The Cancer Diaries

That first six months of chemo really wasn't so bad. I had my best friend's daughter-in-law going with me to every session, and we made a point of keeping the chemo room an entertaining place while we were in it. For Christmas (I had chemo on Christmas Eve), we went in dressed up like glitzy, crazed Elves with serious style disabilities. When COVID kicked in and they wouldn't let her come with me anymore, I carried on the tradition - for St. Patrick's Day, I went dressed as a leprechaun... outlandish hat and all.

After chemo ended that May, I had no suspicions that this would be an ongoing thing. I assumed the chemo had worked, had killed off any cancer cells that might have been hanging around after the tumor was removed, and started making plans and training to hike the John Muir Trail in the Fall of 2021.

I had gotten up to walking a couple of miles a day by the first of November, 2020. Everything was looking peachy. Early that month, I had a follow-up visit with the oncologist, just to make sure everything was still fine. A little bloodwork, a brief chat, all good. Except, it wasn't. The bloodwork came back looking "off." I didn't much care for the concerned look on my oncologist's face as she told me this, but I tried to tell myself it was just an anomaly of some kind, and would sort itself out. We scheduled a CT scan just to be safe.

It came back with spots on my lungs and liver. Doc showed me the screens.

The first time through, it all happened so fast, I didn't really have time to process the concept of being afraid. I had gone from crampy to doubled over in pain to the surgery table in a matter of days. Just in case it became a problem, though, I had memorized the "Litany against Fear" from Frank Herbert's Dune novels: "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain." On those occasions when I got overwhelmed during the first six-month round of chemotherapy, those words were as comforting to me as scripture.

I repeated those words over and over, numbly, when the oncologist walked out of the room and left me staring at those horrible blue and black images. Those awful spots. I knew. I didn't need a biopsy to tell me what the spots were. It was back.

And this time I had time to think about it. Frankly, I was better off when I didn't. But it's awfully hard to wake up in the morning and stare into Death's face across the rim of your coffee cup and pretend he isn't sitting there. Eventually, though, I got used to his presence. Got comfortable with him. Started telling him jokes. Never could get much of a laugh out of him, though.

We did two CT scans - one of my liver, and one of my lungs. Sure enough, I was right - the little spots were cancer. "Malignant metastatic colorectal cancer, Stage IV," was what it said in the "diagnosis" portion of my chart. Even though it was no longer in my colon, because it originated there, they still called it colorectal cancer. "Metastatic," and "Stage IV," because it had metastisized from colon to lungs and liver. Stage IV generally means "terminal."

Making jokes got a little harder. I hated to admit to anyone, but I was really beginning to struggle. My laughter had started to sound high-pitched and brittle, even to myself. I wondered if anyone else could tell. I wondered if everyone was just pretending not to notice, out of sympathy or out of consideration of my ego.

Chemo, Round Two started in May, 2021. I went in, head held high, makeup on point, grin plastered in place. I greeted all the nurses and oncology staff like old friends. In the days that followed, I graciously accepted help from those I felt truly wanted to help me. But I did my best to keep anyone from seeing that I wasn't as strong as I pretended to be.

It took a botched attempt to talk to someone who was practically a stranger for me to realize I was being an idiot. A total dolt. I had - have - friends. Good friends. Friends who would have whooped every square inch of my broad white backside if they had known I was struggling without saying anything, for no reason other than I didn't want to admit I wasn't as tough as I acted. So I decided to stop being an idiot. I talked to people. I opened up about it not being as easy this time. And you know what? Suddenly, it was easier again.

Missed the first two chapters? Chapter One of The Cancer Diaries is available at https://vocal.media/journal/the-cancer-diaries and Chapter Two can be found at https://vocal.media/humans/the-cancer-diaries-76rnps0x9d