Some of my favorite people died within the last month. Seven of my favorite people, to be inexact. I only started counting when the death notices started to become overwhelming. I have unsent cards on the kitchen table meant for some of these people. I have not only grief because these people will be missing from my life, but also regret because these people will never know what I meant to say. Or maybe my regret is not that my thoughts and feelings were not heard, but that I never expressed my thoughts. Those thoughts and feelings are still inside my heart, the potential to interact forever gone. By withholding my thoughts, I didn't fully participate in their lives. I failed to engage in life when I had the chance. Particularly inexcusable because of my status as a Cancer Survivor.
I have been surviving with cancer for almost 4 years now. I would like to say I have been living with cancer. I like to think I have mastered the diagnosis-thing, the treatment-thing, the patient-thing and the dying-thing. The living-thing that happens between all those other things gets lost. My life has narrowed as my body has become less reliable. I am most comfortable closer to home these days. I have been searching to redefine living. I get out of the house most days. I make sure I have activities on the calendar. I go places and see things. I show up. That's not quite enough. As I walk by that pile of unsent cards on the kitchen table for the umpteenth time, I realize what has been lacking. I need to engage, to lean-in. (Pop psychology reference intended.)
I am a reluctant Cancer Survivor. As I move further from my diagnosis date, as I survive longer, I feel the weight of expectations settle around me. I know the statistics, about 70% of my fellow sisters won't be survivors 5 years after their diagnosis. I look around me and watch my sisters fall. It seems that many fall in their 6th year. Will I? Will we die in vain? Can I carry the memory of their existence? How many can I carry before the weight overcomes me? Why is ovarian cancer still so deadly? What can the few survivors do to change that for the future? Will we live long enough to accomplish anything? I don't have enough time. So why even try? So I don't. I haven't. I don't want the job of Cancer Survivor.
Yet I have the job. I have been in training under the protective wings of my sisters who have traveled this path before me. It's my turn now to mentor. I probably won't start a charitable foundation or discover a cure. My job might be smaller in scope, but not importance. My job is to engage. Engaging in human contact is living. I can offer an example of how to live with cancer by actually doing it. I can show up at support group meetings and share a story that will bring a smile and hope to someone newly diagnosed. I can share my medical knowledge and help someone get the care they need. I can reach out and offer human kindness. I can actually mail those cards on the kitchen table.
Showing posts with label 5 year survival rate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 5 year survival rate. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Peace
Another friend died today. Or maybe yesterday. I got the news today. (Oh boy.)
I know a fantastic bunch of women that I have never met. We came together because of our common denominator, ovarian cancer. We share our lives with each other in cyber space, in the cloud. We talk about our similarities in diagnosis and treatment and side effects and other cancer stuff. We also talk about our families and travels and hobbies and triumphs. We can discuss harrowing topics that normal people shirk. We can rejoice in the simplest things that normal people take for granted.
Because of the reason for our connection, and maybe because of the intimate nature of our connection, we can never really escape the slow, deep, dark, undercurrent of the reality of our futures. We see it happen to our friends. We know the statistics. We know that less than half of us have a chance to survive for 5 years after diagnosis. We choose to ignore those effing statistics. Who wants to go around knowing that half of your friends will die within 5 years? No one. That's why we ignore those effing statistics. Don't get me wrong, we know the numbers, we just choose to live life in spite of those numbers.
But those numbers catch us anyway. My friend was caught. I cried. Then I cursed. I cried again. I left the house. Searching for I know not. I ended up at the labyrinth garden and paced the path. Then I barged ahead toward my favorite spot at the outlook. I heard boisterous voices ahead. I turned and stomped down the path in the opposite direction. There it was. A spectacular affirmation of life. A falcon in the bare treetop just over my head. She perched on the branch, turned her head to look at me, then turned her whole body with a heavy hop to face me. She turned her head to each side, stretching her neck into the sky. She eyed me for awhile and let me walk closer. She posed for me while I snapped several pics on my phone. Then she spread her wings in a whoompf and took flight over my head. I craned to watch and her wings seemed to span an easy 6 feet. I could see the detail of the little feathers under her wings. She seemed close enough to touch in that weird way your eyes play tricks on you. Wow!!
