The Calm After The Storm

     Unless you’ve been under a rock, you know that I’ve been busy pimp slapping cancer for the past 5 months or so.  Just kidding cancer, we’re cool right?  It’s funny, when I was first diagnosed I received many, many words of encouragement that were for lack of more articulate terminology “fuck cancer” or “kick cancer’s ass” messages.  While I appreciated these fighting words, they always made me a little uneasy.  In some strange way, I thought maybe if I succumbed to this sentiment that it would be disrespecting my opponent and I didn’t want to do that.  It sounds weird I know, but when you’ve been given a heavy dose of your own mortality, you probably do weird things.  I’ve been told repeatedly that I’ve handled my illness with calm and grace.  I’m not sure how I was supposed to handle it.  I was freaking out on the inside and in private I suppose. 

     So my tumor is gone, my body is clear and my cancer is now in remission.  I was in the grocery store parking lot yesterday and a thought suddenly occurred to me, “What am I going to do with the rest of my life?”  I’ve been so focused on eradicating cancer from my body that now I am residing in a sort of post cancer Purgatory.  I’m happy that the chemotherapy drugs are finally leaving my body for good but I’m not 100% healthy.  I have peculiar, acne-like sores on my scalp.  My hair is growing in white and patchy.  I have cold sores on my lips.  I still have a medical device implanted in my chest that will have to be removed in the near future.  I still have doctor’s appointments and more scans.    

     I am so thankful.  I’ve been given a second chance and I’m struggling to know how to repay this second chance.  From the very beginning I told myself that I wasn’t going to come out of the other side of this experience and not be a changed man.  I have this overwhelming urge to help children with cancer.  I’m not entirely sure why, maybe it’s because they don’t fully understand why they are being forced to endure things that their peers most likely will never have an inkling of.  I feel a strong connection and I think I can help in some way.  I’m looking into volunteering at Children’s Hospital in some capacity.

     The mind is quirky.  In some ways it seems like the past 4 or 5 months has flown by.  However in the midst of chemotherapy, I felt at the time like it might never end.  I don’t ever want to see an infusion room again in my life.  Occasionally I will get the sensation of my chest port being flushed.  It’s a horrible ammonia smell and taste that became extremely repulsive to me.  It is little things like this that creep up and remind me that I once was sick.  Now I am better.  Life goes on.  “So stop whining about it and do something with the rest of your life”.  This is what the voice in my head tells me, so I will listen and obey.

     Human beings are an odd lot.  Some people that I’ve barely talked to over the years performed incredible acts of kindness.  Others, I suppose didn’t have the capacity to handle my situation and I didn’t hear a peep from, and that’s okay too.  I know somewhere in your vacant heart you were hoping that I didn’t croak.  See that’s the problem with the written word, it doesn’t impart tone.  That was a joke.  There’s an old joke that everybody becomes a nice guy on the day of their funeral.  I probably didn’t deserve all the adulation and love I received but I’ll take it and in the future I’ll give it back to you, especially if you have a moment of need.  Thank you all, you’ll never completely realize how much you touched me.  It was beautiful to behold. 

   Lastly, Lisa Decker, my wife.  Best friend, best caregiver, fantastic human being.  Most of you already know this about her but you have no idea how amazing and what a rock she was.  I’m sure she had her private moments of hell and weakness but I never saw it.  She gave the vows that we all say when we stand before that altar, “In sickness and in health” meaning that go beyond the words.  I love you Lisa.       

Cancer Comes Calling

As most of you probably know by now, I was diagnosed with Non Hodgkins Lymphoma in mid January.  I was incredibly lucky that it was caught early.  I've been told by many people that I should keep a journal.  I'm not sure if I want to remember a lot of what's happened to me but I suppose I will immortalize some of it forever here in the blogshere.

I've been asked countless questions, people are curious.  The questions have been asked in various forms and permutations but they all essentially boil down to one question.  They are all a variation of the same sentiment.  Am I scared is basically the thought on every one's mind.

Interesting question.  Before I got cancer I would have the thought the answer would have been simple, something to the effect of "Hell yes I'm scared."  It's more complicated.  In fact, I would say that the answer leans much more toward no.  You have no idea how you're going to react to the news until it happens to you.  For me it was surprising. 

I remember when I found out I had a tumor under my sternum, my wife and my mother-in-law were in the ER room with me.  My wife gave me a tear soaked hug.  My mother-in-law, herself a cancer survivor, gave me a look that was a combination of such empathy and misery that I will never forget it.  She asked if she should leave the room?  I think I said, "Of course not."  I was very calm, it was strange.  A few hours later, I got the exact same look from my own mother.  I suppose it's got something to do with a mother's nurturing and the fact that they've grown life inside their bodies.

Here's the bottom line for me.  In the quiet moments with myself, when I'm staring at the ceiling waiting for sleep to take me, I think a lot.  I soul search.  I've always been this way.  It's more pronounced now that I have cancer, it's much more intense.  This is what I've learned and these are the conclusions I came to in the surreal days I spent waiting to find out what kind of cancer and what stage I had. 

I am not afraid.  We are all dying.  Our rate of demise and the means may be different, but we are all doing it.  If my life ended tomorrow I'd still be fortunate.  I've seen and done incredible things.  I've travelled the world.  I've met interesting people.  I've loved and been loved.  I've crammed a lot of life into 42 years.

The only thing I am afraid of is my children will grow up without a father, my wife will be a widow and my parents will grieve the loss of a son.  And most of all, I am afraid my sons will have to live with a douche bag step-father.  I've always joked with my wife that if I croak and she remarries I will haunt her for the rest of her days.  The other lesson I've learned is never lose your sense of humor.

I am motivated by the positivity, the prayers and the outpouring of concern I've received the past few weeks.  I made up my mind early that I wasn't going to be a victim.  I have Native American heritage.  I honored this heritage by cutting my hair into a Mohawk.  If it were socially acceptable to put war paint on my face, I'd do that.  The Mohawk is part defiance, part fashion statement.  I purchased a bunch of cool hats.  Thus far, my hair is being stubborn so the hats wait their turn. 

Thank you to each and every one of you that has reached out to me, supported me, encouraged me and loved me in my time of need.  I will never take it for granted.  Your humanity is inspiring and I know I am a better person for it.  In some strange way my illness has been a gift.  I don't plan on squandering that gift.  I hope your 2012 is as enlightening as mine has been.

Much love,

Ray Decker