Confession of a Cancer Patient

Today is not the end. Today is the beginning. And today is not at all what I expected it to be. At approximately 5 a.m. this morning I checked myself into Fulton County Hospital, prepared, if not ready for today indeed to be the end. My end. More specifically, my death.

 This is the second time my cancer has come out of remission. That's two more chances than many people are afforded. This time around my body has been basically ravaged from head to toe. What began as an innocent feeling lump on the side of my breast 5 years ago tomorrow has now matastisized to parts of the lungs, kidneys, a few of the lymph nodes, and much of the surrounding tissue. Aggressive chemo and radiation therapy was the recommended treament. I suppose the goal was to shrink the tumors to the point that they were able to operate and remove them. And then another fun run through the cycle of weakness, nausea, pain and just outright misery that they coin a would be cure.

At first I was hopeful. This was a familiar beast. A monster that I had come to know well. My doctors admired my optimism but behind every assurance there was as plain as day, that headshake of his that sighed  "Oh what a shame!" "Poor girl."

Over the past couple of years I have pretty much given up all the foods I love. Doughnuts, chips, ice cream. And meat. Oh how I miss meat! I've traded in my fast food couch potato ways in favor of organic vegan food and daily runs and yoga. If i was good to my body, wouldn't it be good to me? That makes sense, doesn' it? On my last check up, to see how my multitude of tumors were coming along, I was devastated to learn that a small tumor was growing on my brain. My brain!! Inside my head. I didn't have headaches (not then) could they have the wrong chart? How could I work so hard just to find karma had dished out this cruel turnabout to me?

What I wouldn't give for a steak. Medium. Maybe an onion blossum. Beer on tap. Chocolate fudge cake for dessert. What the hell, a slice of key lime pie, too! But ...  I would just throw it up anyways.

Cancer, the most silent and deceptive huntress, had me right where she wanted me. My brain tumor was inoperable. That's what they said. So that was that. The end. Zip. No more me. I couldn't bring myself to cry a single tear. I was all felt out, numb, as if all my feelings had been wrung out of me like a wet dish rag over an empty sink. And there I went swirling around and down the drain. Never to be thought of again. What does one do, say, in such a time?

I haven't spoken to my dad in 2 years and I dont think I'm going to start off with "Hey dad, sorry I never called or dropped a line but just wanted to let you know I'm dying." I figured I'd just let sleeping dogs lie and let that alone. My mom left when I was 8. My step sister and I don't talk, not really. She went with my stepmom in the divorce (years ago when I was still living at home). I had no friends on campus to speak of. That's when it dawned on me: I was already nonexistent.

A non-person. I had completely isolated myself from anyone and everyone. No lovers, no friends. No ties to sever. "Just in case." In case what? The fear was always there (in the background somewhere). What if the cancer comes back? What if I get sick again? Is it fair to allow someone to love me knowing I only had a 65% survival rate the first go round? Better to suffer alone, than take somebody else with me. Only the captain was going down with this ship.

Sitting in the empty room this morning (just waiting) I re-examined that decision.

So somewhere along the assembly line (for at this point I feel like my life was just speeding by with no help from me) a doctor from Harvard University contacted my doctors with an interesting proposal. Interesting for him, not so much for me. He had this new surgical technique he was working to perfect. He offered to remove the tumor that I had been told by 3 seperate experts could NOT be removed. I suppose it represented an important stepping stone in his career: to both perform and record such a surgery. He could care less about me, of couse, (find me one doctor who does!) but merely wanted a guinea pig.

My doctor didn't really advise me for or against, but gave me the numbers and left it up to me. I found myself wondering, were all doctors so impersonal? Facts, figures, consent forms? Where was the humanity in my life? I had a 10-20% chance of making it through the surgery. They were going to go in with one swooping wave, attacking every malignancy, the trickiest being the one inside my head.

10-20% ...

The list of what-ifs and lines of signatures for consent seemed daunting, unending. I thought if I was going to go, I might as well help this young man with his work. Maybe my experiences could help save someone's life one day. They say everything in life is a learning experience. I guess this was one lesson life was going to cram down my throat. A choice made of necessity.

There's being alive and then there's really living. Which one had I done? What had I been doing with myself? Protecting others or making excuses? What about that novel I wanted to write? Or looking up my mother and giving her a piece of my mind! Well, someone was getting a piece of my mind. (sorry, bad joke) When I'm stressed or nervous (or scared) I joke around. It's either laugh or cry.

So you come in to the hospital so early that it's still dark out. Signing forms and surgery prep takes at least 2 hours. They said I couldn't eat or drink 12 hours beforehand. if I'm going to take my final nap then dammit why can't i have a cup of coffee? With cream and sugar. OOOO.. and maybe a danish.

So then there I was, laying on the table. I'm sure only a few minutes passed, but it felt like an eternity to me. This had all happened so fast. I don't know if it had really (I mean REALLY hit me) until then, that moment. Then I wanted to cry. To cry and to scream. To yell and fight!

Do you hear that cancer? I AM READY TO FIGHT!!!

All these things I never did, they kept rushing through my mind. NO, NO, NO! Those can't be my last thoughts. Think of something good, I thought.

The beach. I was 7. Mom and dad were both there. I had a red bucket (did it matter that it was red? so very red) collecting seashells but so careful not to touch the water. Each time a wave rolled in I ran the opposite direction. My mom laughed at me. Her little girl, so afraid to put her feet in the water.

They tell you to count backwards from 10. But I don't think anyone makes it all the way there.

7 ... 6 ... 5 ...

"You always were a fighter." It was my father's voice. No, wait, it was my oncologist. I was awake. Wait a minute ... I was awake? 10-20% was, after all, only someone's best guess.

So here I lay. In an empty room. Still here. Flesh and blood. A breathing, living me. Cancer be damned.

So I didn't expect today. (though apperntly today expected me!) Today was supposed to be an ending. One that I just wasn't quite ready for. And now? Today is the beginning. Maybe the third time's the charm.

And I think I'll call my dad.