Let's Chat: The quest for serenity, two years later

Even after the cancer diagnoses two years ago, I was rattled, but not truly awakened by the revelation. I was young, big (too big actually) and strong, so I thought I could survive the treatment and keep working at least part time.

I was wrong. It wouldn’t be the last time my arrogance and I would hit a wall together.

When the oncologist told me the treatment for head and neck cancer is one of the worst and most difficult to endure I was a skeptic. It took 27 years, but I’ve evolved into a pessimist.

I needed to be able to keep working through the treatment. The doctor’s warning wasn’t what I wanted to hear, nor did it fit into my plan for the seven weeks of treatment he had mapped out.

I literally couldn’t envision being able to stay in business if the process put me flat on my back. I told him I had a small business to run and would need to work. He was understanding and supportive but quietly had a better handle on reality than his patient.

He would let me learn the hard way that radiation aimed at your mouth and throat is relentless and nasty.

It sneaks up on you, much like straight shots of Jagermiester. One minute you’re firmly planted on barstool and feeling pretty stable. The next you get up to socialize and it feels like your head just floated off your shoulders and someone turned off the lights.

Radiation doesn’t let you sleep off the hangover and bounce back into fighting form within a day or two. Looking back, I was frightened by the news that I would have chemotherapy. I wasn’t prepared for what radiation would do.

As a side note, I have discovered many around me who have or had their own private battle with cancer. The treatments effect each of us differently, primarily based on what cancer they have and what treatment plan is utilized. With countless forms of chemotherapy, the side effects and complications vary greatly. Some folks I’ve come to know are completely overtaken by the side effects. Others seem to suffer from fatigue.

The trio of chemotherapy treatments I experienced were mild by most standards. My body felt like it was unable to lift itself and I wanted to sleep endlessly.

For me, it was the radiation that presented itself as my nemesis. The more times my flesh was exposed, the greater the impact. The burns, blisters and lack of saliva tormented me for months after the last treatment.

If you’ve heard all this before you may wonder why I’m dwelling on it almost two years later. There have been a few physical adjustments in my life, permanent alterations of who I was before.

In the past six months, I’ve felt the emotional and mental tugs of the entire experience. Managing those sensations and not allowing it to overtake me is an all-to-frequent struggle.

There’s a date on my calendar, etched in my mind. The date as brought most of this to the surface now. A sort of reflection mixed with self-induced apprehension. May 27 will be the second anniversary of my declared remission. It’s taken some studying and some personal acceptance to understand that I’m still not cured.

The doctors at Cancer Care Northwest are experts in their field, and well versed in the national studies, trials and statistics surrounding the cancers they treat. For many of us, who have a variety of different cancers, it takes five years of remission and a battery of testing before someone will declare you “cured.”

During my first year-and-a-half after treatment, I had a PET scan or a CT scan every four months to make sure the cancer hadn’t revived itself. My last scan was about five months ago.

In honor of my remission’s rapidly approaching two-year anniversary, I’ll have another scan. A few weeks ago I began feeling the weight of the importance of this two-year benchmark.

I’m eager to reach it and celebrate a significant milestone in my remission — statistically the odds my cancer will return will be dramatically reduced once May 27 passes.

But there lies the origin of my apprehension.

As the days shed off the calendar, I think more and more about what the results of that scan will be.

Will the CT scan images be clear? Can I safely look forward to and anticipate being cured three years from now?

With the help of a few who know far more about cancer and it’s emotional and physical impacts on a person, I’m coming to accept that “cancer” lingers in the minds of survivors.

Even those of us best equipped at putting it away or stuffing it under a rug still wonder when ever our body acts differently. Every new unexplained pain, discomfort or odd sensation sets us to contemplating a question: “is it back?”

I know now such thoughts are human nature. But that doesn’t make it any less frustrating. I don’t like having them.

Like so many times before during this two-and-half-year journey, I’ve realized I’m not invincible and life can be fragile. While I’d like to be in charge of what happens next, it’s simply arrogant to believe I can control things.

Instead I’ll be looking for a way to maximize one day at a time. And I just may have found a clearer message in a prayer I’ve heard many times before.

This was first published by Reinhold Niebuhr in 1943 and has come to be known as the Serenity Prayer: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, And wisdom to know the difference.”

I’ll be mulling those words many times in the coming weeks.