William Ramshaw resides in the expansive Pacific Northwest. He is a six-year survivor of pancreatic cancer and has written a memoir Gut Punched! Facing Pancreatic Cancer.

William Ramshaw

I didn’t set out to write about my tangle with pancreatic cancer when I was first diagnosed. This has been an experience I wish I didn’t have.

Enduring week after week of treatments not knowing if I would make it. Facing complication upon complication made any hint of normal a mirage. The mere thought of who would walk each of my three daughters down the aisle at some wistful church as soft music sifted through the air brought me to a dead stop, wet-eyed and unable to choke out a word. This notion of them walking down the aisle alone crushed me. “Who gives this woman?” answered by silence.

Much like a young GI is startled by a car backfiring and relives a bloody day of combat and remembers a friend he lost that day, the thought of sharing my cancer experiences caused me to relive the terror of those days.

The day the doctor, unable to utter the “C-word” told me, “I’m sorry you have a malignancy,” and then walked out of my hospital room before I could muster a single question. Days when no one offered me much hope I would make it. Days I felt like I had been written off as just another expendable in the war against cancer.

Having a doctor unable to bring himself to say “cancer” did nothing to assure me I would make it. Later during my treatments, it seemed the people who cared for me had already come to terms that my days were few. Every time they looked at me, I could see the blood drain from their faces. It wasn’t that they didn’t care, but rather that they cared too much.

Cancer is relative. There are always others facing a worse type of cancer in a later stage dealing with even more horrific odds. While pancreatic cancer is considered by far the most lethal, with so many more instances of breast cancer, far more die from it. My hope is that in hearing from a person who has thus far beaten pancreatic cancer, someone amid their own cancer battle will be emboldened to believe they can beat theirs too.

Much of the cancer process contorts our minds turning its demonic fury inward ripping us apart. Periods of bliss are followed by episodes of dark hopelessness. One day we feel we might make it, while the next day we feel it’s over.

For me, I knew I might die and accepted this without flinching, but underneath my cool detachment lurked the finality of it all. Things left undone. Memories not created.

I have found writing about these things has helped me come to grips with the fact that I am only one follow-up away from my life once again coming apart. I hope reading about my journey will help others facing a murky future deal with their own torment of getting told their life may be coming to an end. Nothing about this is easy. But everything about it must be faced the best we can.

For five years I struggled with whether I wanted to go public with my story. I wanted to offer hope to others, but at what cost? The whole idea of inviting absolute strangers into the rawest part of my life sickened me. Facing death is one of those intimate things most of us don’t tweet about.

OK, I guess some do, but how can someone begin to explain how the end feels in 280-characters? Some will post about it in places like CaringBridge to a select members-only group of friends and family locked down by a password. But it is another thing to write to the public about how it feels to grapple with cancer and the idea this might be it. Only after years of wrestling with this, and how it might benefit others who are on their own terrifying journey, did I decide to share my up-close experiences, the countless sleepless nights and unending fog of fear I have endured for years.

The thing that has motivated me the most is wanting to bolster those who feel so alone on their journey. Although their families and friends may rally around them, they are all too aware it is still them facing their cancer, no one else. As much as the people supporting us may say, “You’ll beat this” or “Be strong” it rings hollow. After all, what do they know? They’ve never faced anything like this. When I was in the thick of my treatments, I connected with a couple of cancer survivors. Having been in the gun barrel themselves, knowing how harsh all of it can be, their advice often in the form of talking about what they had been through rang true to me.

For me, writing about my journey represents a feeble attempt to share what I’ve learned along the way. Much like someone on a trip to somewhere they’ve never been before tells good friends all about their trip, I want to offer the same to others starting their trip into cancer-land. Although I may never meet these new friends, I trust I am helping them along on their journey.

Choosing to share my struggles — the good, bad and ugly — has not been easy. Many days I feel why bother? Even today, I wonder if my story is relevant to others. But every now and then I get word back from someone who is dealing with their own mortality thanking me for saying what they’ve been thinking. Those days, I realize that this is worth it. When the ink is dry, this is all I ever wanted to do.

This is why I write. If you’re up to it, I would encourage you to share your story too. Who knows who you might help?

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A pancreatic cancer survivor shares why he writes about his journey and encourages other patients and survivors to do the same.

Why Do I Write About My Cancer Journey?

Unlike last spring where I knew no one who had contracted COVID-19, this winter has been different. I have several friends who’ve contracted the infection, but fortunately, all of them survived. However, it was not lost on me I could be next.

Knowing this, I decided to pursue getting vaccinated which is much easier said than done. Recently, I tried to get an appointment but after starting off as No. 2,123 in line on a mass vaccination center’s website, with still 130 people in front of me, they ran out of appointments. I later learned they also made appointments by phone, so the following week when they opened for appointments again, I used both their website and called in. After redialing close to 200 times, I got through and snagged an appointment.

Hence, on sharing this good news with a couple of close friends and family members it caught me off guard to hear, “Did you know?” or “Have you read?” to which I replied, “Yes.”

