. As a carpenter, and shop manager, he had been forced to stop going on installs, and to remain in the shop due to the pain and persistent pressure to use a washroom.

I made an appointment with our doctor, thinking that maybe his stress and anxiety had developed an ulcer and that we would finally get him to begin to be willing to find a solution for his moods. He asked me to join him in the doctor’s office and explain what had been happening. She sent him away with a myriad tests to complete and the requirement that he return within 3 weeks to discuss options and results.

Over the next three weeks, he avoided the sample kits and the blood tests like the plague. My husband is extremely private and does not like to discuss bodily functions or what happens in the bathroom under any circumstance, and I thought that was the problem. Until he told me that he had not urinated in 3 days, despite drinking regular amounts of fluid. This was the day before the follow up. The doctor sent us immediately to the emergency room. We both left work and spent 6 hours being, what felt like, ignored by the doctor, until finally she came to us and said we could go home with a prescription for antibiotics, and rest. Dave was frustrated, hungry, tired and worried about the fact that he would not be getting paid for the missed time at work.

We went to the follow up. Our doctor told us she would send us to a surgeon for a colonoscopy. We were given a date at the end of February, which led us to believe that the issue was not that serious. He completed the run of antibiotics, and found no relief from the symptoms. He felt worse than he had beforehand.

Then the doctor received the stool sample results, and suddenly our appointment was the next Wednesday. On December 19th, we would be driving to the surgeon to discuss to colonoscopy. We drove separately as I would be going to work for my annual review that afternoon, and he would be going home. The surgeon was located about an hour from our town, so we set off early.

We sat together as the doctor reviewed his symptoms and the test results. He asked us questions about family history, and past illnesses and surgeries. It was determined that overall, this was a perfectly healthy 34 year old man, who suddenly wasn’t. The doctor explained that Dave had ulcerative colitis, and would need medication and regular colonoscopies for the rest of his life. He decided to perform a rectal exam in the office, and a sigmoidoscopy. I left the room, because, as I mentioned, my husband is very private about this part of his life.

With sincere relief, I texted my mom and my best friend, explaining that Dave had colitis. My best friend explained how another of her close friends had this condition and that it was treatable and that Dave would be fine. I could hear through the door as Dave and the surgeon discussed his waiting seven months to tell me that he had been having this problem. Then the door opened, and this doctor and my husband were facing me, telling me to come in and sit down. I expected that we would begin to discuss colitis, along with the colonoscopy to confirm the diagnosis.

“Sit down, please, Mrs. Desautels,” said the doctor as I returned to my seat. “Your husband has rectal cancer.”