I inhaled with a gasp and a smile. I was filled with joy. I thanked her, yelling after her as if she would answer me. It was then I knew my friend had peace. And that gave me peace too.
I know a fantastic bunch of women that I have never met. We came together because of our common denominator, ovarian cancer. We share our lives with each other in cyber space, in the cloud. We talk about our similarities in diagnosis and treatment and side effects and other cancer stuff. We also talk about our families and travels and hobbies and triumphs. We can discuss harrowing topics that normal people shirk. We can rejoice in the simplest things that normal people take for granted.
Because of the reason for our connection, and maybe because of the intimate nature of our connection, we can never really escape the slow, deep, dark, undercurrent of the reality of our futures. We see it happen to our friends. We know the statistics. We know that less than half of us have a chance to survive for 5 years after diagnosis. We choose to ignore those effing statistics. Who wants to go around knowing that half of your friends will die within 5 years? No one. That's why we ignore those effing statistics. Don't get me wrong, we know the numbers, we just choose to live life in spite of those numbers.
But those numbers catch us anyway. My friend was caught. I cried. Then I cursed. I cried again. I left the house. Searching for I know not. I ended up at the labyrinth garden and paced the path. Then I barged ahead toward my favorite spot at the outlook. I heard boisterous voices ahead. I turned and stomped down the path in the opposite direction. There it was. A spectacular affirmation of life. A falcon in the bare treetop just over my head. She perched on the branch, turned her head to look at me, then turned her whole body with a heavy hop to face me. She turned her head to each side, stretching her neck into the sky. She eyed me for awhile and let me walk closer. She posed for me while I snapped several pics on my phone. Then she spread her wings in a whoompf and took flight over my head. I craned to watch and her wings seemed to span an easy 6 feet. I could see the detail of the little feathers under her wings. She seemed close enough to touch in that weird way your eyes play tricks on you. Wow!!
I inhaled with a gasp and a smile. I was filled with joy. I thanked her, yelling after her as if she would answer me. It was then I knew my friend had peace. And that gave me peace too.
Friday, October 14, 2011
The Magic Number
I recently watched a cancer movie on Lifetime or Oprah Network or one of those saccharine sissy channels. I was not going to watch this movie in the beginning. I did not want to watch this stupid movie about cancer, directed and acted by women who probably don't have cancer. I did not want to watch another maudlin funeral scene of guests mourning their loss, ignoring that the cancer patient has the biggest loss of all of them. I did not want to watch a rerun of my own life. I did not feel strong enough. I go to support and therapy twice a week, every week, to learn how to be myself again. I have made some hard won progress these past 4 months. Watching a stupid cancer movie could send me sobbingly back into the dark cave from which I had fought so hard to emerge. But I was feeling strong that day. I watched that stupid movie anyway.
I am so glad that I watched that stupid cancer movie called "Five". It's five different vignettes about five different women who are diagnosed with cancer, hence the title. Speaking from the viewpoint of the afflicted, I found these five women's stories strangely uplifting. It wasn't that they all survive, because they don't. It's that their stories offer me something that is not always readily apparent in my life. Their stories offer Hope. The directors did not forget that part of their audience was bound to be actual cancer patients. The stories were authentic. I was moved.
I am going to share a little acknowledged fact of life for cancer patients. Many of us stop counting birthdays and start counting anniversaries. We count the years of survival after diagnosis. The magic number is five. The significance of five years is reckoned by the science of fighting cancer. Many studies measure success of treatments by looking at the "five-year-survival rate", the percentage of women still alive five years after diagnosis. Ovarian cancer (my cancer) has a five-year-survival rate of about 30%. That means 70% of ovarian cancer patients die within five years after diagnosis. That is 7 out of 10. That statistic weighs heavy in my head. Many studies do not follow patients after those five years, nor do those studies take into account the quality of life during those five years. It can be a false benchmark. On the other hand, if you can attain remission and maintain that status for five years, the medical community will unofficially consider you cured! They should be measuring Progression Free Survival (PFS). If five years of PFS can mean that I am "cured", come on, five!! Five! Five!! Five!!!
