Cancer

As time goes on, Michael's cancer and the whole nightmare of treatment last year become more and more of a distant memory, ever more removed from our present reality. It's difficult to look at Michael now - who is probably in the best shape, and the best health he's ever been in - and reconcile the knowledge that last year, he was literally fighting for his life.

For all intents and purposes, we've moved on; we've put it behind us. Yes, there are still lingering effects from the cancer itself and the treatment that have become a part of his, and therefore our, daily lives - none of them especially pleasant. Still, we live in a state of relief and gratitude, and we dare to dream about the future, take it for granted even.

But sometimes it all creeps back in, the fear, the knowledge that this is all really out of our hands. Hardly a day goes by that I don't hear about cancer touching someone's life in some way. It almost seems as though there is no getting away from it. Michael has been bringing stories to me lately of people he became acquainted with on an online cancer support message board - people with the same type of cancer he had who have had a recurrence. People who have suddenly died.

People die from cancer. Even in this day and age of wildly advanced medicine and technology, people die from cancer.

It stops me cold. My insides seize up and I feel panic set in. It is such a completely helpless feeling, knowing that there is really no rhyme or reason to it, no justice. It doesn't matter how much "bad" you've already had in your life. It doesn't matter how good or bad a person you are. There are no checks and balances when it comes to cancer. And really, my husband's life is in the hands of medical professionals whom we have no choice but to trust.

Sometimes I become superstitious despite myself and I wonder if we are tempting fate by moving on and embracing life. Living in fear is no way to live, to be sure, but sometimes I picture the Cancer Gods (who look like horrific monsters in my mind) watching us and deciding to take us down a notch or two by spreading a little cancer dust on our family again.

The truth is, it never really goes away, not completely.

Contemplative

It's been a quiet week here on the ol' blog. In real life, things are busier than ever with the kids in piano lessons, drum lessons, dance, and now baseball - on top of the ever-present homework. Still, I've been in a contemplative frame of mind. Pondering. Reflecting. Evaluating relationships. Wondering where we go from here.

I'm reading this book, Between Me and the River, by Carrie Host. I'll review it on Book Lust when I finish it, but I'll just say here that it's a memoir about the author's experience with a rare and incurable form of cancer.

A line in the book stood out to me when I read it the other night:

"It is getting to be a lot of work to hurry up and get through all of this so that you can get back to all of that."

I know I spent the bulk of 2009 wishing the year away. Never in my life had I ever before wanted so desperately for time to go by quickly so that we could get to the other side of Michael's cancer. And now, here we are, on the other side. And the big question is: What now?

Because in many ways, that old life that I wanted so urgently to get back to doesn't exist anymore. We are changed. Grateful, exhausted, wary, and scarred. The healing continues, and I am finding that it may be a life-long process. It's somewhat of a struggle trying to figure out what it all means: what wisdom can we take away from that horrendous experience? What truly matters the most in life, and how can it be honored? Where do we go from here?

And as I ponder all this, I'm trying to be a better person. A better friend, wife, and mother. I'm making an effort to make sure the people I love know how important they are to me. I'm trying to take deep breaths before I yell, and to give more hugs and kisses. I'm trying to improve the quality of the time I spend with my kids - baking cookies, playing games, going to the park. I'm trying to be present, because life is short.

Back to life

Back to reality.

Michael went back to work today. Tomorrow will mark three weeks since his surgery. Although he's been recuperating these last three weeks (and continues to do so), it's been nice having him around. It's been nice having his company, and his help with the kids. And he cooks! That's a definite bonus. The kids have really enjoyed having Dad here too, before and after school, helping with homework, going for walks, taking them out for ice cream (because lord knows Mom never splurges on ice cream in the middle of the day!).

But his return to work was inevitable. It's sort of a milestone, marking the final delineation between CANCER and AFTER CANCER. This is where life goes on. It's a good thing, by all means. Thank goodness he/we survived that horrible ordeal and lived to tell about it. Thank goodness he's able to go back to work.

But it's a little surreal, too. Just that, okay, phew, that's over with, now back to the rat race. If this were a movie, wouldn't this be the part where we realize we've been given a second chance, and we take stock of what really matters, and we make some momentous, life-altering statement? Isn't this the part where we ditch the house, pull the kids out of school and travel the country in an RV, and Michael pursues his lifelong dream of being a musician? I don't know. I mean, obviously that's not going to happen. There are bills to pay, responsibilities to uphold, cancer be damned.

But still, it's just a little . . . disheartening, I guess, knowing that we're just supposed to move forward, business as usual from here. And that people probably assume that it's all behind us, and the reality is that it has changed us forever - that experience, and the residual fear - and it will never be completely behind us.

