The first time a needle pierced my vain to make its chilling and life saving delivery of chemotherapy I took a breath and gripped the fake leather recliner I was sitting in a little harder. I will never forget that first bag of chemical, and the taste of saline as it flushed the line in the back of my throat, or the unsuspecting vein in the top of my right hand where they plugged me in. I can remember thinking “this is where my real story starts.” 4.5 hours later I was done receiving chemo and the incredibly caring, comforting, and empathetic nurse informed my mother and I – “next time we won’t use this vein, it took way too long.”
My oncologist, a man named Kurt Ebrahim, is responsible for saving a small community of folks throughout Maine. I would imagine if you took all his living patients and had them move to a similar area – they could have their own little survivorship town. He works his craft out of an office in Biddeford, Maine (though when I saw him he was working out of Scarborough) – it is there where he designs cancer killing recipes, gives sage advice, and all to often tells patients that this could be the end of their story. He is a man with a voice that is experienced and pronounced, a little brassy with a twinge of a biblical accent that I picture Moses speaking with from the top of the Hill while bearing the brunt of the 10 Commandments. I find it comforting. Once a year I visit him and fill him in on my crazy life, what’s new with me, and where or what projects I’m working on.
The process is the same every year. I hop onto the table, he takes out his stethoscope, he asks me to take 3 deep breaths and he places the stethoscope on my back. We do this three times until he is sure he does not hear any residual disease rattling my lungs like a famished opossum searching my grandmother’s cabinets. The next part is the most stressful – he places his cancer seeking hands on my neck, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and looks as though he is listening for cancer to respond to his call – through his fingertips. He looks concerned as his hands radiate around the glands in my neck. All goes well and he does the same process over again to my lower stomach.
The process ends and he says “Hop down and have a seat.” It is here that he will tell me I need to drop a few pounds, not pick up smoking, and he will ask about my family. He will tell me about “survivorship” which is apparently a new study for people like me who have survived cancer but still think about it a few times a day – in my case, I write about it at least once a month. I will tell him about the book I want to write about my cancer (which I cannot seem to even begin, since every time I do I feel as though I am playing Russian Roulette with the Cancer Gods just by talking about it) and how I hope to speak more about the lessons I learned from it.
Before I leave his office I will receive a check up date one year from the visit I just had and typically I will make some inappropriate jokes to lighten the mood. Down the hall to the right of the scheduler’s desk is where my treatments began. I can smell the chemo, and just writing about it makes my veins flatten and turn to needle proof putty.
So, the question is, why do I continue to speak of this experience in my blog that is supposed to address “The Value of Special” and how to make our customers, clients, and employees realize just how special they are? The answer is quite simple, I have to. Part of my “survivorship” is this belief that somewhere somehow someone is going to read this blog and feel like they are not alone in their battle with cancer. It truly has nothing to do with social media, and nothing to do with building a stronger business. My hope is that this single entry reaches someone who is wondering if they have a chance of survival and what it will be like 10 years later.
Here are my promises:
1. You can survive – though, you may not.
2. You won’t ever forget what it was like and if you do, shame on you.
3. Life is beautiful, and more meaningful after cancer – if you so choose. But you will still have challenges.
4. Cancer may be the best thing that ever happens to you, at least it was for me.
In closing, this last visit I had with Dr. Ebrahim was my 10 year check up and guess what? I’m still cancer free. That bastard of a disease has yet to make it’s fight strong enough to hold me down. In 12 months I plan on celebrating my 11th year of cancer freedom and so on. It won’t be until I die of a heart attack or anything else non-cancer related that I will feel I have truly survived this disease. Until then I will continue writing about what I have learned and hoping it helps you realize just how special life truly is.
“He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.“ 1 Corinthians 1:4
