My Cancer Story

First, a little history without the histrionics. I am a retired cop with 30 years in law enforcement. I am a 70-year-old male as of Tuesday, March 5, 2019. For those of you who feel compelled to edit everything they read, that is a reference to my age on the 5th, not my gender. I have, in fact, always been male. I was a heavy smoker from age 15 to 25. I have, at times, been a heavy drinker though I am not consuming alcohol at the present time. I plan to stay sober until I am much farther down the road to physical recovery. I was diagnosed with non-small cell adenocarcinoma and they have removed the lower lobe from my right lung, which amounts to 20% of my total lung capacity. I have about a 60% or better chance of making it to age 75. Of course the cynical side of me says “If you had a 40% chance of winning the lottery how many tickets would you buy, because you would be sure that with those odds you would win, wouldn’t you? More on that later.

Both my parents died of cancer. My mother passed from lung cancer a couple years before my dad passed. When my dad was finally diagnosed, the cancer had spread through his body. I spent many weeks with my dad in his last few months. We talked about life, death, love, forgiveness, his regrets and his proudest moments. My wife and I were sleeping at his bedside when we both awoke and felt and saw something that told us my mother was there to take him home. When we got up and stood over him we could see that the fight was over. His tortured ragged breathing was replaced with calm slow breathes that lasted only a short while before they stopped completely.

My sister Mary died of cancer at age 38. I was not in Minnesota at the time, but I learned from my other sisters that she believed she was going to get better right up until her final moments.

My son died of cancer at age 44. He was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma on April 1, 2014 (April Fools) and died on December 13, 2014 while his wife (who never left his side),  my wife, his two step children and I watched from the side of his bed as a crew of doctors and nurses tried to adjust his ventilator, his IV, multiple drugs, and every last ditch effort available. He was an athlete. A mountain biker who loved to race in the toughest trails and he would push himself harder than anyone I knew. He was a great hockey player and he competed in the boot hockey tournament only a couple months before.  He coached hockey from the time he graduated from St. Thomas till he realized it was time to find a wife and raise a family. He connected with his high school prom date and was with her for four years. 

I watched his struggle with a helplessness I had never experienced. I saw his up and down struggle with chemotherapy, stem cell transplant, and finally his death. I cursed God. I threatened God. And finally, I abandoned God. When one of the Catholic ministers visited Michael and wanted to talk about “Redemptive Suffering” as the price of our sins, it was all I could do to not scream. I have since been on the “Road to Damascus” looking for my Ananias, thanks to Father Harry Bury. But I am not there yet.

When it looked like Michael’s time was drawing near he appeared to make a great comeback and he looked great. His last blood work showed no cancer cells. But that wasn’t the issue. The oncologist described it like this – Looking for cancer cells after the massive doses of chemo therapy that Mike had received, was like dipping a coffee cup into an Olympic sized pool hoping to capture, with one dip, the single mosquito larva still present in the pool. The chemo therapy he received at the last was a one-way street – it either fixed you or killed you. The fact that there were no cancer cells was of no consequence. Because the stem cell transfer didn’t take, the chemo killed him. This occured several times during his treatments. When he received the first strong doses of chemo his kidneys failed due to flooding his system with waste from the dead cells. It was touch and go until they cleared and started working again. This is not uncommon if the cancer has progressed many parts of your body.

I was talking to him at his bedside the day he chose to go back on the ventilator, in a last ditch attempt at a miracle. He saw the helplessness in my face and tears in my eyes. He told me “You can’t fix this Dad. The cop in you always wants to fix things for people, to make things better. There’s nothing you can do. I am going to beat this. I am not going to die.” I wanted to talk about the reality of his situation. His thoughts about life after death, etc. I wanted to apologize for the things I did or didn’t do as his father, things that I would take back if I could. His own doctor had just told him to “Go home. Enjoy the hours you have left”. He told the doctor that if there was even a chance of a miracle, he would go back on the ventilator again. The doctor told him “Miracles do happen.” And that was the last time Michael was conscious.

