Welcome to the Zero Club!

What a four months it has been since my cancer diagnosis in October. What a six years it has been since I lost my job at the College.  During that time I’ve sent Anthony and Samantha off to college, I’ve made a new and wonderful life for myself at the Academy--complete with new friends, new adventures, and new challenges--and it is one which has been far happier than the one I left behind.  

The interesting thing about staring cancer in the face for a few months is how it reorients one’s thinking.  It now appears as though the worst is behind me: I have recovered rapidly; I am back at work; the surgeon believes he got all of the cancer; and with each passing day I feel more like my old self.  I have held back very little in this blog so I’ll go ahead and say it:  to my great happiness, I was able to go back to school NOT wearing Depends! I only needed them for about three days.  And today I had my first post-surgery PSA reading and the results came back “undetectable.” Meaning no evidence of cancer cells.

I joined a facebook group for survivors of prostate cancer and it has been comforting, enlightening, helpful, and sobering all at once.  So many men are so much worse off than I.  (Recently we learned about an eight-year-old boy being treated for prostate cancer!) Many brave men on that site are facing hardships and incapacitation and bleak futures.  And even as they are, they take the time to encourage and support me in my milder case.  I posted my results on there today and one of my new friends said “Welcome to the Zero Club!” That is the club that everyone on the site wants to join.  My next date will be the end of June when I go back for my six-month reading.  My PSA will then be checked every six months until January 2025, when at the ripe old age of 65 I will be pronounced cured.  (You all are invited to a party on that day!) 

There were a few dark days early on in this adventure--when my numbers looked serious and my PSA level had risen significantly in three months--when it dawned on me “I may not make it out of this alive; I may not live to see my grandchildren.”  As the news has gradually improved since then, it has given me the impetus to ask myself that Francis Schaeffer question: “How then should I live?” What are my core values? Why have I let myself bog down on lesser details and problems? If this thing had gotten me, would I be satisfied with the life I have led? How would I want to be remembered?

As a part of the poking, prodding, and questioning I went through at Roswell, they determined an estimate (assessing multiple risk and longevity factors) that if the prostate cancer could be eradicated I could expect to live another 34 years  So now that (it appears) I have been given the precious gift of being around to bug you all for another three and a half decades….what should those years look like?  How do I want to set my sails for this sweet journey I’ve been given? This new lease on life is absolutely exhilarating! 

I don’t quite have a plan in place yet, I don’t have any plans to run off and join a traveling rock band.  I don’t make enough money to buy a Corvette and head out to see the world.  And I am blessed to already love the work that I do. But I do know that I want to worry less and laugh more.  I want to spend less time stooped over endless stacks of papers and more time interacting with my students and pouring myself into them and being sure that they know I love them.  I know that I want to travel more and I want to see my friends in real life and not only in facebook pictures.  I know that it is time to let go of Houghton College: that isn’t me anymore.  I have a new and happier life now; I need to jettison the baggage I’ve been carrying around since then.

 I already felt this way before my cancer, but feel it even more urgently now. I am going to live out my life myself, not watching other people lead imaginary lives on television.  Life is far too precious to spend it sitting and staring at a screen.  And I know that I am through putting off the things I want to do.  Do them now! We never know how long we are going to get.  Not everyone gets the privilege of a second shot at life. It is like winning the lottery, only better! I am grateful to God for this reprieve and I am grateful to all of you, my dear friends, for supporting me throughout this adventure.  Love to all!

PS – After I left Roswell today, I thought “as long as I am up here, I should go up and see Niagara Falls all frozen over.” But then I started with my typical thinking “No, it is too far, too cold, crossing the border will take too long, I’ll have to pay to park. I should just go home and work on lesson plans instead.’  But then I realized I needed to act on my resolution so I turned onto 190N instead of 190S. It was a bright beautiful sunny day and when I got up there, I pulled into a little parking area to see how much it would cost and a woman beside me flagged me over and said “How long are you staying?” I said only a few minutes because it was so cold and I just wanted a quick look at the Falls.  She said “Here, take my parking pass, there is a half hour left on it and I don’t want it to go to waste!” #TimsNewLife 

The first day of the rest of my life...

Thanks so much to all of you for hanging in there while I grouse about my catheter and other humiliations.  It is kind of interesting to look back over these past four months.  I tend to think of myself as kind of a modest, private person.  Thus it has been kind of weird to have a succession of strangers coming at me with gloved fingers or with a “let’s check your catheter” “pull up your shirt so we can see your stomach” “Take everything off and put on this gown” etc… I can’t quite decide whether it feels stranger with women or with men.  When my surgeon stopped by to check on me last Tuesday morning, it turned out to be a small touring group (med students?) and I felt like a prize pig at the county fair. 