I am not sure how old I am, but I can tell you that I have survived 18 months since my diagnosis. I am counting in much the same manner that small children count their birthdays. I am 1&1/2 years out. I am also counting my PFS. My tumor markers dropped into the normal range 5 months after diagnosis, but my oncologist maintained chemotherapy for 8 more months. My oncology team then declared me "disease free". I have maintained PFS for 5 months, almost 6 months now. I have made no concrete plans with my life yet. I tell people to ask me in five years. I will address any remaining critical issues at that point. After five years.
The women who made "Five" somehow touched on all this. I am not sure if they knew at the time or if it was a serendipitous accident. The women in the movie have a ritual for that five year anniversary. They all get to "kiss the wall" in a ceremony and leave their lip prints on display. Four of the five women survive. 4/5 is a believable survival rate. The magic of the moment of marking your survival is powerful. It reinforces hope. Hope against odds and statistics. Hope against common sense and reality. My oncologist reminds me that there is no reason why I can't be in the survival group, but we have to wait five years to see if it works out that way. Someone has to survive, it might as well be me. In the meantime I am still counting. I will let you know in 4&1/2 years.
I am so glad that I watched that stupid cancer movie called "Five". It's five different vignettes about five different women who are diagnosed with cancer, hence the title. Speaking from the viewpoint of the afflicted, I found these five women's stories strangely uplifting. It wasn't that they all survive, because they don't. It's that their stories offer me something that is not always readily apparent in my life. Their stories offer Hope. The directors did not forget that part of their audience was bound to be actual cancer patients. The stories were authentic. I was moved.
I am going to share a little acknowledged fact of life for cancer patients. Many of us stop counting birthdays and start counting anniversaries. We count the years of survival after diagnosis. The magic number is five. The significance of five years is reckoned by the science of fighting cancer. Many studies measure success of treatments by looking at the "five-year-survival rate", the percentage of women still alive five years after diagnosis. Ovarian cancer (my cancer) has a five-year-survival rate of about 30%. That means 70% of ovarian cancer patients die within five years after diagnosis. That is 7 out of 10. That statistic weighs heavy in my head. Many studies do not follow patients after those five years, nor do those studies take into account the quality of life during those five years. It can be a false benchmark. On the other hand, if you can attain remission and maintain that status for five years, the medical community will unofficially consider you cured! They should be measuring Progression Free Survival (PFS). If five years of PFS can mean that I am "cured", come on, five!! Five! Five!! Five!!!
I am not sure how old I am, but I can tell you that I have survived 18 months since my diagnosis. I am counting in much the same manner that small children count their birthdays. I am 1&1/2 years out. I am also counting my PFS. My tumor markers dropped into the normal range 5 months after diagnosis, but my oncologist maintained chemotherapy for 8 more months. My oncology team then declared me "disease free". I have maintained PFS for 5 months, almost 6 months now. I have made no concrete plans with my life yet. I tell people to ask me in five years. I will address any remaining critical issues at that point. After five years.
The women who made "Five" somehow touched on all this. I am not sure if they knew at the time or if it was a serendipitous accident. The women in the movie have a ritual for that five year anniversary. They all get to "kiss the wall" in a ceremony and leave their lip prints on display. Four of the five women survive. 4/5 is a believable survival rate. The magic of the moment of marking your survival is powerful. It reinforces hope. Hope against odds and statistics. Hope against common sense and reality. My oncologist reminds me that there is no reason why I can't be in the survival group, but we have to wait five years to see if it works out that way. Someone has to survive, it might as well be me. In the meantime I am still counting. I will let you know in 4&1/2 years.
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