I never got to have that final conversation with him. He would not talk about death while he was alive. The day before he died, I sat next to his unconscious body, listening to the steady push of air from the ventilator, watching his chest rise and fall involuntarily and the erratic beeping of the heart rate monitor as his heart rhythm became more and more chaotic. I watched multiple IVs dripping fluids and medicines into his chemo decimated body, wondering what they were trying to accomplish. I did not know when he and I would be alone again, so I just started talking. The conversation was one way, but it was all I had left. I wanted him back with all my heart and soul, but I knew it wasn't going to happen. As I cried and placed my hand on his I told him "It’s OK. You fought harder than anyone could have ever imagined. It’s time to rest. It’s OK to let go. I love you and I will see you again.” The next day he was gone. For 8 ½ months we all lived with Michael’s cancer. And it was truly awful. And when he died, so did a part of me.

For someone fighting cancer, all their effort, their focus, and their thoughts, are directed at surviving the physical pain and disfigurement the treatments bring while fighting the mental question of “How much time do I have left?” and “When will the pain be over?” The drugs make your mind think crazy thoughts and have weird dreams. The prednisone to treat the effects of the chemo therapy make the patient incredibly anxious and sometimes angry over things that do not matter. It is what happens. It is nobody's fault. People will say things they regret. I said many things in the moments shortly after Michael died. Stupid things, disrespectful things, things said in shock and grief that I couldn't believe I was saying as the words were coming out of my mouth. Things I can't forget.

Knowing the full impact of chemotherapy, my wife and I made a pact long ago that if either of us is at a point where the only thing left is a life dependent on machines, filled with pain and disablement with little hope of getting better – we will turn off the machines. But now I find myself asking the existential question of when do you really know if things are going to get better or worse? If you are sick and in pain will you hope for a cure with courage, like my son, or will you choose to end it all? I don’t mean suicide. I mean letting nature take its course. Stop the medicines. Stop all the adjunctive therapies. If cancer is going to kill you anyway, why suffer? The pact with my wife, that seemed so easy to make when we were both relatively healthy and strong, seems problematic now. Will either of us really know when the time has come to pull the plug? It’s not that I am afraid of death. I have been shot at. People have tried to kill me with knives. I have been beaten unconscious. There were many times that I was afraid. But it wasn’t a fear of dying. It was a fear of the pain and damage to my body from which I would have to recover. And I don’t believe that death is the end. Michael has visited me since his passing and I believe this life is only a part of the journey we will all make. My point is this. There is much to live for. I have a good life and wonderful family. If my cancer comes back, note that I am in remission - not cured, will I know when to give it up? It seemed an easy choice until the oncologist said "You have lung cancer." 

When you are diagnosed with cancer and you have family around you, like my wife, my daughter, her husband, the three grandkids, extended family and friends, you are not the only one battling the cancer. All are caught up in the side effects of your cancer diagnosis whether it is stage one or stage four. For those closest to you it will be hard, very hard. They will want you to fight. They will encourage you to give it your all in hopes of getting even one more breath in this world. Everyone must choose their own path. And as angry as I am with the loss of my son, I meditate and ask for guidance from whoever is listening. Many years ago I had a near death experience. When I was pulled back from the feet of a beautiful white angel I felt like I was being ripped away from a peace I never felt before, or since. I am not afraid to go back to that place of peace, but I am also not anxious to leave to this place. 

I hope by sharing what is to follow I can help you prepare you for what you might face when you or someone close to you is told “You have cancer.” For each of us it will be different. I believe I bring a unique perspective as a co-survivor of breast cancer, someone who has lost a child to cancer, and someone who is facing his own diagnosis of lung cancer. I speak from the heart, not the medical text books. I have a background as a medic in the USAF before I was in law enforcement and I have seen a lot of tragic deaths over the years. I suppose there is PTSD associated with some of my experiences. There certainly is around the death of my son. And there is some from the pain my wife and I inflicted on each other after his death. We are still married, but we are different. We still struggle and I don’t know that the struggle will ever end.