Up until a few weeks ago my husband of nearly twenty five years was a cancer survivor. He wore that title proudly- having earned it through surgery and six cycles of chemotherapy. In March, 2009, he was diagnosed at the age of 42 with Stage IIIb colon cancer. He had not had many overt symptoms and we were in shock for many weeks after his diagnosis. The cancer had perforated the colon and entered the abdominal wall. It had found its way into a lymph node.
For a year we were in full battle mode. We won, too. We got news that there was no evidence of disease and began the "wait and see" period. For those of you unfortunate enough to have experience with cancer you understand that every ache, pain, rash, cough, is a worry for awhile. After two years, though, we fooled ourselves into believing that we had beaten it. We were sailing along, going in for check ups, laughing in cancer's face. Until the end of December...
Brett went in for a PET scan. It was to be the magical scan- he would go on one year check ups that would lead to that magical five years cancer free. This was not to be. A phone call from our oncologist let us know that there was a lesion on his liver and several small areas of concern in his chest wall. In addition, he has battled many instances of skin cancer and one of those sites showed metabolic activity. Again, we were in a fog for several days digesting the news. I don't know why we were surprised. I knew the statistics. I knew there was "something" on the liver but it hadn't been showing any growth or activity. I knew.... looking back I knew...
It's hard watching someone you have loved since you were fifteen years old go through pain. Brett recently had a lobe of his liver removed and this resulted in a large hockey stick incision with 47 staples. He is amazingly strong. He has recovered quickly and is getting stronger gearing up for a more intense round of chemo treatments. Three years ago they put in a chemo port for vein access for treatments. We celebrated when it was removed. Last week they put one back in- same location, going through the same scar. I love that port. It saves Brett's arms and hands from numerous pokes. It spares him a great deal of pain and needle anxiety. I hate that port. It symbolizes what is to come. I dread watching this big strong man get sick and be sick and start feeling better only to get sick again. I wish I could be sick instead. It's a truly helpless feeling.
We have a 19 year old and a 16 year old. It's hard telling your daughter that her dad won't have hair for her upcoming wedding. It's hard telling your son that his dad might miss some baseball games this spring when that is their shared love. It's hard knowing that your children's teenage years have been overshadowed by a cancer fog that never really lifts.
Yet, cancer has its blessings. Yes, you read that correctly. We appreciate each other more. We find joy in small things. We share lots of laughter. We love deeper. We always knew life was precious in our heads- now we know in our hearts. Every day is a gift.
I have been struck by the metaphors we use to describe cancer and the "journey" we are on. Brett's doctor told him killing cancer is like pulling weeds. Surgery pulled the big weed from the front yard. Now chemo will kill the seeds spread and any small sprouts. It's the "Round Up" for the lawn. Fighting cancer is a war- we gear up for battle, we get strong, we face the enemy, we kill, we destroy... Cancer is a thief- it hits us financially, it takes our strength, our health, our spirit at times. We yearn for words to describe the cancer experience in ways that allows others a window inside to understand.
I am happy to kill weeds but I wish they were in my yard and we were saving my lawn. Being the caregiver to a loved one with cancer is truly a journey of self reflection, worry, and faith. I'll be sharing the journey and some of the metaphors we find along the way.
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