Hope for 3: Marriage, Cancer and Pregnancy

When I first got the text from my friend Emily, I felt an immediate physical sensation of fear mixed with shock—the feeling of an instantaneous cold shower for all the blood in my veins.

The text asked for prayers for a friend of hers who had recently gotten married, recently become pregnant and recently been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. This woman—Mary—had inadvertently become the living embodiment of three of my greatest passions in life. Since getting married in 2014, my commitment to my wife has been the defining relationship in my life and something that I take an immense interest in nurturing. Since being diagnosed with Hodgkins and fighting it into remission throughout 2015, supporting cancer patients and sharing my experience as a survivor has become another personal mission. When my daughter was born in August 2016, becoming a father was the final life change to further refine my identity, goals and life purpose.

In a single text asking for my prayers—and without ever having met them or even yet knowing their names—I felt an instant kinship to Mary and her husband Tom and their growing baby Isla Rose. Since the day I learned of their story, they have been on my mind repeatedly and on my lips in prayer unceasingly.

I often talk about what a whirlwind the last three years of my life have been, with a marriage, a new house, a new job, a cancer fight, and a baby. As a firm believer in the axiom that God will never give you more than you can handle, I know this must be a pretty special family. If God, in His infinite wisdom, saw fit to throw them so many curve balls in rapid succession, they must be excellent hitters with a superb coaching staff.

That coaching staff is where the real miracle happens—when you realize that God didn’t give you more than you could handle precisely because He also gave you a strong network of people who will support you through these challenges. My post-cancer goal has been to join the coaching staff of anyone I encounter who is going through something similar.

If you are reading this, chances are that you were on my coaching staff, and I can never thank you enough. But the work isn’t done now that I’m in remission. I’m asking you to please spring back into action and help the Doherty family. There’s no denying they have a tough road ahead of them. Whether financially or spiritually or in another way you might think of, please join me in lifting up this family as they embark on an undeniably difficult journey. Pray for the health of their baby and a safe delivery. Pray that the cancer has not continued to spread within Mary. Pray that the treatment will be a success. Pray that Tom, with the difficult job of simultaneous caretaker to a newborn and a cancer patient, will get the support he needs and have the strength to persevere with a positive attitude. Just generally keep them in your prayers and consider making a donation to their GoFundMe account.

Reading their story makes me feel incredibly blessed for the way mine worked out and for the oodles of love and support I had along the way. Please help me to spread the word about their situation so that they can share my happy ending and recognize the enormous blessings that are ultimately born of suffering.

Combating My Gratitude Deficit

Why is gratitude so fleeting?

This thought always seems to not-so-coincidentally occur to me around the time of my once-every-four-months oncologist checkups. How sad that it takes the specter of cancer to make me once again realize how truly blessed I am.

The timing of this week’s appointment was particularly compelling, as Lumpy was already back on my mind for a variety of reasons.

First of all, I had just read the story of Amy Krouse Rosenthal, a Chicago area writer who knew she was dying of ovarian cancer and penned a touching love letter to her soon-to-be-widowed husband for Valentine’s Day in the form of an online dating profile for any woman who would be lucky enough to be with him after she had passed. She was diagnosed in September 2015 and died this week at the age of 51. As always, epically sad stories like this one leave me reeling with grateful thoughts about the fact that my Lumpy was the beatable kind. By simply adding “non-” to the beginning of my Hodgkin’s diagnosis, it could have easily gone another way. Why was I chosen to live?

Secondly, I received an email last week from a new health site called Bright Bod that is seeking to interview patients of various cancers and post their answers to experiential questions online as a somewhat crowd-sourced version of Web MD. Always eager to share my cancer experience in any way that would be helpful to Lumpy’s future victims, I jumped at the chance and walked through my cancer fight via a 45-minute Skype interview. (Incidentally, if there are any other cancer patients reading this, I can send you the site’s contact info if you would like to participate…they will pay you for your time!) Going over the timeline and symptoms and side effects of treatment, I realized how infrequently I think about it on a daily basis. Being a cancer survivor will always be a big part of my identity, but my full return to good health more often than not makes it a footnote instead of a headline. What a blessing.

Thirdly, a few weeks ago a friend texted me asking for prayers for a couple who found out they were pregnant…and then found out the mother has Hodgkin’s. I have written many blog posts here and elsewhere chronicling the joys and sorrows of both cancer and pregnancy—but going through both of those medical events simultaneously is simply unfathomable to me. Please stop reading this for a moment and offer a prayer for that couple and their baby. They must be a very special husband and wife to be given such a tremendous trial.

