Meaning and Purpose
Meaning and Purpose
Lung Cancer: A Personal Story
By
A persistent dry cough that began around March 2018 was sloughed off by my nurse practitioner as a spring allergy. “Try Flonase,” she said. Two visits and two months later, when I saw her for the third time about the cough, which was, if anything, more persistent, I inexplicably burst into tears. “Do I have lung cancer?” I asked.
To this day, I don’t know what provoked me to ask this question. There was no real reason I should have been worried about getting the dreaded C. Yes, I’d smoked in my youth but had given up many years before. I was healthy, active, an enthusiastic sportsperson who played tennis, golf, paddle tennis, walked miles daily. I ate well. I had never worked down the mines or in any job that exposed my lungs to toxins. I’ve spent most of my life living in rural or suburban areas, not subject to carbon monoxide fumes or industrial pollutants.
When I asked my pretty, blonde NP if I had lung cancer, she smiled and answered, “Brooke, I’ve been doing this job for 30 years and I can tell you, no, you don’t have lung cancer.” She prescribed antibiotics and said we’d see if that quelled the cough.
But the cough continued, so in early June, she sent me for a CT chest scan. I was having dinner with friends one night when the call came through that there was a large shadow on my left lung that required further investigation. (My friends later told me I turned white as a ghost.) A scan with contrast (dye), which gives a clearer picture, was ordered.
Dreaded Diagnosis
A few days later I was back in the NP’s office. (I never once saw the doctor; he seemed to see only concierge patients.) She gave me the name of a pulmonologist. Thus began the now-blurry, confusing, frightening period of diagnosis: a bronchoscopy (tube down the nose, or maybe it was the throat, I don’t remember) to confirm that, yes, indeed, it was a malignant lung tumor; selection of doctors (oncologist, radiation oncologist, surgeon, cardiologist); a whirlwind of medical appointments and procedures that I sleepwalked through in something of a daze. Too much information, too much bad news, too much to handle.
Scan after scan, cardiac procedures (presumably to make sure my heart could handle surgery), endless bloodwork. Being absurdly claustrophobic, I did put my foot down at a brain MRI, though. “Nope, not doing one of those,” I told my wonderful oncologist. She relented, saying she’d only insist on it if the alternative, a PET scan, suggested a problem. (Maybe I made the wrong choice, as a PET scan isn’t exactly a walk in the park—they inject you with radioactive tracers, you sit alone in a room for ages so you don’t contaminate anyone else, then you lie motionless for 20 minutes, more or less enclosed in a tube.)
“I’m a very curious person . . . but my curiosity stops at the door of my own doctors’ offices. I guess it’s a four-letter-word: F-E-A-R.”
Apart from balking at the MRI, I was, in a sense, the “perfect patient.” I did exactly what I was told, when I was told, and didn’t ask too many awkward questions that doctors don’t like to answer. “Please don’t tell me too much,” I told all my doctors. “I’m operating on a need-to-know basis.”
I’m a very curious person, a voracious reader, news junkie, a worldwide traveler who’s lived on four continents. But my curiosity stops at the door of my own doctors’ offices. I guess it’s a four-letter word: F-E-A-R. I can stay hopeful by not knowing too much. I’m just going to take this one step at a time, one day at a time. Like many parents, when my kids were young and came down with something I was quick to consult the internet. But when it comes to my own health, I steer very clear of Dr. Google.
I’ve spoken to many cancer survivors whose understanding of their disease, their treatment, recovery percentages are on par with practitioners. They have encyclopedic knowledge of all the stats, likelihoods, clinical trials. Their command of the terminology is dauntingly impressive. I admire their courage. I have a good friend who battled with her oncologist, queried treatments, objected to medicines, flew around the country to find better care. But I didn’t even have the courage to ask what stage my tumor was until well into my recovery. Just as well, perhaps, as it was “between stage 3 and stage 4,” my oncologist eventually told me.