Getting this vaccination is a personal choice to be weighed carefully but for cancer survivors it presents a conundrum. In many cases, including mine, our immune system has already been compromised leaving us vulnerable to this vaccination in ways that may not have been studied. Having survived pancreatic cancer seven years ago, it proved to be a hard choice but much a fated one. For me, not getting a vaccination is something I cannot do. Please let me explain.

For two years after my Whipple Procedure to excise my pancreatic tumor, every six to eight weeks I ended up back in the emergency room (ER) in significant pain. Sometimes unable to stand, I had to use a wheelchair. For the most part, the ER doctors could see I had punishing pain but despite test after test, they were perplexed as to why. Most of the time I was admitted for observation and discharged once my searing pain passed. That was until everything changed.

I remember the day as if it were yesterday. Upon entering the ER, the triage nurse asked, “What’s your pain level?” Through my teeth, I winced out, “10-plus!”

Rather than sitting for hours waiting to be seen, she took me straight back to an ER exam room. A round of labs and scans along with medication to dull the pain followed. I expected them to say, as they always did, “We don’t know what’s going on.” But things were different this time. Later that evening, the doctor tapped on my door and stepped in. Without pausing to say, “How are you doing?” she said, “Your scans and labs show you have an infection that has spread from your pancreas to your spine into your left lung. I am admitting you.”

With no bed available, I slept that night in the ER. Not to be graphic but the next day they inserted a drain through my back and into my lung to get rid of the infection. For the next three days, I gasped for air. Each breath seemed like my last one. I must say that until you have experienced something like this, it is hard to describe what it is like being all too aware you can’t breathe. Sheer terror is a start, but it falls well short of describing it. Fortunately, the doctors were able to get my infection under control before I ended up on a ventilator.

Only months later did an experienced gastroenterologist find the source of all this: my pancreatic duct which had been rebuilt as part of my Whipple had a small hole in it allowing caustic digestive fluid to leak into my abdomen leading both to my debilitating pain and the roaring infection.

When I think back to this experience, I can only imagine what it is like for someone with COVID-19 to lay in a hospital bed unable to be with their family as the virus shuts down their ability to breathe. This is but one reason I decided to get vaccinated.

So what are we cancer survivors supposed to do?

Something like this messenger RNA vaccination is beyond most of our abilities to understand the pros and cons of getting it. Our doctors have spent, in some cases, decades studying and practicing medicine. Reading a few articles on the internet or watching some YouTube videos does not qualify us to practice medicine. As a note, I am a big proponent of being an informed patient but being that I am unable to engineer and produce my own vaccine, I am at the mercy of the vaccine trials, the reams of data they have produced, and the multi-layered scientific reviews. Nevertheless, this is between you and your doctor and not between your well-meaning friends, family, or neighbors. Check-in with your doctor and listen to what they recommend.

No matter what one’s position is on any topic, there are websites and articles that will confirm your point of view. For many of us, including me, we lack the scientific training to analyze the veracity of complex medical information especially vaccine trial data. Thus, what looks accurate on some website may be a sham. One needs to look at the preponderance of the evidence, not bits and pieces of tangled information from perhaps sketchy sources. Avoid confirming your bias.

It seems everyone these days touts, “Follow the science.” But I feel some leave out, “If it agrees with my view.” For me, the risk of the receiving vaccine versus dying is no match. Follow the science whether it agrees with your view or not.

So in your calculations as to whether to get vaccinated or not, I would encourage you to check-in with your doctor, avoid confirming your bias, and to follow the science. At least for this cancer survivor, all things being equal, for me not getting a vaccination is something I cannot do.

A cancer survivor recalls his experience with a life-threatening infection following surgery to remove his tumor and notes how it influenced his decision to get a COVID-19 vaccine.

Surviving a Deadly Infection Influenced My Decision on the COVID-19 Vaccine

I recently found myself back in the chemo room. Thankfully, it was not for chemo but rather to have an IV set for yet another six-month follow-up scan. Having survived pancreatic cancer, a sardonic executioner, my oncologist leaves nothing to chance. Should my cancer try to make an encore for a last curtain call, she wants to drop it in its tracks.

It seems nothing much had changed since I sat there seven years ago for my treatments. The same 16, nothing sweet about them, chemo chairs still sit around the perimeter of the room facing toward each other.

Although the room strains to be cheery, there is nothing joyful about it. Washed-out salmon paint coats the walls while cheap art reprints in respectable frames hang on them. Today, half or so of the chairs are empty but I remember take-a-number days when the music stopped.

Today, across from me on the far wall, a woman sits distracting herself by scrolling through her phone. Next to her, another woman is asleep with a blanket pulled up around her neck; no doubt worn thin by her treatments. Next to me sits a gentleman of better years hooked up to a pump. He wears fright on his face. We barely exchange a glance or say a word to each other. What can we say? The sadness between us is palpable.