The final reminder that my gratitudinal attitude could use some adjusting came from looking back at one of my own cancer posts. Since Facebook now delivers a daily “This Is Your Life” digest of what I was doing on this day in previous years, I am able to relive the 2015 Lumpy battle as it recedes into the social media version of the history of my life. I wrote this post almost exactly two years ago, as I struggled with neutropenic fever and an unwillingness to endure more chemo treatments that I knew would make me feel even worse. I was reading the comments on the post and saw one from a woman whose blog site was titled “Livingly Dying.” I clicked over to the site and saw that she had indeed passed away on June 10, 2015—less than three months after commenting on my blog. Recent posts were dedicated to memorial services and a charitable event in her honor. The blog lives on as a testament to her more than four-year fight against ovarian cancer. Once again, it becomes impossible not to be extraordinarily grateful for my current situation and rather ashamed of my frequent lack of gratitude.

Now you might say, “Matt, don’t be so hard on yourself.” But why shouldn’t I start every day with a prayer of gratitude that I am still alive? My ability to write this post right now is a product of early detection, modern medicine and the support and prayers of everyone in my life. I am no more worthy of getting to live my life, love my wife and raise my children than any of the countless people who have succumbed to terminal versions of the disease. And neither are you, my cancer-free friend.

But it’s so hard to remember all of this during the day-to-day frustrations of daily life that nevertheless are still moments of a life that we are blessed to continue living! We should live in full and constant thanksgiving for all the awesomeness in our lives, and seek out joy even in the beautifully mundane moments. I’m striving to shed the skin of entitled indifference that starts building up every time I get another all-clear from my doctor. I got that call today. I’m four healthy months closer to total remission and a declaration of “cured.”

But I know the real cure is unmitigated gratitude, and I need to increase my dosage.

One Year of Remissioning

It was one year ago today that I got the news I had been waiting six months to hear. My cancer was in remission. While I won’t be considered by the medical community to be “cured” until August 2020, hearing that there was “no evidence of disease” still meant to me that I had conquered the most grueling personal challenge I had ever faced. It meant an end to weekly doctor’s appointments and blood tests. It meant a return to work and exercise and ramping back up to full strength. It meant getting my eyebrows back and at least a little more hair on my head. It meant that I was meant to face down cancer and live, when so many others were not so blessed.

It’s only one year later, but the world looks so much different to me today. The experience of fighting cancer changed me irrevocably and tremendously, but I didn’t expect my life to change all over again in my first year of remission.

Remission.

Now I’m no linguistic scholar, but I don’t think the parts of that word sound like they have anything to do with overcoming an illness. Nevertheless, it’s a rather apt word for how I’ve spent much of the past year.

I’ve been re-missioning.

In fact, I’m on a completely new and wonderful mission now–a life change that was almost as unexpected as my initial cancer diagnosis, but a billion times more joyful.

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As I type this post, my daughter Madeline is lying next to me in her rock ‘n play sleeper, baby-grunting and beginning to stir as she prepares to wake up for her eighth meal of the day. She turned three weeks old yesterday, and she’s the most perfect creation I’ve ever seen.

I can’t help but consider her to be a miracle–and I know that all children are miracles–but Maddie counts doubly so. Before I embarked on my treatment journey, three different doctors told me that chemotherapy had rendered greater men than me sterile, so I should probably make plans for my future fertility (and defy Catholic teaching on the subject). Theresa and I forged ahead in faith–trusting God’s plan for our family, even if that meant that Lumpy would make us a permanent party of two. When I received my remission news last year, the oncologist told us that even if we could get pregnant, we most likely wouldn’t be able to do so for a year and shouldn’t really even try until then. I guess that would be right now.

But just as God surprised us by making 2015 the Year of the Lump, he surprised us again by making 2016 the Year of the Bump. With that positive pregnancy test last December, we were instantly re-missioned.

I won’t pretend that Lumpy didn’t make a few cameo appearances in the past year. He came back like clockwork every three months when it was time for another scan and randomly haunted my psyche with worst-case scenarios: What if the cancer came back? What if I got sick after the baby came? What if the baby was sick? Is that another lump in my neck?

Fortunately none of these dramas ever played out in reality. My latest scan last week appears to be my cleanest yet. I’ve found a new oncologist who actually seems to care a lot about my health and who understands the importance of bedside manner when you’re dealing with cancer. Theresa gave birth to Maddie with no complications (read the epic tale!) and Maddie is as healthy as can be.

