Pause

I have learned in the last week that this business of cancer can have cruel mental side affects. A few months ago I was at a party where a fellow and I shared our renal cancer stories. Like me, he had advanced renal cell carcinoma, was without one kidney, but otherwise doing just fine. "I see the light at the end of the tunnel," he said and we toasted one another to our improving health. Last week I learned he had died from a new tumor on his spine.

And that knowledge gave me pause. I, too, believe I am seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, but the words of my oncologist, spoken less than a month ago, come ringing back. "As far as we can see, we've got this thing in retreat."

As for as we can see. As far as we can see. As far as we can see. I think on that now. As far was we can see. A year ago, when I was first diagnosed with this malady, I came to grips with two things: First, this cancer has a good shot at killing me; second, if it does I will go out with as much dignity and strength as I can muster. And I meant it. My faith and philosophy, my good, long and diverse life, my understanding that no matter how hard one fights one can still lose, all helped me through those most difficult months. I didn't mind the chemo, the side affects, the major distresses on my body. There are many things worse than death and the Lord has given me so many advantages, who was I to fear death from a long and slow disease when so many die every day from bolts of fate? I was especially sure not to cling too selfishly to life when young people who had yet lived were dying in Iraq, almost voluntarily, so I might fight a cancer in the United States in the comfort of my home, surrounded by family and hundreds of friends. It was--still is--a humbling thought.

Now I look as well as any other man. Folks tell me that constantly. "You look well." "You look fit." "You look so good, Dave, is your cancer in remission?"

"No, but 'as far as we can see' I'm doing remarkably well."

And then comes the news of my cohort in cancer's death. It was a shock. Not just the loss of him, but the shock to my own system. Cancer is a cruel master. And his death, so close to my own circumstances, has taught me that it can be at its cruelest when you think you are about done with it.

Gives one pause. A person at the threshold of victory has an entirely different point of view on death than a person who feels as if he is dying. Perhaps it is weakness, or just a more optimistic point of view, but one no longer feels so philosophically ready to die when one is so far on the way to being well.

I am yet determined that such a thing will not happen to me; even so I realize now how easily it could. However, I am not as inclined now to accept cancer's final blow as I was last year. I have learned that a sick person is much more willing to accept fate than a well one.

On the other hand, I--and all other cancer patients--must accept the fact that once you have cancer, it will haunt you the rest of your life. That it can come back and kill you at any time. How you feel about it is irrelevant. Then again, cancer has a difficult time snuffing out a positive spirit. In my opinion, it is one's strength of spirit and the support of friends and love ones such as you--not the chemo, not the other drugs--that keeps one living.

When I heard of my friend's death, I did pause. For a few minutes I was frightened, I could barely speak, and, to be frank, not because I was upset about his death, but concerned about my own. I wallowed in pity for two days and then the light came back on. Not at the end of the tunnel, but within my body. One cannot fear cancer, because if one does it will kill you. Cancer can smell surrender just as surely as a dog can smell fear. Nobody has ever said that to me. It's just something I just know, right down to quick of my soul.

I am determined yet again this cancer is not going to kill me. Not anytime soon. That I have a future. That all cancer patients have a future-- regardless of how short or long.--and the most must be made of it, not worrying about tumors that they didn't see. Now I grieve for my friend, not for myself.

As it should be.

Yes, my friend's death gave me pause...now I move on.