It’s the unexpected in life that brings out the best or the worst in people. No one goes to the race track intending to haul their car home on a flatbed, looking like a mangled mess. Some racers act like lunatics when that happens, and lash out at anyone within a six-foot radius. Others become more withdrawn, pulling a big gulp from a can of beer at the end of the night, eyeing their car and making a mental list of what it’s going to take to fix their machine.

The old saying, “You can’t control what happens to you, but you CAN control how you react to it,” applies to racing and to life in general. How we respond in the face of an unpleasant or tenuous situation speaks volumes about us. It’s incredibly hard to make a conscious effort to always put your best foot forward, but it’s worthwhile to try. You never know who could be watching—a potential sponsor, a co-worker or boss, your kids, or someone else who may hold you in high esteem. You don’t want to ruin your reputation with a childish outburst triggered by an emotionally charged situation.

My husband is more of the quiet guy, who internalizes things that irritate him. Case in point: that dreaded health scare and upcoming colonoscopy that I wrote about last month. He didn’t care that I wrote about it. He has finally come to the realization that it is important for everyone to have that vital check-up, and if his story will encourage others to take that step—well, he’s in favor of that. Quiet guys will surprise you that way from time to time.

However, he really surprised me when we were in the waiting room.

“You’ll want to empty your pockets of any valuables, Mr. Nuttleman, and let your wife hold them,” said the nurse who was about to take my husband for his colonoscopy.

Toby obliged by stuffing his thick mitts into his jeans, then handing me a large stack of shock packers and a little shock tool. I married a motorhead, what can I say? Admittedly, it wasn’t so much what he handed me that struck me, as it was the look in his eyes. I saw fear in his gaze, as he gave me a quick peck on the lips and shuffled off behind the nurse. I wasn’t accustomed to seeing that in his steely blue peepers. My heart sank and I prayed that he would be one of the many patients that wakes up from the procedure with no recollection of anything—except having to drink that God-awful gallon of GoLytely that I mixed with Crystal Light Lemonade last night.

I waited. And waited, listening half-heartedly to the conversations of others who had loved ones there for the same screening. Surprisingly, it wasn’t all just “older” folks who were in for the “backend-look-see.” The ages varied and they weren’t all men either.

About an hour later, the same nurse appeared and smiled sweetly as she called my name to come back with her. I was led to a little room, where Toby was laying on his side, wrapped up in a blanket, with an IV plugged into his hand. There were monitoring wires hooked up to him as well; very reminiscent of the emergency room heart scare we experienced in June. He appeared to be sleeping, but assured me that he was “just resting his eyes.” The nurse giggled and told him that he could get dressed now, if he wanted to, and informed us that it’s recommended that he pass some gas before leaving after this procedure.

Toby’s eyes fluttered open upon that directive and immediately, released another one of his epic bursts of flatulence. His eyes were twinkling and the corners of his mouth turned upward with delight. Some things never get old for him, I suppose. The nurse cheered for his musical abilities. I buried my face in my hands in utter embarrassment.

It wasn’t much longer and the doctor came into the room, closing the door behind him. He informed us that he had found two polyps and removed them, which is fairly commonplace during a colonoscopy. I was both surprised and pleased that Toby only had two. But it was the doctor’s next sentence that sent my mind reeling.

“We also found a tumor.”

What?! I looked over at Toby, who was nodding his head with his eyes closed, like he was jamming out to a song. Was he still THAT drugged up and not hearing what I thought I heard?  I whipped my head back over to the doctor and frowned. He repeated the words again, as it was painfully obvious that I was in denial and perhaps Toby was too.

“We found a tumor. It’s about an inch in size.”

A ringing started in my ears, as the doctor continued to fill us in on the nature of the tumor. In his experience, and based upon the appearance of the tumor, he believed it was malignant. They planned to performed a biopsy, which would give us a definitive answer. By the next day we would know if we were about to embark on a new journey—battling cancer.

Waiting for the phone to ring with news from a doctor is grueling torture. It is astounding the crazy scenarios that a worried mind can concoct. The call finally came late that next afternoon. The tumor is malignant.

Toby has cancer. It hadn’t even been a full week since the initial find and already we were scheduled for a slew of appointments to gather information and insight so doctors could formulate a plan of attack. The next step was to have a CT scan done, to see if there was cancer in other areas, or if it was localized to this one tumor. Have I mentioned how much waiting sucks? Things were running behind at the hospital, so we got the scan done a half hour later than scheduled, a trend which continued to snowball as the morning melted into afternoon.

It’s hard to get overly angry when appointments of this nature run late. I refer you to the earlier part of this story, where how one responds to adversity speaks volumes. For all we knew, doctors either needed more time to consult other patients and their families who were facing a horrible prognosis, or perhaps more time was required to read test results to ensure proper actions were taken in someone’s treatment. Hell, for all we knew they were pouring over Toby’s scan longer than anticipated to be certain of what it revealed. I’d rather not hurry them along on that endeavor, so it’s best to zip one’s frustrated mouth, and find something to busy the mind.

For me, that meant grabbing reading material in the exam room where we were waiting. The selections are apparently quite specialized and limited in the colorectal department. I learned more about the treatment and prevention of hemorrhoids than I care to admit.

The exam room door opened, breaking up the reading of the hemorrhoid booklet. It was the doctor who will be performing the surgery on Toby’s cancer. He was tall and slim, a snappy dresser with glasses, who reminded me of a character from a 60s James Bond movie; only he was sporting a white medical coat.

He was engaging as he spoke and explained the findings.  The good news was that the CT scan did not reveal any other cancer inside of Toby. I literally felt the huge weight of worry lift from my chest, as Toby and I exchanged relieved looks. The doctor went on to say they couldn’t even see the tumor on the scan, which he explained was good news too, as that indicated just how small it is. Of course, for me that had a bad side too. What if there are other tumors, just too small to be seen on the scan? I kept my fear to myself. No need to rain on the positive parade of news here.

The good doctor pulled up pictures of the tumor, which were photographed during the colonoscopy. Toby had a giant grin on his face, as I turned several shades of grey. I’m squeamish, and he was enjoying this. I swallowed hard and looked at the screen; the tumor looked like a big squishy skin tag. A wave of nausea washed over me as proceeded to swallow hard in an effort to keep lunch contained in my stomach. Toby laughed and the doctor must have noticed the blood had drained out of my face, so he moved the pictures off of the screen. Toby was entitled to enjoying someone else’s discomfort at this point, so I just squeezed his hand to acknowledge his delight.

We’re not out of the woods yet, as there will still be another exploratory exam with ultrasound, which will determine if it will be a quick and fairly easy surgery, or a more involved one that will have Toby laid up for a while. Nonetheless, we have what seems to be the best-case-scenario for the outlook to eradicate the cancer, as the words, “very curable” passed the doctor’s lips during the conversation. It’s another reason to breathe easier.

It’s also another reason to continue to beat the drum of early detection through colonoscopy exams. I cannot stress enough to all of the racing family reading this just how important that particular check-up is. Toby may not say it, but he knows damn well that if his brother, Kevin and I had not pressed him to have the exam, he would likely be battling for his life in a matter of a few years.

Now more than ever, given the string of health concerns he’s experienced, Toby knows the value and importance of listening to his body and his wife. (He won’t admit to that last one, if you ask him.) Think about it—would you rather avoid what you perceive to be embarrassing, or have your life cut short because you can’t get past the awkward thought of the exam? Be brave. Male or female—this exam is important. You can’t control what happens to you, but you CAN control how you react to it. And sometimes, being PROACTIVE instead of reactive is the best medicine…literally.

Originally published in the Midwest Racing Connection