What do you say after you've said goodbye?
When I walk down the street and look at my reflection in store windows, I don’t recognize myself anymore. Who is that tottering old woman, stooped and walking with a cane? Surely it can’t be me. Some years ago I remember an older friend and her horror when she held up her arms and noticed the loose, flabby skin flap that hung from her upper arms. “My God! When did that happen?” she said. Getting old happens… sometimes it sneaks up on you from behind, and sometimes it drops on you like a ton of bricks. Prior to my cancer diagnosis, it was comforting for me to know that I looked much younger than my years. Not anymore. Chemotherapy has aged me beyond belief. Isn’t that an irony? The treatments I take to live longer have made an old woman of me within months.
No one remarks upon the changes I see in the mirror every day. As bad as I look to myself, others are surprised that it isn’t worse. I guess when people hear that you have Stage IV lung cancer they expect to see a gaunt, skeletal person near death. Soon after my diagnosis in May 2008, friends and family traveled to Bellingham to see me. Though no one said so, I think they came to say goodbye. That’s not at all surprising. The prognosis was (is) not good… the proverbial six months to live without treatment. With treatment the survival rate (five years survival) is only 1% to 2%… most patients with Stage IV lung cancer die within a year.
It is now mid-February, nine months since the diagnosis, eight months into treatment. I still get the surprised reaction, “You look wonderful!” But I notice there are fewer visits and phone calls now, correspondence has become a mere trickle. The number of visitors to the Blog has dropped. After all, who wants to read about cancer? The word CANCER is one of those hot button words. It immediately gets a person’s attention. But like today’s headlines, it quickly becomes old news. (Anybody hear about Patrick Swayze lately?) After the initial shock of hearing that a relative or friend has cancer, lives return to normal. I understand that… I just wish that my life could return to normal.
My friend Melanie tells me to try to turn all the bad stuff into a comedy. That’s easy for her… she has a sense of humor. The best I can do is this: When bestselling author P. L. Morningstar appeared on the Oprah Winfrey Show recently to promote her new book, people were heard to say, “But I thought she was dead. Didn’t I say goodbye to her last year?”
Oh yes, I am working on that book and plan to be in that 1% to 2% that survive advanced lung cancer. I just won’t be looking in any mirrors.
... P. L. Morningstar
No one remarks upon the changes I see in the mirror every day. As bad as I look to myself, others are surprised that it isn’t worse. I guess when people hear that you have Stage IV lung cancer they expect to see a gaunt, skeletal person near death. Soon after my diagnosis in May 2008, friends and family traveled to Bellingham to see me. Though no one said so, I think they came to say goodbye. That’s not at all surprising. The prognosis was (is) not good… the proverbial six months to live without treatment. With treatment the survival rate (five years survival) is only 1% to 2%… most patients with Stage IV lung cancer die within a year.
It is now mid-February, nine months since the diagnosis, eight months into treatment. I still get the surprised reaction, “You look wonderful!” But I notice there are fewer visits and phone calls now, correspondence has become a mere trickle. The number of visitors to the Blog has dropped. After all, who wants to read about cancer? The word CANCER is one of those hot button words. It immediately gets a person’s attention. But like today’s headlines, it quickly becomes old news. (Anybody hear about Patrick Swayze lately?) After the initial shock of hearing that a relative or friend has cancer, lives return to normal. I understand that… I just wish that my life could return to normal.
My friend Melanie tells me to try to turn all the bad stuff into a comedy. That’s easy for her… she has a sense of humor. The best I can do is this: When bestselling author P. L. Morningstar appeared on the Oprah Winfrey Show recently to promote her new book, people were heard to say, “But I thought she was dead. Didn’t I say goodbye to her last year?”
Oh yes, I am working on that book and plan to be in that 1% to 2% that survive advanced lung cancer. I just won’t be looking in any mirrors.
... P. L. Morningstar
posted by Looking for Hope | 1:19 PM
6 Comments:
I haven't stopped coming to the Blog and do so just about every day. I guess I'm always hopeful that you've had a good day, or feel better than you might expect to or had something funny or nice happen during the day that you'll want to share with us. I, too, want you to be among the 1%-2% and believe you have the spirit to do it!
Jane's sister Jill in Ontario
I too still check your blog every day to see what's going on with you...not because you have cancer but because you are interesting and have led an interesting life. I hope with the coming of spring you spirits will be lifted by the winds of March and carried away on an ocean breeze. As always my prayer is for peace for you.
Doc's Girl
Thank you for your kind words... and for taking this journey with me. It may be a bumpy ride and it helps to know there are folks like you who are willing to go along.
Morningstar
I also check in every day to see and read how you're doing, although I don't always leave a comment.
And since someone has to be in that 1-2% that survives, why can't it be you?
Keep that thought close and know that many are traveling beside you on this road.
Morningstar, I check in often too, because I so very much appreciate how you share your experiences and how your spirit comes through, even though we've never met in person.
Kate
Of course you are in the 1 to 2 percent. While I don't watch Oprah, I will be watching when you are there with your book!
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