It’s the unanswerable question: what would life be like if I never had cancer?
There are any number of counterfactuals to ponder. I lost 100 pounds in the two years before my diagnosis in March 2012. Would I still be that svelt guy who didn’t gain the weight back during chemotherapy? With a complete digestive system, I’d be able to use the toilet like most other people. Would poop humor still resonate with me? I was working for the American Cancer Society Cancer Action Network at the time of my diagnosis. Would I still be as dedicated to cancer advocacy as I am today? Would I have the job I have now? I played the cancer card twice during treatment, once to get a dog and once to join our church. Would we have adopted Marley Dog? Joined St. John’s Lutheran Church?
In her forthcoming book, No Cure For Being Human, Kate Bowler writes about the “Befores & Afters” of her journey with chronic stage-4 colorectal cancer. When she learns her cancer is stable, she ponders the possibility of having a second child. Because of the immunotherapy treatment she underwent, though, getting pregnant again is unlikely and maybe dangerous for both mother and child.
“No, it’s fine. It was stupid. I just … I just thought for a minute there that we could go back,” she tells her husband.
Later in the chapter, she writes: “I am asked all the time to say that, given what I’ve gained in perspective, I would never go back. Who would want to know the truth? Before was better.”
In some ways, yes. And also no.
I’ve grieved over the fact that my body will never be what it was, yet I still push it to it’s limits. I’m training to walk the Covenant Health Knoxville Marathon half marathon on Sunday, Oct. 3. On the third anniversary of my cancer diagnosis, I walked the full marathon and paid the price for it for weeks after when the neuropathy that is a constant presence in my feet climbed all the way up to my knees. Meanwhile, I’m fairly certain I will need right knee replacement surgery before too long.
I was a runner back in the world BC (Before Cancer). Neuropathy has made that impossible. Now, I lift weights with the thought of either becoming a powerlifter or an aesthetics competitor, but I’m not sure either can happen in a body that is slowly falling apart.
Non-pressure glaucoma, one of the many “gifts” in this life after cancer treatment, scares me more than just about anything. I’m a writer in the communications and marketing department of a government contractor. It’s a job I love because, at the end of the day, I get to tell stories about great people and their work. I need my sight to last as long as possible so I can remain productive.
On the other hand, I don’t know that my life was as purpose-filled then as I feel it is today. Using my experience with cancer to advocate for ACS CAN and other organizations drives me. I truly believe that in working along with my fellow advocates and cancer survivors, we can bring cancer to an end. Maybe not in this lifetime, but maybe in your kid’s, or their kid’s. We have so much work to do.
Would my marriage be as strong if we hadn’t had to work together and support each other through he ups and downs of cancer treatment, surgery and more treatment? Would I appreciate the life I have if I wasn’t aware that I defied the odds and didn’t experience a recurrence in the first two years after diagnosis? Would I be as grateful? As supported by my community?
I’ve met a lot of wonderful people I wouldn’t have gotten to know were it not for cancer. Who would my friends be in the life before? Would they be the same?
It’s an overwhelming and seemingly imponderable question. Was life before cancer better? I’d be the last person to say “cancer was a gift.” I mean, it would be the first thing in the regift box, right? Was life before cancer better? I’m not so sure.
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