This entire pregnancy and year of remission has been filled with “What did I do to deserve this?” moments of gratitude–spawned from an experience that normally poses that question in the other direction. I know that I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been there, so I can’t help but look back at the marvelous timing of all these staggering life events with wonder and gratitude.

Perhaps it’s fitting that this is my 100th post on this blog–a blog that I started simply to chronicle the experience of my 30s and all the big moments I presumed would be heading my way in that decade. If I could send these 100 posts to my 29-year-old self, I wonder what he would make of it. Would he be afraid? Proud? Shocked? Perhaps he’d be most surprised that I actually kept it up.

As I turn 34 in three months, it would be tempting to hope that the latter half of my 30s is more predictable than the former. But these years have taught me the value of change, the importance of faith and the rewards of following a path that sometimes isn’t clear until you’re looking back at where you came from–and suddenly you’re happier than you’ve ever been before.

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Is it Time to Find a New Oncologist?

As I type this tonight–about two months from my one-year No Evidence of Disease remission anniversary–I find the thought almost comical: Why would I switch oncologists now? After all, I’ve already endured 12 rounds of chemo on my current doctor’s watch, put up with his idiosyncratic bedside manner, his maddening lack of clarity and availability, some mistakes in treatment and his Groundhog Day-like inability to remember the details of my case between visits.

After reading that last sentence, perhaps you’re wondering why I stuck with him in the first place. Well, the answer is largely because the hospital was conveniently located minutes from my house and my oncologist was supposed to be administering chemotherapy according to the marching orders of a highly respected lymphoma doctor at the University of Chicago who provided my second opinion and course of treatment. That doctor assured me that chemotherapy is chemotherapy no matter where you get it, and it seemed a lot smarter to get it five minutes from my house than to brave rush hour traffic to-and-from Hyde Park once a week for chemo sessions or checkups.

But I’m assuming that while the ABVD chemotherapy poisons are the same everywhere, the level of care from your oncologist can differ greatly from practice to practice. And in that department, my oncologist could surely use some…practice.

So what was the straw that broke the camel’s back? It happened earlier today. My wife and I had recently been chatting about how I am due for another PET or CT scan, as my oncologist had said he wanted me to get one every three months for the first year. For each of these scans, we have had to call his office to see if he still wanted me to get one and had to connect with him in order to get the scan ordered. (Is this normal? Or is the office supposed to call you to schedule your scans? I have no frame of reference for this beyond my dentist and my eye doctor, who always call or send a postcard when I’m due for some maintenance. Fellow cancer patients and caregivers: what has been your experience?)

Completing these scans is always a stressful experience for me–both because I hate getting stuck with needles and also because I always have a fear in the back of my mind that the scan won’t be clear and I’ll need more chemo or radiation or some other form of cancer-fighting torture. At the appointments to get the results of my three-month and six-month scans, it was clear that my oncologist had not even looked at the results before entering the room, which left my wife and I quivering in fear as he read them over in our presence. After the first scan, there was some ambiguity in my throat that required me to go back to the ENT who originally diagnosed my cancer. But my doc hadn’t seen this before I was in the room, so we got to watch him process it and ask me questions about my general health before he told us what was going on. It was terrible.

After my six-month scan, he reacted incredibly positively to the completely clear scan as he read it for the first time in front of us…because he thought this was my first scan after remission. When I complained about having to drink a disgusting contrast liquid before the scan, he told me that they didn’t need an abdominal scan because my lymphoma was in my neck, so I wouldn’t have to do that for any future scans. That’s nice, but we still got charged for the unnecessary abdominal scan that was clearly ordered because he wasn’t paying enough attention and didn’t bother to examine the details of my case.

But the back-breaking straw came today, when my wife once again called his office to find out if he still wanted me to get a nine-month scan and to get it scheduled. The office left a voicemail saying that we were supposed to have come back for a checkup after two months (which was never suggested to us on our last visit and had not previously been the protocol) and that my doc wanted me to get a scan of my chest, abdomen and pelvis.

Even casual readers of my cancer adventure will remember that my cancer presented as an enlarged lymph node in my neck. SO WHY IS HE NOW REQUESTING A SCAN OF EVERY LOCATION EXCEPT THE PLACE WHERE THE CANCER WAS?

I’m sorry. I’ll calm down. And turn off caps lock.

A quick scan of his waiting room tells me that he sees a lot of patients and that some of his patients probably have lymphoma. But I also know that I am probably one of the only ones who is under 35 and therefore perhaps a little more memorable than a lot of the older cancer patients he sees. But even if he couldn’t exactly remember the details of my case, shouldn’t he look at my chart a bit more carefully before ordering incredibly expensive scans that are meant to ensure that the cancer hasn’t returned?

