Life & White Roses

17 years ago, today…I heard those terrible words...

Life and White Roses

I posted this on Facebook in 2012…and it was featured on the Colon Cancer Alliance website on July 2, 2014:

This year, I thought it was appropriate to repost…on the 17th anniversary of my diagnosis.

Every year, on July 7th, I hand out white roses to my friends and coworkers.

Why?  Because on July 2nd…and the 7th…I dealt with that thing called cancer.

My life hasn’t been the same since July 2, 2008…and for that…I am forever grateful.

This is my story.

I used to be hesitant to let others know that I was diagnosed with Colon Cancer.

Not because I’m a private person. Spend five minutes with me, and you will know everything about me, from my past life as a professional student to my rather crazy childhood on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. No, I have zero problems talking, especially about the things and people I love.

The reason I hesitated to disclose my cancer diagnosis is that, after years of watching several family members and friends face extremely difficult cancer treatments and the side effects that go hand-in-hand with said treatments, my bout with cancer pales in comparison.

Even now, on the rare occasion that I do disclose this information in a conversation, the other person usually regales a story of a loved one’s diagnosis, and the ensuing tale of human suffering makes me feel extremely small.

Why?

I never had any symptoms before I was diagnosed. No warning signs. No major pain. No blood coming out of inappropriate areas. No lumps or bumps or moles.

Nada.

Okay, there was a rather small, but irritating pain in my abdominal area.

Nothing major…just achy…it hurt when I pushed on it…so…I tried not to push on it.

Left to my own devices, I’d have waited until my colon burst from the obstruction and infection that was causing the pain.

Seriously.

I’m a medical person. And our aches and pains never rise to anything that would constitute a medical emergency. Medical personnel NEVER get sick…didn’t you get the memo?

I only made an appointment with a nurse practitioner because the pain became a bit too unbearable.

Imagine my surprise when the Nurse Practitioner (who externally resembled a runner-up in the Miss Mississippi pageant, yet had a disposition that would rival any horse-donkey crossbreed known to man) told me I had to go immediately to the hospital for tests.

I reached down, picked up my oversized purse (no small feat, as this movement made that damn nagging very small pain start again), and informed her that it was four o’clock in the afternoon, and the outpatient center was about to close for the day.

That would mean that I would have to be admitted to the Emergency Room to have those tests run. I would just wait until the next day and go at 8 am, when I could just have them performed on an outpatient basis.

This is when her horse-donkey disposition kicked in, and she informed me that she would happily drive me herself.

Joy.

Ten minutes later, I was in the ER waiting room, using one hand to call my Human Resources Director to make sure that the hospital was on my company’s health care provider list, while using the other hand to wave off the ER staff trying to put me in a wheelchair and admit me.

Insurance issues taken care of, I finally succumbed to their ministrations.

Unfortunately for the doctors, I spent a majority of my time in the ER arguing that I felt foolish even being there. That my very small (emphasis on small) pain was most likely a pulled muscle due to the fact that I had suffered a non-lucent period in my life earlier that week and tried to organize my kitchen cabinets.

One of the doctors had the audacity to look at me and say, “prove it.”

I, as one of my law students used to say, had nothing. So the doctors ignored my arguments and ran diagnostic tests. They even went so far as to tell me that I had to stay the night, even after I tried to tell them that I was fine, and could go home.

Seriously, these people just refused to listen to me.

The next morning, I was so full of wonderful drugs that I didn’t worry when the colonoscopy showed that I had a serious case of diverticulitis, and they had also discovered two suspicious areas in my colon that were biopsied.

The GI doc tried to talk about treatment options if the tumors were malignant, but I found a way to change the subject.

I’d never been in a hospital (as a patient, anyway) for an entire week.

But after that week, I was free to leave the hospital. I was still on a soft food—seed-free diet, but I was so happy to get home, I didn’t care.

I spent the next few days tying up the loose ends of my former career at my old law school and looking forward to starting my new job as a corporate compliance director.

