Story Photos
 Lloyd Smith of Longview chronicled his mother's battle with cancer, which she died from in her 90s. This picture shows Ruby Smith's hand held by the hand of her husband of 72 years, Elmer Smith. Photo courtesy of Lloyd.
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For the Life of Me: Stories of living with cancer
Tuesday, November 18, 2008 3:13 PM PST
By The Daily News
Printable version
E-mail this articleThe Daily News wanted to hear from people dealing with cancer, in their own words. The following are the top winners in our contest, “For the Life of Me.” They represent just a fraction of the thousands of our neighbors, relatives and friends who battle this disease.
From 2003 to 2007, 3,064 cancer cases were diagnosed and/or treated at St. John Medical Center, according to Rhonda Wrolson of the cancer registry at the Lower Columbia Regional Cancer Center in Longview.
Those numbers represent residents of Cowlitz, Columbia, Clatsop, Pacific and Wahkiakum counties, although more residents may have been diagnosed and treated at other hospitals.
Ruth Melvin, manager of the Columbia Regional Breast Center in Longview, judged 37 contest entries along with feature editor Cathy Zimmerman and Marianne Chambers of the newspaper’s classified department. The four top winners will receive care packages, including personal care from Simplicity Salon and Flourish Skin and Laser, and oil changes from Bud Clary.
Related links:
The Fighter: Lorie Hutton whips cancer three times, faces fourth bout at 79 (Nov. 18)
Read some honorable mention essays
Every day, I go on
By Dave Nelson, 53, of Longview
Prostate cancer has no symptoms, and for the most part, its victims have no clue.
When I was diagnosed on Valentines Day, 2007, I was shocked to learn that an agent of death had been growing inside me for years.
The instant the urologist said my name and “cancer” in the same sentence, I took on a new, unwanted identity defined by “victim,” “survivor” “remission” and “recurrence.”
My head was suddenly filled with numbers and scores —- PSA (9.74), Gleason (9) and ‘T’ scores. And I was faced with several treatment options that two days earlier I had never heard of.
Now, within four weeks I had to choose between the radical slice and dice, brachial mini nuke, external macro nuke, freeze it or wait. Except for wait, they all have the same unacceptable side effects: incontinence and sexual dysfunction.
And so began a journey I did not choose but nonetheless must travel. Almost immediately I was surrounded by cards, and friends, and prayer and fear. In the U.S. every year, 200,000 guys are diagnosed with prostate cancer. I felt the need to convince my kids, my friends, anyone, not to blame God, but to let God help us through.
The diagnosis brought into focus how temporal my life was. I realized that if I remained my easy-going wait-and-see self, I would never live the life I wanted. I began to feel the need, even the urge, to make changes —- and that urge continues today.
Some cancer victims lose their hair and their weight. I gained a scar and the ability to wet my pants at inopportune times. Every time I sneeze, cough, or wake up, I am reminded that my life has been invaded by an unwelcomed guest. And every day I silently, though sometimes awkwardly, go on.
I am sure that to my family and friends, my life over the last 18 months has appeared erratic and selfish. But cancer tore away my identity and I am still trying to find a new one. The truth is, my cancer tore away their identity also, as everyone who knows me tries to make sense out of the senseless.
But what I, my family and friends share, is courage. Courage to face life’s uncertainty. The same courage shared by every cancer victim, and everyone who has known and loved a cancer victim, as we all try to make sense out of the senseless.
The Serendipitous Secret
By Kara Huffman Hamilton, 45, of Longview.
Nobody wants to hear the dreaded words, “Your biopsy is positive, your tumor is malignant, and you have cancer”
Those are the phrases I heard on my cell phone, in my car, by myself.
It was March of 2006. I have now been in remission for 19 months. I am grateful for the new perspective cancer has given me. All I have is today; there are no guarantees in this world.