The Big Payoff

Nearly a year ago, we received some of the most devastating news possible: Michael was diagnosed with stage 3 cancer. For nearly a year now, we've dealt with the aftermath of that news. Radiation and chemo. More chemo. Major surgery. Lots more chemo. I've watched my husband become diminished, and at times it was impossible to see past the darkness.

Today, we received some of the best news possible: the post-chemo PET scan Michael underwent last week showed no more cancer. This is what all the hell and pain and misery were for, this big payoff.

It's interesting how in the face of something so horrible, you can end up feeling very lucky and grateful. We dodged a bullet there. It could have been so much worse.

Some things I've learned through this ordeal:

• You learn who your real friends are when something like this happens. Some people will distance themselves. A lot of others will stick by you like glue, always there with an ear, a shoulder, and a helping hand.
• People like to help. As hard as it is to ask for help, or to accept help that's offered, it helps to realize that they get something out of it too - it makes them feel good. Needing help does not equal weakness, and giving help does not equal pity.
• Insurance companies suck. At least Anthem Blue Cross does. Despite the sentimental ads, what they really care about is their bottom dollar. And they really couldn't care less about the emotional distress their shenanigans cause, on top of dealing with a devastating illness.
• When planning a family, it would be wise to consider how many children one could handle as a single parent, because one never knows what life might throw at one. Not saying I regret my overly large brood, but I've discovered how difficult it can be to raise them with a sick husband, and I think I have an inkling of how exponentially more difficult it would be to raise them with no husband.
• A good cry is cleansing. Swearing and drinking can sometimes help, too.
• You gotta laugh. You just gotta.

There's probably more, but those are the biggies.

So, where do we go from here? Michael goes in for some somewhat minor surgery tomorrow, which is the final phase of treatment. He'll be in for a few days, and although I'm going to miss him, the mind-numbing anxiety that preceded his first surgery back in June is absent. I want to say that we are ready to live again, but the truth is, we never stopped living. The kids have continued to grow, the sun has continued to rise and set, the bills and junk mail have continued to find their way into our mailbox, and we've still managed to have plenty of laughs, and even a few dinners out, over the year.

Life will never be exactly the same as it was before cancer. Fear of recurrence, I think, will always be lurking, and the scars from this ordeal will linger. And appreciation? Yes, there is so much of that.

Cancer Awareness

There's this thing going around on Facebook right now, where you're (assuming you're female) supposed to post the color of your bra in your status - just the color, and nothing else. And then you're supposed to have all your female FB friends do the same. It's supposed to get people talking: "What's that all about?" It's supposed to get people talking about breast cancer. The last line of the message going around says, "Check your tatas, ladies, and pass this along to all your women friends."

Breast cancer awareness has become almost hip, with all the pink ribbons, pink awareness bracelets, pink merchandise, and t-shirts and bumper stickers with cute sayings like "Save the Tatas." There are walks and runs and parades devoted to raising breast cancer awareness, and raising money for breast cancer research. There's the whole wear-jeans-to-work day in support of breast cancer awareness (are they still doing that? They were when I was still working, which was, ummm, quite a while ago, actually). Celebrities talk openly about breast cancer, and I think they've helped de-stigmatize breast cancer.

I'm all for this. It's wonderful, it truly is. I have a couple of friends who have lived through breast cancer, and I am so thankful for the money and research and awareness that are all probably why my friends are still alive to tell their stories.

But.

There are other types of cancer. Lots of other types. Like the cancer my family has been living through for the past year.

Did you know that colon/colorectal cancer is the second most deadly cancer? Without doing any scientific research, I have to believe that a contributing factor is that nobody wants to talk about it. There are no cute t-shirts or slogans, no celebrities going on Oprah, no special-colored merchandise, a portion of whose proceeds go to research. No fun little Facebook awareness games. Who wants to talk about their colon? Who wants to even admit if they notice a problem with their nether-regions? Heh, if you're like me, you probably would rather pretend you don't even actually have a colon (or a rectum, for that matter).

There is no good kind of cancer. There is no pretty cancer, or popular cancer. It's all ugly and horrible, and it all has the power to steal lives.

So listen, people: check your butts. Seriously. Or better yet, have your doctor check it. Be aware of your body. Run - don't walk - to your doctor if you notice anything out of the ordinary. If you're 50, get a colonoscopy. Younger if you have a family history of colon or colorectal cancer. It's not fun, it's not pretty, but it is necessary. Take care of your body, and all its parts.

And pass the word, okay?