Warning: This is not a warm and fuzzy holiday posting, but rather a grim and sad one. So, don't read on just now if you are not in the mood.
Today, I don't want to know that I have been diagnosed with terminal cancer. I began this blog last August by saying:
If you had only six months or a year to live, would you want to know? What would you do with the information? Would it make a difference in how you lived your life?
My answer then, and in the days since I framed the question, has been "Yes. I would want to know, I'm glad I do know." As the months have unfolded and I have felt well, returned to work, not gotten quickly and intensely ill, continued to recover from the major surgery of last May, and had other experiences, the immediacy of my diagnosis has somewhat faded. And while all of this has happened, I haven't had a day when I thought that I wouldn't want to know. I've seen it all as an opportunity to live more fully, and to be in the moment, savoring the life I have.
Today, however, I wish I didn't know. Suddenly, with Christmas three days away, I just don't want to be thinking that this could be my last Christmas, and have that added weight to the holidays. I loved Christmas as a child, and there is much about it that I continue to love. But with the passing of years, it has come to carry a lot of emotional baggage. To that baggage, I really don't want to add an awareness of my mortality, thank you very much.
Two weekends ago, I baked cookies for two days with good friends who came to roll, and dust, and shape the cookies I like to make just for Christmas. And in baking, we talked, sometimes about heavy and serious things, sometimes about light and fun things. One conversation, with my friend Judy, who is a United Church of Christ minister like Patty, was about the difference between getting a terminal diagnosis (like gallbladder cancer) and getting a serious diagnosis (like a cancer that's more treatable and has a good success rate from treatment). I don't want to be comparing degrees of "badness" for respective diagnoses with anyone, but I can feel the difference of a diagnosis that one expects to recover from, and one where nothing short of a miracle would prolong one's life. (That's me, and I am definitely in the market for one of those miracles.) And perhaps I can most accurately say that I know I would feel different if diagnosed with a treatable illness. The terminal diagnosis makes me wonder if I will be here next Christmas, or, if I am alive, I'll be well enough to bake cookies again for a weekend.
I wish I didn't have cancer. I wish it weren't gallbladder cancer, with its poor prognosis. I wish I could get treated and expect to go on living my life. I wish I didn't know that the cancer is in my body, and that this could just be my last Christmas. I wish I could just enjoy the anticipation and laughter of my children as Christmas approaches, and not worry about next year. Today, I don't want to know.
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Friday, December 22, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
Who Knew?
Five months ago tomorrow, I was diagnosed with gallbladder cancer, and I was told that typically, folks live two to six months following diagnosis. Who knew that five months later I would be working, feeling good, still recovering from surgery, but showing no signs (to date) of the cancer spreading? Who knew?
At the time, I took on my mortality as fully as we can while alive and feeling essentially healthy. That's why one of the first questions I asked when I began this blog was "If you had just six months or a year to live, would you want to know?" And if you would want to know, how would that knowledge impact your life, day to day?
Taking on my mortality, and what seemed to be impending death, I wondered if I'd be alive to see the "06 midterm election" results, now two weeks away. I wondered where in the house my hospice bed should go. I wondered how I could possibly explain to my children that this illness had come on so unexpectedly, and that I was about to leave them with so little notice, so little time to say good-bye, to hug and kiss and love enough for the future time to be missed. And, more mundanely, I thought about some of my favorite television shows, and wondered how the plot would evolve in the fall, and then in the winter, and spring. Less mundanely, I thought I would not be able to teach again, and I grieved the thought of not teaching the new freshman class I had been prepping for months (and that I took to see the "Body Worlds" exhibit I wrote about a few weeks ago).
I no longer take my life, my continuing life, for granted, and I realize that tomorrow the proverbial bus could strike me, and then I would have died within that six month window. I do not assume that the good news of no evidence of cancer will continue forever, or even as long as I want it to.
And, I am grateful for the experiences these last five months have brought; the opportunities to love deeply; to laugh uproariously; to meditate intentionally and converse with those life threatening cancer cells; to stand with my students and explore new territory, new information, new ideas; to allow others to love me well and to express their care and concern in words and deeds.
I feel sadness with the changing season, watching the dying, browning leaves spreading over the yard, tree branches baring for winter. And I also feel gratitude to be here to see the season change. It was early summer when I was diagnosed five months ago. I have lived a summer and most of a fall since then, and I am grateful. And I wish for many, many more seasons to change during the span of my life.
But, five months ago, who knew?
At the time, I took on my mortality as fully as we can while alive and feeling essentially healthy. That's why one of the first questions I asked when I began this blog was "If you had just six months or a year to live, would you want to know?" And if you would want to know, how would that knowledge impact your life, day to day?
