Talking Point Tuesday

This week I celebrate 18 years of remission from cancer. After the first 5 years, when I was able to classify myself as "cured", I stopped marking the date on the calendar. Rather than celebrate each year I was given, I wanted to just put the whole thing out of my mind and pretend it never happened. But for some reason this year it has been in my thoughts more. Perhaps it is because there are so many prayer requests in our Sunday School class each week for those battling cancer. Perhaps it is because my daughter is the same age as I was when I lost my grandmother to Pancreatic cancer. Perhaps it is because I atruggle with some health issues that don't have a clear cause, and it makes me worry more about the "worst case scenario." Whatever the case, this year I not only want to acknowledge 18 years of remission, but celebrate 18 years of the gift of life.

I was diagnosed in the summer of 1993, only a week after my one-year wedding anniversary. I was 23 years old. I had found a large lump on my neck that I assumed to be an enlarged lymph node or a cyst. I had no idea it could be anything serious. When it didn't go away after a few days, I made an appointment with my doctor. He took one look at me and immediately made an appointment for a biopsy. Now I was worried.

I underwent surgery under local anesthesia to remove the entire lymph node from my neck. This was not a pleasant procedure. Right before going under the knife, the surgeon had me sign a paper acknowledging the possibility of his "nicking" a main blood vessel in my neck which could lead to death. And then I had to lay on the table and listen to him and the nurses talk football while performing this intricate procedure. When the nurse holding my neck open cautioned the surgeon that he was "too close to the vein" and he urgently replied, "Don't move!", I cursed whoever's decision it was not to put me completely under and spare me my life flashing before my eyes.

We waited an anxiety-filled week to find out the results. I remember sitting in the doctor's office knowing that the next few minutes could change my life...could, in fact, determine the length of my life. And then I heard the words "Hodgkin's Lymphoma." Cancer of the lymphatic system. I remember driving home to our little apartment and listening to Roger's characteristically optimistic pep talk on the way and being slightly annoyed. And then I remember making the subliminal choice to just pretend it wasn't happening. If I went through my treatment while trying not to think about it at all, I could avoid any painful emotions. Probably not the healthiest way of dealing with cancer, but it worked for me. It kept me from focusing on the worst possible outcome.

After the biopsy I underwent several tests to determine how far the cancer had spread. CT scans, MRI's, and a bone marrow biopsy showed that I had Stage II-A. The cancer had spread to my chest, but appeared not to be in my abdomen. I was given the choice to undergo abdominal surgery to confirm that it hadn't spread there, or to trust the x-rays and go from there. I decided to trust the x-rays, and spent the next five years worrying if that choice would come back to haunt me. I was grateful not to have to undergo chemotherapy as we had caught the cancer early. Instead, I had five weeks of daily radiation treatment. It left my mouth dry, my food tasting metallic, my stomach nauseaus, and my whole body fatigued. I lost the hair on the back lower part of my head, but since I had long hair I could hide it completely. I continued to work at my job as a church secretary, and life went on.

The long-term effects of the treatment included hypothyroidism, an increased risk of breast cancer, an increased risk for a secondary lymphoma, and my favorite: not having to shave my armpits for several years. Oh...and my five tattoos. Five pen-point spots on my chin, chest, and arms that they used to line me up with the radiation grid. I began getting mammograms at age 30 as a precautionary measure. When my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy a few years ago, my anxiety level went up a bit and I began to worry more frequently about cheating fate. All of this to say that this anniversary finds me compelled to see the last 18 years for the gift that it has been. In that moment in the doctor's office when I first heard the word "cancer", I didn't have the strength to believe that I would still get to grow old with my husband, or be able to carry a child, or experience motherhood, or any other of the taken-for-granted blessings of life. I chose instead to block it all out. Today, I just want to take it all in, and be grateful.