Not Again

At this very moment, I can hear my husband upstairs, reading books to our children as he settles them in to bed.  The dishes from dinner still sit in the sink.  I'll deal with those later.  The dog naps on the floor near me.  The house is finally quiet after a long, crazy day with two kids.

About a couple of months ago, though, I was uncertain about the future of these nights.  This is because our doctor found "suspicious masses" on my husband's thyroid.  Perhaps no big deal to a regular, healthy person; for my husband, though, this was a punch to the gut.

*****

My husband and I met in our final year of high school.  We took the same math class and ended up sitting next to each other.  We were 18 years old, and the rest, as they say, is history.  

What I distinctly remember, though, were the violent nosebleeds he'd get in the middle of class.  Out of nowhere, his nose would just spout blood.  I remember running after him into the boys' bathroom and seeing the sink just filled with blood.  

That summer for him was spent going to various doctors for the nosebleeds and the debilitating migraines he'd get, as well.

We think it's your tonsils.  Let's get those removed.

Oh, your ear is also blocked?  Let's put tubes in them.  That should clear you right up.
  

One night in August 1997, he had a migraine so painful that he asked his father to take him to the hospital.  The doctor there did a routine check on him and finally decided to put a camera up his nose to inspect further.

There was a tumor in his head the size of a lemon.  More specifically, after an extremely painful biopsy, it turned out he had Stage 4 Nasopharyngeal Cancer.  

As I leaf through his medical records today, there were notes from doctors that read, "Unfortunately, conventional chemotherapy/radiation will not be effective."  To put it bluntly, they didn't expect him to live.  In fact, his family had had a private conversation with his team of doctors who gave them the straight-up truth: his only hope would be a trial form of aggressive chemotherapy and radiation, because his chances of survival were somewhere around 30%.

In December 1997, my husband - who was then 19 years old - began his treatment.  After each round of chemotherapy, he would get physically sick.  He lost his appetite during this time, and in turn, ending up dropping 50lbs.  He lost all of his hair and all of his energy was zapped.  

What he didn't lose, however, was his spirit.  He never felt sorry for himself or the situation that he found himself in.  He knew that in the same hospital were children who were going through the same thing.  Or in the bed next to him was a young father with two small kids at home.  He fought hard and got through it.  

In May 1997, he was officially cancer-free.  In remission.  By the grace of God.

*****

So when a routine ultrasound this past January revealed multiple masses on his thyroid, our family doctor referred my husband for further testing.

His first stop was a nuclear medicine scan.  The doctor told him right then and there that there was a large suspicious mass.  Because of his history of radiation to his head (which would increase the likelihood of a malignant tumor), he recommended a biopsy.

Oh God, that word again - biopsy.  

More ultrasounds, more blood tests, and a biopsy.  It would be two weeks between the biopsy and the results.

I remained positive for the most part.  But in those rare, quiet moments in my day, I found my thoughts drifting to the 'what ifs'.

What if it IS cancer?  

What if he dies?  

What if I'm left alone with our two children?

We went in for the results a few weeks ago.  We were called in to the doctor's office and she had the results in front of her.

"Well...," she said, scanning the notes.

Here it comes.

"You had a biopsy, and there were no cancer cells present."

Exhale.

Thank you, God, thank you thank you thank you!  My husband and I looked at each other with huge, goofy smiles on our faces.  I felt the weight of the world lift off my shoulders. There were no tears between the two of us - just relief, hugs, kisses, and smiles.

Our family, on the other hand, was a completely different story.  We immediately called everyone to let them know the good news.  Every single family member burst into tears.

I realized then what an emotional toll cancer has on not just the patient, but the family who is so invested in their well-being.  I think it's so easy to forget the family members of cancer patients who pray quietly at night and shed silent tears of fear and sadness.

I realized that, for my husband's family, having to watch him endure another round of cancer would be devastating, just too much to bear.  Their tears during our phone calls were out of sheer relief for him.

Half of my husband's thyroid will still be removed and tested further to ensure that there are definitely no cancer cells present, but - for now - we can rest assured with a 98-99% accuracy that there is no cancer.  

I know I'm not alone in this.  There are millions of other families who wait for results, nervously, anxiously, playing different scenarios in their minds.  It's a nail-biting, sickening experience.  We all know someone who's had to deal with this.  For some, it's good news; for others, it's the start of a long journey to get better or perhaps the resignation that it's time to say goodbye.

The worst part is that cancer doesn't discriminate.  It doesn't care if you're a 4 year old child or a 35 year old avid runner.  It doesn't care if you're a mother to 3 children or you're someone's best friend since childhood.

The only way I can cope with something like this is to place it in God's hands.  I don't know exactly how my husband feels about having gone through cancer with very little chance of survival.  And of the prospect of potentially having had to go through it again. All I know is that that word - cancer - sends chills down my spine, because I know way too many people who have gone through it, who have died from it, and who are living with it at this very moment.

Please take care of yourselves, go for your annual check-ups, get to know what's normal for your body, and, ladies, be diligent about your monthly breast exams.  One in 9 of us will get breast cancer.

And to my husband, I am in awe of the battle you endured and won at 19 years old.  May you never have to fight like that again.  I love you.