Cancer Patient’s Hardest and Most Crucial Journey

Into the depths of the concrete superstructure I plunged on shaky legs 33 times to take more than 5,700 rems worth of radiology treatment in an area marked with red-ink graffiti on my abdomen.

It was a form of masochism that took all of my physical and moral fiber to accept. I had to understand that even with the surgical removal of a colon cancer, there was high risk of death without the post-operative therapy.

There was bitter irony in the fact that the global horror--even panic --after the nuclear accident at Chernobyl coincided with the time of my treatments, a private horror.

Feelings of Empathy

I grimaced at the daily predictions for those victims exposed to radiation by the disaster, feeling an empathy that shook my very bones.

This all-too-human response gradually shifted to understanding and hope through recognition that, in my case, the carefully controlled radiation was minimizing the risk of recurrence, not increasing it. This mental and emotional turnaround was a revelation, representing not only a leap in personal growth but the only residue of the experience I can comfortably carry with me--and now share. My hope is that in reciting the steps of my journey, I may give comfort and hope to others who face a similar one.

The turning point was forced on me after the second week of treatment. Even though I had carefully read materials provided by the medical team on what to expect, I was simply not emotionally and mentally prepared for the excruciating side effects.

Quitting Treatment

I was like a trapped animal, unable to move in any direction. I looked down the long, hard road ahead and was convinced I could not go through the entire series. In an act of cowardice and courage, I wrote a letter to my radiologist, terminating my treatment.

But the inalterable truth was that I had to look down a longer road, the one that almost inevitably would end in even more agonizing pain and death.

During the intervening week, I subjected myself to mental torture, alternately denying my plight and trying to face up to the only decision that made sense. It was the hardest struggle with my will and conscience I have ever waged. But, by some miracle, I let go of the rope in that tug of war. I was through fighting against and ready to fight for.

The trapped animal in me was freed. As I lay alone each morning on the treatment table after the technicians had left to turn on the current, I would say above the bee-like hum, “Here come the good rays, God. . . . Here come the good rays.”

I began to look upon my daily trip to the hospital as part of my work, the most important task in my life. I took advantage of the help the medical team was eager to provide, reporting side effects and listening to the team’s advice. I began to reach out to other patients in the waiting room, some with red graffiti on portions of their faces, others who like me had theirs hidden by clothing. And in the darkness of the night, I would repeat what the radiologist had so wisely said: “Remember, it’s only temporary.”

Notes of Thanks

By now, the red graffiti on my abdomen has been washed away, the side effects are subsiding and my stamina is returning. I am grateful to have finished the journey I almost aborted. I am grateful for the support of the medical team and to friends and family who stood ready to help but were non-intrusive and unobtrusive, knowing this was a journey I had to make myself.

Perhaps the lesson is this: It is important to rely on inner strengths from whatever source. I have learned that they are there when you are ready to call upon them.

While I am saddened by the memory of a grandmother and mother who didn’t make it this far, I am heartened by the fact that this descendant did. So now, in the parlance of a sport I love--baseball--I’ve made it through the playoffs.

But, of course, I know that the World Series is yet to come. Win or lose, I think I’m ready for it.