Cancerversary

or "Every Year begins with why?!?!"

Three years ago today I went in to Northwestern Hospital Emergency Room in Lake Forest, Illinois for what I believed to be kidney stones, again. I had been experiencing kidney pain symptoms- flank pain, stomach pain, sweating, cramps and more for two days getting worse until I could no longer take it.

The waiting room is a long corridor, beautiful if you ignore the hacking, vomiting and loud projected speaker phone conversations. The wait was long, as all ER visits are, and when I finally got sent back it was to a makeshift room in a hallway. Scans, meds, labs and more- waiting and more waiting. I remember the doctor coming over and asking to speak in another room, across the ER and in a private office that he asked another doctor to vacate. In hindsight, this should have been a red flag.

“Softball sized mass on your right kidney” is what I heard.

The narrow office we were in got even narrower. Anyone who has heard those cancerous words knows that feeling. The floor, the walls and the ceiling fall out from around you- blurred by a future no longer supported by steadfast foundation.

I’ve been back there since- I think once. That’s the funny thing, since treatment my memory is sporadic. I can’t remember what I entered a room for or sometimes what I’m even writing here. But that day, that hospital I remember.

I remember the corridor.

I remember crouching on the floor in severe pain.

I remember the window of my “room,” which was actually the window to an actual room I was partitioned next to.

I remember meeting my would be surgeon that day.

I remember the loss of hope.

I remember the isolation- not literally but those words, that diagnosis drops you into a vortex of emotions, fears, realizations and isolation.

I remember it was three years ago now. That feels like an eternity in some aspects and in others not long at all. I’ve had multiple treatments, biopsies, procedures, scans, tests and so on. Holidays and birthdays and life and loss. I have been naive at times over these last three years. I have thought I would die in surgery and then admittedly taken time for granted as well at times, all in trying to avoid death and its totality.

A common question asked of cancer patients is “Are you afraid of dying?” It’s not unfounded or crazy to ask. My response, which is taken from others that have echoed similar sentiments, is “I’m not afraid of the physical act of dying or the pain, I’m afraid of the end of the things I love (especially my kids).”

It’s hard to write that and I want it to be hard. If it wasn’t then I wouldn’t value them the way I do. So three years removed from finding the cracks in my hourglass what now? Well it’s my cancerversary. That can vary from person to person. Sometimes it’s somber and sometimes it’s happy. Sometimes it’s a day you’re cancer free and sometimes it’s a day you were diagnosed. Since I’ll never be cancer free I go with the diagnosis date. Will I celebrate? I don’t know, I think living should be celebrating. I haven’t formally celebrated any of them yet and celebrating overtly feels like tempting fate. So maybe a good meal, a movie night or something simple.

At the risk of sounding too corny though, celebrate while you can. You may hear those words one day or some equivalent earth shattering event and if you can get a head start now then go for it. I’ll cheer you on from here and hopefully I’ll see you this time next year.

-Joe