A possible terminal diagnosis gives one the opportunity to feel all the love and support of friends and family that can go unrealized through life. Loved ones visited faraway places. A family member ( and a few good friends) drove me to chemotherapy. Cards from coworkers hung in my bedroom doorway, a bright, cheery vision of hope I could see from my bed. Flowers were delivered. Neighbors generously brought homemade dishes of food.
I was 42 when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I found a lump in my right breast. I hoped because it was painful it would not be cancer -- only 10 percent of breast cancer causes pain.
I had had a clean mammogram only three months prior to my diagnosis. Since I had dense breast tissue, my cancer was not detected by the mammogram. It is now recommended that women with dense breasts and a history of breast cancer have breast MRIs.
When I had a mastectomy, it was discovered that the cancer had metastasized to my lymph nodes. I had three positive nodes, and 26 were removed. Six months of chemotherapy and seven weeks of radiation were part of my prescribed treatment.
A diagnosis of cancer is overwhelming. I tried to get all the information I could. I have since learned that each cancer has its own distinct personality. Mine was invasive ductile carcinoma. It had a high mitotic rate (meaning it was rapidly growing) and was very aggressive.
My cancer is triple negative -- it doesn’t respond to estrogen. Progesterone or herceptin. I went for a second opinion and visited the information room at Swedish Hospital in Seattle. I talked to other women I knew that had battled breast cancer. I searched the Internet; I bought Dr. Susan Love’s Breast Book. All this gave me a ton of information to disseminate in a very short period of time.
My life consisted of tests, more tests and then long periods of waiting in between for the results. It took a month or so to figure out if I needed a lumpectomy or a mastectomy. This was a really difficult time; they couldn’t be sure how many tumors were in the breast until they had an MRI. The MRI showed so many tumors the breast could not be saved.
The night before my mastectomy I went out to a big raucous dinner with friends and family.
The male nurse looked at my blonde curls during my second round of chemotherapy and told me I would lose my hair this time. Women had advised me it was easier and less messy to just shave your head. I decided to take their advice. My mom and hairdresser seemed to have a hard time with this concept, so I had a cute short cut to appease them. Two days later my dad shaved my hair outside on the patio at Silver Lake: it was my 43rd birthday. I think this was much harder for my dad to take than it was for me.
My family and I immediately went out on the lake for a boat ride. I loved the feeling of the wind bouncing off my new shaven head. I felt liberated, no hair hitting my face or hair getting caught in my lip gloss.
My least favorite time during chemotherapy came with the loss of my eyelashes and eyebrows and the bloated face and body associated with steroids. Every day brought a different set of side effects. I contracted shingles. I had to leave a party with a 104 fever and go directly to the emergency room.
I lost fingernails. I tried to get up from a table and my legs nearly gave out. I have neuropathy (numbness) in my toes. My mouth became sore and I had difficulty swallowing. The bottoms of my feet became painful, turned purple and the skin peeled off.
I panted when walking a flat trail. On special occasions I would put on a wig and false eyelashes. Sometimes, the hot flashes were so bad I would yank off my wig and shove it in my purse. It was kind of amusing to see the shocked looks from people who hadn’t realized I was a sweaty bald woman.
I had many lovely scarves and hats. Occasionally I just walked around bald. It would just depend on my mood. I am participating in clinical trials and surveys, anything I can do to help further research in the fight for a cure.
This has been a long journey. I am learning how to ask for and accept help. I have moved home with my parents and missed almost two years of work. My life doesn’t look the way I envisioned it.
I’ve heard it takes two years from the end of treatment to rid your body of the toxins. I have been thrown into early menopause due to the chemotherapy, and I am going through reconstructive surgery to replace my missing breast.
I am just starting to get my life back. I am climbing out of a hole, the cancer pit. Recently, I went through rehabilitation for drugs and alcohol, which is an ongoing process.
When I look back at pictures taken during my cancer treatment, I don’t know how I made it. Lots of tears, love, faith, laughter. I couldn’t have done it without the support of my family. I’m very grateful to have been blessed with such a fabulous support system. I am exercising again and starting to lose the weight I gained during my treatment. I don’t have the stamina I once had and frustration occurs when I can’t keep up in my aerobics classes.
