It really seems like time is flying these days. It only seems like yesterday that I was sitting here writing about how it felt to make it to the two year mark. This last doctor visit, I had a distinctly different feeling than any before. Not bad. Not stellar. When I got home, I locked myself up and wrote the following thoughts. An important thing to remember whenever reading something a cancer patient or survivor writes - the mood can change 180 degrees by the next day, or . . . hour. So, these feelings were what I was experiencing on the three year anniversary checkup visit to my surgeon and radiation oncologist.
I am feeling more like I felt pre-cancer. Very strange, but I am starting to feel that the cancer center docs, nurses, smells, associations, sights, inherent anxiety and personal history for me, are somehow becoming distant. My non-cancer life has finally begun to hold the majority of my conscientiousness again. This visit, I "made the rounds," as I have done for the three years since beginning this odyssey. But, for the first time - without my wife. She did accompany me to the doc visits, but due to job responsibilities, went back to work after we received the "thumbs up." She works across the street from the Barrett Cancer Center, at Children's Hospital (Cincinnati, OH). So, it has always been convenient for her to meet me for the visits.
As I walked the maze of hallways I, for the first time since accepting the fact that I had cancer, felt out of place. Many, in fact the majority, of the radiation therapists that I met during my treatments no longer work there. Only a few of the nurses, and wonderful Cynthia (the Radiation Dept. receptionist) remain. The familiarity of faces is fading right along with the urgency and anxiety of my visits. I even went out and looked at the Radiation Dept. parking lot, where three years ago the reality of having cancer oddly sunk in when I read the sign announcing that the parking was for Radiation Dept. patients only. Read: Cancer. This time, looking at that parking lot sign, I merely felt flat and distant. These issues don't feel as big as they once did.
My healing process has been very slow, and apparently this emotional change I am trying to describe has been too - only more imperceptible. While talking to one of the Radiation Dept. nurses, I still know, I met a fellow that was undergoing RT for brain cancer. Young guy. Forklift driver, who said he recently had had a seizure just after leaving his forklift (which he described as "one of the big ones, that can pick up your car..."). I told him he was indeed lucky - as well as those around him! Talking to him brought back my own memories of sitting in that waiting room daily for three months. Again, emotionally flat, but with great respect for my apparent success. I am a survivor at this point.
It seems to me that business is still booming there in radiation land. The parking lot was full, as always. New approaches to existing modalities are being explored. New thinking, new hopes. No shortage of folks to try it all out on. People coming and going. Some, obviously not doing so well. Others, bright and cheerful, despite the realities of their situations.
In some ways, I felt invisible walking those halls. The docs seemed to just humor me with their time. I imagine them thinking, "this guy has nothing to worry about. So, why is he sitting here asking me all these questions?" I feel I am viewed as a successful case. No problems. Time to move on. Get a life, already. After my next visit, I will be going to visits every six months. Further and further out. More and more distance . . .
Even though I feel I am becoming more a member of the society of "regular people," the fears of cancer survivors everywhere persist. Recurrence. New occurrence. Side effects. Stigma. At this three year milestone, I am finding real world concerns are taking precedence over cancer, more and more. Get the mulch delivered and spread around (first time in three years), get my daughter signed up for soccer. Job responsibilities. Little things . . . and my cancer? Back seat, for the most part. I am still active in the online support area, participating in the ACOR HNO list, web mastering for SPOHNC, answering email as often as possible and trying to maintain my own web site, right here. I feel strongly that these are important things for me to be doing. They have been integral parts of my healing process. Knowing the fear first hand . . . helping those just starting their journey seems humane at the minimum. It is scary. It is painful. It can be deadly. It is serious. There ARE side effects. There are emotional and psychological issues, as well as physical ones.
Sitting here writing down these thoughts, it seems clear to suggest for those folks who actually read this stuff, there comes a time when the residual physical problems take a back seat to to the emotional and psychological problems. A cancer diagnosis and subsequent treatment, has a life long effect on who you were, and who you become. You do change. It is something that cannot be helped. If you find yourself experiencing what seems to be drastic introspective analysis, I really don't think it is unusual. We will probably spend the rest of our lives trying to find some sort of balance between what cancer has taken from us, and what we can do to manage what's left.
I guess I can sum up my mental state at three years as quietly and appreciatively stable. I am positive and content. Despite lingering side effects, life is very good. I really enjoy life - it can be pouring down rain outside, and I can be genuinely smiling. There are issues, and there will always be issues. But, I choose to make life and living the top priorities. I have been granted an "extension" of life, and thank God for it.
As I said at two years: "Well, I think that will do for now. I will continue to plod along, taking note of the good things in life, trying to keep a positive attitude, and updating this site when something comes along that looks good. Hang tough, folks!"
God Bless,
Barry Sebastian