[2022-12-12] The cancer queue
I heard from two friends today, both of whom were recently diagnosed with cancer. It still comes as a shock to me when I hear that someone has this disease. You'd think that it would not surprise me at all, but it does. Every time.
I always feel sad for friends when I learn they have cancer. I know that the treatment journey is long and tiresome and that it will be just as hard on their loved ones as on them. But I also have so much hope. I have confidence in our oncology teams and the remarkable outcomes they so often achieve.
Almost 2½ years ago, when I found out that I had ovarian cancer, it was like being told to go stand at the end of a long line of people who had also been diagnosed with cancer—a line that no one wanted to be in. But there I was, at the back of the queue, looking ahead of me at all the people who were in the midst of cancer treatments themselves.
The line moved—slowly perhaps, but it did move. Past the first visit with an oncologist. Past the surgery. Past each of six rounds of chemotherapy. Past the period of adjusting to a maintenance drug. And then it was like I was allowed to leave the line, as long as I came back to it once a month to have my blood checked and once a quarter to talk to my oncology team.
Some months later, I became aware of a potential second cancer. Once again, I found myself in the cancer queue. Once again, the line moved—perhaps even a little faster the second time around. Past the surgery. Past the complications associated with the surgery. Past each of 25 rounds of radiation. Past the healing phase. And once again, I was allowed to leave the line, as long as I came back to it once a quarter to see my radiation oncologist.
I rarely gave much thought to the fact that the queue would continue to grow, as new people were diagnosed with cancer and started their own treatment journeys. I suppose my focus was always on my journey and moving forward. I didn't think that people I knew would also say, "I have cancer."
In chronicling my cancer journey, I was unknowingly helping the friends (and strangers) who would come after me. The first friend who wrote to me today said:
I wanted to let you know that your blog has been a wonderful resource for me. I’ve re-read some of your chemo posts and they’ve been a great reference. Thank you for sharing your story.
And the second friend wrote:
Your openness to share the details of your journey has helped me accept the situation and has led me to ask the right questions and not be shy to speak up for myself.... I wanted you to know, I took a lot of advice from your blog. I really am being my own advocate, standing up for myself and asking all the questions to the specialists. I know you know Jenesis is a helpful resource for many people, but wanted to let you know you’ve also helped me immensely.
And a third friend commented just yesterday:
I have recommended your blog to several women in my ministry with recent cancer diagnoses and suffice it to say, you are blessing all of them.
I sometimes underestimate the value of my story, which is odd when I think of how useful it was for me to hear the cancer stories of friends, colleagues and healthcare workers early in my treatment. I passed along their wisdom through this blog.
The moral of the story is this: sharing your experience, even if it's to a tiny audience, makes a difference—in the moment and in the months or years that follow. Your taking your situation one day at a time encourages others to do the same. Your seeing not just the scary bits but also the inspiring bits, such as the incredible doctors, nurses and technicians working in oncology, gives others inspiration to see the positives along the way. And your graduating from the line and living a life enriched with wisdom, love and gratitude gives others hope that they, too, will follow in your footsteps and the footsteps of countless others who are thriving post-cancer.
