We are always learning. Sometimes more so than other times.
Nearly three years ago, I was diagnosed with cancer — follicular Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma (or FL) to be specific. Until then, I thought I knew about cancer – having spent several years working as a director of editorial and creative services at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston. I met with cancer patients; worked with them closely on some projects; I walked the floors of the clinics; I edited stories about research advances; I was surrounded by cancer.
I knew nothing.
I spent more than a year watching and waiting. I spent six months undergoing a chemotherapy regimen known as BR (bendamustine and rituxan). It was comparatively mild — both in terms of its side effects and its disruption to my daily life. I worked through it – literally, taking a day or so off each month to manage. I’ve had friends and colleagues spend two years in treatment; friends deal with surgeries, radiation, the works. And then when that was done, even more. What I had to go through was mild. But cancer’s effects are not rated like buffalo wings — mild, hot, and extra hot. Yes, there are different kinds, and some more serious than others, but any degree of cancer is hot enough. And any diagnosis carries its own challenges.
About a year ago, I had my post-treatment scans, which came with the good news that I am now no longer in treatment. I watch, and I wait for my lymphoma to return, and when it does, we’ll deal with it. In the meantime, here’s what cancer’s taught me.
1. Friends matter. They say it takes a crisis for you to know who your real friends are. I don’t know that I believe that. I know who my real friends are; I knew that before I was diagnosed. Some of them were great at expressing their concern; some weren’t. The fact that they weren’t — because they made stupid comments or ran away from the problem — doesn’t make them less friends; it just makes them poor at dealing with emotions. Who knows why? Maybe it drudges up bad memories, or bad anxieties, or they just are lousy communicators. All I know is that I know who my friends are and I’m grateful to have them and their support — well expressed or otherwise.
2. I don’t know of any study comparing the outcome of pessimistic patients versus optimistic patients or whether either group makes better treatment decisions. But I have to believe the optimists have a better quality of life. I’ve had my moments of anger, frustration, sadness, fear, and anxiety. I’m sure I’ll have more of them. But they’ve been short-lived — not because I figured out the answers, but because I realized that those emotions don’t subtract from the problems, they add to them.
3. I’ve never been big on prayer in the formal sense of the word. So it used to bother me when people would say: “I’ll pray for you.” It doesn’t anymore. Pray. Send positive vibes. Do a random act of kindness. Meditate. Run. Whatever. It all helps. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But it does.
4. People who practice oncology – nurses, doctors, assistants, technicians, phlebotomists, schedulers, you name it. They are a cut above. My care team? They’re a cut above a cut above. They bring a level of compassion, respect, understanding, and (and this can’t be understated) knowledge to what they do that can’t be measured. All of this gives you a sense of comfort and trust; two companions constantly needed on this journey.
5. Cancer takes its toll, and it’s cumulative. It’s not just a giant shock to the system on the day of the diagnosis, but a constant pounding of the shore wave after wave. At times, the waves are small, and the sand holds strong; at other times, they crash violently and leave the landscape changed by their effect. It takes time and energy to reclaim the land .
6. Patients are just the tip of the iceberg. Family, friends, coworkers, caregivers – everyone is affected in ways small and large. For immediate family, it’s doubly difficult. They face not only the impact of the disease and its disruption of daily life, but also the burden of emotional support.
7. To borrow from Glennon Melton, we can do hard things. We can face diagnosis. We can withstand the anxiety; we can manage the treatment. We may not want to do it. But we can.
8. Everyone’s cancer is different. There are lots of male, follicular lymphoma patients out there. But are there many 50-year-old follicular lymphoma patients with the exact level of disease progression, with the same health status, the same mental outlook, the same molecular blueprint as me? No. So you can look at statistics and know that they are comprised of sets of cases that are all unique, even if they share some characteristics.
9. It’s easy to find daily examples of cruelty and indifference — just watch the news, read the paper. I’ve been amazed over the past two years with people’s capacity for kindness and compassion. Not just to me but in the stories I’ve heard from others who have been admitted into this unfortunate cancer club.
10. Bucket lists are overrated. There are thousands of things I’d like to do in life. I could fill pages alone with just the places I want to go – let alone the events and sites that I’d like to see in those places. And that’s not even adding in the geographically agnostic experiences I’d like to experience. But to me, life isn’t about creating checklists to check off; to me, it’s about experiencing what you have, where you are, and who you’re with. There are thousands of grand adventures and big trips I’d love to take — but I’m as excited to stand on the sidelines on a cold, windy field and watch my boys play soccer. Life’s a journey not a to-do list.