TWO YEARS The doctor, ashen-faced, replied to my direct question -- How long do I have to live? -- in a soft but authoritative voice. Its measured in months, she said. At the time I reasoned that meant I had about four months left, a deduction that was more emotional guesswork than fact-based calculation. But I recall precisely what ran through my mind as her verdict began to sink in. Cellphones finally have all the technical features I want, I thought angrily. How can I die now? And then a separate realization occurred to me, turning my anger to sadness. And Ill never know how the new Aaron Sorkin series on HBO, The Newsroom, turns out. Why my mind, in active denial, focused on these two exceedingly unimportant issues now strikes me as curious but telling. That was two years ago. On Oct. 23, 2012, a mass of abnormal cells was found growing in my pancreas. Although an official cancer diagnosis would take a few more days, within hours of my arrival at the hospital emergency room it was obvious that I was in serious medical trouble. In the week following this initial discovery, and with better facts in hand, Cindy and I learned I could expect to live about 11 months on average. And that was a gift because for many in my situation it could be substantially less. Battling her own state of shock, Cindy launched into Mama Bear mode. She cast a wide net, acting as my patient advocate, to hunt for viable treatment options. While I was unable to fully comprehend my status, she took on the job of conferring in detail with my surgeon and oncologist. Wisely, she banned me from going on Google -- because the information I wanted about my survival prospects was overwhelmingly depressing. I agreed, and pledged to stay off Google. (Instead, I secretly opted to use Bing.) My surreptitious research revealed that nearly 99 percent of Stage IV PanCan patients, like me, are gone within 24 months. Thats why my two year anniversary, today, is so extraordinary. It marks my official membership to that most exclusive of clubs: survivors of the deadliest malignancy, pancreatic cancer. Every October, the National Football League sponsors month-long breast cancer awareness activities. I watched an NFL game last week in which several hundred breast cancer survivors gathered on the 50 yard line at halftime to form a giant pink ribbon. What struck me was how daunting it would be to recreate this display for pancreatic cancer. You might search nationwide and have trouble locating PC survivors healthy enough to walk onto the field, let alone a sufficient number of us to fashion a human purple ribbon. Its not a knock against the laudable progress thats been made against breast cancer. But it is a reminder of the grim reality of pancreatic cancer that Im forced to acknowledge. In attaining this two-year milestone, Ive had to accept a range of stark and, ultimately, conflicting emotional states like that one. First, of course, was my certainty that I would die soon. In those initial weeks and months, I came to terms with this prediction. Sad as it was, I prepared for death. I made peace with the inevitable. I said goodbye to people I love. Aloud, I promised to fight and remain positive. Silently, I wondered whether I was up to the task. Not long after that, I hurtled into another emotional environment. It remained likely I would still succumb to my disease, but circumstances granted me a relatively symptom-free period. Enjoy it, I was told. Take advantage of this time. My sense of humor returned. I wrote a lot of essays and posted them here for colleagues, friends and relatives. I reveled in your comments and support. I went on an amazing Bucket List vacation to the Grand Canyon with my family. But I could never fully dismiss the dark cloud overhead. More time passed. Unexpectedly, I became a candidate for cancer surgery. The operation changed my medical status -- and my emotional response to it -- once again. The successful procedure meant my inevitable end would be delayed. However, no one could predict how much additional time the heroic medical intervention afforded me. Surprisingly, this was a more difficult emotional shift to endure. Most people on planet Earth have no idea when they will be called home. I belong to that group again. But letting go of the clarity and motivation that came from having a lifespan-with-a-deadline has been extremely hard. Im still adjusting to it. Given my steadily improving health since Februarys surgery, its been evident for a while that I would reach my two year anniversary. Friends and family who regularly follow my columns know I haven’t written much recently. Ive been absorbed with trying to understand the significance of this moment -- even though achieving it was expected -- and still have trouble articulating my feelings on the matter. Throughout this journey, Cindy kept presenting me with a series life goals designed to inspire my survival. In the beginning, she pointed to our daughters college graduation. Youve got to be there for Julie, she stipulated. I was still undergoing aggressive chemotherapy, but watched proudly in May 2013 as Julie walked across the stage to accept her diploma. Then Dan became engaged. Youre going to dance at our sons wedding, Cindy informed me. Today theres video evidence of me channeling John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever on the middle of the dance floor at Dans and Beccas reception earlier this month. Which leaves Eric. Cindy wasted no time after the wedding, instructing me, Youre going to be there when he completes his MBA at Georgetown in 2016. And then what? I wanted to know. Ill come up with something, you can be sure, she responded. Now that Ive hit two years, do I feel special? Have I beaten the odds? Is it time to move on? This time I dont need Google or Bing for the answers: Absolutely. Yeah, sorta. And Yes, but … . Indeed, I feel absolutely special -- Ive been blessed with continued life, thanks to your prayers and wishes, world-class medical care and my familys unwavering support. Have I beaten the odds? Yeah, sorta. Someone has to be at the far right tail of the bell curve. Technically, Ive now slid to that side of the graph. I guess its my turn to be among the truly lucky ones. But the story isnt over yet. There is no cure for pancreatic cancer and two years isnt a Get Out of Jail Free card. I will continue to be monitored (monthly right now and, after a while, every few months) to determine whether or when the disease returns. Is it time to move on, to put this episode behind me and pretend it never happened? Yes, my (unknown, remaining) future is best be served by living life to the fullest. But no one comes so close to death without having it affect the rest of his or her life. Its an oversimplification to imagine I could go on like everyone else. I celebrated my recent birthday with unmatched zeal. I actively reach out to other PanCan patients and their families to provide information or assistance. And Ive become politically active in lobbying for increased R&D into early detection, treatments and cures for pancreatic cancer. I still dont know how much additional time Ive been granted, but now Im part of the 1.6 percent. I feel a responsibility to my fellow PC patients, those whove perished and the heartbreakingly few who remain. Perhaps one way Ive grown in the last 24 months is that despite being a life-long leading edge, gadget-geek kind of guy, I no longer feel the need to obtain the latest, greatest technology. Lifes too short to worry about that stuff. This month, Ill join Cindy on a shopping trip to replace her old cellphone with the latest iPhone 6. But Im still happy with my own aging Samsung Galaxy S4-mini. I have no burning desire to update it. And, the final season of Aaron Sorkins series The Newsroom starts November 9. Guess Ill get to see how it ends after all. # # # # (To share this post with people outside Facebook, point them to jacksonjack.blogspot/.)
Posted on: Thu, 23 Oct 2014 18:05:21 +0000
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