A Cancer Story: The Dark Days

I’ve tried recollecting my journey through cancer a few times now over the  past six years. I have no problem telling about the pre-cancer tests and anxieties, the surgery and post-surgery gloom. Talking about the ileostomy comes easy. But the next nine months, those months when I endured chemo and it’s dark side effects, that’s another story.

It’s a rocky story, one of faith and doubt, courage and fear, strength and weakness. Truthfully, much of those months is a blur to me. There are moments I remember, images, feelings, but mostly, the events of those months reside in a fog, the kind that rolls in off the ocean and distorts the landscape, blurs the fine edges.

I received chemo every other week. It was on Wednesdays and the infusion took about three hours. The nurse would them hook me up to a portable chemo pump and send me home. I’d then receive a steady infusion of chemo over the next 48 hours. On Friday’s I’d return to the doctor’s office to have the pump removed and I’d be free for another week and a half.

The side effects of chemo included numbness in my fingers and feet, an extreme sensitivity to cold, decreased ability to taste, fatigue like I’d never felt before, and nausea. Lots of nausea. After every chemo session the side effects would be worse for a few days, then would taper to barely noticeable. Each round they got worse and lasted longer, though. By the end, I had the side effects the entire two weeks.

I was working during those days, too. I’d have off on chemo days then just work a half day on Thursday, go home and sleep. Friday I’d be back at it but would have to take time off to have the chemo pump removed.

Thus was my schedule for the nine months I received chemotherapy. It was a steady spiral down both physically and emotionally and psychologically.

Looking back on it, those were dark days. Tears came easily. I did a lot of staring, a lot of thinking. My emotions sat on a knife’s edge. But in spite of the darkness the Light was always there. I felt Him, heard Him. I’m not crazy. I did. And in many ways I’ve never felt closer to Him.

The valley has a funny way of pushing us closer to our Father, doesn’t it?

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A Cancer Story: The Emotional Maelstrom

Part of cancer’s charm is the roller coaster of emotions brought on by both the disease and the treatment for the disease.

Cancer’s part is mostly psychological, the constant reminder that life is tenuous, frail, here today, gone tomorrow. The disease is a bully, puffing out its chest and reminding you at every turn that it has killed, will kill, and won’t hesitate to add you to its long list of victories. It is ruthless and respects no one. And no matter how many surgeries you have or what kind of treatment is administered the thought is always there: what if it doesn’t work?

And the chemo is no walk in the park physically. It’s poison–given at doses strong enough to kill the rogue cells but not quite potent enough to kill the host (you)–has side effects that are relentless and come in waves, strongest the first few days after each treatment, then subsiding gradually until it’s time to get juiced again. The constant nausea, the parasthesias, the cold sensitivity, the restlessness, sleeplessness . . . it all wears on you like the steady drip of water boring a hole in rock.

Up and down the emotions go (mostly down): the depression, the anxiety, the moodiness. Ebbing and flowing like some dark, mysterious psychological sea.

I’d go from feeling light and optimistic to bawling my eyes out while watching the kids play in the backyard. I spent a lot of time sitting in my recliner, staring. Just staring. Jen called it “the chemo stare.” Any confrontation at all, whether with Jen or the girls, would send me into an emotional tailspin.

But through the maelstrom of emotions there were always the blessings to keep me tethered to hope. The folks who brought us meals, mowed our grass, ironed our clothes, paid our bills, watched the kids, and numerous other things served as beacons in the night, guiding me back to God by showing us His love, His care, His concern. They were His hands and feet, His voice, His touch, His heart; they showed us in a very practical way that no matter how bad things got, how dark the nights were, or how deserted the wilderness became, we were not alone.

What was it that sent you on an emotional roller coaster? And who did God bring into your life to keep you tethered to hope?

Leaving It All On The Track

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I see patients every day who have had terrible things happen to them. Auto accidents that left them with multiple fractures in both legs and unable to walk for months; work accidents that nearly shatter legs and destroy any hope of walking “normally” again; strokes; heart attacks; amputations; cancer; Parkinson’s that robs muscles of control and the brain of cogent thoughts. And you know what? Not one of them planned for it to happen. Not one scheduled their accident or episode or onset of disease.

Tragedy isn’t something you plan for. Heartache isn’t scheduled on anyone’s calendar.

This gets me thinking from time to time and I have to step back and take inventory of my life, of what’s important, of what I fight and live for. Things can change in an instant. One misjudgment, on lapse in attention, one rogue cell, one determined virus. And everything changes.

It happens, really. I see it every day and deal with the consequences, both physically and emotionally.

I’m currently working on a feature article about author Rick Acker for the April edition of Afictionado and in it you’ll read how the diagnosis of cancer in Rick’s brother served as a wake-up call for him. He says his brother did nothing different after learning he had terminal colon cancer. He was living in God’s will and didn’t need to change anything about his life. He lived with no regrets.

There’s a Matthew West song I love called “The Motions.” Here’s a few lines from the chorus:

I don’t want to spend my whole life asking

What if I had given everything

Instead of going through the motions?

Powerful question. Like Rick Acker’s brother I want to live with no regrets. I don’t want to come to the end of my life, or have my life radically altered by some accident or recurrence of my cancer and be left wondering, What if I had given everything?

When I was on the track & field team in high school I ran the 400 meter dash. At the end of the race I was spent, exhausted, and ready to vomit. I had run my best and left everything on the track. I want to do the same with this race of life, leave it all on the track.

Am I strange or do you think about this stuff too?