It started innocuous enough when I was rolling out my shoulders in late October last year. Preoccupied, I retracted my shoulders until a starling series of odd popping sounds snatched my attention, coupled with the appearance of an unusual bump above my left collarbone that would appear mid-retraction and then disappear. I rolled my shoulders again. And again. Each time, the area above my left collarbone would pop and something would visibly move. Using the popping sounds as a guide, I quickly found a hard lump embedded between the side of my neck and my collarbone. I assumed it had something to do with previous injuries, but I brought it up offhandedly during dinner. Spurred by paternal instincts and the immediate catastrophizing that stems from being a critical care doctor, my dad was immediately concerned, asking me how long it had been happening and if I was feeling okay. I was not too concerned, but my anxiety grew as he made an appointment with a hematology-oncology doctor for the next morning. A starling Google search revealed I was going to a cancer doctor.

A hospital filled with people, somewhat successfully spaced out by bubbles on the floor saying, “Stay Six Feet Apart!” The cheerily decorated office - outfitted with Halloween decorations and motivational banners proclaiming, “Brian fought cancer. You can too!”, juxtaposed with sick children, sleeping slumped against their weary parents, watching movies on I-pads, and receiving chemotherapy. Meeting with Dr. Barnette and a nurse named Maddie where we all attempted to weaponize humor against the mounting concern I had cancer. Getting my blood drawn by a jovial lady and her young assistant. Waiting for a CT scan in the radiology lobby and experiencing how the dye they injected into my IV during the scan made me feel like a warm, flat soda. A giraffe cutout that loomed over me, plastered above the scanner.

Upon returning from radiology there was a baby and his father sitting across from us in the lobby. The baby was captivated by the enlarged lava lamp that was running beside him, the moving, color-changing bubbles baffling and delighting him. We smiled and inquired, “How old is he?” The father, trying to wrangle the squirming child, replied, “Ten months. He’s big. Probably from all the steroids.” I got the impression the baby and his parents had never experienced him being cancer-free. What must it be like to see your child grow not at home or daycare, but instead immersed in the environment of a hospital, grow because they needed steroids to manage pain and inflammation? 

Dr. Barnette told my father he was convinced I had Stage One Hodgkin's Lymphoma, five-year survival rate 92%. Except, he and other surgeons found out I did not have cancer. It turns out I have an extra rib. The bump that I felt, and will always feel, is a complete extra rib, one that extends left from my seventh cervical vertebrae.

Since that day, I sometimes spiral thinking of what my life would be like if I had cancer and started treatment. I Google survival rates, the drugs used, stories of people who have Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Questioning how I would be doing four months into treatment I speculate how sick I would be, if I would feel close to death. I wonder how my family would be coping and envision how I would have told the people I love.

I contemplate how close to death we all are at any time. Globally, two people die every second. The tons of metal we drive around kill two people every minute. Over one-third of the entire population will be diagnosed with cancer. It is weird to think about those statistics because it is strikingly apparent that death envelopes life. Death overcomes geographic, racial, socioeconomic divides, uniting all of humanity in our inescapable mortality. However, many of us believe death is far from us. We are generally under the assumption that unless you are wasting away in a nursing home, in a critical condition after an accident, or battling a chronic illness, death is too busy to notice us. Death is too busy to care, death is far, far away. 

But then - 

The car hits a patch of black ice. 

Something in your body goes awry. 

You are in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

And then -

You realize maybe death is lurking in the background of your consciousness; perhaps death is fully aware of your fatality. You realize death would easily take people you love; death could take you sooner than you were expecting. You realize death might not grasp ahold of you when you are old and have had a fruitful life, but instead, death could try to take you

Right. 

Now. 

That is something to be reflective about. Most of the population does not interact with death, and if you do it is usually because someone else is dying, not because you are close to death. We merely assume we will not get into accidents; we rely on our family's continuing health; we go on with our lives. However, there is a population of those who do have a close relationship with death: doctors, everybody in the hospital that day, people with chronic illnesses, their families, etc. A while ago my dad said, “Most people do not interact with death daily. I do. Its seriousness cannot be undermined, no matter how many people die.” Although death is a big part of the emotions and lives of the living - we usually learn the sadness and despair it channels from a young age - in some capacity everybody generally tries to ignore it and shove it to the back of their minds. It is not until we have any relation to death, no matter how meager, that we can begin comprehending death’s seriousness and constant presence.

I know that I do not fully understand death or chronic illness because having a health scare pales in comparison to the scare being a reality. Thinking I have cancer for less than two days is nowhere near being on your death bed or a loved one being on theirs. In many ways, this experience should not have changed my life. I was in the hospital for less than a day, do not have cancer, and now have an excellent fun fact about myself. However, despite the menial consequences of finding that rib, I keep thinking more about death since last October, as scary and uninvited it is.