Thursday June 24th, 2010 was the day before my fourth round of chemotherapy. Naturally this meant a visit to the Cancer Centre clinic for routine bloodwork, I was extremely fortunate that no problems were ever found with my blood chemistry and I was able to make every chemotherapy appointment.
By now we're officially into summer and I was taking full advantage of the great weather - biking was now one of my primary activities and would remain so until my Liver surgery in September. However, as is the case during a 'chemo weekend', my energy level barely climbs out of the cellar. I used my pedometer to measure one walk I took: 3,650 steps. That's about the distance from my house to the nearest Tim's coffee shop and back. The walk itself is at a much slower pace than my usual cadence, and requires a break every so often, so my chest and arms don't feel like they're crushing the life out of me.
No new side effects, everything is proceeding without incident. I'm cruising through this chemo thing. My "new normal" is a comfortable fit for my lifestyle and I can pretty much go through the process on autopilot. Naturally this would foreshadow a change in any cheesy novel. Since I'm a cheesy kind of guy, this would seem to be the time to find out some unsettling news: my surgeon who performed my Colon Cancer surgery was leaving Windsor.
Up until now I have avoided discussing the implicit faith one has in their doctor. The medical system may be large and intimidating, but the primary care physician provide the face and humanity that makes this process work. My doctor was leaving for new opportunities. He is a fabulous surgeon, and the one who performed my colonoscopy. He gave me the news of my cancer and it's extent. He gave me a plan, and with it, hope. He performed my colon cancer surgery and was, by all accounts, very pleased with the results. The news he was leaving was surprising and somewhat demoralizing. My doctor had become the confident symbol of hope every patient looks for.
As things would turn out, my treatment would move to a surgeon pre-eminent in the realm of performing Liver surgery. Life works in funny ways, there are unlooked-for synergies and unexpected, happy coincidences. Case in point, my "Lifestyles for Cancer Patients" seminar was scheduled for the evening of the same day I found that my doctor was leaving.
These seminars were a once-a-week event, 3 hours in duration, and consisted of cancer patients and their caregivers being led through the process of learning to deal with with the effects of their illness. This week we discussed, appropriately enough, the emotional impact of cancer on our lives. The key aspect of the emotional journey is characterized by the descent into a state where the patient becomes depressed and unable to cope. The method for getting out of this state, of continuing the journey, is called "JOY" - Journey Onward, Yielding. That evening I had a practical demonstration of this concept.
"Yielding" in the context above does not mean "give up". Nor does it mean trying to avoid all obstacles. In essence it means yield to the path required to continue the journey. For me this meant that I had to accept my doctor's decision to leave and accept and understand that he was not taking hope with him; the hope is something I carried within me.
Given what I had undergone so far, I was initially surprised, and as I mentioned earlier, somewhat demoralized by my surgeon's departure. I was nowhere near depressed and knew that I would still have superb medical care. In retrospect, it made me realize that blind faith in a medical practitioner or process is not enough; we have to advocate for ourselves, we have to perform our own 'health due-diligence'. Diet, exercise, lifestyle, all the boring healthy stuff. That's our job. Once we cease being a patient, we are now responsible for maintaining our health in a reasonable fashion. Apparently there's work involved. Ugh. For the first time in my life I enrolled in a weekly exercise class.
Walking and stretching, once a week. Sounds easy. It wasn't. I would be tired and sore after the class; stretching is hard work! I could walk really well, but just trying to balance on one foot without clinging to the support chair (or the person next to me) was difficult. Most of the folks in the class were women, and shall we say, had a history of more Earth orbits abound Sol than I did. Some by a large margin. And yet they all did these exercises without the grimacing, grunting and gut-wrenching that I seemed to experience. I think I amused them. Some of the exercises we did were based on Tai Chi moves; slow and focussed; some were way more difficult, in part because our instructor was channeling a Marine Drill sergeant.
In the days that followed my routine for chemo treatment never really varied, I learned to deal with my cancer a little bit at a time, and I would reconnect with my friends and family. Especially my family, as I have no blood relatives in the city I live in, and my siblings are scattered all over the province. There would be visits from them, and one memorable visit where some fence-mending would take place.
No comments:
Post a Comment