October 24, 2017
Todays post was first published almost two years ago. I hope it speaks to many of you experiencing a cancer recurrence.
As you may have read in the previous blog on Managing Scanxiety, last week Jim had a CT scan-—his first in 6 months. The results were not good—better than devastating, worse than disappointing. He has a several new tumors—some small ones at the apex of the upper left lobe, an area that was resected during his original surgery in 2002, and perhaps more upsetting, a 1.2 cm. lesion in his "good lung" which heretofore had been free of cancer. When you only have one functioning lung, you want to keep it that way.
As you may have read in the previous blog on Managing Scanxiety, last week Jim had a CT scan-—his first in 6 months. The results were not good—better than devastating, worse than disappointing. He has a several new tumors—some small ones at the apex of the upper left lobe, an area that was resected during his original surgery in 2002, and perhaps more upsetting, a 1.2 cm. lesion in his "good lung" which heretofore had been free of cancer. When you only have one functioning lung, you want to keep it that way.
You might think that after fifteen years and scores of scans, bad news wouldn't be such a big deal. During each remission, as irrational as it might be, "when the sky is a bright canary yellow," I remain optimistic. Call me crazy, but, even after nine recurrences and multiple grim scan and biopsy reports, I am always hopeful that the cancer will never comeback. So a scan indicating progression of disease always requires some adjustment of my expectations. But this time, even I was surprised by the intensity of my reaction. Immediately upon hearing the word "lesion," my stomach dropped and my hands started shaking. I fought back tears as I attempted to take in the news.
Even more disturbing was my response in the following days. When I am worried about anything, I become somewhat manic. (Some might say deranged). To those who know me well, this manifests in shopping sprees, rapid-fire talking, and sometimes impulsive behavior. After the scan on Wednesday, I called a realtor, went to look at a zero lot line, fell in love with it, called my son-in-law to see what modifications we could reasonably make, and prepared to put our house on the market. I spent the next two days (and nights), mind spinning, going over all the details—arranging my furniture in the new place, deciding what to sell, and how to decorate. Had I not come to my senses, you would have seen a For Sale sign in our yard this week, admittedly drastic diversionary tactics in an attempt to take my focus from the problem at hand—the return of the cancer.
When the mania frenzy passed—as it always does, thank God—I had to come to grips with emotions very like the ones I experienced after Jim's original diagnosis. Although, our oncologist told us that considering his remarkable response to treatments thus far, he believes Jim could live another twenty years, I was overcome with sadness. I reverted to anticipatory grief thinking what my life would be like without him. I realized that I am no more ready for widowhood at 71 than I was at 56.
To put everything back in proper perspective, I actually re-read the book I wrote which reminded me of the things that matter. Relying on God's promises, I pulled myself out of the pit much faster than I did in 2003. I refuse to let fear of the future ruin the present. We are moving forward with this next phase of the journey determined to live joyfully in the present.
Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
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