This is just how I roll, and I believe it served me well. I put total blind faith in my medical team, my family, and my friends. And they did not disappoint. Far from it.
Collaborative Medical Team
Huge shout-out to my specialists, starting with my supersmart, kind, gentle oncologist. One of the best of her many excellent qualities is that she is a collaborator. The first thing she did was send me to all the other specialists so there would be a consensus of opinion on treatment—and no unpleasant surprises. Would I be able to handle the pneumonectomy (removal of a lung) that she anticipated? If not, then that would affect the chemotherapy course of treatment. What about the radiology? How and when would that fit in? The unfortunate placement of the tumor—too close for comfort to my heart—meant post-surgical radiation could be tricky. What did my radiation oncologist think? And my surgeon?
“I put total blind faith in my medical team, my family, and my friends. And they did not disappoint.”
All three principal members of my medical team worked closely on my behalf. As an aside, my surgeon just happens to be drop-dead gorgeous (aka “Dr. Dreamy”), a subject of regular conversation with all the many nurses I encountered in my year of treatment. But more importantly, his skill with the knife is legendary. As he respected my need-to-know policy, it was only post-surgery that he made me aware of just how precarious the procedure had been, for which I thank him as it might have frightened me off.
I love my radiation oncologist. We spend the majority of all my appointments arguing about politics. On this subject, we are diametrical opposites, but that’s ok. I like to hear what he has to say as he’s sharp and informed, and I think he values my opinion. When it comes to the fine points of radiology, I leave it to him, as he’s not only brilliant but experienced and collaborative, and I have no knowledge or opinion on the subject, as long as it works.
Family and Friends to the Rescue
I think (well, actually, I know) I lucked out with my medical team. But the team that truly got me through my ordeal was my family and friends. I’m sure they were as scared as I was, but they never showed it. It sounds trite to say “They were there for me,” but they were, in every sense.
I can hardly imagine what my situation was like for my husband as, literally at the same time as I was diagnosed, he was facing his own medical drama. What should have been a boilerplate surgery went a bit wrong and he ended up back in hospital for a more complex and painful one. Yet, throughout his ordeal and mine, he remained strong, supportive, uncomplaining, and always had a joke. It’s amazing how important humor is when the chips are down.
My son flew in from Colorado for extended periods, my daughter moved home from San Francisco, a sister came from Maine, and another sister all the way from France. A dear British friend, a nurse, flew in for 10 days to help me through chemo. Friends drove me to my infusions and stayed with me for the seven-hour sessions, knitting or reading or finding me blankets. Soups were delivered daily by friends. Our fridge and freezer were packed with enough food to feed an army. Notes, texts, and little gifts came in. Thanks to friends, I now have a prized collection of those smooth rubbing stones that have inspirational words carved into them: COURAGE, RESILIENCE, ONE DAY AT A TIME. These sit on the bedroom bookcase shelf, where I can see them every morning. They remind me of the love that surrounded me and buoyed me.
Wigs arrived from a Washington, DC, friend. A Meal Train was organized for several weeks post-surgery. (I highly recommend this for sick friends and relatives—warm food of your choosing delivered to your doorstep by people who love you.) On the day after surgery, when the pain was intense, a hospital volunteer came to my room and asked if I wanted a foot massage. That was the best massage I’ve ever had in my life. I was welcomed with open arms into my friends’ cancer club, which is unfortunately not at all exclusive these days. They shared experiences, feelings, worries, hopes, gripes, and recipes for healthy green smoothies.
“I now have a prized collection of those smooth rubbing stones that have inspirational words carved into them: COURAGE, RESILIENCE, ONE DAY AT A TIME.”
There were one or two friends who just couldn’t handle my diagnosis, and initially this perplexed and upset me. They simply weren’t able to talk about it, or really even acknowledge it. I’ve read a few articles about this since and now understand that their own fears consumed them and made it impossible for them to reach out. I don’t know if this is true of everyone, but for me, even though I put my head in the sand when it came to medical details, I was greatly comforted when people acknowledged what I was going through and weren’t afraid to address it.
