The “C” Word – 1 Year Post Surgery... The future

The one thing that all cancer patients long for is to hear the words, “You are cancer free.”  This provides the ultimate sigh of relief that the worst is past.  With the weight lifted you can begin living again.  That doesn’t mean that the worry goes away.  It will perhaps always linger for being told you have cancer in the first place is a life-changing deal.

We had hoped that we would be able to say that today George is having his “one-year cancer free” anniversary.  But, that is not in the cards for us for, indeed, the “C” word has once again resumed residence in his belly.  To say we are disappointed would be an understatement.  To say that we are doing “okay” is close to truth but in reality the dark cloud has taken up a post over George.  He tries to not show this but as his spouse I know it is there, lurking, whispering to him.  It definitely has an impact on his overall fatigue, emotionally, mentally and physically. 

If we choose to look on the bright side we can do some comparisons about where he was then – and where he is now.

One year ago George was undergoing the “Mother of All Surgeries (MOAS)” while I spent the day in a waiting room.  A year ago during the surgery George went into shock (something I think the doctor should have shared with me right afterwards instead of finding out weeks later).  This deeply affected his recovery I think.  A year ago my dear George came out of surgery looking like an advertisement for the Michelin Tire man, his entire body grossly swollen with fluids pumped in him during the long surgery.  A year ago he was incapacitated by the surgery, barely able to talk, unable to walk, incapable of eating.

TODAY…. His voice is back (albeit a little weak at times), his appetite is fairly normal, he can get up and walk around (maybe not fast and maybe not for long periods of time, but he can walk).  He has made progress… small, steady, slow progress most of the time. His energy level is low but at times if he keeps a steady pace he can accomplish a lot.  It is frustrating for him to feel “weak”, to not have the stamina he had before.  But if he stops and looks back at where he’s come, especially during the January to June time frame, he feels better and can tell the difference. 

But what about tomorrow?  What will tomorrow bring?  One of the questions I ask myself is “How does one move forward knowing that they have something growing inside of them?”  It’s not like this is a baby with an anticipated birth with the reward being a bouncing baby boy or girl.  No, this is something nasty that is trying to permeate the cells.  Something no one wants inside of them.  It’s easy for me to say, “Be positive… Don’t worry so much… Remember it IS slow growing… Try to make the most out of every day…”  But it is not my body that this is happening to.  While I have to live with it because it affects me as the spouse, I don’t have to live WITH it in my body.  It’s easy to lose sight of the difference sometimes. 

With the radiologist seeing visible growth in the span of six months, it is easy to become alarmed.  There are “low density objects” seen in the scan which could be possible recurrence.  There are a few other thing which could indicate neoplastic disease (i.e. cancer).  What we need to keep an eye on is the size of the growths.  They currently are very small – less than pea sized.  Except for one that is larger.  When does the surgeon determine it is time for a repeat surgery??  How big or how plentiful does the disease need to be?  Will we have surgery soon - - or is it still a year or two or more away?  We certainly don’t want to wait until it reaches the point that we were at last year where a gallon or more of the tumorous gels were removed.  I am sure the surgeon will address this issue when we see him in two days.  Since disease has already taken up residence, it looks like our future holds more very “watchful waiting” periods, even if we have another MOAS. Does this mean we will have scans more frequently? 

Will there be a time that we can truly enjoy our lives?  When we can just go out and at least pretend that nothing is wrong?  Is that possible with a diagnosis such as ours.  We do have to make time for joyful happenings – because it is good to love and laugh and just be silly.  There is so much more to life than this “C” thing.  One of my biggest fears is that this “C” thing will overtake our lives, leaving little room to truly enjoy living. 

On this, the 365^th day post-surgery, we broach the future with baited breath.  Waiting for the next move.  (There’s that word again… “waiting”.)  The Lord asks us to be “patient”.  That word is sometimes over-rated in my book.  I am a person that exercises a lot of patience…. But chronic disease truly tests once patience… And so I am to be tested again.  Will I do better this time around?  I certainly learned some lessons along the way the last time.  There are things I know I will do differently going down this journey, mistakes I made along the way. 

In the wee dark hours of the early morning, when we have both had some sleep yet not enough, we reach out to one another.  I remember this happening before while we were awaiting news from tests and doctors in the weeks leading up to the first surgery.  Whenever George’s hand held mine I could feel him drawing my strength into his body, needing to know that I was still there by his side.  It is happening again.  In the darkness of the morning, as I hold his hand or wrap my arms around him to reassure him I am still and always will be here, I feel very vulnerable.  The shadows of the night cast clouds of worry about the room.  My mind wanders and I am transported to all those mornings last year when we had so many questions and so much fear about where this road would take us, wondering if George would make it through surgery.  And all those days, weeks and months afterward as he struggled through his recovery.  Tears fall silently on my pillow as the reality of what is unfolding sinks in. 

And George, my beloved George, it pains me to watch this happening to him.  Probably as much as it pains him to watch his mom go down the Alzheimer’s road.  While there are things you can do to make the person more comfortable, you are helpless to stop the pain, to stop what you know is inevitable.  All you can do is love them where they are in the present, support them in whatever way is possible.  It may not seem like much – but it does mean the world to them.  It’s at times like this that you realize that personal connections, giving of yourself, being present in the moment is one of the best gifts you can give to someone. 

The most important thing, though, is to continue in faith, to believe that with God all things are possible.  We have never lost our faith in the midst of this trial.  We have faith that God will get us through wherever this journey takes us, no matter what the outcome.  We pray for more miracles as we did throughout the first “go-round”.  We are, once again, thankful for the circle of prayer warriors who will be working with us.  “It takes a village” – to pray, to be there for us, to send notes of encouragement.  We cannot do this alone.  We CAN do it with the help of our friends, our family, the doctors and nurses we come into contact with.  Thank you, God, for placing people in our path through not only the past year but in the days, weeks, months and years to come. 

God be with us as we see the surgeon on Friday to determine what the next step is and what that entails.