"Cancer Is Just A Word" - Chapter One

 "Cancer is a word, not a sentence." (John Diamond, Br. journalist. 1953-2001. Diagnosed with throat cancer in 1997)

There are 5 words in the English language that I never thought - not in a million years - that I would ever be saying. 

I am a cancer survivor. 

Yet here I am today, saying and praying those words, as fully and as honestly as I can. 

This entry, and likely another one or two in the future, is going to be about a journey that I never thought I'd ever take. A journey I would never have volunteered for. A journey whose challenges, destinations, and gifts along the way I could never have predicted. All of that, therefore, makes it a Pearl worth reflecting on here. 

“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” said Frodo. “So do I,” said Gandalf, “and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” (J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring)

Funny how the eddies of Time swirl and flow. The above quote (a favorite of mine) was what started a blog that I wrote two years ago, almost to the day. I shake my head in amazement that its wisdom returns to me this morning, at just the right time.  So where did this journey - that I wish need not have happened - but can only accept and decide what to do with what I've been given - begin?

It began simply, as all great treks do. Last March my doctor and I were reviewing the results of my last couple of blood tests done that year as part of my routine annual exams. But instead of talking about my cholesterol levels or blood pressure or weight (our usual topics of discussion), he wanted to talk about my PSA levels - a new term for me. Now, I'm not about to get all "wonky" on medical details in this entry, but a little education is good for all of us. PSA stands for "Prostate-Specific Antigen", and the bottom line is the more of this there is in one's blood, the greater the chance that one may have prostate cancer. Dr. Williams told me mine had risen significantly over the year, and he wanted to send me to a specialist "just to check it out". "This doesn't mean you have cancer. It's just a precaution. Everything will be fine." No worries, I thought, and agreed. "What's the big deal? I can handle seeing a urologist in Medford. All just part of getting a "tiny bit older". I'm healthy. I survived COVID just fine. No worries."

Dr Kadi-Ann Bryan, Rogue Valley Urology

And so I came to meet Dr. Kadi-Ann Bryan. We met with her 4-5 times over the course of the next year. There was no doubt from my 1st meeting with her that she was an exceptional person. I never would've guessed that my urologist would be a relatively young (mid-late 30's?) black woman with sharp black eyes, wearing bright scrubs and sporting a "no-nonsense" pile of braids wrapped atop her head like a royal turban. Very business-like. Certificates on her office wall from medical institutions around the world and country attesting to her skill. Without much of a friendly "Howdy" at all, Dr. Bryan began to tell me in confident detail what she intended to do with me and for me over the course of the near future. Whoa.

I'd like to tell you I was intially impressed, but at first I didn't much like her "bedside-manner". I hadn't even really "bought into" this whole "Maybe I have cancer" thing. Maybe I don't, thought Jon. Maybe I just want to "think about this". Thankfully, I put my ego aside and agreed with the doctor. Time inevitably will teach us all the same lesson - either willingly or painfully. That lesson is to accept that we need HELP and that we don't control our lives as we think we do. For me, the "pop quiz" was beginning. And I am forever grateful that Dr. Bryan was my "mentor". She is now a hero to me. 

In August 2021, my 1st biopsy with Dr. Bryan revealed the presence of a small level of cancerous cells in my prostate. She said "I barely found them" and told me "Active surveillance" for a year was next. So we "actively surveilled" - and I waited. Life went on as normal for me. I golfed. I did yard work. Continued enjoying retirement as I had been. Then this October, I returned for a 2nd biopsy with Dr. Bryan on a Friday afternoon.  And as they say, "things got real real quick".

Just 4 days later, Dr. Bryan called with the results, surprisingly soon. Bottom line: The cancer had grown significantly. We needed to determine how far and prepare for the next stage of treatment. Wowza. Talk about feeling like I stepped on a treadmill already running at 7 mph! So off Deborah and I sprinted over the next week to MRI's and Bone scans and my 1st serious introduction to modern American medicine since I was 6 years old. The technology is truly the stuff of science fiction. But thankfully, each of the technicians and nurses I met along the way were just as kind as they were competent and caring. In the end, the very good news was that the cancer was localized still and according to Dr. Bryan, I was a healthy and prime candidate for surgery and a full recovery.  The procedure was scheduled for Tuesday December 6th. 

