The Tale of Jesus Suffering Fuck!

October 11, 2021. That was the day I rejoined the workforce. It was also the day Sydney emerged from a 103-day lockdown. Among the lifted restrictions? Barbershops. I’d survived my first day back at work—and, in a glorious act of post-lockdown productivity, I scored a long-overdue haircut.

My usual barber was overwhelmed. COVID cuts everywhere. After skipping a few shops with queues longer than a politician’s promise, I found a place with only three blokes ahead of me and four chairs. In and out in 30 minutes, right?

Cut was fine. I left feeling sorted.

A Lump and a Detour

A week or two later, something didn’t feel right. There was a swelling at the base of my skull—right where I’d later learn the occipital lymph nodes live. A nagging, mild headache tagged along. Not my usual script. I decided to swing by a new medical center nearby. Not my regular GP (we’d been working on reversing my Type 2 diabetes—another tale), but a walk-in.

Cue ultrasound. The sonographer was a tall, Queenslander blonde with a sailor’s mouth and a surgeon’s eye. I tried to banter my way through the tension.

A few days later, I was back for more scans at the hospital. Diagnosis: “Unremarkable.” A dab of antibiotic lotion, and off I went into the festive season.

The Barber Has Thoughts

My next visit to my regular barber was met with righteous abuse. “You cheap bastard,” he grinned. “Went to a shitey, dirty joint, didn’t ya?” I laughed—and winced a little.

January’s Surprise

Late January. New lump. Upper left thigh. No pain, mobile, soft-ish. Classic Dr. Google moment. Advice? Watch and wait 4–6 weeks.

So, I waited. Every shower became a ritual of awkward self-exams. Lump stayed the same. My internal procrastination engine kicked into gear.

Meanwhile, we sold our apartment. Bought another. Move-in scheduled for August. Work was humming, life felt oddly... aligned. After a couple of brutal years (Kerry lost both parents, COVID madness, emotional wreckage), things were looking up.

Except for the lump.

Back to the Doc

After a particularly contemplative shower, I told Kerry. We agreed—it was time. The doctor ordered another ultrasound.

Wearing only shorts, I raced home to put on clean underwear. Dignity, after all.

And guess who called me in? Same sonographer. She greeted me by name.

“Not sure who’s having the worse day,” I quipped. “Me getting my balls scanned, or you having to look at them.”

She deadpanned, “Unless this is my third perineal ulcer today, it’s not getting worse. Get over yourself.”

God, I liked her.

During the scan, her brow furrowed. She expanded the scan area—lower abdomen, clavicle, neck. Then she vanished, reappeared, and sent me back to the doctor with a pathology request.

The “Oh Shit” Moment

Next morning, my regular GP walked me through the findings:

“You’ve got lymphadenopathy. Possibly a lymphoproliferative disorder.”

“Eh?”

“Your lymphatic system’s in overdrive. We need to test for things like HIV, CMV, EBV.”

“I know those—cytomegalovirus, Epstein-Barr...”

“Impressive. But if those come back negative, we’re probably looking at lymphoma.”

Silence.

“Lymphoma? Like Hodgkin’s?”

“Could be.”

He rang a haematology registrar. Arranged follow-up tests. Referred me to a specialist.

“What the fuck, Doc?”

“I’m a GP. We see common stuff. This isn’t common. But yeah, I’d bet on lymphoma.”

“Right. So… don’t ignore this one?”

“Correct. Strap yourself in.”

“That’s it?”

“Call me anytime.”

To Be Continued...