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Let's Talk Cancer, Part 1

October, 17, 2016, my husband was diagnosed with stage IV colorectal cancer that had metastasized to surrounding lymph nodes and his liver. Prognosis: six months without treatment. With chemo, maybe 12-18. Too far advanced to make either radiation or surgery viable options.

October 17, 2022, my husband had his six-year "cancerversary." 

The six-year cancer roller coaster has had peaks and valleys that would put Six Flags to shame. 

He was blasted with chemo, which worked better than either his doctor or we could have hoped, which made him a candidate for radiation, which also worked well, which made him a candidate for surgery to resect the tumors in his colon and liver. Side note, after surgery on the liver, the patient comes out of recovery a lovely shade of yellow.

He was blasted with more chemo post surgery, while sporting an ostomy bag he'd wear for about 8 months while his insides healed. Three months after the surgery to reconnect his pipes, a routine scan showed a tumor on his adrenal gland. Back to the surgeon we went. Adrenal gland removed with a few lymph nodes. Cancer free.

His oncologist blasted him with months of chemo that gave him huge blisters on his feet, made his hands red and scaly, made him extremely sensitive to cold. John cried "uncle" two treatments short of the full four months of treatment. In the big scheme of things, we said, two more treatments wouldn't matter.

He was cancer free for three years, when at one of his routine screening scans, they found a mass on his bladder. Bladder cancer killed his mother. The roller coaster took a big dip towards another valley. And why couldn't he get a type of cancer that didn't involve cameras going where no man had gone before? Another procedure, tumor resection, but no chemo this time. Immunotherapy instead. A lot fewer side effects with good results.

Cancer-free again. Roller coaster headed towards a peak, although the peaks were lower with each new diagnosis. 

Oh, and let's add in here is when my dad was diagnosed with stage IV prostate cancer. Yep, the two men, people, who are most important to me, both have stage IV cancer. Shoot me in the face.

Then there was that wound on his temple that wouldn't heal. Scab over, peel, kinda heal, fester, rinse and repeat. I Googled the image. "Um ,yeah, you should probably have that looked at. Looks like basal cell carcinoma." Google was correct. Roller coaster had barely reached a mole hill sized peak, when it came hurling down again. Another procedure, stitches, healing, complication, healing. 

Cancer-free, again. Roller coaster groaning upwards.

At a routine screening scan, on an every six-month schedule now, nodules on his lungs. The oncologist isn't concerned, said a lot of people get nodules. Um, a lot of people with his history of cancer? By the way, John asked, how common is it to get THREE different types of cancer? Well, the oncologist said, you really can't count skin cancer because everybody gets that. But, yeah, two different cancers make you, well, unlucky. Thanks doc, you go to medical school for that?

Repeat chest CT in three months to see if the nodules go away, stay the same or increase in number.  Because John is an overachiever, they did all three. One nodule went away, one stayed the same in size, and he grew a new one. 

In between John's treatments, scans, and tests, I wore a path on I-5 between Federal Way and Roseburg, Oregon. My dad's failing eyesight has robbed his confidence in driving anywhere but from his house to town for errands. Driving to the urologist in Eugene was out of the question. Off I went to be his Uber driver, or Guber as he calls me now. On the upside, I was driving a new car that basically drives itself, which made I-5 a lot more bearable. 

Whew, that's a lot in six years. I didn't mention all the complications that landed him in the ER, side effects from chemo that still linger even after four years, because I'd like this post to not be the length of a Dickens novel.

What I will take the time to write about is the mental and emotional toll this cancer coaster has taken. My depression was about to get called up to the major leagues. 




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