|
|
|
Cancer.
The term that has been coined "The C-Word" or "The Big C" by millions the world over, instills a bone-chilling fear in those who hear it. It evokes images of pain, of suffering and of death. I never imagined that I would be the one hearing that word directed at me not once or twice but three times by my twenty-first year.
On November 11, 1991, around 5pm, I was rushed to Tuality Community Hospital in Hillsboro, Oregon with severe abdominal swelling and pain. I was 11 years old at the time, and until approximately 3 hours prior, had been a normal, healthy pre-adolescent. By midnight, my life had changed drastically, never to return to it's original state. I was transfered to Oregon Health And Science University with a pre-operative diagnosis of Stage IV Wilms' Tumor. It is a fairly common kidney cancer usually found in infants and children younger than 5-7 years of age. I was immediately admitted and patiently waited out the weekend until my surgery on Monday, November 13.
The tumor had engulfed my entire left kidney and adrenal gland, and the cancer had spread to my lungs, covering them with numerous lesions. Weighing in at approximately 6 pounds upon removal, the tumor was nearly the size of a cantaloupe, and the surgeons confirmed the diagnosis as Wilms' Tumor. As my case was deemed an emergency, they could not allow even for the wounds to heal before they began chemotherapy treatment. Despite the advanced stages of development, the cancer was still treatable and I was admitted into a national study on Wilms' Tumor that involved an intensive 6 month treatment protocol. Upon reaching the 6 month mark, I would randomly be assigned to either continue treatment for another 8 months, or cease altogether. Treatment began with the agents Vincristine, Actinomycin-D, and Adriamycin combined with 2 1/2 weeks of radiation therapy to my chest and lower abdomen.
18 days following the administering of the first dose of chemotherapy, I began to lose my straight, long, brown locks. Interestingly, the hair neither began to fall out on the 17th day, or the 19th, but promptly on the 18th. It is almost like flipping some kind of a "hair-falling-out" switch. Moreover, the hair doesn't systematically thin, but falls out in patches. I would brush my hair in the morning and the brush would come away full of hair. It fell out in the shower, on my pillow, everywhere. I began to collect a menagerie of hats, and my mother bought me a wig made of human hair. I despised it, it was too heavy and looked fake, so I preferred the hats. Eventually, I just shaved my head entirely, and the sight of one's hair dropping to the floor is something that cannot be adequately expressed. I lost everything, including my lashes and eyebrows. Consequently, I received all sorts of comments, including, "My what a darling boy" and even as harsh as, "Oh my God, who would ever date you?" But I took it in good stride. As good as any 11 year old cancer kid could.
I soon discovered a lot about the chemotherapy process very quickly. First off, Vincristine's biggest side effect impacts motor control. My fingers became clumsy and I had trouble holding objects such as pencils or forks. Sometimes it affected my speech. Today I still live with some such leftover side-effects. Secondly, I began treatment at 120 pounds and at my lowest point, had dropped to 89. I recall hitting 5 feet in height, and the doctors never expected me to continue growing. I did however manage 5 more inches, but nevertheless, I have not attained my predicted normal height due to the chemotherapy agents. Nausea became a typical daily state, and on one occasion I was so sick I lost 15 pounds in 3 days. I could not attend school for fear that I would contract the Chicken Pox again--a disease deadly to any cancer patient--and on one occasion I had to move out of my house because my brother had been exposed to the virus. I missed 96 days of school that year. Also, I was the first pediatric in Oregon to try a new anti-nausea drug called Zofran, which worked miracles. I could eat, I could drink, I could be normal again, and the weight began to come back.
In May 1992 I was opted for the 6 month regime. My hair grew out again, and I enjoyed my 7th grade year disease-free. By September 1993, my hair was curly, black and down to my shoulders again. The day before 8th grade classes began, I had an X-ray and it passed through the entire board of radiologists save one. A CAT scan was immediately ordered. One the first day of school, the coin-sized lesion in my lung was diagnosed as Metastatic Wilms' Tumor. On September 7, 1993 I underwent surgery to remove the lesion, but the radiation therapy I received during the first protocol had fused the three lobes together and surgeons were forced to remove 2/3 of the right lung. To make treatments easier, they implanted a "porta-catheter" into my aeorta to aid in administering the agents. Another scar which I bear today. What's always funny is when the scar is visible, people generally will take me aside and whisper "I think you have a hickey on your chest--maybe you should cover it up."
Chemotherapy began again in October 1993--immediately following my 13th birthday. They began using the agents Cytoxin, Etoposide, and Carboplatin, in 3-5 day treatment cycles. Again, 18 days later, my hair began to fall out. However, there had been some interesting advances since I finished treatment in '92. A new drug called Neupogen had come out--a growth horomone for white cells--and was extremely important to those of us experiencing myelosuppression. However, it did not always work quickly enough. I would usually spend 3-5 days in the hospital for treatment, and begin the daily injections of Neupogen at the end of the cycle, continuing for approximately 2 weeks when the white counts jumped back to their normal levels. Yet, I would usually only be at home for about a week before a respiratory infection would set in. I would develop 104 degree fevers, chills, and pneumonia and be back in isolation in order to cure it. These infections followed every single treatment cycle.
In May 1994 I was frantic to be off treatment. I had missed 123 days of school, and had gained weight, even. But the mental stresses were what got to me. I needed out of the hospital. I needed to be a kid again...or at least try. And I was released, just in time for my 8th grade graduation and admittance into Jesuit High School. I graduated with Honors in June 1998 and proceeded to Gonzaga University, where I completed Bachelors Degrees in Broadcast Communication and Psychology.
For these 8 years I remained cancer free.
In January 2002, only 4 1/2 months before college graduation, I went to the dentist. He performed a mandibular-esophogeal exam and palpated a mass in my thyroid. It proved to be cancerous--most likely a side-effect to the radiation treatment I had received to my chest. I wanted to die. I did not see how life could get worse. It didn't make a difference whether the treatment was easy or not. I wondered if I was supposed to be dead. After all, this was Big C Number Three. Interestingly, following Big C Number Two, I had resolved to never undergo such treatment again. And then God smote me, calling my bluff. Thankfully, the treatment I endured was essentially painless, if boring. Radioactive iodine (I-131) is the treatment of choice, and so I popped a pill and remained quarantined for 24 hours. One treatment almost always gets the lot.
Today, I am less most of my right lung, an entire thyroid, and have one kidney that operates at 57% capacity, but I am alive. Hey, my appendix sure is hanging in there. So are my tonsils! I am determined to beat out my previous score of 8 years in remission. No bones about it, I have been through a fierce and traumatic battle most people do not face until late in their lives, if at all, and I have the many scars to prove it. Hell, who needs tatoos? I have enough body art, thank you very much. If I take care of myself, my kidney should last out my life, a life that can go on to be as normal as anyone next to me. Having had cancer is an experience I would never trade for the world but would never wish on my most hated enemy. It has taught me so much. I wear my scars proudly--they are like medals of honor to me--the reminders that no one is invincible and that life is infinitely precious.
National Wilm's Tumor Study Group
Citizens for Medical Isotopes
Oregon Health and Science University
|
|
|