I remind myself where I was last year, how much progress I have made and — most importantly —how lucky I am to be alive. I have new friends I never would have met without cancer.
Having tapped into unknown courage and strength within I am reminded of a phrase, Apocatastasis; the serendipitous secret that in every seed of tragedy is hidden the fruit of glory and reward.
Heaven can wait
By Mary Kazeck, 49, of Lexington
On July 16, 2007, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I think at first total denial sets in, at least for the first few minutes. Then you hear the doctor saying the words surgery, chemotherapy, radiation.
Everything is in slow motion, the words echoing in your mind, and then it hits you: You have cancer. The one word feared throughout the world. You have now begun the battle of your life.
My tumor was large. The doctors wanted to do chemotherapy first, to shrink it before even thinking of surgery. And they were moving fast. It was a whirlwind of appointments, almost daily at first. In a few short weeks, I began my chemo treatments.
My mind raced with thoughts — my husband, my sister, my son and my pride and joy, my new grandson. How will they all cope with this? How will I cope with this?
The first week of August, I started chemotherapy. I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared of anything than I was of that IV bag they were about to hang. With a flip of the nurse’s finger, it had started. Here we go — treatment number one underway.
I learned over those first few weeks that when I was uncertain and scared, it was good to think of my grandson. My first grandchild, he would be turning 1 year old in a short time. And I felt determined to see him grow up. He gave me the physical and mental strength to get through this.
I was fortunate not to have any vomiting or nausea with the chemotherapy, and except for a few days off after each treatment, I was able to work. It was very important to me to continue my normal lifestyle. And work is a big part of our lives, as well as a good way to keep the mind occupied.
The support I found at work was amazing. Everyone helped me through my bad days. They laughed with me, and cried with me. They were there for me at work and after work. They kept an eye on me, and sent me home a few times when I really was not feeling too hot.
I always smiled and said “I’m fine,” until one of my friends said she was going to buy me a T-shirt that said “No really, I’m, fine.” That’s what I always claimed, whether or note it was true.
I found a lot of courage through my friends. They gave me hope. Even when I felt like giving up, they pushed me forward. They also reminded me often that not only is cancer treatable, it is beatable. So that is where I set my sights: to beat it. To be a survivor. I was not ready to die. It was not an option.
It’s amazing how everyone around you becomes your support. Total strangers will become friends and walk with you through your journey, turning into lifelong friends you will cherish forever.
I was blessed through all of this to have my husband by my side. He went to every doctor’s appointment and treatment with me. He keeps strong and courageous and never complains when he has to run to the store for my “chemo cravings.” I have never seen him sad or doubtful. If he was afraid, he never showed it.
He even helped me shave my head when my hair started falling out. Chemo gives a new definition to a bad hair day.
He definitely showed me love. If he can love me like that, at my total worst, I know he’ll always love me.
And there’s my sister, my friend, the one whose heart broke when I told her I had breast cancer from 2,000 miles away. She was to become my number one strength. From Fort Worth, Tex., she boarded a plane to Portland as soon as she could to help me through my battle.
Having no family history of breast cancer, it was a shock to be told I had it. But doctors say most women diagnosed with it have no family history. My sister flew up here, and brought me my first Susan G. Komen “Race for the Cure” T-shirt. She knew I had a long road ahead of me and she intended to be there every step of the way. She was; she still is.
Those of us who go through cancer treatment find strength in many different ways.
I keep a journal, and I hope to get published one day to help other women who go through breast cancer. I want to let them know it’s OK to be mad. It’s OK to be angry, and it’s OK to cry.
Put on your sweats, close the curtains, put in a movie and have some quiet time for yourself. The world will still be there in a few hours.
I had eight chemotherapy treatments, surgery, and then six weeks of radiation. I was very lucky that my cancer had not spread to my lymph nodes. I finished my treatments in April, and am happy to say I’m cancer free.
