Journey's end
/If you follow U.S. politics, you know the most recent Presidential election was wrenching—months of bitter campaigning, the worst sorts of people spewing lies and hate, and no real sense of resolution because of one man’s metastatic ego. Given how invested I and those with similar views were in making that guy a one-term President, you’d think we’d feel a greater sense of jubilation when the votes were finally tallied.
But rather than having a sense of triumph and positivity, I felt tired and let down. And I wasn’t alone. My friends who were most invested in the election’s outcome had the keenest feelings of disappointment. What do we do with the energy we’ve generated all these months now that it’s all over? What happens next? Have our efforts made a difference, or is this just a brief respite before the next cluster of American authoritarianism corrupts the body politic?
And so maybe you can understand that when my last meeting with the medical team ended with an abrupt We Think You’re Cured But We’ll Keep Checking, I left with mixed feelings. The bad thing is gone, but is it gone for good?
Much as I regret it now, I’ve scoffed at the notion of “battling” cancer. I took it far too literally. You can have cancer and be treated for it, but other than enduring the treatment and taking care of yourself, there’s very little you can additionally do to send cancer packing. It will or won’t have its way.
I’ve come to understand that it’s a battle of will. It’s about being ready for the long haul, mustering the mental resources to deal with what seems like unending discomfort and illness, fighting off dread, trying to not take it personally, coping with how your body and mind have changed, and forgiving yourself for the many times you fall short. (By way of Easter egg, I documented this in This Malignant American, but posted it the day after the election, assuming it would be interpreted as a comment on Trumpism.)
This is the battle I prepared for. Four weeks after surgery and with two weeks to go before beginning radiation treatment, I was as ready as I was ever going to be.
And then an epiglottal hole pulled the plug. We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming. Get back to your life. Try to forget what you’ve been through.
And exactly what is life now?
As I write this, I return to work tomorrow. I’ve missed the people I work with and I’m a little bit bored. So, all good.
I’m thinner than I once was, which I like. I’m past the point of needing to pack on the pounds and if I can maintain this weight, I’ll feel more like me.
I’ve let my hair grow since the beginning of Covid and, anticipating surgery on my neck and the follow-up radiation, I’ve given up shaving. Very few people other than my family see me and they don’t seem to mind the look.
And then there’s the what-did-this-do-to-you-physically-and-emotionally stuff. Cancer’s a bully and it leaves a mark. So many others have suffered far more from the effects of cancer and its treatments than I have, but in the interest of completeness, my complaints.
At 10 weeks after surgery, swallowing remains challenging. In addition to the feeling that liquid is creeping into my trachea (it’s not), the primary pushing mechanism in my throat is, quite literally, half of what it once was. Most solids make it only part way down—a liquid swallow or two generally completes the job. I’m told that with swallowing exercises this will improve greatly.
My sense of taste is weak. Things that were once flavorful are dull or tasteless, which makes eating a chore rather than a pleasure. I clear my throat—a lot. My uvula feels three times its size and makes its presence known constantly. My voice sounds just as it did, but it tires after a few minutes of speaking. I won’t be singing anytime soon. I’m still fatigued. Feeling in the right side of my neck, face, and ear is just now starting to return. These things should also improve over time.
I have a gnarly scar on the side of my neck, for which I’m composing stories of derring-do. That will fade. Some.
The jury is still out in regard to my outlook on life. Friends of mine have dealt with cancer (and, in a few cases, their impending death) in different ways. Some turn to the spiritual and examine their lives through that prism. Others build models, play guitar, and watch TV. I know cancer survivors who look at each day as a gift and try to make each moment count. Others glance nervously over a shoulder, waiting for recurrence. My nature is to embrace the latter, but I’m working on the former.
I’ve never thought I was in real danger, so maybe that’s why I haven’t felt compelled to ponder The Meaning Of It All or turned to the metaphysical. But I emerge from the experience not wholly unaffected. Prior to the diagnosis, I figured life would continue to tick along as it has—more aches and pains, but pretty much how it’s portrayed in the Cialis commercials. I’ve come to realize just how naive that assumption was (though I’m not sure how most of us would carry on without it). Rather than spend time considering the afterlife, I’m going to put more thought into how I approach the now life.
Enough whinging. Sure, I have my moments of discomfort and uncertainty, but I’m alive and, as far as anyone knows, cancer free. That counts for a lot.
I’ve also been strongly reminded that, wryly cynical though I am, people are capable of remarkable acts of generosity and kindness. When crisis comes, friends, family, and complete-strangers-until-they-shove-a-pipe-down-your-throat show their true colors and cover you in caring. I’ve made it a goal to reciprocate in kind when given the opportunity.
It happened and it was hard. But if it had to happen, I’m profoundly grateful that I had such good company along the way.
