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Year Two
December 11th 2008 marks the end of year 2 of this ride.
From committing to crossing off items in my “bucket list” and helping stave off scares, you have all been there and all you have done to help me get busy living does not go unnoticed.
The words of Ferris Bueller ring ever true, "Life moves pretty fast; if you don't stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it."
Year One On December 11, 2007, it has been one year since I finished my last radiation treatment for the Squamous Cell Cancer of the tongue that I was diagnosed with back on Memorial Day of 2006. Now with two clear PET scans under my belt, and positive follow-up visits, my team of doctors feel pretty sure this one may be gone. I am thankful. They told me I would loose most of my tongue, I didn’t. They told me I would probably loose my teeth, I’ve still got them. They told me that I would have my neck cut open to remove some lymph nodes, that did not have to happen. At times, when I hear in e-mail or in a board post from folks who have not had it so good, I have twinges of guilt, because they have had it so much worse than me. But none of us really knows what’s around the next bend, be it a car wreck or a cancer recurrence. An almost universal outcome of this disease is a more mindful approach to the time we do have left. I have been tunneling through this cancer journey for almost 20 months and I now look back and wonder where the time has gone. Some days were long and some moments were bad, but time does heal wounds, pain and despair. We emerge from the darkness of the tunnel into the light of the world once more. No more chemo. No more surgery. No more radiation. No more fluid infusions. No more treatment chairs or chemo nurses. No more 5FU pump waking me up at night. No more radiation restraint holding me to that very uncomfortable table. No more hours spent waiting, watching, thinking. No more personal retreats to a place that became home. No more powerful potions saving me from the treatments that were curing me. No more bald head. No more feeding tube and cases of Glucerna everywhere. I hope never again. It’s only me. And my port that I will keep for awhile longer, just in case, and a stop every 6 weeks to keep it clean and functioning. And periodic follow-ups. And memories of a place and the people that took the cancer away and gave me a life more precious than ever before. Because of studies and trials and people who lost their lives before me, I benefit. I am a recipient of these wonder treatments of medical science. I am a recipient of the gift of life. I am happy. I am relieved. I am thankful. I am overwhelmed and I am saddened, especially for those who are yet to go through this. No more active treatment. No more constant attention. No more company in strangers who are like me, fighting a battle where some win while others do not. It’s just me and my safety nets, family, friends, sharing, helping, honoring, hoping, laughing, and trying to make sense of it all. Now the real surviving begins. Making it all matter.
Oral cancer
is in the closet and needs special attention in its own right. It is
not like all other cancers by the very nature of its location. It
takes away the most basic and necessary functions of the lives that
it destroys.
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