I am not an optimistic person by nature.
I am more of a facts and details person. So when I was told, “You have NSCLC
adenocarcinoma, Lung Cancer,” I had to find out all I could find. Thus, began
my search for the facts. A few weeks later, I found out my cancer was at stage
4. I could not be cured, but they would treat me and try to give me as much time
as possible. The statistics were stacked against me. I kept a smile on my face
and began chemotherapy. I got weaker and it became a big accomplishment to make
it from the main floor of the Cancer Treatment Center, up the elevator and down
the long hall to the clinic. Eventually it became a feat to make it from the bedroom
to the bathroom and at the Cancer Center I needed a wheel chair for any trips
for CT scans, x-rays or MRI’s. My smile was fading, my hair was gone and my
friends and family still told me to stay positive and keep up my Hope.
I could still smile on the outside, but
inside I wanted to scream at them and say, “Do you know what Stage 4 means?
Have you ever had chemotherapy or cancer?” Not wanting to be difficult or
ungrateful I kept my feelings to myself. Others often seemed uncomfortable when
I expressed what I was actually feeling. Hope seemed distant and impossible to
cling on to.
I came home just before the Thanksgiving
holiday. My tumors were not smaller, but they had been stabilized. My
oncologist felt it was safe for me to wait 90 days to try another treatment. He
gave me the choice. It felt like a stay of execution. My last holiday season with my family. So, I
reached deep down and pulled up a tiny crumb of Hope. I could barely stand, but
managed to mix up and bake gingerbread cookies for my grandson to help me
decorate. My strength was so low I could barely stir the dough, but I pushed
myself and did it anyway. We had to sit at the table to decorate cookies
because it was too painful to stand. I prepared a Christmas prime rib dinner
that I could hardly eat.
I made it through the holidays and kept
that smile on my face. It was hard. I started getting sicker, my cancer was
growing again. My oncologist started me on a new treatment. I was his second
patient to use this genetically targeted therapy. It was a twice a day pill, so
I could stay home and only went to the Cancer Center every 3 months. The
treatment began to work. My collapsed left lung began to open and fill with
air. I began to get stronger. I could drive a car, I could cook a meal, and I could
carry my groceries in from the car. This did not happen all in one day. It took
months to strengthen the muscles that had become so weak. This was not a cure,
but I could now live my life.
Then there was still the issue of Hope. My sisters made me aware of LUNGevity
Foundation and their LCSC. I found other lung cancer survivors and caregivers there,
online, who understood what hopelessness felt like. Yet they now seemed to have
Hope. I was a bit reluctant at first, but it seemed to be working for these
people. They seemed to be genuine and I soon made friends. I kept flexing that
Hope muscle. It was pretty weak at first. I then began to feel better. My mind
and emotions were getting stronger just as my physical muscles had done. I have
grown and become stronger in so many ways. I did not do it alone. I did not do
it in one day. My Hope muscle is helping me push through each day, through each
decision. I can experience joy and happiness in my life with cancer. There is
still work to be done, but now I feel I have the strength to do it. The strength
to keep trying and I have the power of Hope to help me do it.
