I discovered that today (Tuesday, Feb. 4th) is World Cancer Awareness Day from a Facebook post from a former student of mine whose wife has been been winning the battle against cancer for the last two years. Seeing that post got me checking on how long it had been since I was diagnosed with cancer. At the time, you don’t think that you could ever reach that point where you don’t remember the year. But time heals many things. I will, however, always remember the moment the dermatologist discovered the spot of melanoma on my upper right arm. One of the scariest moments in my life. But I’m very fortunate. My cancer was caught early and only required simple outpatient surgery. That, and 17 years of followup visits to the skin doc.
But I honestly wasn’t sure of the year. As I was trying to dig up the date on my computer, I came across this blog post from 2006. I thought I would share it with you today.
Originally published October 2006
Cancer is one of those topics we just don’t want to talk about. We’ve all buried friends who have suffered from the Big C. It frightens us more than stroke or heart disease.
Nothing kills a conversation faster than someone asking, “How are you?” and you answer, “Fine, I just had cancer surgery.” That is inevitably followed by a long, awkward silence.
Unless you are my friend, Tim. When he asked about my arm being in a sling, I told him I had had a cancer removed. His response was, “Me, too!” While I just had a melanoma, Tim had colon cancer, which involved major surgery and months of chemo. But for the next several months we would go out to lunch regularly to talk about living with cancer. If he was in the midst of chemo on that day, he might take an egg salad sandwich with him to the restaurant, as that would be all he could tolerate eating. I sometimes felt like I’d had “cancer lite” since I didn’t have to have any of the icky treatments he was facing. (Four years later, Tim’s hair is thinner than it used to be, but otherwise he is well.) (Update – 14 years after I originally wrote this, Tim is still doing well.)
It rather stunned me a couple of years later when I got invited to a cancer survivors picnic at the local hospital. It’s funny, but I had never seen myself that way — as a cancer survivor, though I certainly am.
In the years following my surgery, my former colleagues at WVU College of Media worked on a wonderful documentary film and book, Cancer Stories: Lessons In Love, Loss & Hope, that tells the story of how several patients and their families deal with cancer and its treatment. It doesn’t soft sell the pain and suffering (including death), but it also finds the humor and life in it as well. Best of all, it doesn’t sanitize the experience. Cancer Stories doesn’t paint a rosy picture, but it doesn’t make life seem hopeless, either. It shows that patients can get cranky during treatment and that they can crack jokes about it as well. I strongly recommend the book and documentary to everyone, but especially to those who are dealing with a diagnosis of cancer. When my colleagues were searching for a title for the book and film, my wife suggested “Cancer Sucks!” While everyone agreed the title was accurate, cooler heads prevailed in selecting a somewhat calmer title.
For myself, it’s always hard to hear another cancer story. I know that I was fortunate. I was referred to a dermatologist early enough that she was able to get all the cancer out, along with a sizable chunk of my upper arm.
Although I just passed the fourth anniversary of my surgery, I keep looking in the mirror after my shower, trying to decide if any of the hundreds of moles I have look somehow different. I’m not completely sure what I’m looking for, as the mole that was melanoma didn’t look any different to me. I will complain about having to go in for one more doctor’s appointment, and I’ll stress over the biopsy (should there be one) until the results get back.
I still have to go in for regular follow-up exams where every inch of my skin gets scrutinized. About half the time there’s a biopsy to go with the exam, when a mole doesn’t look quite right. You are supposed to get a postcard if everything is OK, and a phone call if there’s a problem. Inevitably I fall into a middle group – the tissue taken will be “atypical” but not cancerous. So it’s a phone call, but not the bad one. This time the biopsy wasn’t conclusive, so they’re going back in tomorrow for a bigger chunk of flesh off my back. Which requires me to tell my wife, “Listen to me, I don’t have cancer. They just want to take a second look at the spot on my back.” And of course, as soon as you say, “It’s not cancer,” the question comes back, “Then why do they want to look at it again?”
I am lucky. I’ve got good health insurance, good doctors, and a good family. I had treatable cancer that was caught early. I’m a cancer survivor.
It’s now 17 years since my diagnosis. The skin doc continues to take my exams seriously, but they are now at nine month intervals for the first time since diagnosis, down from every four months and then six months. There is still a massive divot in my upper right arm where they took the melanoma out.
Earlier this week I read that radio talk host Rush Limbaugh announced he had advanced lung cancer. Many people who dislike Limbaugh’s politics have had unkind things to say about his diagnosis. While I have no love for the man or his radio show, I agree with diabetes activist Mike Durbin who tweeted last night:
I agree with him 100 percent. I have lost friends and family to cancer. I have friends being treated for it now. No matter how you feel about someone, you never rejoice for cancer.
The following is a brilliant public service announcement called Dear 16-Year-Old Me. I would urge all of you to watch it.