After 5 years as Dr, Rajguru’s patient, I knew the drill. Get my blood drawn. Go through my meds list with the nurse. Tell Dr. Rajguru of my symptoms or lack thereof. Submit to a hands-on exam. Take my little postcard-size note to the scheduler to set up my next appointment.
All those things I did for today’s appointment, except the last thing.
Barring a recurrence, I’m not coming back to Dr. Rajguru.
I’m officially cured of lymphoma.
Cancer’s severity is often described in 5-year increments. Odds are calculated in terms of survival 5 years after diagnosis. And although the kind of cancer I was diagnosed with in March 2019 — diffuse large B-cell lymphoma — tends not to come back if there’s no sign of it 2 years after completing chemotherapy, Dr. Rajguru was waiting 5 years to declare me cured.
Actually, he fudged a little. The 5 years are supposed to toll from the COMPLETION of chemotherapy, which in my case was July 23, 2019.
But my bloodwork is clear. I don’t have any bumps or lumps on my neck or in my groin. My appetite is fine. I’m not having night sweats.
No need for a PET scan to prove I’m free of lymphoma.
I am allowing myself a heartfelt “hallelujah!”
I plan to celebrate by sharing a pizza with Jay.
And as fond as I’ve become of Dr. Rajguru, saying good-bye to him is a cause for celebration.
BUT…
I can never be truly “cancer free.” No one can, once they’ve been diagnosed with any form of malignancy. Even if you go decades without a hint of recurrence. Even if you end up dying of something other than cancer.
It isn’t just because cancer is a sword of Damocles, with a possibility of coming back, or showing up in a different form (as happened to me; my breast cancer was diagnosed on a Friday the 13th in November 2020.)
It’s because cancer changes the people who get it. A cliche that “cancer doesn’t define you”‘isn’t exactly true. My diagnosis didn’t comprise all of who I am, or even my principal defining characteristic. But it is, and always will be, part of who I am.
That’s why I will stay active in Gilda’s Club as long as I’m able, even if I am declared cured of the breast cancer and never again diagnosed with any kind of cancer.
Cancer changes those whom it touches. And people touched by cancer need each other — not necessarily to sit around and swap chemo stories and share tips on lotions for radiation burns, but mere presence. We are truly part of a club, even though none of us sought membership.
Cancer, at least lymphoma, is part of my past.
Then again, it never will be.
But I can be thankful. And happy.
