ancer” is an unsettling word that goes directly to the core of our fears. Few will escape the inevitably of the C-word. For the fortunate, the context will refer to someone other than themselves; for the less fortunate, it will be deeply personal.
The word invaded my consciousness 50 years ago, and the disease eventually took root in my body. I wasn’t the first in my family to be stricken; breast cancer took my mother when I was a vulnerable 11-year-old boy and she was a vivacious 44-year-old woman. Ten years later, my dad, a guy who earned an honest wage in a factory, succumbed to an aggressive form of lung cancer at the age of 61.
Last year, as my 60th birthday loomed on the horizon, the trifecta came full circle when my prostate biopsy tested positive for cancer.
Like a comet hurtling toward an unsuspecting plant, cancer penetrated the protective shield of my universe.
After the diagnosis I assembled information so I could make a proper decision about my treatment. It was an emotionally exhausting process complicated by the fact that I was engaged in a robust exercise in self- pity.
Fear was my constant companion: I slept with it; I woke up with it; it mocked me when I looked in the mirror.
To reclaim my health — and sanity — I had to divorce myself from the terror that gripped my soul. I needed to take control of my life — or there could be no life to control. My focus switched from fear to employing medical resources that were non- existent a half-century ago.
After consulting with four doctors, I elected to have robotic surgery to remove my prostate. Each treatment option had its own unique potential for collateral damage, with surgery producing the most radical short- term side effects. But if the cancer is confined to the prostate, as it was in my case, surgery offered a finality that didn’t seem to exist with other treatments. I wanted it out of my body and I didn’t particularly care about the consequences.
Physically, my recovery has been routine with little reason to believe there will be a reoccurrence. Mentally, it’s a different story.
Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese military strategist and author of “The Art of War,” wrote, “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.” I learned everything I could about my enemy: where it came from (a possible genetic link to my mother), its strengths, its weaknesses, its capacity to launch a second attack.
With an arsenal of knowledge and state-of-the art medical technology, I defeated the enemy — but I didn’t win the war. Victorious, but battle weary, I realized during my post-op recovery that in the weeks leading up to surgery, cancer was in my cross-hairs every moment of every day; it drained my energy reserves, even as it fueled a fierce determination to live cancer-free.
At my six-month check-up, my urologist assured me that all signs pointed to a full recovery. My body had begun to heal itself, but my spirit needed more time.
My unwelcome guest is gone, but its memory lingers on. When cancer was present in my body there was no ambiguity in my life — I knew what must be done. In a cruel paradox, the disease that took my parents gave me the clarity I had been seeking for 50 years.
It would be insane to say I miss having cancer, but there is an odd sense of loss. Prior to surgery I was laser-focused, but as I’ve settled back into my life, shades of gray obscure the edges the big picture.
Cancer taught me there are no rewrites in my life script. Loss, fear, survival — elements necessary to moving the narrative forward. As I step back and allow the rest of the story to unfold, I’m reminded to live each day with humility and profound gratitude.
Thom Cuttita (thom@cuttita.net) was a member of the 2000 Colorado Voices panel. He blogs at .
