MOMENT BY MOMENT Friday, January 23, 2009 at 11:24am

I am usually a man of very few words. Except for my wife and a few close friends, I handled my health problems myself rather than leaning on others for support. Recently, though, I have had many conversations with my Llama, doctors, wife, and friends. Most of them have been of the opinion I should share my story and become a stronger person from the sharing. Can’t say I agree with these opinions but I like to try to keep an open mind – so here is goes.

Until a week or so ago I could never figure out how to tell “my story.” Something my Llama (Buddist not the animal) said gave me an angle to approach such an awkward subject. He compared my cancers and survival to a person who had lost a limb. Going on to say that some people who lose a limb can still feel the phantom pain of the limb that’s no longer there. Clearly, he said, the brain or some part of it never got the message – so to speak.

These statements made me think, that as a cancer patient, I’d lost little bits of my body too. Some pieces were cut out, some burned, frozen, radiated and poisoned with drugs. My doctor and I can only hope most of the tissue that was killed was tumor cells.

And I have a form of phantom pain too. I have a phantom future. I’ve always been a fan of tortured metaphors, but let me explain. The day before I was diagnosed for the first time just over five years ago, my future was wide open. Okay, I was getting older, a little to old to start a new career (which I did anyway). I have a wife, daughter, bills and other obligations, so I couldn’t just grab a backpack and head out on the road. But you know what I mean. There was still plenty of life out there to be lived. I had options.

A day later, all that changed. My future was cut off. I had serious cancer. In those first few weeks, I was told I had six weeks to live, then three months, then six, then twelve. None of these prognoses really mattered, except to scare the hell out of me. But they had one thing in common. They curtailed my life. My death, whenever it came, was most likely going to be much sooner than I expected. The unlimited horizon I considered my future? That was gone.

It’s funny. I still think it’s all out there. I think about jobs and career paths, things I want to do, things I have to get done. I plan ahead. And then, of course, I’m reminded of the reality of my life. My death from cancer doesn’t seem imminent. But I know I won’t be able to do some of the things I want to do. For one thing, my body has been pretty beaten up. I’m just not physically up to it.

When I find myself thinking two, three, or even more years ahead, am I being stupid? Feeling the phantom pain of a future that’s no longer there?

I don’t think so. The alternative would seem to be just giving up. Telling myself I have no future, so why even bother to dream? That really is the path to an early death.

On the other hand, I need to be honest with myself. Cancer has stolen at least some of my future. Or course, a lot of people never expected me to live this long. Who knows how much time I have left? I’d hate to find myself two or three years down the road with no plan for the future at all.

I guess I’ll just keep planning and dreaming….

To characterize this message as inspirational is way over the top, but grant me this much – it is a refreshing contrast to the stories of other victims of life-threatening illnesses that are intended to be inspirational but end up sounding superhuman. The victims in these stories meet any challenge, climb every mountain, and take their last breathe with optimism and grace.

I admire the take-charge attitude and energy of such people, but I have nothing in common with them or know anyone like them.

Since my diagnosis of stage 4 testicular cancer in October of 2003, I have become more and more aware that these “world beater” stories are simply part of a larger conspiracy to get everyone in the world to live life to the fullest – travel more, learn to play an instrument, teach our children about the fall of the Roman Empire, build something – the list goes on and on.

Each of these things sounds great to me, but I am sickened by our cultural imperative that whether we are sick or well, more is better. I have no quarrel with those who, faced with a serious health problem, want to put more pins in their maps. But there are some of us who simply find renewed meaning in our already existing lives.

Since my chemotherapy treatments, I have experienced small “Zen” rushes – a sense of tranquility paired with the awareness that what I was doing at that moment was exactly what I wanted to be doing. I had these moments before my diagnosis, but not as often or as easily.

This sense of well-being is a welcome change, but I can’t say this is due to a major shift in my priorities. The changes here have been small ones. I did not consider myself a materialistic person before cancer, but I am definitely less so now. I used to love to see concerts, live performances, plays, etc., but I am more easily satisfied these days, and I don’t feel I am missing something if I don’t go. Family and friends have always been important to me, but cancer had a way of separating those who were close to me from those that were not.

During chemotherapy I lost my hair, my appetite, and a little weight. My color was bad and my voice was weak. I had trouble carrying on complicated conversations. Outside of that, I thought I made a pretty good impression, but to my surprise many people avoided me. Others were relentlessly faithful.

The cliches about sickness and marriage are very true – the tested relationship doesn’t stay the same. I was very fortunate. My wife Stefanie was steadfast in her love for me. In the war that was my cancer, I knew she would be there on the hardest days.

All this is to the good, of course, but I have to touch on the downside as well. I think about cancer everyday, and a mild sense of anxiety is a familiar backdrop to my routine. I guess this is to be expected. What really bothers me is my quicker tendency to irritation.

I have always been annoyed by people who don’t wait their turns of who want more than their share, but I realize now it’s getting worse. Everyday examples of rudeness and inconsideration can light my fuse if I don’t see them coming. I have never lost my temper in these situations, but I’ve had to bite my tongue a lot. The same immediacy that is so comforting during my “Zen” moments can undo me in these situations.

Maybe this is just a case of the moment-by-moment living some tell me is the natural sequence of any prolonged battle for health. Maybe I need a new philosophy on life. Or maybe it’s something else all together. I may never find out. But in the meantime, it’s time for me to find the place (in my soul) where everyone and everything become one. Time for me to come out of the shadows. Time for me to choose.

So I will live my life, the life that only I was meant to live, the life that was given to me when I came into this world. Living for the moments yet to come – looking for my path.
DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER – I MISS YOU…Adam

If you would like to help, share your survivorship story, or your co-survivorship story and make a difference! Contact stacy@fightpink.org.