“You have many months to live,” my palliative care doctor told me recently. She must’ve thought that was more polite than saying “less than a year.” I have finally advanced to the stage predicted by my oncologist, who said seven years ago, “I’m thinking years, not months.”
I was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer at age 53 and expected to live for three years. Practical to a fault, I bypassed the first four stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining and depression — and embraced acceptance. Ten days after the grim diagnosis, I wrote in my journal:
My situation isn’t so bad because:
1. Everyone has to die someday.
2. We are fortunate to have good health insurance.
3. Our children are almost adults.
4. I can be content with what I’ve been able to do in my life.
5. I won’t suffer old age.
Some may call this rationalization. But it was my serenity prayer.
Acceptance isn’t fatalism. In fact, the word “act” is hidden in plain sight within acceptance. It’s a call to convert trouble into tasks, which in our case included finding the right doctor, squaring away our financial affairs, shutting down our small business and regaining health insurance when we did.
My first doctor said the cancer had metastasized too far into my liver to be removed surgically. Not accepting this “death sentence,” my family and I sought a second opinion. The second doctor was a bit more optimistic. He put me on an aggressive chemo routine, but the initial results were discouraging.
My body’s response to chemotherapy was “good but not good enough” to allow surgery. Neither he nor we were ready to give up. We switched to another chemotherapy and the next time he said, “We can do something.” Although it didn’t cure my cancer, that surgery brought me the gift of time.
Over the next six years, I endured three more surgeries, 90 rounds of chemotherapy and dozens of hospital visits in four cities. Along the way, I learned a few things about living with cancer.
First, it’s imperative to share your feelings with someone you love. For me, that person is my wife, Ritu. When I was feeling down, she didn’t say, “I’m sorry”; she simply held my hands and said, “You’ve been so brave. I’m here for you.” Her reassurance meant more to me than “everything is going to be OK” ever could.
Second, cancer ravaged me physically but cured my small mental stresses. I asked myself if I was happier before cancer, and the answer was “not much.” Before cancer, I found many reasons to be unhappy — stagnant business, family arguments, unfriendly neighbors, traffic jams. It took a tragedy to realize that I was wasting energy on things that were either unimportant or uncontrollable.
