I have no idea, really, where or how to draw the line between spiritual belief and science. I am in my seventh decade, and I have heart disease and diabetes, and I could die or be stricken at any time – I do glance at obituaries once in awhile.

And I seek a spiritual life.

The greatest fear I ever carry in my heart is about keeling over with a heart attack and leaving Maria alone with all of these animals and lunatic politicians running the country.

She can take care of herself, but I can’t help the way I was raised – taking care of her is also important.

I practice radical acceptance. I was a street reporter in some rough cities and a hospice volunteer.  For all our divisions, we will all end up in the same place.

I accept death as being a part of life, but like most people, I’m not quite ready, not that any of the fates care.

I do hear the word “cancer” a lot in our culture; it is one of the most feared words in the language.

Just the very mention of it changes hearts, souls, and minds. Th0se who suffer from it are a powerful community; many get through it; many don’t.

Cancer opens up the soul and gives love a very particular meaning.

The only good thing I hear about it is that it draws people closer together more intensely, perhaps than anything but combat.

In between my two catheter heart procedures, I got a phone call from my primary care doctor, a/k/a “Primary,” who rarely calls me up first thing in the morning, or ever.

She usually has a nurse call or waits to see me in her office; I’m there a fair amount. So when she called, I didn’t think it was a social call.

I’ve come to love and trust her – she is a rare human being, but I also know here well enough that she doesn’t call up early in the day to check. And I was conscious of the fact I had just had some tests.

She got right to the point, there was some microscopic blood in my urine, and she said we needed to find out what it was doing there. It wasn’t supposed to be there, she said.

I’d heard about this.

I tried to dodge it. I was in recovery, I was sick of doctors and procedures. She paid no attention. “We just have to figure out why the blood is there,” she said. She had a good doctor in mind.

“Is cancer one of the possibilities?” I asked. “Yes, but it could be a lot of things. We need to find out.” I tried a joke about whether I needed to have the heart procedures if I could get cancer.  Neither one of us laughed.

Is there anything sadder or more transparent than a man pretending not to be scared? I went online and read about the 50 things this blood could be – including cancer.

I waited a day or two to tell Maria, and when I did, I made it a point to sound confident: “I feel excellent,” I said, “I just don’t think I have cancer.” She nodded. “Well, I don’t think you do either.” What a bunch of doofuses, I thought, each one pretending to know things neither could know.

Who does want cancer?

I knew more doctors were coming soon, and more tests, and I was right.

I had an MRI, various scans, and ultra-sounds and gave more blood and urine. I meet a new and important person in my life, my new urologist, a friendly, open, and easy to like (for a male doctor) male.

He gave me a detailed and illustrated presentation about the “plumbing” in my body’s lower and middle parts. I had no idea.

I came to love him when he opened up by saying he was “essentially a plumber; I work on the plumbing.” He asked if I had any sleeping issues, and I said the only thing I would not do was wear one of those Darth Vader masks for sleep apnea.

I waited a long time to lie naked in bed with a beautiful woman, and I wasn’t undoing that with a Darth Vader mask.

“So could it be cancer?” I heard myself asking.

He laughed. “Well, first we have to make sure it is not cancer,” he said,  which I thought was an interesting answer. He said he doubts very much that it is. But we’ll know soon enough, he said, smiling.

I admit to a few daydreams about long walks in the evening sun, new and dear friends, and gobs of sympathy (yuk).

He also said several awful things he also had to do to check “my plumbing,” as he put it so graciously.

He explained the prostate in greater detail than I ever wanted. He said it is a useless thing; it is in the body only to create semen and good for nothing else but getting older men to pee a lot. He also talked about kidneys.

I went home with a fistful of maps, charts, daily forms to fill in, revealing the most personal details.  Women are used to invasive and uncomfortable medical procedures. They are fairly rare for men. I’m about to catch up.

This might or might not involve more “procedures,” a/k/a, or surgery. Oh, screw it, of course, it will, they are already scheduled.

My primary says we might as well get everything fixed at once; after that, she said, I should have a long and peaceful time away from doctors.

He took out a poster with all of the organs involved in my plumbing and explained how we would be exploring every one of them.

“Bring it on,” I said, “more people have handled my body this year than in the past 30 years of my life.”

Doctors, I find, stick to people they meet, like a rolling stone picking up leaves. Each one brings new co-pays, more forms, regularly scheduled visits, procedures, e-mails, “portals,” and another prescription or two.

“I have wonderful doctors,” I said, “I am fortunate.” I’ll do what you tell me.”

I worry about spending my old age in just the way I feared the most – running to the pharmacy and seeing doctors.

But I doubt very much that I have cancer.  That would have a different feel to it, I know enough to know that. Maria insists I don’t have cancer, she is most often right.

My new doctor has a pretty good idea of what is causing that blood, and it wasn’t cancer or anything he couldn’t handle.

I want to stop and think of people who do have cancer, especially those with aggressive and untreatable kind.  I’ve met a lot of them in hospice. Their stories are full of love, friendship, and grace. I wish them well and bow my head to them.

Everybody has it worse than I do.

I told one of the nurses about it. She’s been around. “You don’t have cancer,” she said almost instantly. “Look at the good color in your face.”

So another chapter in the life of my body, another step on the journey,  this one will go fast and will not involve major invasive surgery. That’s a refreshing change.

Watch out; I’ll keep you posted.  You know there are no secrets here.