KILLING CANCER STEP BY STEP: #1

Killing cancer starts the same for everyone.

It’s a new mole, a lump, a bump, a new ache and pain.

You wonder what’s up, get checked out, and forget about it.

After that it’s an appointment, or a phone call, and your life, your future, your plans, hits the fan and splatters all over.

At least that’s the feeling. Then what?

I asked a man waiting for radiation how things were going.

His wife answered for him:

“It’s going well. The first time we told everyone and got all the support in the world. This time we didn’t tell everyone.”

The man wasn’t saying anything. I respected that.

When we’re on the receiving end, things quiet down.

During a similar conversation another man said, “This time I’m taking it more seriously. I even quit smoking.”

Killing cancer brings up this often repeated phrase: “Everyone is different.”

Serious Cancer

If you haven’t heard this, you will and you’ll be glad to hear it: “If you’re going to get cancer, this is a good one.”

It’s supposed to comfort the afflicted.

A ‘good cancer?’ What is a good cancer? Is there even such a thing?

I sat face to face with a doctor who explained what I had to look forward to in killing cancer.

Three different chemo concoctions, and a chemo pump. Lots of chemo. He was a chemo doctor at a private clinic. Both my father in law and mother in law had seen him for his chemo recommendation. And declined. Neither died from cancer.

Now it was me. I didn’t like the sound of things.

Would I lose my hair? Yes.

Would it affect my voice? Probably, but the good doctor pointed out a speech defect I didn’t know I had.

Would I get a second opinion?

My wife did the talking while I patted my hair and cleared my throat.

Right after that meeting I got the worst haircut I’d ever had so I’d be glad it fell out.

The second opinion came at an OHSU Knight Cancer Institute infusion clinic with Dr. Yee.

“After reviewing your case I recommend one chemo.”

What about the other two chemos and a pump?

“Your case doesn’t require more chemo or a pump.”

I figured out that the first doctor prescribed meds used for smoking and drinking throat cancer, a bad deal.

The second doctor prescribed meds for HPV 16 neck cancer. Why? Because I had HPV 16 neck cancer, not smoking and drinking throat cancer.

It had different characteristics.

Will I lose my hair?

“No.”

Will my voice be affected?

“No.”

Do you notice a speech defect? I didn’t ask that question. I’m a west coast guy from North Bend. That’s defective enough.

The only thing I’m glad about is not growing up in Coos Bay. (Inside joke even though killing cancer isn’t so funny.)

Killing Cancer Support System

It’s one thing to find yourself in the crosshairs of cancer: One loaded gun is inside, the other is outside.

Your focus is to not think about loaded guns while the people around you hear shots.

It’s a whole other thing when you’re the one hearing shots.

There you are cruising free and cancer clear like expected and someone close to you finds a lump where no lump had been. A small lump, but a lump just the same.

After getting it checked out you speculate what it could be, starting with no big thing and it will resolve on its own.

Share this view with the doctor who casually says, “Oh no, it’s cancer,” without a thought of the impact. Cancer doctors say, “cancer,” all the time.

For the rest of us it’s the last thing we want to hear. But we’re listening, we hear it, and we hate it like the plague.

It is a plague.

From then on we assume responsibility for keeping up with meds and appointments, monitoring and testing, until one day a year later you’re taking a Hibiclens shower before a surgery date.

What can a husband say to a wife the day before?

“We will pull through this together, honey, but you’ll be doing most of the pulling. I’ll give you a push.”

“Just like we always do?”

“Just like that. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I love you more.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“If it was, we’d both win.”

“I like that.”

“I like it more.”

“Yes, I can see that.”