Past, Present and Future

Cancer Update June 2011

When things are good I tend to forget the bad, and put aside the awful past experiences. Today is good. I feel well. Still have the aches and pains of aging, of chronic back pain, of occasional hot flashes, of every day little sores—for example, I burned the roof of my mouth on a cheese sandwich bitten into too soon after coming out of the oven; the blisters are annoying. There is the cuticle tear on my right thumb that really smarts when I squeeze a lemon. There are my creaky joints, a wobbly knee, a loose ankle reminding me that I am 56 not 28. And there’s the seven itchy mosquito bites I got while in the backyard. I also think I need a stronger eyeglass prescription (What does the baseball scoreboard say, who’s winning?).

Here I am one year and a month after cancer treatment—my hair fully grown back, no restrictions on lifestyle, no excessive exhaustion or nausea; even the numb fingertips of peripheral neuropathy has gone away. The formerly scarlet “A” stitched on the upper left side of my chest where the port was, is now a faint shade of white, almost imperceptible (I love my surgeon!).
I have none of the physical sensations that originally warned and shouted: “Hey something’s not right here,” that urged me to go to my doctor.

I saw that same doctor today. First time in four months, an appointment with Dr. George, a periodic exam, and something I suspect will be a regular routine for life, like dental cleanings. I can only hope oncologist visits are spread out further apart, will rarely call for CAT scans, and will always show that the cancer has not returned.

I live with that uncertainty. As long as I feel well, I do not worry. But I have yet to pass a day without remembering that I had cancer. There is always something to remind me: an American Cancer Society ad on TV; noticing one of the radiation tattoo marks on my hips; receiving an email from some cancer medical or support group; coming across, in a dresser drawer, one of the head scarves I used to wear when I lost my hair. I just want to get on with life and put away that episode.

I once heard a blind man talk about his visionless life; he said when he wakes up in the morning he does not think, “Oh yeah, I’m blind.” It is an unquestioned part of him.

I admired that man for dealing with his handicap. For continuing with his life without drama over his disability. For forgetting that he is blind. Of course it’s not a life-threatening situation like my cancer could have been, but I too wanted to be like that man and forget that I had cancer, worrying that it might come back.

As I thought these thoughts, wishing I could forget, it struck me — No, I don’t want to forget. I want to wake up every morning and remember.
Remember that I was once miserable, that I was once bald and sick and weak, that I was down to 92 pounds and struggled doing daily activities.

I hope I don’t forget. I want to remember every day that I had cancer. And never take for granted feeling well. It puts into perspective the inconveniences and other “bad” things in life. By forgetting the ordeal, I may forget how wonderful it is to feel the aches and pains of normal aging.

I just got back from Dr. George’s office. He insists on a CAT scan next October, four months from now, a blood test too and another office visit with him to sort out the results. He says I am fine now and am doing everything right. My iron count is low due to the radiation treatment — it affected the lower spine, the red-blood cell, bone-marrow manufacturing plant, so to speak. There’s nothing to do about it, no diet changes or supplements to take. It’s just the new me, a little less delicious, possibly discouraging vampire attacks. But today I’m healthy enough to outrun zombies.

Dr. George said these first couple/three years are the crucial ones — 25% chance that the cancer could come back — the peak, and then the chances diminish as time goes on, though the possibility of cancer returning never really goes away. That is why he wants the scan and says it is the most effective means for seeing cancer cells rather than an MRI or an ultra-sound. I couldn’t argue, and I didn’t refuse. I’ve scheduled the procedure for Oct. 14.

For now, I may relax a bit, not worry about these future appointments. However, over the next four months, and beyond, I hope to take joy in these good times, the better health, and rejoice as I gain strength, never to take for granted that I am in the present, as I leave the awful past behind me.