I remember sitting there every other week for my treatments. Other than a new set of victims, nothing much has changed. The nurses who provided loving care to me back then are long gone. I am sure there are many reasons, but I suspect dealing with this carnage week in and week out takes a toll on even the sturdiest ones. I always wonder why anyone chooses this. But I suppose the ones who work with children have a tougher slog.

While there I make a point to thank the kind nurse who sets my IV for her caring so much about others. My hope is she’ll hang in there long enough to help a few more of us survive but I fear within a couple of years she’ll be on to bigger, not necessarily better things.

A rather smallish person, to me she looks about five or six months pregnant. I say nothing as I don’t want to put her at unease. Instead, I think about the contrast of bringing a spanking brand-new human into the world while she cares for so many of us near our end.

While I wait for the scan tech to come and get me, I see much the same things I saw years ago. Some look like me other than having a thin plastic line tucked inside their shirt or blouse connected to a port in their chest. Some seem to be at ease with their plight while others have heartbreak etched in their washed-out faces.

Having been through the treatment gauntlet, my heart always breaks for these kind souls. Who knows if some genetic anomaly caused their cancer or exposure to an exotic chemical compound or yet another reason. None of this matters, cancer is cancer, and its treatments are tough at best. But today I am happy to be alive doing my best not to come back to the chemo room.

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One cancer survivor recalls a recent return trip to the chemo room where he received his treatment seven years ago. This time, it’s to get an IV for a follow-up scan. But he can’t help but reminisce and think of those around him.

A Cancer Survivor’s Return Trip to the Chemo Room is Bound to Come with Flashbacks

Like so many, my pre-cancer life consisted of plowing through each week with the hope of a little downtime over the weekend, before planting my face into Monday. That was then.

Seven years post pancreatic cancer where many don’t see two years and most don’t see five, I have taken a harder look at life, 

 life. Things I paid no mind to I now wonder how I looked right past them.

There is something majestic about a sunset. Time freezes. The world pauses. I didn’t expect to see many more after getting word I had a type of cancer few survive, I now treat each new day as a gift because that is what it is, a gift. The purples and pinks, hues of red, faint blues, bursts of yellow, none of which fit well on a color wheel, explode, all unexpected.

We all could learn a bit from the squirrels. Simple creatures who go about their lives as if tomorrow doesn’t matter. I can often figure out what kind of winter is coming by watching them scurry around in my backyard. One we named Chubby Pants could use some gym-time. He or she, we don’t know which, along with a couple of pals get busy harvesting pinecones and pear berries each fall.

Somehow, these little hoarders are provided for though none of them have 8-to-5 jobs or even houses to call home. They just live their lives as a matter of necessity not worrying about an unexpected call from their doctor concerning some gray smudge on their latest scan. They get by just fine. We will too. Life will continue without our help. If you don’t believe me, watch the squirrels.

Not all that long ago, sleep did not come easy. Both unending worry and pain chased it away. Now with the winter the days short and sunlight rationed, sleep comes easier. It seems by early afternoon the sun falls behind the distant mountains. These limitless winter nights sing lullabies to me. Blankets of snow deaden the cacophony of clatter, people racing off to work, the trash being picked up or the morning paper being delivered. The sun hides itself until late morning allowing me a little more dream time until my day starts afresh. I live for these endless winter nights.

Out my front window sits a school bus stop. Each morning a dappled flock of kids assemble waiting to be dragged off to a place they don’t want to go. Resigned to their sad fate, some stand motionless inspecting their sneakers while others dance around like ballerinas doing pirouettes. You can hear it coming as the distant rumble grows, it squeaks to stop and they disappear into it. As I wait for my lab results, I feel like a kid waiting for the bus resigned to my fate.

OK call me weird but I love running to town to pick up a few things. Nothing big mind you, go to the hardware store to get some boards for something I plan to build or pick up some fresh chicken for dinner. Stuff like that. I organize the places I need to go into a large loop, so I don’t cross back over my route.

Post-treatment, due to unending weariness, I had to pare down these errands to nil. If I had a medical emergency I wondered where I would go? Now that I am back to somewhat normal, I have found there’s a guilty pleasure to running a simple errand.

Songs speak to me in a way words cannot. After one chemo treatment, I dragged myself to my car to start my trek to work. The day fit my mood, a bleak January one, dank snow filled the ditches alongside the road. As I headed to work 

began to play. With tears welling up in my eyes I sensed I wasn’t facing cancer alone but something far bigger than me was watching over me. Some call this their higher power, I’ll call it a presence.

I would portend that all of us, not only cancer survivors would do well to see the small things encircling us. There are abundant things to be thankful for if we would only open our eyes.

Looking at the small things we may miss or take for granted can help us appreciate the changes that come along with a cancer diagnosis and how to weather the bad times.

William Ramshaw

Why Do I Write About My Cancer Journey?

Surviving a Deadly Infection Influenced My Decision on the COVID-19 Vaccine

A Cancer Survivor’s Return Trip to the Chemo Room is Bound to Come with Flashbacks

Seeing the Small Things Amid Cancer

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