Taking on my mortality, and what seemed to be impending death, I wondered if I'd be alive to see the "06 midterm election" results, now two weeks away. I wondered where in the house my hospice bed should go. I wondered how I could possibly explain to my children that this illness had come on so unexpectedly, and that I was about to leave them with so little notice, so little time to say good-bye, to hug and kiss and love enough for the future time to be missed. And, more mundanely, I thought about some of my favorite television shows, and wondered how the plot would evolve in the fall, and then in the winter, and spring. Less mundanely, I thought I would not be able to teach again, and I grieved the thought of not teaching the new freshman class I had been prepping for months (and that I took to see the "Body Worlds" exhibit I wrote about a few weeks ago).
I no longer take my life, my continuing life, for granted, and I realize that tomorrow the proverbial bus could strike me, and then I would have died within that six month window. I do not assume that the good news of no evidence of cancer will continue forever, or even as long as I want it to.
And, I am grateful for the experiences these last five months have brought; the opportunities to love deeply; to laugh uproariously; to meditate intentionally and converse with those life threatening cancer cells; to stand with my students and explore new territory, new information, new ideas; to allow others to love me well and to express their care and concern in words and deeds.
I feel sadness with the changing season, watching the dying, browning leaves spreading over the yard, tree branches baring for winter. And I also feel gratitude to be here to see the season change. It was early summer when I was diagnosed five months ago. I have lived a summer and most of a fall since then, and I am grateful. And I wish for many, many more seasons to change during the span of my life.
But, five months ago, who knew?
Friday, October 20, 2006
Musings and Body Sensations
It's been a while since I posted on the blog, and I'm acutely aware of that. Some of it is that my real, full-time, paying job has been demanding more attention, and the full-time, non-paying job of cancer has slipped into second place. For now, at least. The other part is that I was out of town last week for a professional conference, in New Orleans, seeing colleagues I generally see only once a year and exploring the city, post-Katrina. The conference was good, New Orleans was both sad and hopeful (bittersweet, like cancer?), and seeing my long-distance friends and eating great food was wonderful.
My body has had a few sensations that have taken my attention. Last week, my abdomen was sore as it hasn't been since the summer. I puzzled and worried about it for a few days, and then remembered that I had carried a kayak for a few hundred yards at the beginning of the week. The soreness went away, and I realized that it was probably more weight than I should have carried, even 4 1/2 months post surgery.
Then there was the firm spot in my abdomen, toward the end of my surgical scar. I felt that almost two weeks ago for the very first time, and puzzled and worried about it, but knew I wouldn't do anything right away, as I was going to the conference. So I prodded and pushed and worried when I remembered it, and a week later, I described it to the nurse case manager from my HMO in a phone call. Since I'm seeing my primary care doctor this coming Monday, I told her that I would have my doctor check it out. Instead, she encouraged me to call my surgeon about it. She sounded worried for me, and I had wanted to talk to the surgeon anyway, so I called and got an appointment the next day.
The surgeon had a great explanation for it. He is 99% sure that it's a knot of thread, used to stitch up the fascia (under the skin). They started at the center point on my incision and stitched toward my side, and when they get to the end, they made a big knot. Although the thread will dissolve eventually, he said it's not unusual to feel it (or to see it during subsequent surgery) within a year of the surgery itself. And, if he's wrong and it's a little spot of cancer growing, it's in the fat tissue and they wouldn't do anything until they have a better sense about what's happening. So, he'll check out my next CT scan to see what it looks like.
We also talked about the possibility of removing my cancerous bile duct (called a Whipple procedure) if I continue to feel good and the cancer hasn't spread and I am one year or so post surgery. I almost hate to admit my hopefulness for this, because the future is as uncertain as ever, and I just keep working to take my life one day at a time. So, I go through my life as well as I can, and try not to project into the future too much. Still, when I got the clean scan in September, Patty said "Let's use this time to talk about a cure, a real cure!" I knew I wanted to talk about the possibility of surgery with the doctor who did the surgery last May.
My next CT is scheduled for Nov. 17, with the new oncologist on the job. I hate changing physicians under any circumstances, and now I have to get used to someone new!
So, that's it. Next week marks 5 months post diagnosis, and I continue to feel good. The quiet around my disease is welcome, yet strange, and feels like part of this shift from acute to chronic. I've had these little worries over the past two weeks, and I'm fine and I'm working and I'm enjoying my family and my life.
My body has had a few sensations that have taken my attention. Last week, my abdomen was sore as it hasn't been since the summer. I puzzled and worried about it for a few days, and then remembered that I had carried a kayak for a few hundred yards at the beginning of the week. The soreness went away, and I realized that it was probably more weight than I should have carried, even 4 1/2 months post surgery.
