Reflections...

I just finished watching most of "Living With Cancer", Ted Koppel's journey with his friend, a high-profile journalist who was diagnosed in 2005 with a brain tumor, lung cancer, and spinal tumors. As of March 13th, 2007, after more than a year of chemo, and then radiation when that didn't work, he found himself without any of the tumors because of a new therapy treatment that actually inscinerates the tumors where they are. They'd gotten rid of the brain tumor, and the spine tumor - but the lung tumors were more aggressive, and eventually grew despite the treatments given. So, he went to John Hopkins university where they treated him with this new form of surgery.

Because of where the tumors were placed, and how the treatment worked, it was relatively non-invasive, and he was awake through the whole procedure. He is not, however, cancer-free. It was interesting to hear all of this, and the other different stories of cancer survivors - both those with current cases and those in remission.

For those who may not know, who may be new to this blog, I live in fear of being diagnosed with cancer. It runs on both sides of my family, my grandmother dying from terminal cancer after a double radical mastectomy, and my father dying from complications of terminal cancer after removal procedures failed to successfully erase the traces of colon cancer he had.

I never really knew my grandmother. I remember meeting her once, when I was 10. My mother was adopted, and it took most of the 10 years I was first around to find her. When we did, it was really too late to forge a strong bond between all of us. She was diagnosed with cancer at 41, and by 62, when we met her, she was wheelchair-bound, and on a constant morphine drip for the pain. The tumors had spread even after the surgery, and had entangled in through her spinal cord, making further surgical removals too dangerous to attempt. She didn't have the money for chemotherapy, which at the time, was not covered by many insurance companies due to the risks involved. It was 1984, and the first time cancer touched my life. I didn't understand it. I can honestly say I still don't.

It was 1991 when cancer struck my family again. This time, it didn't seem too bad. My father, who never went to the doctor unless my mother drove him - not even to yearly exams - went in to find out why he had a scaly patch on his arm. It was karatosis - a skin melanoma, easily treated by simply removing the skin from the area and making sure that in the future, sunscreen was used properly. He used to joke that he'd eaten too many carrots, which was why he'd gotten it.

I graduated, went to college, and did the normal things that most teens do when they leave the nest - I didn't go back to visit as often as I might have. I had a car, I had no real excuse... I just could never find the time. Something else was always happening. I spent the first two months going back and forth between my dorm and my parents' home, a five-hour drive one way. But eventually the homesickness went away, and the phone calls sufficed. I started dating, and it was in January of 1993 that I found out Dad had been diagnosed with colon cancer and was in the hospital for a removal procedure of the polyps.

We were told that they'd gotten it all. We were told that the prognosis was good, and that he was on his way to recovery - at least, that was the information that Mom passed on to me. I was upset, scared, but I didn't go see him. I don't know why, I just didn't. I suppose I thought that he was still invincible, just like he had been when I was a kid.

They came down in May, to drop off a tent for me and say hello. I remember seeing him and yet not seeing him. He seemed out of focus, and in my mind, I don't remember hugging him at all, or even holding his hand, or kissing his cheek. I remember he was a little tired, and had lost a bit of weight, but I thought it was just the drive.

I spent the summer in the town I was going to school in, renting a house and working. I look back now and wonder if I shouldn't have gone up and spent the time with my father instead. I met a boy, fell in lust, spent the summer hazy with it, and was wrapped up with my own life so much that I didn't realize what was going on until Thanksgiving when I brought the boy up with me to visit the family and meet my parents.

I remember being very upset because the person who sat at the end of the table couldn't have been my father. He'd lost a good 60 pounds, and looked almost gaunt. My mother admitted she hadn't told me that his t-cell count had gone back up, and they'd had to put him on chemo. His most recent treatment had been 3 days before Thanksgiving, so he wasn't feeling well. He went to bed early, and I honestly don't remember seeing him after that, not even when we said goodbye and headed back down south to school.

It was to be the last time I saw him. I was in touch with Mom every week from that point on, calling or writing to find out what was going on. Mom was very optimistic, but I think it was mostly because she couldn't bear to deal with the idea that he would die. I remember three weeks before our birthday, I called and found out that Dad's t-cell count had skyrocketed. Mom was completely hysterical because she couldn't reach my brother. I asked how long the doc had given him, and she said anywhere from three weeks to three months. I promised I would call my brother, and I'd be up after mid-terms in two weeks.

I called my brother, and by some stroke of fate or luck, managed to reach him the first try. I told him what was going on and said he'd better just pack up the kids and go that day if possible to say goodbye. I knew, even then, that it was the end. Even so, I thought I would have time to deal with the things I needed to, so that I could get up there to say goodbye.

I called my mother the next week, and it was then that I found that my father had passed away. Not from the cancer, after all, but instead from pneumonia. He'd been in the doctor's office the week before and there'd been a bunch of people in for it. Because the chemo and radiation had weakened his immune system, he'd caught it and it went rampaging through him. He never stood a chance.

I don't remember much of the 48 hours after that. I remember images of driving up to my boyfriend's house, and then of him driving me to my parents. I remember my mother, worn, crying constantly, the house smelling funny... I remember staying in the apartment above his workshop and smelling sawdust and "Old Spice" - what my dad always smelled of. I remember not crying at all while I was with my mother, but breaking down when I was alone.

I went to therapy about this a few years ago, and have managed to get to a point where I've forgiven myself for not making it before my father passed away. I have a feeling he didn't want me to remember him emaciated or tired, or weary. He wanted me to remember him as he had been all my life - strong and steady.

I can't say that I'm a cancer survivor - I'm not. But I can say that cancer has touched my life. I live in fear of having an annual exam and finding something "not quite right" with the exam. I recently spoke with my doctor, who has told me I should have a colonoscopy by age 40, since my father had colon cancer. My first thought was "but that's for MEN". It's not - neither is breast cancer detection "just" for women. Cancer is cancer, and it doesn't care who you are, how much money you have, whether you're pregnant or finished having children. It doesn't care if you're gay, black, pink with purple polka-dots. It just cares that it has a host. And that's the scary part...

~M