Hope: A Survivor's Most Renewable Resource

My son-in-law calmly went upstairs in his apartment last night and shaved off his play-off beard, signaling the end of the Sharks NHL Stanley Cup quest.

At least for this season.

That's the great thing about hope, it's a completely renewable resource.  It never dries up or gets depleted, you only have to find it within yourself to keep on believing.

Red Socks fans know a little about hope; they waited 86 long years between World Series wins.  Lots of tenacity in the city of Boston I'll warrant.  They renewed their hope every single season for 86 long years.

Meanwhile, I've had to reassure many Sharks-loving co-workers that yes, while disappointed, I'm JUST FINE, thanks.  I know how to deal with set-backs and boy, do I know from hope.  When I had surgery to remove a cancerous lump from my breast I woke up from the anesthesia and the doctors all told me that preliminary tests showed that my lymph nodes were clean.  That meant I was only Stage I, the best possible outcome.  Three days later, the more extensive pathology report came back from the lab and with it, a grimmer new medical reality: the cancer had spread.  The only thing we didn't know was how far it had spread.  Basically, four or less lymph nodes and the odds don't really change.  If the cancer spreads beyond four lymph nodes in my type of breast cancer to eight, twelve or more, then the treatment becomes more aggressive and the odds of long-term survival go down.  I told no one that weekend.  I told no one until I knew how many lymph nodes had been affected.  Instead, I did something wholly uncharacteristic for me, I waited and I hoped.

I was back in surgery in less than a week to remove another 16 lymph nodes.  A week after that, still taped up with drains and tubes coming out of me, I started chemo.  I am nothing if not adaptable.  I remember talking with other breast cancer patients in the chemo room of my oncologist’s office months later and becoming genuinely shocked to find out that they had all waited six weeks or longer after surgery to start chemo and then another six weeks after chemo to start radiation.

"What the????" I demanded of my bemused oncologist who simply shrugged.  "I had hope that you could do it," was all he finally said.  What a rip-off I told him at the time.  No pampering for me, huh.

Still feeling like some sort of freakish medical experiment because my oncologist gets to brag about me all the time now, I now get what he was saying back then.  I was strong, save for the cancer, extremely healthy and my blood work reflected that, it gave him hope.  My odds could only get better if we pushed the timeline up for all treatments and this when the vast majority of cancer patients never get that option.  At the time, I honestly didn't know better.  I thought everyone with tubes and drains and stitches and bandages plastered everywhere started chemo.  Not so, many are not yet physically up to the horrors of chemo.  To say I was lucky is an odd way to put it but I believe now that to be the case.  I was strong and that gave the doctors hope.  Everyone was pushing the envelope when it came to my treatment regime even the new and wonderful radiology oncologist I met and worked with after chemo.  He peered at my blood work, asked me how I was faring and when I said I felt like an 18-wheeler had rolled over me and then backed up over me twice, he smiled and pointed out yet here I was and then asked how quickly I wanted to start radiation.  I said today, now, let's go.  I thought that was the right answer.  It took a week or so to set everything up because it's a complicated computer program they have to design for each patient plus you have to get teeny, tiny tattoos to line up the radiation beams on for each zap but even so, we moved very quickly when compared to other cancer patients.  And so far, it's worked.  I'm still cancer free.

And the answer is two.  The cancer had spread to just two lymph nodes.  I remember every single second waiting in my surgeon's office to go over the pathology report. I  would not even let the poor man say good morning, I just kept repeating, my heart pounding in my ears, how many?  How many?

Just two.  It took a good five minutes for that news to sink in.  This, he tried to tell me, as I sank into a chair with a mixture of befuddled shock and relief, was what we had been hoping for.

So, while you sometimes have to change what you hope for, you still can have hope.  You can adjust.  I'd hoped for Stage I, no chemo, no hair loss, minimal intrusion into my perfect and busy life.  What I got was the next best thing, Stage IIA with chemo and radiation and oh yes, loss of hair but heck, my odds were and still are, excellent.  And hair really does grow back.

And all that is something to definitely hope for.