A lunch with a few colleagues on Wednesday sounded like just the thing I needed to finish off my former projects, and to start the Fourth of July festivities.

I found a restaurant that served items I could actually eat without being confined to soup or the bread basket, and rummaged through my closet for an outfit.

I was feeling rather adventurous as I walked out of my house on the way to lunch (I had decided to boldly pair jeans with four inch lime green heeled sandals and a sleeveless green silk shirt), when my house phone rang.

I just couldn’t let it ring without answering it. I’ve never been able to do this…there must be a medical diagnosis for this condition.

So of course, I turned off the house alarm, and ran back in (not an easy thing to do when you’re dodging three dogs while wearing 4-inch heeled, lime green sandals, which I might add, are not constructed for running) to answer it.

It was the doctor’s office.

A chipper voice was calling to set up a surgery consult for me.

“Huh?”

I guess my surprised response caught her off guard, because her voice faltered.

Simultaneously, she and I realized that the doctor had not had the opportunity to let me know that I had cancer before she called to set up a time to discuss surgery options.

Oops.

I heard a clattering on the phone, and then the doctor’s voice, saying that he was so sorry, he had tried to page my husband earlier in the week to tell him first, and had not heard back from him.

I barely heard him, because I was too busy thinking…earlier in the WEEK, it was WEDNESDAY…please tell me the doctor had not waited three days to try to reach me…the patient…with this news…why did he even waste time trying to call my husband first?

I sat on my kitchen floor, those damned lime green heels had been kicked off sometime after the doctor started talking to me…and tried to keep the room from spinning as I heard him say words such as “malignancy, two tumors, surgery, possibly chemotherapy, resection of your colon”…

Even worse, he was talking as if they couldn’t even schedule my surgery in the next three weeks.

I wanted to tell him, you have GOT to be kidding me. I start my new JOB next Monday!

Instead, I managed to say that I would call him back…called my husband at work and said, “I need you to come home.  I have cancer.”

Then I dropped the phone in my lap as I realized that it was true.

I had cancer.

I started planning.

I called my new boss and delayed my hire date for three and a half weeks, and then called my mulish Nurse Practitioner to see what she could do to get me into the surgeon’s office today, instead of in a week and a half.

I figured, as mean as she was, a scheduling clerk would fit me in just to get rid of her.

It worked.

A consult was set up for that afternoon.

Three hours later, I was sitting in the surgeon’s office, and he told me the best news I’d heard all day.

I could have surgery the next Monday.

He was sure they caught it early.

I finished the consult, and as we were were walking out of the doctor’s office, I informed him we were going to Sonic, soft foods diet be damned.

He knew better than to argue.

We both ordered foot long chili cheese hotdogs, tater tots, and large Cherry Lime-aids, and I enjoyed the first real food I’d had in weeks.

It was a short-lived high, as I knew my day wasn’t even halfway over.

I still had to tell my family and friends. How could I call and tell them that I had cancer when I didn’t even really believe it yet?

But, I bit the bullet and made those difficult calls…

My family and friends showed up the next day.

We boiled shrimp, ate barbecue, celebrated my brother’s birthday, and played Wii until we were all sore from boxing, tennis, and bowling.

A few stayed over for the weekend, and we sat up that first night on the deck…listening to music, talking about the trouble we’d gotten into when we were younger, and drinking homemade wine.

My nephew and niece crashed in my bedroom, fighting sleep while watching cartoons.

It was a good night.

Over the weekend, I snuck away from everyone and curled up on the swing in my gazebo with a cup of tea.

There was a soft breeze blowing across the lawn that made the mid-summer Mississippi heat tolerable.

I gazed out at the pine and oak trees in my backyard and realized something that made me relax and accept whatever would happen Monday morning.

I realized that I had had a great life.

I had a wonderful loving family.

I had friends who had always been there for me, no matter what mischief we’d created.

I had been able to finish not one, but five college degrees.

I’d written two novels.

I had travelled to and worked in Europe on several occasions and spent many years in various hospitals, helping others.

