So I guess it’s time that I write this. Get it off my chest before the end of the year, even though the end of my first year since having my left kidney removed passed about three months ago. I’ve been meaning to write something ever since, but I’ve never quite been sure what I was going to talk about. Or maybe how I was going to tell you what it feels like surviving cancer.
Maybe it was the title of this piece — which I came up with long before starting to actually write it — that stymied me. Or maybe the roller coaster of my life these past six months, regardless of my cancerversary (yeah, I just came up with that). There’s a lot that figures into the ol’ thinking processes when one survives coming within an 85 percent chance of death — exacerbated by the somewhat well-known fact that I am a mild hypochondriac — and every time I sat down to write on this topic, I didn’t make it more than a handful of rambling paragraphs before I got back up and walked away from my computer.
Hopefully that won’t be the case with the final draft you’re about to read, but just in case, let me summarize for you: I won’t speak for everyone who has made it to the other side of surgery or chemotherapy, but I’d bet I’m not the only one who thinks that surviving cancer is indeed still kind of like living with a gun to your head. But at least it’s living.
So first let me discuss the part about surviving cancer, in case you know someone who is battling cancer or who beat it. When you get cancer, it’s all about the numbers, and even though the bigger numbers are scary — like the 85 percent chance that I wouldn’t survive if the cancer had metastasized — the little numbers still matter as well.
Even if you’re in remission, there’s still that fear. I got lucky. As far as the doctor could tell (that would be Dr. Bryant Whiting with Southwest Urology — thanks again, doc), my cancer hadn’t metastasized, and I only had a 10 percent chance of remission, something he was willing to say was probably closer to five percent. But five percent is still more than “zero percent.” And I know that small percentages can mean big things. Like the two percent chance that my wife and I were supposed to have been able to conceive a second child. Yet there is my beautiful boy.
At my six-month follow-up appointment, after the caveat that as a doctor he was hesitant to use the word, Dr. Whiting even went so far as to say “cured.” Yeah, he pretty much told me I was cured.
So why can’t I get past that?
Well, first was his sense of hesitation. I know doctors don’t want to get caught up for having said something like that in case anything bad happens in the future, but there is also just the unpredictability of life and the human body for which medicine simply cannot account. Even before getting cancer, I never told anyone I was 100 percent sure about anything when asked. I never give it higher than 98 percent, and I chalk up that other 2 percent to the unpredictability of life. I didn’t plan on getting cancer in the first place. I wasn’t doing anything at the time to actively promote it. So why wouldn’t it decide to pop up again?
So even though he said I was essentially cured, over the following months, suddenly every little ache and pain which lasts more than a couple days was suspect. These were discomforts that I might’ve been inclined to just pass off as getting a little older before I was diagnosed with cancer. Most people who have hit 40 have heard an older friend or relative say that getting older is just harder on the body and that those little aches and pains are part of it.
But you see, even being the hypochondriac that I am, before I found out about the cancer, that’s what I was willing to do — chalk up a persistent pain to getting old — until my wife finally convinced me to see a doctor.
And if it’s not wondering about the pains which are probably nothing (probably), it’s the other little reminders, the small life changes that came as a result. Like not being able to take ibuprofen anymore. I hardly used it before, maybe for a rare headache, but when my foot swelled up last summer, it was the anti-inflammatory I wasn’t able to have anymore because I only have one kidney.
Oh, and it was probably gout in my foot, which can be linked to the fact that I had kidney cancer.
A few paragraphs back, I said that I’m writing this so you could understand how the mind of someone who has survived cancer potentially operates. I will assume that you have been sympathetic to that person, but they survived, right? After awhile, you may even forget they had cancer, but they probably won’t.
Now for the good part. While I don’t like worrying that it might pop up again, I don’t want to ever forget I got cancer in the first place. I’ve seen good people taken by this disease over the past 15 months. For whatever reason, be it fate or chance, these people were not as fortunate as I was. But I survived cancer. I’m still alive.
And so are you. Yes, even if you haven’t had cancer, what I’m about to say applies to you too.
I once wrote that I thought it would be great if people could learn to appreciate life without having to go through something bad and that maybe just reading about my experience — or hearing about someone else’s — would be powerful enough to remind those of us who may have lost our way.
When I think of how hard it has been to sit down and write this, I think that maybe I just needed this time to get back to a good spot. When Dr. Whiting told me that I was probably going to live, I made one of those lofty promises that everyone makes when they have a life-changing experience. I was going to start really paying attention to the good things — even if it just meant five minutes out of the day to live in the moment. I promised myself that I wasn’t going to worry so much about the past or the future but just appreciate the life I have and what is happening now.
But you see, I really wanted to do it. I wasn’t just paying lip service. But resolutions are hard, right? What’s the new year’s resolution success rate? I don’t know exactly, but I’ve heard it’s pretty dismal.
Periodically over the past 15 months, I’ve lost sight of that resolution. I’ve lost sight of my life, what my life really is and what it really means. At times, I’ve lost sight of how important my family really is, how fortunate I am to be alive, and how trivial most other things are. It usually coincides with the approach of a follow-up doctor’s appointment, when my hypochondriac tendencies get really worked up. But what I’ve learned is that when you know your next doctor’s visit may go bad, you just live to the fullest.
But should you have to worry about a doctor’s visit in order to really live your life? I won’t rehash it all here. I think you get the gist, but if you really need the motivation, you can read the earlier pieces documenting my journey linked below.
I’ll just say again that surviving cancer is kind of like living with a gun to your head. It’s like a crazy game of Russian roulette. But really, most of life is kind of like that. You wake up, step into the shower, walk out the door, and get in your vehicle, and you’re taking your life in your hands every step of the way (especially if you’re driving in southern Utah in the winter). But it doesn’t keep me home. I got things to do.
I got living to do. And so do you.
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Having survived malignant melanoma (16% five yr. survival if spread) now dealing with another chronic, progressive health issue, I understand…believe me, I do. It is easiest to pledge living the moment when one is enjoying good health or, conversely, when we know our time is about to run out. Its the middle and fear of the unknown that make the “pledge” a bit more difficult. The only thing I know for sure (98 percent) is we don’t want to look back one, five, ten years from now with regret and wishing we had the time back we spent worrying excessively about our health challenges. Remember the lion and the gazelle…tomorrow, the sun comes up anyway.