It's funny that at no time during the month when all this occurred can I remember feeling nervous or scared. I just kept trying to do "the next thing". I guess it was like my legendary 1st raft trip down the Rogue River with Deborah 17 years ago. I was too naive, didn't know enough about what was going to happen, to be scared. I began telling close friends and acquaintances about what was coming up for me; every person I told was generous and kind in offering me prayers and healing thoughts. But even as I told them "I've been diagnosed with prostate cancer and am going in for surgery", I still couldn't quite believe it was happening to me. Kind of surreal. Felt like I was saying "I'm going on a trip to Nigeria. See you in about a month. Talk to you soon." Weird. 

"The best way out is always through." (Robert Frost)

The day of my surgery finally came. It was a long day; made long by the dietary restrictions I had to follow the previous day in preparation; long because I had to get up at 330 am for the drive to Providence Hospital in Medford for my check in. Long because I would be staying the night in a hospital for the 1st time since I got my tonsils out at age 6. Talk about sailing into unknown waters!

The official title of my procedure was a mouthful. Dr. Bryan and her team performed a "Robotic Assisted XI Laparoscopic Prostatectomy and Pelvic Lymphadenectomy with Bilateral Nerve Sparing". Holy Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It lasted about 3 1/2 hours I'm told. Modern anesthesiology is truly like a "time-machine". One second, you remember being one place. And the next second, you're somewhere else with no knowledge of the "in between". But the consequences of the "trip" soon catch up to you. Oh boy. They did for me. When the time machine "cocktail" wears off, there's a "price" to pay at the station you wind up with. 

No need to describe the physical challenges. All of us have faced them. I had a few that day. But resisting the discomfort or pain never makes it "go away" - it only heightens it. Accepting it and bearing it is the only real option there is. And so I did, in true Finnish "Sisu" fashion. But if one is willing to do that, there are - I can guarantee - valuable gifts on the other side for the one who chooses to do so. 

"I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." (Blanche, "A Streetcar Named Desire", Tennessee Williams)

Experiencing the kindness of strangers - of people I had never met before - over and over again that afternoon and night of my surgery was the greatest gift I could've ever been given. Thank you to each of the caring nurses who tended to me Tuesday: Suzanne, Erin, Kaylee, Cynthia, Rheema, Milan, Troy, Paul and Sarah. Truly a cavalry of compassion. 

There were two other nurses who were true "angels in need" for me during my brief stay. Nanu was my "night angel". I'll never forget her gentle care and compassion while visiting me several times as I slept to record my vitals, give me medications, and to just talk softly to me as I dozed back off. And then there was Samantha, "Sam". She was my day nurse and guided me through the toughest physical parts of that day and was the one who prepared me for my departure the next morning. As I chatted with her, I was struck with the odd sense that "I knew her" already - and when I asked her where she went to school - I was proven right! Samantha was an ex-student of mine at South Medford, many years ago!! She seemed at first a little embarassed that I remembered her, but there was no doubt she remembered me. (She even recited a Gaelic greeting I once taught her class many moons ago!). I was deeply touched by this coincedence! Samantha/Sam had acted truly as my kind guardian for a day. I am deeply grateful for that, and couldn't be prouder of her and what she's doing now. That too is a little unexpected gift that the Divine grants teachers every now and then. Thank you, Lord. 

We all know who the Real Heroes are!

And at my side for almost every minute of this journey has been my best friend, my soulmate, my "small but fierce" source of inner strength and beauty: my wife Deborah. We were apart for just one night - our 1st night apart in over 5 years. But we were always connected in spirit. In a wordless way that can't be described; only felt. As our teacher Guy Finley once wrote, "Even in your absence, I can feel your presence." Amen. I did. 

We'll be walking again before you know it!

So now I'm home. Resting and recovering. One leg of the journey is done. More legs to come. I won't know the full results of my procedure for another couple of weeks. But I do know one thing for sure.

Life will go on. More lessons and challenges are coming, as are the gifts that accompany them. I plan on surviving and growing from them all. Hope to return here to share some more of them. 

"On y va" ("Off we go" in French). All is well.