Gone
Me at 9 months
“Gone.” That was the word that I wanted to hear as I sat in the recovery room in the gastrology suite at the IU Health University Hospital. I was still fading in and out of focus from the anesthesia for my endoscopy and colonoscopy. But, even though I was barely lucid, my brain was able to dial into that single word. Gone. I want these tumors to be gone.
It was about 14 months earlier that I had been in the same recovery room after what I thought was a precautionary check for acid-reflux-type symptoms and some stomach pains. The news that day had forever changed my life. On that day, I awoke to the solemn face of Dr. Rex. He looked at me and said that he had found abnormal tissue on the lining of my stomach, a mass that was poorly defined. He went into detail about the makeup, size, and location. And, then looked at me with this sorrowful gaze and pointedly added: “Brad, it’s cancer.” My own senses grew numb after he muttered the words that I had always feared, but was certainly not expecting.
The day of my diagnosis consisted of more tests - including a PET/CT scan and endoscopic ultrasound. Although they would have to wait a couple days for reports from the biopsy about some of the specifics, the conclusion was already formed. It was cancer. It looked like it had already spread throughout my lymph nodes, making it stage 4. The prognosis was not good. I tried to push away my emotions and focus on a plan. My questions to Dr. Rex immediately centered on what’s next. What options did I have? He explained that they may want to remove my stomach. But, when I pressed him on that - noting that it appears to have already spread, he acknowledged the difficult situation by simply saying, “We are going to do everything we can, and I’m going to need help on this one.”
Driving home that day, my mind bounced between questions that felt unanswered. Was there something that I might have done to cause this? How long have these tumors been there? How long do I have left? But, my mind settled on the more pressing and practical question that would need to be addressed quickly, “What should I tell our girls?”
I realized that I needed to first be honest with myself. I needed to face the reality of the report that I held in my hand. I needed to begin prioritizing my time differently. I needed to accept that it was only a matter of time that I would be gone. It’s not my life that flashed before my eyes. It was my girls’ lives - their future - that hung in my head. I hated the thought that swirled through my head of not being there for them. I wouldn’t be there to watch Lizzie play soccer or watch Anna Mae cheer. I wouldn’t be there to help with homework. To teach them to drive. To talk about boyfriends. To meet their boyfriends. To help select a college. To move them into college. To share my silly stories. To listen to their stories.
Gone. I will be gone.
Of course, that is not what I would tell them. I would tell them the truth, but the truth didn’t come with dark predictions. I should stick to the facts. I would tell them that the results did find what appeared to be cancer. We still don’t know what the treatment plan would be. We would learn more on my next visit. I have great doctors. And, I would be sure to tell them that I love them. Those were the simple truths.
After 8 rounds of chemotherapy, 18 rounds of immunotherapy, 3 surgeries, countless tests, I awoke to look into the face of Dr. Rex again. Over the last 14 months, I trained myself to keep my emotions as level as possible by any news. No growth to minimal growth in the original tumors would be good. If there was a large growth in the original tumors or new tumors, well, I will still continue with the plan and hope for the best. Either way, I would accept the news and move forward. But, there was a third option that would always slide into my head. I had read enough about immunotherapy to know that there were some remarkable cases of patients that saw their tumors vanish. These cases were the exceptions, but they were possible. I didn’t want to build false hopes for myself, but I found myself letting that wishful thinking of being one of the lucky patients creep into my mind.
Dr. Rex had a look of bewilderment on his face as he began to share the news. “I am not able to find any signs of the original tumor. Where it was located there is necrotic tissue. I don’t see any new tumors.” He said it almost reluctantly as if he wasn’t believing the very words he was muttering and then added, "I've never seen anything like this." He ordered another test - this time an endoscopy ultrasound. Again, they did not find any cancer. As Dr. Rex shared the news, I had to repeat the words to make sure I was hearing it correctly. There were no visual tumors. They only found scar tissue in my stomach, esophagus, and lymph node outside my stomach - all where the cancer was before. All the cancer that they had seen before was no longer there!
It was gone.
There’s still much that I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s gone everywhere. (Doctors can never prove that you don’t have cancer. They can only prove you do have cancer.) I don’t know if this means if I will continue on treatment or not. I don’t know if it will come back.
