Sometime between spring of 1999 and summer of 2000, something strange began to happen.
A cell somewhere in the middle layer of the skin on my tongue discovered immortality. Unlike most cells, which have a genetically pre-programmed death rate--a cellular suicide clause--this cell had forgotten how to die. It forgot other things too: reverting back to an undifferentiated state it forgot it was skin. Multiplying itself exponentially, it forgot how to limit its growth. The cell divided and divided, and each of its �child� cells was a clone of the original and, also lacking the ability to die, they in turn divided and divided. I was not aware of it yet, but the immortal cells, the forgetting cells, were achieving a foothold. From the skin they burrowed in, entering the muscle of my tongue.
By the time I noticed it as a big non-healing sore, the immortal cells had grown into a colony big enough to push other cells out of their way.
The natural history of these things, if they are not interfered with, is well known. The forgetting cells tend to grow and grow, sending out colonies of themselves (all still exact duplicates of that original cell) to colonize other places in the body. As the cells spread they interfere with the functioning cells around them, lodging in places like the lymph nodes and lungs and creating a growing destabilization in the body. Eventually the destabilization, if left unchecked, would result in death; and only then the immortal cells would die.
But I didn�t leave it to grow--instead, when it became clear that the problem was not fixing itself, I insisted on having the sore biopsied. The results told me what I�d suspected about my cells and immortality: I had a relatively large squamous cell carcinoma. There were immortal cells growing in me, tearing apart any notion I�d had about my own immortality. I was discovering not only that I could die; but that I eventually would die. If not of this cancer, then of something else.
Options for the treatment of tongue cancer are not great, even though they promise an 80% five-year survival rate. I went through an operation to cut out about a third of my tongue. Soon I will start radiation, which will leave me with permanent damage to my saliva glands and my thyroid gland. The twenty-year survival rate isn�t quite 50%; most head-and-neck cancer patients get recurrences, and that�s often the cause of death. Yeah, I know this is still much better odds than for some other cancers, but to someone who hasn�t even turned thirty yet it seems like a raw deal.
So where to go from here? After being reminded of my inevitable death by something that cannot die, I find myself with an urgent desire to live. I�m no longer focused on saving for retirement. I�m not putting anything off until later--the changing geography of my mouth reminds me there may not be a �later.� I�ve taken up vices. I�m drinking more and going out dancing; I�ve bought the outrageous clothes that I wouldn�t spend money on before. �Cause, you know�I�m not immortal.
