Cancer Survivor.
Those words have been reverberating in my head for the past forty-eight hours. I used them in a phone conversation with Joe.
Is that who I am? Most days I think about it very little. I don’t wear a yellow wristband, a pink ribbon or other identifying symbol. I haven’t started a foundation or charity ride. Although I revel in riding my bike, I have ridden for a cure for other diseases but not for cancer.
It has been three and a half years since my urologist called and asked me to come to his office early. He said, “We have to talk.” Time stands still when you are told you have cancer, but I was not paralyzed with fear or indecision. I went right to work getting a second opinion. I did research on the internet. Most importantly, I talked with my family. My son said, “Dad, I want your grandchildren to know you.” I chose an aggressive treatment because of those talks with my children.
It has been more than three years since the surgery. I am not the man I used to be, but I am alive, active and enjoying life. In some ways I am still healing, I just got back on the bicycle this past spring. Nevertheless, I don’t think of myself as a “cancer survivor” very often. I cannot say that I get up every morning rejoicing that I am alive. Nor do I value life at some metaphysical level in a way different than before.
Right after the surgery I had this evangelistic zeal to convince men over fifty to get a regular PSA (Prostate-Specific Antigen) test. I told them they should do Kegel exercises everyday for the rest of their lives. Men don’t generally talk about those things, nor do they usually get regular checkups. We should because we can save lives. An estimated 30,350 men will die of prostate cancer in 2005. My son will need to be aware of all of this because both his father and grandfather had prostate cancer, increasing his risk.
Yet, I have quieted down about all of that since then. I worked with Joe for about four months. Only during a phone conversation about health insurance did I use the words “cancer survivor.” Now that I think about it, I am a month or two late for my follow-up PSA. I am supposed to have one every six months for five years. So far there has been no reoccurrence. Five-year survival rates for prostate cancer diagnosed and treated early approach 100%. Since the cancer was restricted to the prostate, I did not have any post surgical treatment such as radiation or additional hormones.
So, why don’t I wear my identity as a cancer survivor on my sleeve or wrist? I am not sure that I know all of the answer to that. But, when I reflect on it, I am glad to be here, to know my grandson and to hang out with my family when I can. Life is good and I hope to stay around a good bit longer.
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2 comments:
When you want to live a normal life, it's hard to constantly identify yourself as not-normal or different or simply associated with some cause or another, even if it is a worthy cause. After Riley was born, I felt that every ounce of my life would be to rally support for congenital heart defects, to attend support groups no matter how many hours away they were and to relish every moment of my son's life. And after months and months of sadness and trying to pull myself together for these ambitions, I realized that more than anything I wanted to live a normal life, an anonymous life. I wanted to do normal things with my son, even though he's not totally normal. I wanted to blend in and be thankful in less outward ways. I even wore a wristband for a while, but stopped doing it because I didn't like branding myself in one way or another. Mostly I still care strongly about those initial ambitions, but they've taken a backseat to living my life. Sounds like that's what's happened with you too. It doesn't mean you don't care, but you're just focused on living your new, cancer-free life.
Congratulations on your cure. I'm a little envious, but mostly happy for you.
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