As Long as I’m Alive, I’m Living

Written for Story Telling class at The Loft: Read March 27, 2021

I can’t finish a glass of wine. The pasta tastes awful. My urine looks orange. I make a doctor appointment. Urine tests normal, no infection, but my Bilirubin came back as abnormal. What the heck does that mean? No numbers, the report just says abnormal. I was told:  “No problem, could be what you ate the night before.”

Two weeks later my skin and the whites of my eyes look kind of yellow. I felt oddly out of it and disoriented. I made another appointment with my doctor. She ordered a CT scan after my blood work showed elevated liver enzymes. Was that nightly glass of wine too much after all these years?  

I walked into the house after the scan and my phone rang. It’s Dr Sally. Something isn’t right with my pancreas. My heart stopped. I had tunnel vision. My mind filled with confusing messages. It felt like squiggly lines going berserk in my brain. When I was a little girl, I would often get sick with a high temp and dream about squiggly lines. They reappeared in my mind’s eye now. My husband’s eyes were suddenly red rimmed and cloudy. How could this be happening?

The worse part was calling my daughter, sister and brother. We all lived through the pain of losing my younger brother to brain cancer almost 30 years ago. It was excruciating. My sister and brother had to die before me. They’re older. They can’t lose another younger sibling, and my daughter could not lose her mother. My husband lost his first wife to breast cancer. I can’t do this to them.

It took two months and two biopsies to find cancer cells. The doctors kept insisting that it couldn’t be cancer. I didn’t fit the risk factors. The young doctor’s voice quivered when he called to tell me that cancer cells were found. He emphasized that only a few cells were found. He kept saying how sorry he was as he continued to say the cancer was very small. I felt numb.

Two months after the first symptom, I’m diagnosed with Stage 2 Pancreatic Cancer. I needed whipple surgery.

I also needed new underwear. Should I bother to buy new underwear? Would I be alive long enough to make it worth it? I bought underwear. 

I can’t tell you how many people reacted to my telling them that I had pancreatic cancer with the comment: “Wow, That’s a bad one.” I flinched on the inside, but just smiled and nodded. 

I had 6 months of chemotherapy. My husband, my sister and her physician sweetheart all came to my oncology appointments. We squeezed into the exam room. It felt like a special club. There was so much hope that filled the room. We didn’t even think about not succeeding. It wasn’t an option. We joked with each other and joked with the medical staff.

I lost all hair on my body. The worst was losing nasal hair. My nose dripped continuously. I felt like a five year old with snot running down my nose. I invested in tissues.

I hadn’t thought about losing pubic hair. Adult women have pubic hair. Little girls don’t have pubic hair. I hated having no pubic hair.

My whipple surgery was successful. Cautious relief ran through me.

One year later, cancer returned. The feeling of despair and unbelief was worse than the first time. Another surgery was not possible. This felt like a death sentence. The worst was getting up enough energy to call my daughter, sister, and brother. I was filled with overwhelming sadness.

I returned to chemotherapy. This time it didn’t feel like a special club. It felt like “this is my life now, get used to it”

My skin became very dry. This included my vagina. No one tells you about that. There seemed to be a bit of surprise and awkwardness on faces when I asked for help from my medical team. I guess no one thinks an almost 70-year-old woman with cancer would be interested in sexual intimacy.

My remaining pancreas doesn’t produce enough enzymes for fat digestion. Enzyme supplements don’t work, so fat goes right through me…often in the form of diarrhea. I’ve lost over 25 pounds. I weigh 90. I’d love to weigh 100. When I was in my 20’s I weighed 105 and wanted to weigh 100. Now I weigh 90 and want to weigh 100. Huh! Strange world.

Sometimes, because of the diarrhea, I wear adult disposable discreet underwear. I call them my fancy pants. I unexpectedly pooped at the co-op this winter. Thank goodness I had my fancy pants on and was done shopping. I looked around for babies or young children to blame if there was an odor. I got home ok. No leaks. Thankfully it was winter, so the car didn’t stink with the window rolled down. For some reason, the situation made me giggle all the way home.

Yes, I can drive. Some people think that I must be an invalid if I’m being treated for cancer. I go for 3 mile walks. I clean my house. I cook. I play piano and am learning to play the ukulele. I’m trying to write.

Almost one year after the return of cancer, scans show the area is stable.

One chemo drug was dropped. My hair is growing back. I have more energy.

I just bought size 2 shorts and a new swimming suit for summer. I’ve always been a small person and I’m going to accept being an even smaller person. I’m going to lounge in my kitty pool in the back yard this summer with a gin and tonic as I read a book.

We all die. Cancer may grow or metastasize. I may get hit by a car crossing the street.

My son died of meningitis two weeks before his first birthday. I’m very curious about death. I’d  like to believe there is something else. But if not, I’m not going to worry about it. I was with my brother when he died. Something very special happened. The room felt exactly the same way the room felt when my children were born.

I’m not dying of cancer. I’m living…as long as I’m alive. I’m living.