Today's Blix is an excerpt from my book, Waiting to Be a Widow. Still in the works, it is a combination of actual events that women experience as their husbands or partners are dying, as well as advice to help women prepare, along the lines of a "So You're Going to Have a Baby" book. Why women? Because 80% of women will outlive their spouses. And there is nothing to help them know what to anticipate.
A few years ago, I posted another excerpt from the book; it tells of the time before Tony was diagnosed with cancer. When we thought his back pain was a slipped disc. A bit of surgery and all would be well. Life would carry on after this small glitch.
Here is what happened next....
Month 1: The Diagnosis
The time from the MRI to determine the problem that was causing Tony to have such excrutiating lower back pain, to the diagnosis and onset of treatment was less than ten days. Yet in my memory, it passes in slow motion.
While we each suspected that the mass on Tony’s sacrum was likely malignant, neither of us said it out loud then. We were ordered to go for a biopsy of the mass, at a special unit in the hospital called Diagnostic Radiology. Tony would be sedated while radiologists, who did nothing but this particular type of invasive procedure, would insert a needle into the mass, and send a sample to Pathology to be interpreted.
As we waited in the holding area before the biopsy, Tony, in his hospital gown on a narrow cart, we chatted and held hands. Then, he began to cry. Just a few tears, but the silent kind that come of their own accord. “I’m scared,” is all he said. The procedure was brief, and in an hour, we were on our way home. It was a Friday, so we had one last weekend to do as we wished, without knowing the results. Saturday was Tony’s birthday, so we agreed to splurge on dinner at an incredible restaurant.
For Tony’s birthday, I gave him two books: One on gardening, one on retiring in Mexico. It was important to me that we continue to look ahead and plan without fear or worry. When we toasted his sixty-first birthday, I said, “Are you ready to fight?” His reply: “Then you think it’s cancer.” Although I had my suspicions, I said, “I don’t know. But if we prepare for the worst, then we can be delighted to be wrong.” He laughed and agreed.
Alas, I was not wrong. The diagnosis was cancer. Stage IV: already spread to the lungs, bones, liver, and lymph nodes. He didn't stand a chance.
Hearing a diagnosis is every bit as dramatic as you see in the movies, or read in a novel. There really is that moment of “No!” and you actually do ask “Can there be a mistake?” Then, as predictable as the initial reaction, comes the immediate response: “We can beat this!”
Following the news, Tony had a sudden gait change. He started to drag his left foot with every step. His internist insisted on hospitalizing him; he was afraid that the mass was pressing on a nerve, and that Tony would get permanent damage if he did not get complete rest. Thus, the first hospitalization began.
There never was a primary cancer site. There was no tumor. The oncologist did some tests to rule out different types of cancer. Not liver, not kidney, not pancreas. The biopsy showed squamous cells, the all-purpose skin cells that line the throat, neck, and lungs. Given Tony’s history and the cell type, the treatment would be based on lung cancer. Chemotherapy to kill the cancer cells, and radiation to shrink the bone mass.
I have it marked on my calendar: Saturday, January 22, 3:33 pm: “Chemo begins. Here we go!” As if we were off on a long-awaited vacation.
The first round of treatment went swimmingly. First, infusions of an anti-nausea drug, and a steroid, to minimize any allergic reactions. Then, the chemotherapy began. A specially-trained nurse administered the drugs, sitting by for the first round. She took Tony’s blood pressure and pulse, watching for adverse reactions that would indicate that he was not tolerating the circulation of pure poison in his veins. There were no problems. And why would there be? He was going to conquer this thing!
Radiation was just as easy. Ten visits, with immediate relief. Back pain and walking problems melted away. At the end of his appointments, Tony brought boxes of candy to all the radiology technicians. He told them good-bye, and no offense, but he wasn’t going to miss them.
We had a schedule now. Two weeks of outpatient chemotherapy, then one week off. We marked out our calendars through the entire year. We went back to work. We even made vacation plans: Mexico in March, New York City in September. Now that we could see how simple modern cancer treatment was, it was easy to look ahead without dread. People get cured all the time, right? The papers are full of stories about folks with advanced cancer who achieve miraculous cures. Why not Tony?
We sent out a cheery e-mail announcement about the diagnosis, letting everyone know that Tony would be undergoing chemotherapy. We asked for good thoughts, prayers—whatever support people felt appropriate. We bought dozens of yellow cancer awareness bracelets and sent them to anyone who wanted one.
In truth, our lives had changed forever. We would not make it to NYC in September; Tony would die on August 19. From this point on, we would be working together to defeat the cancer, and yet also functioning separately. Tony became The Patient, and I became The Caregiver. Our roles made that instant shift; it was slight at first, but would continue to become more dramatic over the next seven months, until the transition was complete.
When it was complete, I would be a widow.
Copyright 2010, Suzanne Ball. All rights reserved.
so straightforward, matter of fact, but life and death drama. This is real life. Well done, Suzy.
Posted by: Jim Reichardt | 11/05/2014 at 04:38 PM