I had a beautiful home, three spoiled rotten dogs and a dream job that waited for me on the other end of this ordeal, where all of my years of studying and hard work would be concentrated into creating a better life for kids all over the state.

So, if I wasn’t able to do anything more, I’d already fulfilled most of my dreams.

Over the next few days, I hung out with the family…checked out enough books to last me the next few weeks from the library and packed my suitcase for Monday.

The reality of what was happening was finally sinking in, and for the first time in my life, I stood naked in front of my bathroom mirror and didn’t see love handles.

I saw a pretty decent body that was about to be seriously changed.

Yup. I finally realized that you don’t have to look like Angelina Jolie to be beautiful.

Sunday night, more of my family and my Daddy arrived at the house. I stayed up as long as I could, but the stress of the last few days had gotten to me.

I had just retired for the night when one of my best friends, Chris, woke me with a tap on the shoulder.

He’d worked a night shift at the hospital on Saturday night, gotten a quick nap and driven half the length of the state to be able to hang out with me the night before my surgery.

Needless to say, I was touched beyond words.

Monday came, and my Dad rode with us to the hospital. We checked in, and I realized that I wasn’t that nervous.

Hell, I was going to be asleep during all the worst parts.

The surgery passed without a hitch, and a week later, I was home.

That first year, while putting on my Brave Face after my surgery, I called my bout with colon cancer—a “country club” version—when asked about how everything had turned out.

I had surgery to remove the offending parts, spent three weeks convalescing, and then went right back to work.

The surgeon caught my cancer in Stage One. No chemo or radiation needed.

I kept my hair and I didn’t have to worry about further treatment. As long as I kept up on my six month checkups, ate right, exercised, and generally did what I did prior to my cancer diagnosis, I would live a long, healthy life. I didn’t even have to give up martinis.

Always a plus.

My six-month checkup and Octreoscan showed that I was truly in remission.

No new tumors.

Not that terrible of an ordeal, considering.

Now, mind you, I was gutted like a pig that wonderful July morning…had a large part of my intestine removed (I so highly don’t recommend this unless absolutely necessary)…and spent the first six weeks post-surgery with the energy level of a newborn puppy.

I became the proud bearer of 27 staples which, once removed, left a scar running so perfectly long in length down my belly that I am still caught off guard every time I see myself naked in the mirror.

I did have to…ahem…relearn…certain bodily habits that never were a problem prior to the surgery.

Actually, I’m still working on that one.

I also have to remember to …brace myself…before I sneeze…ladies…you know why.

And, 17 years after my surgery, my body still produces all kinds of internal woes if I haven’t consumed just the right amount of fiber in my daily diet.

However, at my six-month checkup, while walking out of my oncologist’s exam room to the lab area to have blood drawn, I came face-to-face with three women undergoing chemo…their hats pulled over their bare scalps and pale skin made me want to pull my long hair up in a clip and slink away in disgrace.

I felt like a big old whiner, even mentioning my few woes to my oncologist.

Most of which could be fixed with scar cream, Metamucil, and panty liners.

At that point, I realized that, at least in my view, there are three classes of cancer patients:

The ones who are diagnosed early and celebrate the fact from the rooftops.

The ones who are diagnosed later and undergo ungodly amounts of treatment while keeping a brave face on for the world.

And the ones who, like me, are diagnosed early and are embarrassed to even admit that they had cancer, as we know that others with cancer suffered so much more.

Somehow, I feel that I don’t deserve the sympathy so many want to offer me regarding my cancer…as I really didn’t go through all that much to deserve it.

Now, mind you…I have no problem shouting about how wonderful life is from the rooftops.

This I will continue to do.

However, I have, and will always, keep my whiny little gripes about my cancer issues between me, my family and my therapist.

The way I see it…there are many of you who are fighting a hell of a lot tougher battle than I am, or ever will.

Therefore… 16 years after my diagnosis…I will continue my pledge to stand next to you, shoulder to shoulder, and do my small part in helping to eradicate from this earth the terrible thing we call cancer.

And those white roses?  Yep. They will continue to be a big part of my yearly celebration.