Two memorable events. In the run-up to the surgery that would remove one lung, my surgeon advised strengthening the healthy lung. Gentle cycling would be good, Dr. Dreamy said. A friend of mine who owns a health club/spin gym reserved certain hours so my daughter and I could gently spin in private—and she provided a trainer to help us along the way.
A day or two before surgery, we arrived at the appointed time, snapped on our bike cleats and walked into the spin room. In the dim light, seeing that all 30 bikes were occupied, I turned to my daughter and said, “Oops, we’ve come at the wrong time, there’s a class on.” Someone switched on the lights, and I saw that the riders were all friends and family, including my Colorado-based son, who’d come for a special “good luck with surgery” spin session. Needless to say, I dissolved in tears.
About two weeks after surgery, I was still largely confined to my bed, which faces out onto the street in our town. It was about a week before Christmas, around 5 o’clock and pitch-black outside. I’d closed the curtains but heard what sounded like singing. “Must be the town carolers,” I said to my children and husband, who “happened” to walk into the bedroom just then. “Let’s open the window and listen,” I said to my kids.
There to my astonishment was a large crowd of my friends, their partners, their children, candles, and sheet music in hand, standing on our front lawn, singing holiday songs for us. What a joyous treat their voices were, floating through the cold winter night. A friend had organized the event and alerted my family.
The generosity of friends, family, and community held me up, warmed my heart, gave me strength and sustenance, gave me hope. I have a friend who’s a doctor and a medical writer who came to appointments with my oncologist, asked the questions I didn’t know to ask, took notes, kept me calm. As it happened, at the time she was working on a paper about immunotherapy (which I was fortunate to be able to have). To this day, I ask her questions from those notes, the answers to which I was unwilling and unable to absorb at the time.
Soon after I came home from surgery, and in a great deal of pain, I’d rest in bed with the door closed. My kids would surreptitiously sit on the staircase outside, making sure I was OK but not wanting me to know they were there—and worried. But I could sense, as parents can, they were keeping vigil.
“Complementary/integrative health strategies were incredibly useful in coping with treatment and in my recovery.”
My cancer (funny how this disease is almost always preceded by the possessive pronoun—who says “my pneumonia” or “my psoriasis”? It must be something to do with the very individual nature of this particular journey) was very advanced by the time it was diagnosed. At that point it was too late for the diet and lifestyle measures that I firmly believe can prevent, manage, and even reverse so many chronic illnesses from diabetes to heart disease to anxiety disorders. Sleep, nutrition, exercise, water and air quality, stress all impact the immune system and its ability to ward off disease. I don’t know what caused my immune system to fail, but I was able to access and benefit from the wonders of modern medicine, for which I am eternally grateful.
Complementary Strategies
While the stable door may already have closed on the capacity of complementary health strategies to remove my tumor, these were incredibly useful in coping with treatment and in my recovery. I’ve always had what’s known as “white coat syndrome”—my anxiety (and blood pressure) skyrockets in a hospital/clinical setting. I found breathing techniques to be immensely useful in calming me and lowering my heart rate. The wonderful meditation apps available were also incredibly helpful. I often used these on the way to chemo or radiation appointments or scans—they worked a lot better than Xanax, without the side effects. Gentle yoga classes helped relax my body and my mind, and massages were invaluable pain relievers post-surgery. (Dr. Dreamy was shocked I refused to take any of the opioids I was given when I left hospital).
“The mind, body, and spirit are inextricably linked; a positive mind and uplifted spirit will help the body heal.”
But medicine—whatever form it took—is only part of the story. My oncologist has told me that she thinks the support I had from family, friends, and community played a significant role in my recovery. It’s amazing what hope and love, emotional and physical touch, can do for the human body. There are plenty of studies on this. The mind, body, and spirit are inextricably linked; a positive mind and uplifted spirit will help the body heal.
Like life, everyone’s cancer journey is different. I have been oh so lucky. I count my blessings every day.