What I do know is this was great news and that I am blessed. I feel such relief, joy, and gratitude. I’m truly delighted to believe for the first time that I may get to do those things that felt out of reach only 14 months prior. Maybe - just maybe - I will be able to be there for my girls a little longer after all.
I want to celebrate. I want to celebrate and dance with all my friends, uninhibited, as if no one is watching - not because I’m particularly good at dancing, but because I am not the image of that person that I thought I would become - the shrinking body in a bed waiting for the disease to run its course. I want to dance because I can.
And I want to cry.
None of this feels fair. None of this IS fair. There are people way more deserving than me that have faced a different fate. I think of my nephew, precious little Paul, a witty, caring, giving, smart, playful boy that loved football, family, God, and life who was diagnosed with a brain tumor at the age of 9 and passed away at the age of 11. I think of a lady that has cheered me on since my diagnosis even after losing her husband, a kind loving man that is the father of a special needs son. I think of a brilliant research doctor that was committed to serving others that succumbed to the disease. I think of the fit young lady in her thirties that started immunotherapy for gastric cancer similar to mine around the same time as I did - in the same hospital, treated by the same doctors - who has already passed. I think of all the friends, relatives, colleagues, and just the sheer volume of people that I know that have faced the full ugliness of this beastly disease as they watched it chew through the people they love. I think of all those that went through life without a father, a mother, a sibling, a spouse because this snake called Cancer drug them away.
Gone. So many people that are gone. So many loved ones are gone.
And, here I stand. Not because I have a stronger faith or more prayers than others. Not because I’m a better father, sibling, husband, son, friend, or colleague. Not because I’m kinder, smarter, stronger, mentally tougher, funnier, or a better dancer. I don’t feel worthy, and I don’t understand it. But, I’ve tried to accept that my role is not to understand why I was given the gift of life. My role is to fully live that life. My purpose here is not done. I know those that went before me would not want me to just cry for them. I know they would want me to make their loved ones laugh.
Today, September 3rd, is my birthday. I turned 48 years old. Only a few years ago, I would have joked about hating to get older. I may have even shuttered with the thoughts of turning 50 in a couple years. But, not this year. I won’t complain. I will celebrate the year that I was given life. I will celebrate 48 wonderful years of living. And, I will do my very best to honor those that went before me by living. Not just existing. But living. I will be thankful for not just another year, but for each new day. Every day. As if it were my last. Until I am gone.
The day of my diagnosis consisted of more tests - including a PET/CT scan and endoscopic ultrasound. Although they would have to wait a couple days for reports from the biopsy about some of the specifics, the conclusion was already formed. It was cancer. It looked like it had already spread throughout my lymph nodes, making it stage 4. The prognosis was not good. I tried to push away my emotions and focus on a plan. My questions to Dr. Rex immediately centered on what’s next. What options did I have? He explained that they may want to remove my stomach. But, when I pressed him on that - noting that it appears to have already spread, he acknowledged the difficult situation by simply saying, “We are going to do everything we can, and I’m going to need help on this one.”
Driving home that day, my mind bounced between questions that felt unanswered. Was there something that I might have done to cause this? How long have these tumors been there? How long do I have left? But, my mind settled on the more pressing and practical question that would need to be addressed quickly, “What should I tell our girls?”
I realized that I needed to first be honest with myself. I needed to face the reality of the report that I held in my hand. I needed to begin prioritizing my time differently. I needed to accept that it was only a matter of time that I would be gone. It’s not my life that flashed before my eyes. It was my girls’ lives - their future - that hung in my head. I hated the thought that swirled through my head of not being there for them. I wouldn’t be there to watch Lizzie play soccer or watch Anna Mae cheer. I wouldn’t be there to help with homework. To teach them to drive. To talk about boyfriends. To meet their boyfriends. To help select a college. To move them into college. To share my silly stories. To listen to their stories.
Gone. I will be gone.
