Time to face the beast.

I’ll not mince words. I hate cancer. Cancer is “expletive deleted” awful. It kills people. It ruins lives. It’s a dirty, rotten trickster, building you up one day and smashing you down the next. It killed my husband, my father, my mother-in-law, and just a few days ago took the life of my brother-in-law. ”F*** cancer.”

There, I got that off my chest.

I’ve avoided confronting this beast of a disease because I hate what it did to Mike, what it’s done to me and my family. And yet, I need to face it, look at it more closely. Admit my anger and meet the beast head on.

The 2023 calendar had remained in my office desk drawer. I saw it every time I pulled out the 2024 calendar, and yet I couldn’t seem to bring myself to look at it: tracing all the trips to the oncologist, the days marked when the ambulance took him to the hospital. All stark reminders of those final months and then the day we were told there was no more to do. 

Some might say it’s not healthy or helpful to relive those times. For some reason I felt compelled to do that. Maybe to assuage my anger. Another reason to cry and cry again. I just needed to look at cancer for what it is, in all its ugliness and pain. In order to shed it, I needed to meet it.

I needed to come to terms with this disease because it’s everywhere. At a minimum, cancer impacts 1 out of every 4 individuals. That’s been true in our family, and I fear we will see it rear its ugly head again down the road. Early in Mike’s cancer journey, our oncologist suggested that for our daughters’ sakes, he should do genetic testing. I wondered why because prostate cancer is clearly a male disease, but, as the oncologist noted, it is closely connected to breast cancer. Fortunately, the test showed negative results for any genetic mutation that could impact our daughters.

After the initial shock when you or a loved one is told they have the disease, you set about dealing with it. Treatment starts, and oftentimes, like in our case, it seemed to work miraculously to the point the doctor said Mike could be considered to be in remission. That’s another word I hate because I don’t believe it. Cancer is such a trickster. It can fool you into believing it’s been removed or stopped. Then within a matter of weeks or months it comes roaring back, twice as bad.

That’s why I hate cancer.

Over time, we continued to learn more about the disease. Unfortunately, some of the facts we learned were after the fact.  A few months before Mike’s diagnosis he was plagued with a backache. He saw the local doctor who recommended a chiropractor and some physical therapy, neither of which seemed to help. Eventually he reached a tipping point when extreme pain sent him to the hospital and the eventual diagnosis.

Upon further research, little did we know that an early symptom of prostate cancer is back pain. And even though Mike had annual physicals that tracked his PSA count, that PSA had jumped to an off-the-chart reading of over 1,000. A normal reading is 4.0. The cancer had also metastisized to the bone.

Mike’s younger brother, David had also been diagnosed with prostate cancer — about a year after Mike. But he was told it had been caught early. He underwent radiation therapy and even sent us a photo of himself ringing the bell when his treatments were done. Why then, less than six months later, after numerous imaging and tests, did cancer sneak back in and rage all over his body. Within three months David was dead.

That’s why I hate cancer.

It’s been difficult to review the “cancer diary” that I kept or to go through the overflowing file of Mike’s health records. But I’m not going to let cancer win. In spite of the pain in remembering Mike’s final days, I also recall how valiantly he fought and savored each day without anger or complaint. And I remember how he looked up at me when the oncologist delivered the terminal diagnosis. “Let’s go home,” he said. In my system of belief, he is home now. Done with the anxiety, pain and suffering that cancer put him through. Same with his brother and their mother. Cancer has plagued us and given us pain, but we will not let it conquer us.

Some people have asked me if writing this blog has helped me. This particular post has actually been quite gut wrenching. Recalling Mike’s final days was hard enough. Then, just less than two weeks ago, my daughters and I relived that time as we sat at David’s bedside as he passed. The pain has been raw and real, even physical. I came home from California, where David lived, completely exhausted. 

After David’s death, I was going through some of the papers on his desk and a newspaper clipping caught my eye. It was a synopsis of the speech given by Amanda Gorman at President Biden’s inauguration, “The Hill We Climb.” Her remarks were in the context of our nation, but clearly they spoke to me and my family: “When day comes we ask ourselves where can we find light in the never ending shade? She asks, “ Can we grow through our grief.” I know I’m at the angry stage right now, and I understand it’s part of grieving. Still, it’s very hard. But as I said in my last post, “You can’t go around grief; you have to go through it.,” The same applies to the feeling of anger. One grief counselor advised that (anger) cannot be destroyed or forgotten. It has to be converted.

Maybe that’s what I’m doing. Mike set the standard with his courage and strength. I’m meeting the beast as I recall and work through those trying times and maybe I’m gaining strength too.

I still really hate cancer. But while I can’t stop it or cure it, I won’t let it conquer me and my family. We will survive and so will Mike’s and Dave’s memories. As as I continued to read that article citing Gorman’s poem, I was uplifted by her message:

“When day comes, we step out of the shade aflame and unafraid. The new dawn blooms as we free it. For there is always light. If only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it.”