In Her Own Words

     When the clock spoke seven I was on my feet getting ready to go for my routine MRI at Ruby Memorial. But can an MRI ever be routine? It’s a pretty serious test. It one day might just tell me if I will live or die.

     It was the morning of June 18th. The temps promised a humid and hot day ahead. My sister, Lisa, who was taking me, didn’t want to leave until eight o’clock. My first appointment was at nine thirty. I knew we’d not make it.

I was having minor eye surgery on the 28 and had to meet the pre op people who would be putting me into the twilight sleep. It took an hour answering the same health questions over and over. But since I was late for this one, I arrived at my next one late also. 

     It was my “normal” IV and blood work visit. Except there’s no such thing as a normal blood test in my life these days. I was only punched four times to get a little blood and an IV in for my MRI. I guess it could have been worse.

     With tears in my eyes from the frustration of the needles, I was told at the x/ray desk that someone else had been taken in before me since I was late.

     All this time running from one building to another I was a mess inside. It was funny; I hadn’t felt any nerves until I started answering the pre op nurse’s question.

     “You have CNS Lymphoma right?”

     The familiar trickle of sickening unease settled in with this question. After twenty-six chemo treatments and my scan one month before showed only scarring and an empty shell, I didn’t think about having CNS anymore. But in the back of my mind and at the depth of my soul I knew I had it and would always have it. And in all honesty, it will most likely cause my death someday.

     “Rebecca Conrad?” came the MRI technician’s voice.

     Lisa led me to the room and the nurse took me to the table. “I know you’ve had this before, Becky. But any questions?”

     “None.” I laid back and got comfortable. The test would last about forty minutes. 

     The scan might have been relaxing if my mind wasn’t on what the machine was seeing. Cancer or not? Tumor or empty shell? 

     It was a couple hours later and all the tests were done and all appointments except the one with Dr. Craig. He was late and I was ready to jump out of my skin. Why were doctors always late when they had something so important to say?

     “Here he is,” Lisa said.

     “The scan was clear,” Dr. Craig said.

     “That’s great news,” Lisa said

    “You’re beautiful today Becky.”
     I wore a new red dress my friend had bought me the weekend before. It was a daring outfit and I felt daring towards my future. Or was it daring against the cancer. I felt I had to prove that I had a positive outlook. If for no one else for myself.

     “Thanks,” I told him. I loved Dr. Michael Craig. Everything we’d been through with this deadly cancer, I felt he was family.  He was the most gentle and caring person I’d ever met. He seemed more my best friend than my oncologist.  Without his encouragement I doubt that I’d ever made it through the nightmare of chemotherapy.

     My examination with him was over. My blood was perfect and the scan hadn’t changed. We’d got to our feet and was ready to go when he said, I need to tell you something.”

          The sudden tenseness in his voice chilled me. My mind searched through what we’d just talked about. I’m okay for now and he’d wanted the next scan done in two months. I kind of thought that it was too soon but said nothing.

     Becky, Chuck died about three weeks ago. I’m sorry.”

     My mind went blank for a moment. Chuck? Then a knife turned in my gut. “Chuck Died?” I asked in confusion. “How?” I asked softly.  No way. Not Chuck. He seemed so healthy and the most positive person I’d ever met. Chuck dead, it just wasn’t real. He should have been in remission, not dead.

     “You know his last chemo was in the middle of April?”

     “I know. I was there for my fifth one at the same time.” I shook my head in denial.” He was doing great. He had no doubt that he’d be in remission.”

     After a moment of silence Dr. Craig said, “I felt so good about both your recoveries. You both were young and healthy and had a good chance of survival. But Chuck’s cancer came back as soon as the chemo was stopped. It grew so rapidly we couldn’t slow it. He started seizing. Nothing we tried helped.  He died.” I heard and felt Dr. Craig’s loss as much as my own. To him I’m sure he felt he failed Chuck. To me, it was a terrifying reality. I just might die too. It could’ve been me.

    I’d been diagnosed with a brain tumor on January 1 and was in the hospital getting my first chemo treatment, when Dr. Craig introduced Chuck and I. It was chuck’s second chemo. We both had CNS Lymphoma and we were taking the very same series of chemo treatments. My forty-fifth birthday had just been a few days before, the third of January. Chuck would be forty-five on the thirteenth. I was only ten days older than him.

     After our first conversation, I had no doubt if only one of us conquered the fifty percent chance of living it would be Chuck. While I lay in bed to sick to do anything, he ran up and down the halls laughing and telling jokes. Mom kept remarking on how healthy he looked and acted.

     His story was a little different than mine. He’d started having seizures in late November and had gotten misdiagnosed three times. Before Christmas he was put into a Wheeling hospital for a bad seizure. When he was finally brought to Ruby, he was in a coma. A neurologist had put a shunt into his brain supposedly for cancer treatments straight to the tumor. Chuck had developed an infection with the shunt and was close to death. After sixteen days in a coma Dr. Craig was thrilled by the miracle. Chuck woke and seemed none the worse for wear. All through his treatments he’d not had a seizure.

     So, a friendship began between two forty five year old people, one a man and the other a woman. We shared the same deadly cancer. CNS (central nervous system) Lymphoma is a rare cancerous brain tumor that only one percent of people get. Our chances were fifty/fifty.

     When I first met Chuck, he was kind of slow answering questions. Which now I know was the chemo. But in time his mind was clear. We talked about family, but we always came back to the cancer. Our side effects from the chemo weren’t the same. Chuck had few. He was ready for the treatments to be over, so he could start living. The extreme chemo we were on and the long hospital stays is not living. It was good to have someone to go through this horrible ordeal with.

     Chuck lived only about six weeks after his last chemo. I remember that hospital visit. He popped in and out of my room always upbeat and cheerful. He was always confident of his beating the CNS and being a survivor.

     The news of my scan being clear was shadowed by Chuck’s death. It brought my insecurities crashing over me once again. Can I ever let go and live like an ordinary person? Right now, I can’t see farther than my next scan. It seems impossible to plan ahead even to Christmas. I’m on edge watching for any symptoms of the tumor’s return. Chuck taught me a valuable lesson. Cherish each and every minute of your life. Before being diagnosed I’d thought I was healthy and had my life in front of me. But the deadly thing about CNS, it can grow so fast, within a couple months. The symptoms don’t start showing up until it’s almost too late.

     Chuck and I had fifty/fifty chance to live. People say I’m the lucky one. But his death has brought home just how fragile life is. If a person has to live every day wondering if it will be their last, what does the word survivor mean? I’ve never been told I’m in remission. So I feel there’s no cure to this horrible disease. Maybe lots of prayers and extremely good luck will give me a chance. Love, Becky