On a rainy afternoon last week, I sat down with my
urologist and talked about cancer.
My cancer.
It was a pleasant enough conversation. He talked, I
mostly listened. There was no drama and little outward emotion from either of
us. The two boxes of tissues in the consultation room went unused.
All things considered, it appears that I’m a pretty
lucky guy.
My cancer is located in my prostate, hasn’t metastasized
elsewhere and is highly treatable with radiation and/or surgery. My chances of
a cure – not a term used loosely by those in the medical trade – are good.
In the two months that I’ve lived with the possibility
of having cancer, a succession of nightmarish scenarios played havoc with my
peace of mind. For the first time in my 65 years on earth, I was forced to
confront my own mortality.
As death shifted from being a vague concept into a
very real possibility, a certain clarity of mind ensued. In the last few weeks,
I’ve conducted an accounting of my life and what I have and haven’t
accomplished.
The results of that assessment were sobering, but not altogether
unpleasant. I’m a man of many faults and deep regrets. But I’m not a complete
reprobate. I have had my moments, as they say. That said, I’m grateful I apparently
still have time to chart new courses, right a few wrongs and work on being a
better me.
The biggest problem with being as old as I am is not
the aches and pains of an aging, disintegrating body, but the sadness of seeing
family, old friends and acquaintances succumb to disease and debilitating
illnesses.
Even as I celebrate – quietly, out of a fear of
bringing kharma down upon me – my own positive prognosis, I have friends who
face a cloudier, more uncertain future. Clicking my heels at my good fortune – even
if I could accomplish such a feat without permanent damage – seems too churlish
by half.
A couple of former newspaper colleagues are waging
much stiffer battles with the Big C than I am and are brilliantly documenting
their journeys on social media. They are talented and brave, and their posts –
which they hope will help others facing similar struggles – demonstrate vividly
the depth of their character. I am proud to call them friends, and my prayers
are with them and their families.
My own experience is more prosaic and less
instructive. I’ll keep it largely to myself, not out of a concern for privacy,
but out of an embarrassment for the good fortune I feel.
Later this summer, I’ll go under the knife to have my
prostate removed. If necessary, I’ll undergo some follow-up radiation treatment
to make sure all the cancer cells are destroyed. And after that?
Who knows? Of one thing I’m sure. The clouds
eventually part, and the sun shines once again.
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