So this is why I kind of want a new oncologist now. But I’m not sure that’s even an option for me. Do oncologists take on patients who are in remission and just come in for tuneup scans?

In the 17 months since Lumpy first entered my life, I have tried to be a resource for anyone who is dealing with similar health issues. I’ve tried to meticulously catalog my experiences in the hopes that it could bring comfort or knowledge or solidarity to others who find themselves fighting their own Lumpy.

But tonight I find myself somewhat frustrated and in need of advice. If you are reading this and have any experience with professional medicine or cancer treatment, I would love your feedback. Leave a comment or send me a message (roundingthirty at gmail dot com), and I would be very grateful for your insights.

Despite my frustration, I remain in good health–although perhaps gaining a bit too much pregnancy weight in solidarity with my pregnant wife–and richly blessed beyond measure. My oncologist and his staff did take good care of me throughout my treatment, but this latest development just feels like a logical breaking point, if it’s possible to switch to another doctor. Regardless of any of this, I feel so sure that all of the experiences that came from my cancer battle were oddly dressed blessings from God that fit perfectly into His plan and have prepared me for new and exciting challenges to come. Thank you for reading this and for all of your support!

News Worth Sharing

Being busy with a pregnancy and finishing up another quarter of teaching and taking a vacation and concentrating most of my efforts on Dad Has A Blog, I have been a bit remiss in updating this one.

Incidentally, if you aren’t already subscribed to or otherwise following that blog, you should probably click here and fill out the subscription form to rectify that!

If you haven’t been following that blog or any of the other places where I shared the announcement, you might have missed the news that we found out our baby is going to be a girl! You can read more of my thoughts on that in this post, but also watch the video below to see how we revealed the gender to my family and some of Theresa’s family who were in town this past weekend.

Theresa and I also just returned from our babymoon to Arizona (full post on the subject coming soon to a dad blog near you!), where we had a delightful time taking in a Cubs spring training game, seeing the Grand Canyon, eating at a non-Illinois Portillo’s, hiking some scenic trails in Sedona, and just generally devouring the 75-degree weather and the ability to walk around in a t-shirt and eat meals outside. It was a fantastic way to relax and enjoy each other’s company, while also being able to talk a lot about the new person who will be joining our lives in less than five months. We even spent some time by the pool reading our respective father-and-mother-to-be books.

While in Arizona, I also had a weird health-related issue, as a lymph node in my neck swelled up right before we left for our trip. It was the same lymph node that always used to swell up whenever I got sick with a cold in my pre-Lumpy days, so I didn’t think much of it. A few days into our vacation however, a giant sore formed on my right cheek–which looked a lot like a really bad acne pimple without any kind of head–and the right side of my face swelled up to an alarming degree. I didn’t have a fever or any other symptoms, and I was just two weeks away from a completely clean CT scan, so I did my best to presume it was just something wacky and unrelated to Lumpy. The swelling started to go down after a few days and the sore scabbed over, so it just looked like a really ugly flesh wound. Very attractive.

I went to see my oncologist when we returned to Chicago on Friday, and he recommended I get yet another CT scan and put me on antibiotics. Last night I got the scan (only two attempts needed to insert the IV this time…they’re getting better!) and had a restless night of contemplating my mortality while I tried to sleep. I have to believe that some of this anxiety is caused by the presence of the baby resting comfortably in utero next to me. If I’m being honest, the specter of Lumpy is still much closer in the rearview mirror than I would like it to be, given this wonderful new development. I need to trust in God’s plan for my life and know that He won’t give me anything I can’t handle. I think I was just a little discouraged by having such a random and strange issue develop on my neck/face so soon after a supposedly clear scan. What gives?

Today I went to my oncologist to find out if anything was giving, and I am happy to report that nothing is. Yesterday’s scan was as clear as the previous scan, so the doc said this must have just been some freak infection that will continue to heal itself with the antibiotics, and said that the big reaction is probably just a sign that my immune system is still a bit compromised from the chemo–even though I’ve been done with chemo since last July.

I can’t express the relief I felt from this lack of a diagnosis, and I hope it will be enough to finally put my mind at ease for a while. I have two other people’s health to concentrate on for the next…well, forever…and I want to start fully focusing my energy on that and stop looking over my shoulder for cancer shadows. It would also be nice if random freak health-related occurrences didn’t pop up for a while…

All in all, I feel so blessed to have the clean bill of health that I do, and to be having this miracle baby with a wife I love with my whole heart. To quote the wise sage Keith Urban, “There ain’t no doubt that God’s been good to me.”

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