The story continues..........things couldn't possibly get worse than suddenly losing your spouse to cancer after a long, healthy life together......but they did. In November, Barry returned for his scheduled follow up appointment with his oncologist. I'm not certain what his expectations were, but I had been lulled into believing that what was "cancer free" in July would be "cancer free" in November. As seems to be to often the case, never be comfortable with your intuition when it comes to cancer. The doctor surprised all of us with the news that a tumor had appeared on Barry's liver and that an arduous regimen of chemotherapy would be required before a decision would be made concerning surgery. Barry was NOT cancer free. The cancer had "metastasized" to another organ in his body. There are few words in the English language that I dislike more than "metastasized". It's the most insidious word I can think of. When I heard that term regarding Barry's diagnosis, I immediately concluded the worst. My brother was doomed; it was only a matter of time.

Chemotherapy treatments continued through the winter into the spring when, at last, the Doctor announced that the tumor had shrunk sufficiently that surgery would be appropriate. Indeed, he opined, there was a good chance they could "get it all". The "roller coaster" paradigm was once again, fully engaged. In the fall, he was "doomed"; in the spring, all they had to do was "scoop it out" and he's good as new. What to believe anymore? And I'm not even the patient! Whatever the case, Barry and I were immensely relieved that after a long preparatory period, the doctor had made a decision about what was going to happen and when. That in itself was a major relief, and contributed to buoyed spirits-----even though the outcome of the operation itself was far from certain----at least in my mind.

The operation took place in late June at the Anderson Medical Center in Houston Texas. I flew in the day after the operation to be with the patient for a few days during his initial recovery period. The news was good. The doctor proclaimed that he "got it all". Smiles all around. Those smiles came not just from the news, but from the village of family, friends, and supporters who crowded into my brother's hospital room during his convalescence. At one point I counted 9 women in the room with my brother. He was so charged up with the news and the company that he was walking around the floor unaided on the third day after the operation. It was remarkable to observe. His strong constitution buoyed by his spirits and the man was on the move once again. I left Houston feeling very comfortable that the worst was over and that THIS TIME, Barry was "cancer free". It would just be a matter of time when our brotherly road trips would resume, and that concerns about the end being nigh would be but a dark memory.

I only learn slowly it seems. A short while later, Barry related that the Doctor advised him that he would face two years of further chemotherapy treatment. His morale once more took a nosedive. Both of us had been lulled into believing that the battle was o'er and the victory won. Nope. Maybe not ever. The good news, however, is that the follow up chemo will not begin until October, a sufficient hiatus for the surgery wounds to heal before putting his system once again to the test. I'm told that follow up chemo of this is typical for such surgery and more precautionary in nature than curative. That's at least something of a relief, but it doesn't mean that the treatments themselves are less onerous.

So, dear readers, that's where this case stands. Barry has survived a challenging surgery, but has a few more miles to go in his marathon before he crosses the finish line. Meanwhile, I wonder if there IS a finish line? Once you've fought this battle, it seems that uncertainty will always be with you that cancer might return. The question is, how does one respond to that uncertainty? For some, it can truly be disabling----for others, the opposite----it becomes ENABLING. It's all about choices. One thing is clear; having endured this brush (better, collision) with death, we inevitably begin to look at life differently. That's true whether you are the patient or the village. My brother and I are both looking at life in new ways these days, and I'll relate more about that in my next installment. In the meantime, I wish all of you a new look at life today.......each moment, however small, is a moment to be used----and we are the ones who decide how to use them. The potential loss of those moments reminds us that no moment is too small to ignore. How have you decided to use the moments in your life today? Pax vobiscum, hodie et semper. wg

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