Of course, that is not what I would tell them. I would tell them the truth, but the truth didn’t come with dark predictions. I should stick to the facts. I would tell them that the results did find what appeared to be cancer. We still don’t know what the treatment plan would be. We would learn more on my next visit. I have great doctors. And, I would be sure to tell them that I love them. Those were the simple truths.
After 8 rounds of chemotherapy, 18 rounds of immunotherapy, 3 surgeries, countless tests, I awoke to look into the face of Dr. Rex again. Over the last 14 months, I trained myself to keep my emotions as level as possible by any news. No growth to minimal growth in the original tumors would be good. If there was a large growth in the original tumors or new tumors, well, I will still continue with the plan and hope for the best. Either way, I would accept the news and move forward. But, there was a third option that would always slide into my head. I had read enough about immunotherapy to know that there were some remarkable cases of patients that saw their tumors vanish. These cases were the exceptions, but they were possible. I didn’t want to build false hopes for myself, but I found myself letting that wishful thinking of being one of the lucky patients creep into my mind.
Dr. Rex had a look of bewilderment on his face as he began to share the news. “I am not able to find any signs of the original tumor. Where it was located there is necrotic tissue. I don’t see any new tumors.” He said it almost reluctantly as if he wasn’t believing the very words he was muttering and then added, "I've never seen anything like this." He ordered another test - this time an endoscopy ultrasound. Again, they did not find any cancer. As Dr. Rex shared the news, I had to repeat the words to make sure I was hearing it correctly. There were no visual tumors. They only found scar tissue in my stomach, esophagus, and lymph node outside my stomach - all where the cancer was before. All the cancer that they had seen before was no longer there!
It was gone.
There’s still much that I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s gone everywhere. (Doctors can never prove that you don’t have cancer. They can only prove you do have cancer.) I don’t know if this means if I will continue on treatment or not. I don’t know if it will come back.
What I do know is this was great news and that I am blessed. I feel such relief, joy, and gratitude. I’m truly delighted to believe for the first time that I may get to do those things that felt out of reach only 14 months prior. Maybe - just maybe - I will be able to be there for my girls a little longer after all.
I want to celebrate. I want to celebrate and dance with all my friends, uninhibited, as if no one is watching - not because I’m particularly good at dancing, but because I am not the image of that person that I thought I would become - the shrinking body in a bed waiting for the disease to run its course. I want to dance because I can.
And I want to cry.
None of this feels fair. None of this IS fair. There are people way more deserving than me that have faced a different fate. I think of my nephew, precious little Paul, a witty, caring, giving, smart, playful boy that loved football, family, God, and life who was diagnosed with a brain tumor at the age of 9 and passed away at the age of 11. I think of a lady that has cheered me on since my diagnosis even after losing her husband, a kind loving man that is the father of a special needs son. I think of a brilliant research doctor that was committed to serving others that succumbed to the disease. I think of the fit young lady in her thirties that started immunotherapy for gastric cancer similar to mine around the same time as I did - in the same hospital, treated by the same doctors - who has already passed. I think of all the friends, relatives, colleagues, and just the sheer volume of people that I know that have faced the full ugliness of this beastly disease as they watched it chew through the people they love. I think of all those that went through life without a father, a mother, a sibling, a spouse because this snake called Cancer drug them away.
Gone. So many people that are gone. So many loved ones are gone.
And, here I stand. Not because I have a stronger faith or more prayers than others. Not because I’m a better father, sibling, husband, son, friend, or colleague. Not because I’m kinder, smarter, stronger, mentally tougher, funnier, or a better dancer. I don’t feel worthy, and I don’t understand it. But, I’ve tried to accept that my role is not to understand why I was given the gift of life. My role is to fully live that life. My purpose here is not done. I know those that went before me would not want me to just cry for them. I know they would want me to make their loved ones laugh.
Today, September 3rd, is my birthday. I turned 48 years old. Only a few years ago, I would have joked about hating to get older. I may have even shuttered with the thoughts of turning 50 in a couple years. But, not this year. I won’t complain. I will celebrate the year that I was given life. I will celebrate 48 wonderful years of living. And, I will do my very best to honor those that went before me by living. Not just existing. But living. I will be thankful for not just another year, but for each new day. Every day. As if it were my last. Until I am gone.
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