It happened so fast. In the span of a few short weeks, the husboo discovered a mass in his scrotum, they did tests, it grew and grew and grew, he got it removed through a semi-intense surgery that went through the abdomen, he got a voluptuous prosthetic in its place, and then finally, after they were able to study the tumor, we got the diagnosis: Stage 1 Cancer.
The cancer diagnosis came paired with the announcement that he was cancer-free (they got it all!) which was really a mindfuck.
But it was cancer.
But he's FINE!
But there may be a round of chemo in the future!
But maybe not!
There's going to be an Aretha tribute at the VMAs!
But it's going to be Madonna in culturally appropriative clothing.
He'll be back to normal in a few weeks!
But might need to get lymph nodes removed.
But he's 100% okay!
But Madonna will only talk about herself during tribtue.
But there's no more cancer!
But it was still cancer.
People have been asking me how I'm doing in light of Andy's procedure and diagnosis and the answer is I have no idea how the fuck I'm doing. Numb, maybe? I'm nagging him every day to stop working and relax and heal (which never works, because he never stops).
I'm watching him heal up and get more back to normal every day, which is great, but I can't make it go faster. I can't make his new ball not feel weird and alien. I can't assure him it absolutely will never come back, even though it almost certainly will never come back. I can't absorb the sense of loss and grief that fills him in quieter moments. I can't go back and make the cancer mine, which I want to do, because he is the most pathologically healthy person I know and deserves none of this and I'm giant lazy video-gaming Diet Dr. Pepper-chugging garbage who would be a much more logical host for some ol' fashioned nutsack cancer.
I can't really do anything, which is infuriating. And since I can't do anything, I've mostly not felt anything. Which might explain the giant stress-based cold sore that invaded my face a few days ago and my random urges to scream into the void/pillows/shower heads.
I want to give him back what he lost, fill the emotional divot he's had to endure, but I can't. It really fucking sucks.
I don't know how I feel. I don't know how TO feel whatever it is gurgling beneath the surface. It's simultaneously a time when any emotion is acceptable but every emotion seems pointless, because he's fine. He's okay. It's over.
Andy is the greatest, kindest, most selfless, most health-obsessed, insanely hardworking and creatively stunning person I know and it just doesn't compute in my tiny brain that someone who creates so much light in the world would have to deal with this stupid darkness. It should be me. Or, like, someone heinous and unfuckable like Stephen Miller or Paul Manafort.
I mean, jesus, give Manafort all the nut cancer and then he can buy $30,000 ostrich eggs for nuts.
Anyway, I suppose there isn't anything else to say except GET YOUR BALLS CHECKED, GENTLEMEN!
[Extremely RuPaul voice] FONDLE THEM......FOR YOUR LIFE!!