stage

You are currently browsing articles tagged stage.

Kindly delivered news

January 27, 2010 in Moments, Reflection by admin | Comments

My oncologist is straight with me. He tells me the truth. I have made it clear that I want it that way.

I have stage IV colon cancer, and I have been in remission now for over a year.

So during my oncology appt today I asked him, “I know my cancer is a slow grower. It has stayed dormant before and then begun to grow after almost a year.” I already knew the answer to my question. “How likely is it that the cancer is staying dormant right now while I’m in remission, and will begin to grow again in the future?”

He said in his caring voice, “It’s very likely. But I have two colon cancer patients, stage IV, who are now years past their diagnosis. One is seven years out, no sign of disease.”

So once again I am faced with this prognosis: there is hope, but it’s not very likely. But it can happen.

So I can’t sleep.

It sounds to me like I am probably going to die from this cancer…but maybe–although it’s a stretch–maybe not.

Whom do I talk with about this? Cliff is worn out and needs sleep, the kids don’t want to talk about it and they aren’t my counselors anyway, I will wear out my friends if I talk about this stuff over and over. Everybody is too close. And I don’t have a counselor right now. So I am writing about it.

I paint too. Maybe all this sadness about dying a little too soon will find its way into an abstract painting one day. (Well, that will make it all worthwhile….)

It’s weird to think that in a year or two I could be not here with my family, but instead cremated and scattered.

Or I could be one of those oncology patients still walking around, and people are thinking, “What, she’s still here?”

It could happen.

Tags: , , , ,

From stage I to stage IV - late June 2008

July 26, 2008 in Update by admin | Comments

Three lingering spots on my right lung, which my oncologist had attributed to non-cancerous origins, had begun to grow a bit.  I was send into surgery on June 30, 2008, to have the right lower lung lobe removed.

In one day, I went from thinking I was free of colon cancer to learning that I was in stage IV.

Tags: , , , , ,

Backstory: First oncology visit - 11/2005

July 24, 2008 in Update by admin | Comments

The first time I walked into an oncology office, I was petrified. I’d had a sigmoidectomy (12″ of colon removed) a few weeks ago and had learned I had colon cancer, Stage I, T2, which means the tumor had invaded the muscle wall inside the colon but had not exited the outside colon wall. The lab tested the lymph nodes — all clear.

 

So I walked with my husband into the oncology waiting room. But I was in my own muddled world, wishing I were somewhere else. I thought, What am I doing here among all these sick people? I’ve got the “all clear” — no more cancer. I should not be in this waiting room.

 

Ah the grip of fear. Instead of feeling a compassionate connection with the other patients (and yes, I was a patient, whether I wanted to admit it or not), I sought distance and separation. I sat down, crossed my legs, and buried myself in the book I had brought. My husband, sensing my discomfort, patted my leg, providing comforting connection when I could not.

 

When I was called into the exam room, my normally low blood pressure was sky-high — a physical reminder that I was nowhere near the peace I try to live on a daily basis.

 

The oncologist entered, and after some discussion, we set up a schedule of bloodwork and PET/CT scans for the coming year to monitor my condition.

 

I was very glad to leave.

 

My husband drove us home. Being a contemplative person, I began to slow my breathing, sitting with my pain, trying to get insight into my uncharacteristic feelings of separation and isolation.

 

I usually have no trouble connecting with people quickly, caringly, and lovingly. At the time of my diagnosis, I was a hospice chaplain. I spent many hours sitting with patients and their families — during the day and sometimes through the long hours of the night — helping them sort out their fears and the lives they had lived, partly so they could find resolution and peace, partly so they could leave this world without being troubled by unfinished business. If they wanted to explore their lives, their emotions, their faith — I was there for them.

 

I was part of a team of caretakers. I did not want to be taken care of.  I did not want to be a patient.

 

In the oncology office, terror and pride had paralyzed me, contributing to my lack of connection with the others there, who were in their own pain. Once I recognized my fear, I knew I would respond with more openness and grace next time.

 

And there would not just be one next time, but many more visits to the oncologist. Because unknown to anyone, colon cancer cells had left the tumor before the surgery, and they were drifting in my body, doing the devastating work they were programmed to do.

Tags: , , , , , ,

Backstory: Hearing the words - 10/17/05

July 21, 2008 in Update by admin | Comments

I was on call as a hospice chaplain when my life took an unexpected turn. I’d had a baseline colonoscopy at age 50 and it was clear. Now, at 53, I found myself having another rather hastily-scheduled colonoscopy due to the presence of blood.

After the procedure, the surgeon told me he had biopsied a small but suspicious mass in the sigmoid colon. He scheduled me for surgery in three days.

On the day of surgery, I wasn’t nervous and was in good spirits. Although I had received no medication yet, I was blissfully oblivious and in a nice, self-protective state of denial. When the hour drew near, I was wheeled into a holding area immediately outside the operating room.

The surgeon came in, and my husband moved to the foot of the bed to make room for several medical staff. The surgeon sat down beside me and said gently, “The path labs are back, and I’m very sorry to tell you that you have cancer.”

I was stunned. I had done some chaplain work in a hospital, and I felt for him, having to give me this news.

It’s all right,” I said. “It’s okay.” Then I stopped myself. My first reaction as a caretaker was to take care of the surgeon, but even I knew that I did not need to be comforting the doctor.

I asked the surgeon what stage the cancer was.

He said, “We won’t know until Thursday, when we get the path report after surgery.”

My eyes sought my husband of many years, who is the love of my life. He was too far away to hold my hand, so we could only share a gaze. I realized that I might be leaving him and our children.

The wall behind him began to tilt, the room to spin slowly. It was strange to see it and know that my brain was creating this slow whirlwind to protect me from the impact of the devastating news.

I spoke up to no one in particular, “Now would be a good time for some of that medicine that relaxes you before surgery.”

I didn’t realize that a nurse was standing at the head of my bed, with my IV line in one hand and a syringe in the other. Within seconds, my surroundings seemed to swim and melt together. I was immediately wheeled into the operating room, transferred to a table with an enormous overhead lamp, and put under.

Tags: , , , , ,