Then there was the firm spot in my abdomen, toward the end of my surgical scar. I felt that almost two weeks ago for the very first time, and puzzled and worried about it, but knew I wouldn't do anything right away, as I was going to the conference. So I prodded and pushed and worried when I remembered it, and a week later, I described it to the nurse case manager from my HMO in a phone call. Since I'm seeing my primary care doctor this coming Monday, I told her that I would have my doctor check it out. Instead, she encouraged me to call my surgeon about it. She sounded worried for me, and I had wanted to talk to the surgeon anyway, so I called and got an appointment the next day.
The surgeon had a great explanation for it. He is 99% sure that it's a knot of thread, used to stitch up the fascia (under the skin). They started at the center point on my incision and stitched toward my side, and when they get to the end, they made a big knot. Although the thread will dissolve eventually, he said it's not unusual to feel it (or to see it during subsequent surgery) within a year of the surgery itself. And, if he's wrong and it's a little spot of cancer growing, it's in the fat tissue and they wouldn't do anything until they have a better sense about what's happening. So, he'll check out my next CT scan to see what it looks like.
We also talked about the possibility of removing my cancerous bile duct (called a Whipple procedure) if I continue to feel good and the cancer hasn't spread and I am one year or so post surgery. I almost hate to admit my hopefulness for this, because the future is as uncertain as ever, and I just keep working to take my life one day at a time. So, I go through my life as well as I can, and try not to project into the future too much. Still, when I got the clean scan in September, Patty said "Let's use this time to talk about a cure, a real cure!" I knew I wanted to talk about the possibility of surgery with the doctor who did the surgery last May.
My next CT is scheduled for Nov. 17, with the new oncologist on the job. I hate changing physicians under any circumstances, and now I have to get used to someone new!
So, that's it. Next week marks 5 months post diagnosis, and I continue to feel good. The quiet around my disease is welcome, yet strange, and feels like part of this shift from acute to chronic. I've had these little worries over the past two weeks, and I'm fine and I'm working and I'm enjoying my family and my life.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Bittersweet
Last month, I was sitting on a Cape Cod beach with my family and friends when my friend Maria asked me if it was hard, being there, having fun in the moment, but knowing about my diagnosis and the future. I thought about the question for a moment, teared up, and responded that it was bittersweet. My life is filled with bittersweet moments these days.
This past week I attended convocation, where the University formally welcomes new freshmen to campus and to their role in the University community. "Welcome to the Class of 2010," the University president said. And I thought, as I never had before, "Will I be here in 2010 to see these incoming students graduate?" Added to that thought was an even more personal question about 2010: Would I be here to see my daughter enter high school? Would I be here in 2014 when she would graduate from high school? Painful, bittersweet thoughts.
Yesterday I stood before a new class of students, discussing the course, welcoming them to a new field of study, and suddenly it hit me. The wall of sadness that came to me was powerful, and I had to shift from it in order to stay present to the class. The last time I stood before a class, I didn't know that cancer was growing inside me. I envisioned myself teaching well into the next decade of my life, my 60s, and teaching into the next decade of this century. Perhaps I will indeed defy the odds and medical predictions and be here then, but I no longer assume that will be the case. And, the sweetness of all of this is that I am teaching, I am standing before new groups of students, sharing what I know, supporting them in their learning, and in being active participants in the changes, academic and personal, that ideally are part of their college years.
As I have pondered these thoughts and feelings, I have noted that the sweetness is in the present moment, and the bitterness is in looking toward the future and noting its uncertainty. And, the truth is that while we humans like to look to the future and make plans, and anticipate with delight good things we want to have come our way, the future is not within our control. So, once again I return to now, to the present, to the moments over which I have some control, over how I feel, and how I greet each moment.
This past week I attended convocation, where the University formally welcomes new freshmen to campus and to their role in the University community. "Welcome to the Class of 2010," the University president said. And I thought, as I never had before, "Will I be here in 2010 to see these incoming students graduate?" Added to that thought was an even more personal question about 2010: Would I be here to see my daughter enter high school? Would I be here in 2014 when she would graduate from high school? Painful, bittersweet thoughts.
Yesterday I stood before a new class of students, discussing the course, welcoming them to a new field of study, and suddenly it hit me. The wall of sadness that came to me was powerful, and I had to shift from it in order to stay present to the class. The last time I stood before a class, I didn't know that cancer was growing inside me. I envisioned myself teaching well into the next decade of my life, my 60s, and teaching into the next decade of this century. Perhaps I will indeed defy the odds and medical predictions and be here then, but I no longer assume that will be the case. And, the sweetness of all of this is that I am teaching, I am standing before new groups of students, sharing what I know, supporting them in their learning, and in being active participants in the changes, academic and personal, that ideally are part of their college years.
As I have pondered these thoughts and feelings, I have noted that the sweetness is in the present moment, and the bitterness is in looking toward the future and noting its uncertainty. And, the truth is that while we humans like to look to the future and make plans, and anticipate with delight good things we want to have come our way, the future is not within our control. So, once again I return to now, to the present, to the moments over which I have some control, over how I feel, and how I greet each moment.
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