Cancer Anniversaries Good and Bad

An anniversary is the annual remembrance of an event. Most people think of anniversaries as happy things — wedding anniversaries, for example, or birthdays, or the founding of a country as an independent entity. But there are other anniversaries that commemorate less pleasant events — anniversaries of wars, or deaths or divorces. Some anniversaries are a mix of pleasant and unpleasant.

“Cancerversaries” are of the mixed variety. They can commemorate a variety of steps along the time between the appearance of symptoms (if any), the diagnosis, treatment, completion of treatment, outcome and follow-up.

On July 3, 2020, I was diagnosed with follicular lymphoma, a form of blood cancer that is considered very treatable, but chronic and incurable. That began a whirlwind of appointments to meet my oncologist, have more tests, determine a treatment plan and starting treatment, all within a couple of weeks. Primary treatment lasted six months, at the end of which I was declared — somewhat to my oncologist’s pleased surprise, given how widespread the lymphoma was at diagnosis — to be in remission.

I finished treatment Dec. 3, 2020. For the next year, I received what is called maintenance treatments — the immunotherapy medication I was given as part of my monthly treatments was given every other month, to help reduce the risk of relapse. I had blood testing done and saw my oncologist or his PA every appointment. After a year, maintenance treatments were discontinued, and for the next year, I saw my oncologist every four months instead of every two; a year after that, those appointments were reduced to every six months.

Next week, I go for my annual CT scan and twice-yearly bloodwork, and the week after that I have an appointment with my oncologist to review the scan and lab results. Assuming — hoping, fingers crossed — that this all comes up clear, I will be officially five years in remission.

Five years is a long time, and yet, it really isn’t. So much has changed, and yet, many things remain the same. During maintenance treatment, I decided to retire two years earlier than I had originally planned — teaching middle school, immunocompromised from cancer treatment, in the midst of a world-wide pandemic, seemed like it might not be the best choice. A year after that, my dog Sammy, who got me through pandemic restrictions and cancer treatment, passed away from old age. A year later, I took a long-delayed trip to India with friends, during which significant renovation on my house was begun; for reasons not relevant here, it wasn’t completed on schedule, but is supposed to be done, finally, next week. A year ago, I tested successfully for my sixth degree black belt in TaeKwon-Do, having started training in 1987. A few months ago, I finally adopted a new dog, Violet.

In many ways, cancer has moved to the background of my life. But it’s still there. It’s kind of like being divorced; I will never not be divorced (which happened in 1994), but it’s receded into the distant past, and only comes up when I complete one of those surveys that ask for your personal statistics. I truly hope that cancer, like my long-ago divorce, remains in the background, a remnant of something that is part of my personal history, but no longer a part of my present, and, hopefully, not a part of my future. But when those cancerversary dates roll around, when checkup appointments come due, it’s hard to relegate such things to the past, and harder to believe that that’s where they will stay.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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