Cancer in the Rearview Mirror

As you read this, it’s probably very near Christmas, a time of celebration and joy. For me, it’s also a time for reflection. It’s been two-and-a-half years since I “rang the bell” on the oncology ward, signaling that I had ended my chemotherapy treatment. I was cured of the disease (stage 2 non-specific, non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma) that certainly would have killed me if I hadn’t sought medical help. My doctor said I’d have died in three months if I had done nothing. Throughout my grueling cancer ordeal, I wrote poetry about what I was going through. I wrote enough poems that I eventually published a book. Nowadays, "Running from the Reaper" is listed as “Suggested Reading” on Blood Cancer United's webpage.

I’ve had the usual follow-ups every six months, as is the protocol for post-cancer treatment. I suspect I’ll continue the follow-ups for another two years. So far, so good. There’s no sign of recurrence. My body has returned to what it was before the cancer. Even my hair is back. To be honest, writing this blog is the first time I’ve given any thought to my cancer experience in half a year. In some ways, it’s as if it never even happened. That’s why I’m telling you my story, because no matter how terrifying and enormous the prospect may be from the beginning, and it’s huge — probably the biggest thing in your life — it is possible that in a short time (and a couple of years is a short time) you will look back on the traumatic experience and all the doctor visits and blood-draws and infusions and scans as nothing more than a fading memory. The fear and anxiety will have vanished. You will no longer lose sleep ruminating on your prognosis and your uncertain future. Your every conversation won’t always be about your cancer.

For a while, I had no dreams of a bright future. The only future was immediate: my next hospitalization and infusions, my next blood draw or my daily regimen of pills. But thankfully, I have dreams again. My future lies ahead like a beckoning highway. I bought some land. My wife and I are going to build an orchard, raised garden beds, greenhouses. We even had a pond dug. We’re going to build the perfect retirement home sitting atop a hill with a million dollar view of every gorgeous sunset. Deer and turkey wander the woods around it.

That terrible year of holding my breath and enduring so many cycles of infusions and poking and prodding was so bad that at times I wanted to give up. “I’m not going back,” I said to my wife and friends. “I’m done.” But, fortunately, at their insistence, I went back every time. I finished the protocol. In recovery, my oncologist wants me to come in every six months for blood-work. After two-and-a-half years, I question whether I need to keep it up. It’s a 100 miles to the clinic. But I go nonetheless. You should, too.

My story doesn’t mean that my cancer will never return. There are few guarantees in life. I know that. You know that. But it might be useful to know that there may come a day when you only see your cancer experience growing smaller and smaller as it recedes in your memory the way everything recedes in a rearview mirror.

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

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