A Year Ago (Part 3) Give it up for Lymphoma!

This is my last "one-year" retrospective entry. These are things I wanted to write about a year ago, but the events were just too real to share. I tell this story now because perhaps others that have been diagnosed with a life threatening disease can take comfort in hearing my story....in knowing that we all share similar experiences and that we/you are not alone.

After receiving the shocking news that I had cancer, I had to wait to find out exactly what TYPE of cancer I had. The doctors could see that the tumor was cancer, but they couldn't tell us exactly the kind of cancer. Knowing the type of cancer is crucial. Not all cancers are the same. Some cancers have better survival rates than others. In my case, my life was in the balance as we waited to hear if I had liver cancer (very bad) or lymphoma (not as bad).

We waited 5 days for the definitive diagnosis from the lab. This is the story of those 5 long day in October 2008...

We spent the night of my biopsy in the Baylor Hospital Hotel in Dallas. The next day we drove back to Austin which is about a 3 hours drive. It was a quiet trip. David and I didn't say much. I was still recovering from the procedure and I still had the pain in my abs. I was hurting. I wasn't sure if the pain was coming from the biopsy or the tumor in my liver. Emotionally, I was numb. I simply did not have the energy to process the news that we had been given.

On the way home, we stopped in Waco at some random restaurant along I-35. We happened to pick a restaurant filled with older people. As I poked at my food, I started looking around and getting very angry.

Over there, I see an older couple. They look like grandparents. I feel myself starting to get angry. Why do they get to grow old? Why do they get to see their grandkids? It is just not fair. I want to grow old too. I want to get gray and feeble too. Why do those people get to be old and I don't.

Nothing seemed fair at this point. Everywhere I looked, all I could see was the injustice of not having what everyone seemed to have: a life expectancy longer that 3 months.

There is probably some academic article or even a self-help book out there that describes the stages one goes through when faced with a life threatening disease. I just bet the stages are something like shock, denial, anger, resignation. So I went through the "anger" stage sitting in that restaurant in Waco. We got back in the car and I moved on to (quiet) "resignation" stage.

We arrived in Austin and picked up Emma at my mom's house. At this point, the only people who knew were David's family. I had not told my mother yet. I wanted to tell her in person. In fact, the process of telling others was very, very painful. I dreaded telling anyone because the diagnosis became more real with each conversation. Some of my very best friends were the last to get the news. Oddly, there was an inverse relationship: the closer the person, the harder to share the news.

So, given that my mother is one of the closest people in my life, telling her the news was very, very hard. My mother and I speak both English and Spanish to each other. I even eke out a little French with her if we are trying to keep something away from Emma. If I stopped and thought about it, I could probably come up with our linguistic rules, that is, when we decide to speak English and when we decide to speak Spanish. In this case, I told my mother I had cancer in English. She responded in Spanish. I remember cradling her in my arms like my old child and listening to her sob in Spanish, "No puede ser. No puede ser." (It can't be. It can't be.)

What do you do while you are waiting to hear how long you get to live? Well, during those 5 days, David and I went to lunch a lot. We went to some new restaurants in East Austin. I remember really enjoying my food and staring at the color of the napkins. I love red, deep rich red. How I wish I could enjoy red just a little bit longer. I was struck by how normal everything seemed around me. It was all a bit surreal.

You also call on your friends, some of whom may be rebbetzins and rabbis to help you through these times. You reflect on your life and you let go of old hurts and forgive. You think about what your have done. What you haven't done. What you wish you could still do.

Finally on October 31, Halloween no less, we got a call from Baylor. As the nurse started talking, I just held my breath. I closed my eyes very, very tightly as she started to say the words. I was hoping, hoping, praying, and then hoping again. Then I heard her start to say the "L" of the the first syllable followed by the rest of the word. "Lymphoma. Yes, you have lymphoma!" she said.

I thank her profusely. I put the phone down and yelled, "IT"S LYMPHOMA!" I hugged my mom. I hugged David. David hugged me. My mom hugged David. We did a group hug. My mom and I were crying. Then I forgot about my pain and started dancing and clapping with my hands over my head and shaking my hips, doing what I decided was the "Happy Lymphoma Dance." I am sure it might seem odd to be rejoicing over the news of a lymphoma diagnosis, but at that moment my chances of having the opportunity to grow old were looking good.

This past week, now a year later, David and I both got bifocal glasses. I guess they call them progressives now. I can now read a map and small print on a menu without having to take my glasses off. I also got the results of my latest CT scan. I remain in remission. I have now passed the very important 1 year milestone.

What a blessing to grow old. However, the better gift is liking the idea of growing old.
__________


I took all the pictures in this entry a couple of days ago during a walk on Town Lake in Austin. The leaves and flowers are the deep, rich, red color that I love.