I will continue to see my doctors at the cancer center every three months for two years, to be sure it doesn’t come back. I don’t worry about it. Although it’s normal to notice every ache and pain you have, life does eventually return to normal.
I went to the Relay for Life last summer here in Longview, and I was excited to see all the cancer survivors. When people are 10- or 20-year cancer survivors, you know there’s hope. You just have to see it, and meet other survivors, to know you’re not alone.
I recently found out I am going to be a grandma again. I find I have a lot to look forward to and a great life ahead. I have faith I will be around for many years. Heaven’s going to have to wait.
The race set before me
By Connie Gray, 73, of Longview
It all seems like a dream. I had a cough and was losing my voice for some time and attributed it to allergies. Wrong!
It was time for our church choir to begin and I could not sing anymore, so I proceeded to my primary care physical on August 9, 2005. After a chest X-ray, my doctor sent me directly for a CT scan.
Before I got home there was a message to return to the doctor’s office. It was a tumor on my right lung.
Then the race began, with a needle biopsy, seeing the radiologist, meeting the surgeon and oncologist. The lung cancer was stage 3 and the tumor was inoperable. I began 39 radiation treatments in September and came through with flying colors.
The chemo was a little harder and I lost my hair. Chemo also tired me out and I learned how to bond with my couch. I ended the 10th chemo treatment at the end of January 2006.
You always wonder when you are going to feel better, but I had so many people say, “Why is she here as she doesn’t look sick?” The only time I was really down was when I was running a temperature and my left foot was swollen and then I knew I was in trouble. I went to the ER, where a CT scan showed a blood clot in my left lung (the good one) — I had pneumonia.
Five days in the hospital was enough for me, so to get out I learned how to give myself blood thinner shots in my stomach to prevent any more clots moving towards my heart.
My journey has been with prayers of friends and people I still don’t know. During my radiation treatment it was my prayer time, and each zap I would have angels come and take the cancer cells away. I tried to keep a daily journal most of the time.
I am the one who wants to always be strong, not to cry, and to have control over my life, to be the caregiver and not the one on the receiving end. But here I was with no control. My mind was in a spin trying to comprehend what was being said by doctors. Is this a journey or a marathon that I am on?
The weather that fall brought beautiful bouquets of dahlias that I grew and shared with others. I enjoyed my quiet time each morning with meditation and reading the Bible, especially the scripture of Hebrews 12.1, to run with perseverance the race that is set before me.
One son would come by on the golf course and we would talk and touch hands and give kisses through the chain link fence — missing the bird droppings. Soon fall arrived and the days were shorter with coolness in the morning air.
I try to stay strong, but my mind wanders and there are tears. Quiet ones. I know God is with me and will guide the doctors. I don’t walk alone. I feel the presence of Christ and have so many friends whose presence surrounds me. I sit in my chair and look out at the beautiful creation that God has given. I watch the birds feeding, squirrels scampering across the golf course and occasionally snatching birdseed out of the feeder on the fence.
Time doesn’t stand still, but just for a moment I feel it does.
My husband, Jack, had to become Mr. Mom. He answered the telephone, was the cleaning and laundry man. He started the washing machine and when it was done he opened it — and there were no clothes inside. Next time he remembered you do put clothes in the machine before turning it on.
My very dearest friend was with me at all chemo treatments. What a trouper! To keep me busy, she taught me how to knit and I began knitting prayer shawls. I became an avid reader and read over 20 books in those months.
I was well enough to take care of my husband, who got cancer himself and died in September 2006. Then in February of 2007 I fell and broke my wrist and in March 2007 my mother died from Alzheimer’s.
Those were some tough times to handle. But I remained strong and came out a much stronger person, as I know God will always be beside me.
Here it is October 2008. I am cancer free and a good specimen — the doctor explained to me that only one in five survive lung cancer. I have walked in the Relay for Life for three years, and am honored that so many people put forth so much effort to raise money for the research into this terrible disease called CANCER. To walk in silence at night and see all the luminaries lit is breathtaking and always brings tears.
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