A year ago, those words came screaming into our ears, although the Gastroenterologist asked them very quietly. Not once, but twice. We sat stunned. VST in a confused state. Me, on heightened alert, wishing I’d heard anything else come out of the doctor’s mouth. CANCER. What did it mean to two people, married for 32 years? What did it mean to best friends? Lovers? Children? Grandchildren? You know, CANCER means something different to ever single person it ravages.
VST sat on the examining table, still and quiet, as one would expect of a Doctor of Psychology. Studying each word. The order of the words. The intonation. Any body language that gave hints. The pause before his question and our answer seemed like our forever. The cat was out of the bag, so to speak. VST’s disease was CANCER.
Nine weeks isn’t a long time for an illness to begin, progress, and finish in death. VST wasn’t in terrible pain, although he had pain. Withering away, his muscle atrophy was startling. The growth of his abdomen caused trouble with breathing and sleep. But, he continued to insist he felt too good to be really sick. The doctors had been baffled, as every blood test given came back within perfect range. VST was like that. Healthy in every other respect. A handicapped athlete until the end, walking 4 miles a day, even when he was ill.
I finally had to ask for clarification from the GI Doc, as this question was just too broad. It was then he told us the hard truth. Once the location of the cancer was found, we would be referred to an oncologist. Our time with the GI Doc was done. Again, he asked, “What does CANCER look like to you?”
VST and I had discussed our end of life wishes so many times. The end is the end. Period. If there were no real options, the option we chose individually was to do nothing. We just happened to agree on that point. That was what cancer looked like to both of us on that very bleak and horrible day.
We discussed our options and the fact that Cancer markers were at extreme levels in the blood work. Normal. 20. VST’s — 4500. But, the cancer remained illusive and couldn’t be located. All the usual places were clear. With this mystery raging, VST would need to undergo more scanning and probing until the location could be discovered. He should not be mistaken. We should not be mislead. Cancer was raging, with the location hidden somewhere in VST’s body.
I’ll never know how much VST understood or accepted on that day. His mind wondered frequently, spending much time sleeping. I was losing the best parts of my husband, best friend, lover, partner, co-parent and co-grandparent, investor, and co-conspirator. I was losing 1/2 of myself in a brutal way. Through it all, VST remained quiet, compliant, and reserved. He relied on his faith in God, increasingly found in prayer. He’d started his journey away from me weeks before the doctor posed the question.
What does Cancer look like to me? Broken Hearts. Terror. Anger. Sorrow. Loss. Pain. Suffering. Morpheine. Long nights. Caregiving. Hospice. Sore muscles. Sleepless nights. Bargaining for another chance. Lost dreams. Strangers helping. Expense. Meaningless doctor’s visits. Time wasted on worthless treatments. Solitude. Isolation. In the end. Cancer means Goodbye. That’s what cancer means to me.
Quietly, we rode back up Geigher Grade to our little town of Virginia City after the appointment. Twisting back and forth on the harrowing road, the topography was similar to the situation in which we found ourselves. On one side, there were sheer mountains, with car-sized boulders ready to fall onto the roadway at any moment. On the other side, sheer drop-offs, in which a wrong turn could send a car sailing into the air for hundreds of feet. Doom on either side, the little white Jeep scurried back to the safety of our home, while VST slept soundly, his head propped upon the door.
As I drove, I wondered just what cancer meant to VST’s doctor. In a few short visits, the doctor had come to like us very much. I’m sure the conversation we just had was jarring to him, as well. Every doctor takes an oath, “Do No Harm.” He didn’t cause this harm, but had to deliver the worst news to us. He needed our prayers, too, as his heart was breaking for us.
VST never answered the question. Maybe he couldn’t in the state he found himself. He never cried or shouted to the heavens. He never questioned “Why Me?” He simply took the hand he was dealt and played it out. VST was one of the strongest men I have ever known in my life. His faith was un-shake-able. His love, the purest. His care for his family, the most sincere. VST lived life in the arms of God until he left this world. An example I will do my best to follow. I’m so blessed to have been his Darlin’ for all those years.
Over the last year, Cancer has meant different things to me. Memorial. Old Friends. New Friends. Memories. Sweet dreams. Night terrors. Lonely days. Lonely nights. Meals alone. Mail for one. Monthly balloon releases. Letting go. Acceptance. One year Heaven-ersary. And, so much more. It means different things on different days. But, always, it means a loss of the way things were, even if things go well. Just like the scourge of Covid, things never return to the delicate state they were before. It takes strength, true grit, and a deep faith to continue on.
Take a moment to think about what CANCER means to you. This post surprised me. Such a complicated topic, with endless answers. I hope no one ever asks you the question, the way we were asked. No one should need to experience that. Sadly, it happens every day.