MY BATTLE WITH CANCER
No one likes to hear the word, “cancer”, especially when the word is directed at oneself. That’s what happened to me on December 4th, 2008. People ask me: “Were you afraid?” Me? Afraid? I’m a manly kind of guy. I wasn’t afraid. Anyone can be afraid. I was terrified. Being diagnosed with cancer is the physical equivalent of being hit in your chest by an arrow. You can’t pull it out and you can’t forget it. And it won’t go away—no matter how much you wish it.
Through the Grace of God and the brilliance of Dr. Wydham Wilson, PhD, MD and his deputy genius, Kieron Dunleavy, MD, of the lymphoma team of the National Cancer Institute, they cured me of that monster. The treatment was intense chemotherapy. If you know what that is, I need say no more. If you don’t know, then you don’t want to know. I finished the treatment a month before my book was released.
As exciting as that moment was, I was too debilitated to care. I was so weak, I could barely walk. A book signing party? That had to wait. Almost a year later, the side effects of the chemo are gradually fading away. I’m still fatigued a lot. Oft times I sleep twelve hours a day. I’ve gone back to the gym. But getting my strength back will be a longer process than I thought. I’ve always been a big strong man. Losing much of that physical strength has been hard to accept.
Was I angry, bitter that I had cancer? Yes, I was. Sometimes I still am.
People ask: “What did you learn from having cancer?” Cancer sucks is the first thing. Avoid it if you can. Second, every day is a great day. And I mean that. Every day you are alive is a blessing. And no doubt, good things came out of surviving cancer. But I can’t bring myself to think much about those yet. I’m too close to the experience, I’m still dealing with the side effects and I’m too pissed off.
Was I afraid I might die? Yes, I was. Not for very long, since my body responded immediately to the medications. But long enough. Had I thought about dying before? Yes. Lots of times. My father, grandparents, assorted relatives, all died over a short period of years when I was very young. My mother was the last to go. She was diagnosed with terminal cancer when I was fourteen. But she was tough. She lived two more years. I was orphaned at sixteen. Death and I have a long acquaintance.
My illusions about life were sandblasted off me by my mother’s death. That forced me to live my adult life without the comfort illusions give most people. We can die at any moment. The people we love can be taken from us in a heartbeat. Most people think those things won’t happen to them. They will happen to someone else. That’s the comforting illusion. But I was the someone else those things happened to. So I can’t create the illusion that those things won’t happen to me. And I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried.
Life is a high wire act without a net. Yet most of us go through life believing there’s a net right below us. And that’s good. Unfortunately, there isn’t one. We will all age, become ill, and die. It’s the way of the world. But we pretend we won’t. Freud said we are all convinced of our own immortality. I’m not. Living my life without illusions has been very hard. Why? Because I instinctively know that whatever people say about life, about the world the world around them, about me—is absolutely wrong.
Since I have no illusions, I see things very clearly. I don’t mean I have visions. I just see life very clearly because there are no illusions to distort my view. We are creatures driven by deep emotions, many of which we don’t understand. Here, I have greater clarity than most. I’m highly intuitive. I read people well–through their body language, what they say, or don’t say, how they are dressed, what they do for a living.
If you and me sat down and talked for ten minutes, you would be amazed at what I had come to know about you. And how little you had come to know about me. Seeing and understanding people with this kind of clarity is part of my stock in trade as a novelist.
I have struggled with other issues—one of the worst being depression. For years and years it dogged me. On several occasions I almost took the permanent cure for that disease. When I was diagnosed with cancer all I could think was “Haven’t I had enough bad things happen to me?” I’m orphaned, suffer terribly from depression, and get cancer? How much more could I be expected to take? Who was doing this to me? Of course, no one was doing this to me. It’s life. But it ain’t fair, I kept thinking. And it wasn’t. Having cancer was not fair. But life isn’t fair and no one ever said it would be. I learned this early on.
So did I feel sorry for myself? Yes, I did. But not for long. I knew from long ago that it doesn’t do any good. Neither does complaining. We all suffer in life. I’m hardly unique. I just had a lot of it at an early age when I was least equipped to handle it. The people I loved the most, left me when I needed them the most. That has been the hard part to deal with. Not that it happened. It just happened. I’m not a victim. But now I think, I even pray, that if life fires another arrow at me, then let it hit a vital spot and kill me. Please, no more near misses. And I don’t want to see it coming. As we in the South say of sudden death, “He went to bed just fine and woke up dead.”
Having been through so much heavy weather in my life, with green water coming over the bow, I know what to do in a crisis. After I was diagnosed with cancer I went into crisis mode, a path I know well. It’s everyday life I’m not so good at.
And one last thing, I learned or rather relearned, of all of life’s treasures, devoted friends are among the most precious.
Being diagnosed with cancer was a terrible and a terrifying experience. But it was made infinitely worse by what had transpired not three days before, on December 1st of 2008, for that was the day I had signed the final proof of my novel and sent it off to the publisher. I had realized the dream of a lifetime. That was my final step. All the editing and rewriting and fact checking and copy editing is finished. The next time I would see the manuscript it would be the book. My book. With my name on the front cover—bold as brass.
I don’t remember much about that day except I was exhausted. The editing and rewriting phase had gone on for ten months. I didn’t sleep a lot those last months. What I do remember so clearly about that day was holding the manuscript in my hands–my manuscript–the original version of which I had written in the early 1980s in New Orleans. And in order for the publisher to actually send the novel to press, I had to sign a notice stamped on the title page saying that indeed this was my novel and I promised the manuscript was correct in every way.
And it was and so I did even though the moment was anti-climatic. I felt relief tinged with sadness at letting it go. But the process had been so long, so time consuming, so demanding. My editor seemed to have some sixth sense of scenes in the manuscript where my writing wasn’t at its absolute best. And he pushed me to make those scenes as polished as diamonds. At times, I wanted to throw my laptop out of the window. But as you might imagine, the scenes he pushed me on, the ones I rewrote five, six, seven times—produced some of the best writing in the book.
Those ten months before the final signoff engaged every emotion I have and left me wrung out. But throughout that time I was living my dream: I was a novelist. A real one. A novelist with a book coming out. And just as important, a writer whose first novel had been purchased by one of the most reputable publishing firms in New York. What a moment. To have that moment trumped by cancer was one of the most horrible, vile things I have experienced. Cancer is a monster. It is a scourge.
Since my experience, I can truly understand the importance of supporting cancer research— the reason I am still here is because of such research. So please go to The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and show them the same support that you show me.
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