The Ghost of Cancer

Rick, July 5, 2015 on the Willamette River in Springfield, OR.

This was written last week before a CT scan showed that the cancer had not spread any further than a few lymph nodes.  Today, Rick's prognosis is good and we meet with the oncologist next week to make a plan of treatment.  

It used to be the two of us, my husband and myself.  Now there is an unseen presence with us, always.

When we take a ride in the car, there is another unseen passenger.

When we sit down to dinner, though no place is set, there is another diner present.

When we lay in bed at night, there is an invisible specter that keeps our dreams company.

Our unseen—and unwanted—guest is cancer.

Rick was diagnosed with a rare cancer, for men.  Breast cancer.  

At first, it was considered to be a Stage 1 or Stage 2, imminently treatable, with a 90-100% five-year survival rate.  We put on our “We’ll deal with it” faces and thought of it as simply another health issue, not unlike the ones we had dealt with in the past.  After, I almost lost him to a seriously infected bowel as a result of multiple hernia surgeries that was nearly not detected before it killed him.  And that was only three years ago. We thought, “We’ve been through worse.”

Today, an MRI revealed that the cancer is not simple breast cancer, but has progressed to involve the lymph glands.  This is not good news.  Now the ice water surge in my belly signals fear—real fear, a whole other step above the kind of regular anxiety I normally deal with.  Rick, as usual, seems unafraid.

Today, we don’t know the outcome, there are still tests to take and plans to make.  But I have some things I need to share.  

I think we have a karmic pact to face this together.  I have “known” since we were first together that this was the husband that would make me a widow. We speak openly about his leaving me, about his dying.  We make plans for things like life insurance and burial (no burial).  He tells me that he wants only for me to be happy after he is gone.  Which, of course, makes me even sadder at the idea of losing him. Who can ever take his place?  How can one expect to be happy after losing your best friend, your greatest teacher, your kindest companion?  

We laugh.  We do laugh, as we always have, because good humor has been one of the greatest gifts of our relationship.  He is determined to go out with a smile, a joke.  His legacy.  And I hope I am strong enough to honor that and face my own grief at the same time. 

He may survive this.  He may beat it.  We may be able to face this and face it down together.  But facing this ghost called cancer means facing our mortality—or me facing his—and the reality that I may have to learn to be the graceful spouse of a dying man, and the widow who learns to carry on.