Continuation of “I am Probably Fine, Right?”
On a February afternoon, I found myself sitting in yet another synthetic lit, cold, exam room – this time to meet with a colorectal surgeon. My friend Natalie had accompanied me; after my last appointment I reasoned that I best bring someone along with me. I need the support, and I also need a second ear to take in any of the information that I miss.
After evaluating my case, the surgeon made his proposal, “Essentially you have two options. You can opt for a surgery, during which we would go in and remove the portion, and surrounding area, of your colon where the polyp had developed. We would also extract a handful of lymph nodes to determine if there is further spread of the cancer. OR, we can wait three months and do more imaging on your colon so as to monitor your health. Seeing as you’re young and otherwise healthy, I’d recommend the latter. It is likely that your cancer was contained to your polyp, rendering the surgery unnecessary. Surgeries always come with risk, with potential for further damage. I am not sure it is necessary in your case, but the decision is ultimately up to you.”
Natalie listened, taking copious notes I could later relay to my Mom.
“What kinds of risks?” I ask.
“Aside from the standard risk of infection that accompanies any surgery, with a colon resection you could end up with a colostomy” he informs me.
I learned that a colostomy is essentially a poop bag. These can be permanent. For a single 24 year old, the thought of such an accessory was mortifying.
When I returned home, I phoned my Mom right away and shared the options. We both sat in anxious uncertainty, deliberating what to do. Surgery was, and always is, a risk – as the surgeon had warned. If the surgery was truly unnecessary then it could cause further harm and trauma to my body. But, not having the surgery was also a risk. If the cancer had in fact already spread to a lymph node, then waiting could mean a more serious diagnosis, and less promising prognosis, down the line.
Wanting a second opinion to help us in our decision making, my Mom called up a family friend who also happened to be a colorectal oncologist. She repeated what we’d learned and asked him to weigh in.
“If this were my daughter, or my wife, I’d tell her to have the surgery. There is a 97% chance that the cancer was contained to the polyp. Yet so much more could be at stake if the 3% chance that it has spread proves to be true. If she waits a few months for imaging, her cancer would likely have progressed much further and treatment would be exceedingly more difficult” he voiced in caution.
That was all we needed. I called up the surgeon the next morning and had him schedule me for surgery. It was to take place in mid-March.
In the weeks leading up to my surgery, I worked to prepare lesson plans for the days I’d need to be out – recovery from this type of surgery is 4 to 6 weeks. Due to waning sick time, I was hoping I could get by with returning to work in two. I also invested time into getting ahead with studies for my Master Program, as I was wrapping up my final semester and set to graduate that May. Looking back, I am sure I could have asked for more grace around work and my studies, but I was determined not to let cancer dictate any more of my life then it already was. I wanted to maintain some of the power, some of the control, amidst what felt like a totally chaotic, and surreal, situation.
On March 22, 2016 I went in for surgery. My Mom had flown in to be with me, and my friend Madison had taken the day off of work to be of support to my Mom.
The surgery went smoothly and I came out from the anesthesia unscathed – thankfully without a colostomy bag. A foot of my colon had been removed and I was left with 3 little scars from the laparoscopic incisions. Twenty three lymph nodes had been withdrawn from my body and sent in for a biopsy. In a day or two’s time we’d get results as to whether or not any cancer cells had infiltrated those lymph nodes. Now all there was to do was rest and turn my focus toward recovery. I held on to the optimistic belief that perhaps I was now truly in the clear. Perhaps I would soon put this messy ordeal behind me.
I was amazed at the outpouring of love that I received in the hours (and days) following my surgery. My phone was flooded with texts of concern and encouragement from family and friends. Flowers arrived in my hospital room, as did many cards. The Hoffmans – our family friends – even came to visit me in the hospital, providing a source of light and joy. This, along with the friends and family who sat with me during appointments and procedures, helped me to feel held and supported – something I drew great relief from. It is beautiful how the most difficult of situations often brings together such a community of love.
My Mom returned to Oregon the day after my surgery and my Dad flew in to take her place. On the first morning of his stay, the surgeon came in with the results from my biopsied lymph nodes.
“Well Miriam, I am so glad that you opted for the more conservative approach and had the surgery. Of the twenty three lymph nodes we removed, one proved to be cancerous, which indicates that the cancer has indeed spread. This puts you at a diagnosis of Stage III Colon Cancer. It is an aggressive cancer and without adjuvant chemo-therapy the survival rate is less than 25% after two years. So with that, I recommend you undergo chemo-therapy treatment. I will connect you with an oncologist and, once you’ve healed from surgery, you can begin this process.”
Once again, trusting my own intuition proved to be critical to my own survival.
The surgeon acknowledged my look of fear and distress, as well as my Dad’s own alarm and concern. Still, with a full day of patients ahead, he had to move on, leaving us to sit with this unsettling information, doing our best to process what had just been shared.
With my Dad, my rock, my go to source for comfort and security, at my side, the flood gates opened and I lost it. Tears poured down my cheeks and snot dibbled from my nose. It was all too much. It was all so very unfair. How did this happen? What did I do wrong?
My Dad held me, letting me simply release it all – all the pent up grief, fear and anger. When my breath calmed enough for me to formulate words, I looked up to him and whispered the thought most prominent in my mind – a thought that continues to occasionally resurface to this day – “What if I die from this?”
My Dad understood what I was feeling, what I was asking, on a much deeper level than many in my life could at that time. You see, the November prior, right as Thanksgiving was approaching, my Dad began to experience heart problems. At the age of 63, my Dad had always been a fit, healthy and active man. But he had been experiencing shortness of breath for some time now, and it was getting progressively worse. Upon a visit to his doctor, he learned that a ventricle in his heart had grown severely weak. Things moved quickly and he soon underwent a triple bypass surgery that left him in the ICU for several days. I visited him during this time, offering support where I could – to both him and my Mom.
My Dad knew what it felt like to have your life brought into sharp focus…to be reminded of the fragility behind each day, each breath. And he knew what it meant to walk through the fear, the grief, the anger and come out on the other side. To feel is necessary, to release is healing, but to become paralyzed by despair is a choice. Being the wise, grounded man that he is, he reminded me of this. I was going to do what was needed in order to recover – burning away the old, the diseased, and then growing into a stronger, healthier woman as a result.
The next months would prove to be some of the most challenging of my life. I would return to my Dad again and again (as well as a few others) – to be reminded of my own strength and resilience. In the most painful of situations, there is often some bit of wisdom to be acquired, an opportunity for further self development to take place. I chose to hold onto this truth and use it to ground me as I walked into the fire.
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