Making Sense of It All

I have to admit, throughout this whole cancer battle thing, I've not taken the time to look for a "deeper meaning." I'm not one to be introspective or even contemplative. And yet recently a couple events came together in such a way that I felt compelled to think about my experience fighting cancer and how I can make things better for others.

Here's the scoop: First, you should know that 90% of my treatment has been at Duke Medical Center in the Morris Cancer Clinic. If you haven't been there you've missed seeing a very impressive operation. Throughout the Clinic there are different specialty areas and different waiting rooms. I've spent a good amount of time in many of them, but none more than radiation oncology — 32 days in a row (minus weekends) in the same waiting room.

The room is large and attractive. Nice artwork, comfy chairs, decent magazines. Always fresh coffee, cookies, and crackers plus volunteers to pass them around. The interesting thing is the mood of the people. Everyone there is waiting for a treatment. Some, like mine are pretty quick. I'm mobile, youngish, not in pain. There's a private parking lot so I was able to park, go in the back door, drop off my appointment card and usually got in and out in 15 or so minutes. Others waited longer...and drove much farther to get there. Many had to be anesthetized...or lifted out of wheelchairs.

One man came from Kinston each day. One family of a three-year-old boy with a brain tumor comes from Virginia every week, stays in an apartment, then goes home on weekends. You get the picture — old folks, young kids, lung, prostate, brain, and breast cancer. Everyone there is in the same boat, just to greater or lessor degrees. And while all that sounds depressing, I have to tell you that the mood is generally kind of upbeat. It's like we all shared a secret. Everyone is battling cancer...everyone seems determined.

Compare that to the medical oncology waiting room which has a very anxious aura. Some people are just coming in to hear "the news." Some are there for genetic testing...some starting, some finishing. The uncertainty keeps people to themselves.

The chemo waiting room...ick! Everyone pretends to be normal but the atmosphere is pure dread (or maybe that was just me!) Same coffee and cookies and volunteers....lots of puzzles around to work on because you have to wait so long. But you know — when you come back and it's the same puzzle...and you realize others have finished it and it's just been started again, it's kind of depressing. Like doing the laundry : )

So that's the mood at Morris. Considering all my experience there I was very interested when at my Rotary meeting (yes, I am a proud member of Downtown Durham's Rotary...ask me if you want to know more!) a couple of weeks ago we had a wonderful speaker, Linda Belans, from an organization at Duke called HAND — Health Arts Network at DUKE (http://hand.duhs.duke.edu/).

She told all of us how she and her staff work tirelessly to bring the arts to patients and their families moving through the medical center. You can see examples of their efforts throughout the Center on the walls. But they also bring art to life in other ways — dance, music, journalling and more. Check them out if you get a chance...and check out Linda's award-winning exhibit in the basement of the clinics. Here's an excerpt from a review:

"That’s one reason she created “Gathering in the Stories,” -- a series of portraits of Duke employees and medical students that honors Martin Luther King, Jr. and the profound effect he had on this community.

The collection of portraits and stories create a personal connection between members of the Duke community and King. Everyone pictured holds has a memento that represents the impact of the civil rights era on their lives: a program from a Civil Rights march, a megaphone used in a segregated school. Every portrait is connected to a story about how King and the Civil Rights Movement affected the person pictured."

OKAY. So now you're wondering where am I going with all this? Well, during a recent appointment with my radiation oncologist — who's a funny guy and very creative — he told me about how during some construction in his department a while back, he had encouraged patients to write on the temporary wall that had been erected. While his department head wasn't thrilled, this doctor felt it did the patients good to "leave their mark." His suspicions proved true when after the death of an elderly patient he received a letter from the woman's daughter telling how — even as she lay dying — this woman fondly remembered how she'd been allowed to write on the wall.

On the one hand this got me thinking about my son Joe's love of graffit...people like to leave a legacy, a feeling of "hey, I was here!" On the other hand, I realized that this probably worked well because of the atmosphere in radiation oncology. I could just picture this variety of cheerful cancer warriors writing and talking, sharing stories, and offering support. Believe me, it wouldn't have worked in chemo or medical oncology.

So, you see where I'm going? For once in my life I acted on an "outlandish" idea in my head: Could I bring together my first-hand experience, the Duke HAND program, and a interested physician to create something supportive at Duke radiation oncology? Well I'm giving it a shot.

Linda at HAND is enthusiastic. My doctor is intrigued. I find myself, for the first time in six months, feeling energized by something creative. AND, I feel like this might help make sense of all that I do. It's creativity, a little marketing (probably a little fundraising), rotary and cancer. Strange assembly to some...but it's starting to make sense to me. Let me know what you think please.

Pop the cork!

Well, today is my last radiation treatment...number 32 of 32. Matt and I plan to celebrate by opening the bottle of champagne he bought on the day of my diagnosis. That Saturday back in September, he went out and bought me flowers and some bubbly, promising to pop the cork once we got through this battle, so tonight is the night!

It's a strange feeling. My friend Judy warned me about this...while the appearance is that the cancer has been beaten, the reality for all of us that go through this is that the battle continues. I know I'll be reminded whenever I see my scars. Every day when I take tamoxifen...every hour at night when a hot flash wakes me up (someone please tell me they end someday!!!) And, of course, lots of follow up appointments with doctors, frequent tests and trips to imaging equipment with ever ache or pain.

Sorry, I meant for this to be uplifting and now it sounds a little sad. I think the reality is that like so much in life, it's a mix of emotions. I'm still sorting it all out. I'm not sure if I've written this to ya'll or not, but so far there's only two things I'm sure I've learned through all of this:

1.) I have continually underestimated the effects of this diagnosis — mental, physical, and emotional. Not just on me, but on my family as well.

2.) I can never fully communicate my thankfulness for my friends and family. For me, the love, support, encouragement, and laughter provided by all of you, is the only thing that can stand up to...and face down this cancerous demon. Thank you all.