Life Goes On ...

Cancer diagnoses were for other people. I never gave a thought to how I would react to such a diagnosis. If I had, I would have guessed my world would grind to a halt and life would center on cancer.

But it doesn't.

Funny, but on the scariest day of my life, I managed to work in a great breakfast, a nap (one of my chief coping methods), a trip to my primary care physician and an urgent trip to the vet for my on-again, off-again blind dog. (Blind again!)

Referrals for a CAT Scan and surgeon's visit came through the next morning, as promised. Appointments were easy to schedule and the race was on. Cancer seemed to be a blip on the radar that periodically flashed into focus and drifted off again.

CAT Scan Dec. 2: The case of the disappearing veins
Prep for a CAT Scan would have been distasteful if I hadn't just prepped for a colonoscopy. CAT Scan prep, by comparison, was a frozen daiquiri. Finding a vein was another story. For the colonoscopy, it took two nurses and three sticks to start an IV. I thought that was bad. The CAT Scan folks required three people — including one who seemed near tears over my plight — lots of vein "thumping," hot compresses and five sticks. There were so many holes in me, I'm surprised the radioactive gunk I had to drink didn't leak out all over the scan bed.

Surgeon Meet & Greet Dec. 3
When I met with Dr. Shaver, I wanted this cancer out of me so I could move forward with my Christmas visit to Ohio. Could he could squeeze me in next week so I could take my scheduled Dec. 14 flight to Cleveland? The medical gods were having another chuckle at my expense. If I wanted surgery next week, Dr. Shaver — already overbooked — would make it happen. But ... I wouldn't be flying anywhere for three weeks due to the risk of blood clots. Plan B, at his suggestion, was to take my planned holiday trip and schedule surgery for the new year. "A few weeks will not make any difference in your outcome," he advised. Another surgeon concurred. Furthermore, she actually had the CAT Scan results and said it looked to her like it would be a "surgical cure" (no further treatment needed). Reassured, I put cancer on the back burner and planned to enjoy the holidays.

How to tell the family
Mark and I had been humming along toward finalizing our divorce. How does cancer fit into that picture? Somehow, I couldn't or wouldn't call to tell him. Finally, hours later, he texted me and said   since he hadn't heard anything about the colonoscopy, he assumed everything went OK. So I gave him the info and he immediately came home. It was strange, awkward, comforting. Pick your adjective.

Next up: Amanda, who'd been living outside London for four months now and was eagerly looking forward to three weeks stateside for the holidays. I'd get to burst her bubble. Thank heavens for Skype. I told her before the surgeon's visit. Both of us staved off the waterworks, and I promised to Skype again after the doctor's appointment. In the interim, reality set in for her: I was sick and she was 5000 miles away; neither of us was in a good place.

Nathan had a week's worth of finals looming in Texas. I hated "withholding" news, but "Surprise, I have cancer!" didn't seem conducive to studying. It was news that could wait to be delivered with hugs.

My sister, my rock of Gibraltar during the divorce process, was stunned with the news. We shared a few choice words — the kinds mothers would prefer to think you didn't know, much less use! — about the latest bad twist in my life.

My brother and sister-in-law would be visiting for a week at the tail end of a Panama Canal cruise. BC — before cancer — I was planning to take them to Vegas for a couple days, maybe up to LA. Instead, I got to tell them the kid sister had cancer.


Ohio, and the Midwest in general, treated us pretty well considering the season. There was snow when we go there and every few days a fresh dusting — just enough to keep it looking pretty and white. Got to see lots of family — the permanent members who are stuck with me and the soon-to-be exes (who will still be family in my book). But I cut the trip a week short when I started thinking of all that needed done before surgery.

Ironically, it felt good to be back "home" — even if the house is for sale, the spouse is bailing and surgery is on the horizon.

“It's malignant and it needs to come out.”

Those words, bluntly spoken by a gastroenterologist on the morning of Nov. 30, twisted my perspective on life. I was just coming off the worst year of my life (impending divorce — friendly, but unwanted by me). Note to self: time to redefine "worst."

I had grand plans for the future:

• Lots of time in Longview, Texas, watching Nate, 20, play first base for the LeTourneau University Yellow Jackets. He'd had a magical season the spring before, but I'd seen very few games. This year, he was out of the dorms and with a couch available in his living room, the cost of visiting dropped dramatically. And maybe I could work a little magic on his dumpy but cheap apartment.
• Couple trips to Europe to visit Amanda, 22, who was living abroad for a year as an au pair for a family just outside London. I hadn't seen her since August and was planning a February visit where we'd make a trip to Paris. Then in June, when she finished her tour of duty, we were going to spend a few weeks traveling Europe. I'd expected her to do some traveling while she was abroad; I expected her to do it was some new-found friends. I was touched that she wanted to see the world with me. Nate had been invited to play baseball for a week in Holland; maybe we could meet there.
  
• And the immediate future included a holiday trip to Cleveland to visit family and make a couple side trips (weather permitting) to DC and NY. Baby Girl was coming back to the US for three weeks.
• Sell the family home and start my new life in my own place.
  

John Lennon said: “Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.” Who knew he could so succinctly sum up my life in a line from "Beautiful Boy" http://videosift.com/video/John-Lennon-Beautiful-Boy. (The line is toward the end for anyone who cares to listen.) The song was written about his son Sean as Lennon reflected on the child's life thus far and contemplated their future. Lennon's life, of course, was tragically cut short while he was busy making other plans. What a prophecy; I hope it won't be mine.

Back to the morning of Nov. 30. I had just undergone a "routine" colonoscopy. I was signing release papers and salivating over my first solid food in 30-plus hours. The gastroenterologist asked me to step into a side room. It was dimly lit, cramped, filled with assorted computers, desks and office materials ... there may have even been a worker at one of the computers. The doctor motioned to a monitor where in wonderous full color were assorted pictures of the inside of my colon (not my best side, but it was squeaky clean!). He pointed to a photo: "It's malignant and it needs to come out." No, "Please sit down ..." No, "Sorry to have to tell you this ..." Just, "It's malignant and it needs to come out."

I sank uninvited into a chair and scrounged around for my voice, "You can tell that from a picture?" He replied, "Well, even if it's not, it needs to come out." Go home. Rest up. Go see your primary care doctor tomorrow. Dismissed!

My poor friend Denise, whom I'd bribed into taking me to my colonoscopy appointment with the promise of breakfast afterward. (For decades, my soon-to-be ex had been my go-to guy for medical/dental anesthesia-involved "chauffeur" needs. With this appointment I'd taken a step in breaking that reliance.) Refusing a wheel chair, I walked to Denise's car and got in. My mind was racing: Tell her? Wait until I'd told "family"? The moment she spoke, my decision was made: "I have colon cancer," I blurted, redefining "family" to include new-found friends. We mourned, we cursed, we had breakfast. What we didn't have were tears.

A former neighbor and dear long-distance friend Kristy had given me a self-help book for my birthday titled: "Me Five Years From Now." At the time, the upheaval I was dealing with was divorce. With the latest wrinkle in my life, I think I'll start calling it: "Be Five Years From Now."

Stay tuned!