I am hoping tomorrow to go back to and in the process spare all of you--my family and friends--of my TMI theme to this blog/adventure!  I go in tomorrow morning to break up with “cathy” and also to get my pathology report back—it will evaluate both the lymph nodes and my prostate margins.  I keep trying to imagine the doctor saying “everything is all clear.” But somehow, as complicated as this whole situation has been, it is fairly hard to imagine it ending as neatly as that.   At any rate, I’ll have my answer in about five hours….

So that is how far I got in blogging last night.  Now I am back from Roswell.  The last chapter was just as  ignominious as all of the others.  “I just have to be sure I see you pee before you get dressed and see the doctor.” said the jolly little male nurse.  

The good news was the lymph nodes were entirely clear.  The margin report was not quite as worry-free.  There was a tiny tumor that had grown to the exterior surface of the prostate, thus potentially exposing the rest of my body to cancer cells.  They will check my PSA levels at six weeks and six months to get an idea whether there has been any spread.  I had mostly spoken only with Dr. Guru’s young assistant and had a hard time reading him about how worried I should be about it.

After they had brought me more prescriptions and instructions and said goodbye I gathered up my things to leave but then I found myself standing in the hallway, not quite satisfied with the results.  So I gathered up my courage and knocked on Dr. Guru’s door; he came out very graciously.  I told him I was having trouble knowing how to think about the problem at the margin.  “How worried should I be?” 

He smiled a very reassuring doctor smile and said “You should not be worried at all.  It is so tiny, it could only be seen with dye under a microscope.  I do not believe it will ever cause you any problems.  Go home and rest and relax.  I’ll see you in six weeks.” 

My sweet Samantha and I stopped for a celebratory lunch at Moe’s on the way home, which I hope will be the first step in getting my normal life back.  So that is all the news that’s fit to print, and then some.  Once again, I can’t thank you enough for all of your kindness and support and love and prayers….and even jokes. I could never have slogged through this without all of you.  Love to all!

PS - Just as I was about to post this, Samantha came running in for me to come out and see the incredible  sunset.  I snapped a quick pic for you all to enjoy also; I am interpreting it as a sign of serenity and hope from God.

A lesson in thankfulness...

So, let’s just say I’ve had better weeks. I have fooled around with writing a blog ever since I got home from the hospital. I wrote a nine-page essay but then decided in the interest of decorum I took out all passages about catheters, farting, and pooping and then it was only about three sentences long. The intense pain I felt on Monday and Tuesday went away by Thursday morning.  But still, everything is either uncomfortable or painful.  Even coughing is bad.  

Worse still, I see myself having turned into one of those dreadful old whiners who can’t seem to muster any conversational topics beyond his health and bodily functions.  I’m sure I’ve been a scintillating companion for Samantha!  I have a countdown on my computer until “Cathy” and I part ways on Thursday.  It is down from ten days to three days and sixteen hours as I am typing this. Mostly it is boring, and isolating, and uncomfortable.  And yet, I have found myself feeling challenged by something I read in The Hiding Place many years ago and never forgotten. Corrie tenBoom's sister, Betsie, urged her to be thankful in ALL circumstances, even for their flea-ridden beds in the concentration camp. At first Corrie refused, but then Betsie gently reminded her that the fleas allowed the women to have Bible studies and sing and pray together—all which would have been forbidden by the guards who stayed away for fear of getting fleas. 

So I thought to myself, can I be thankful even for this cursed friend, “Cathy, the catheter?” First of all, I need to remind myself that I am not in a concentration camp and that my kids are all healthy and well. We have a roof over our heads and enough to eat.  What a great blessing that is when I stop to consider all of the suffering and misery in the world.  Then I thought to myself, this device is not the result of a sadistic doctor or anything like that. It is being used to help cure me of cancer and to keep me from getting a nasty infection.  Then I reminded myself that it is only for ten days.  What can’t I put up with for ten days?  

Then my mind went again to all of the kind friends who have done so, so much to stand by me, help me, lift me up in prayer and help me in other tangible ways. I thought of all of the encouraging, funny, warm and loving comments I get on facebook to keep me cheered up.  We have had some lovely meals sent in and two nights ago dear Janyce and Norm Smithley arrived with treats galore and also brought a precious card from a former student, one I had not even gotten to know all that well.  He is Vietnamese and I only had him in class one year.  His English was never strong but he had a sweet spirit and was very earnest and hardworking.  The note that Janyce brought was characteristic of his careful efforts at expressing himself in English.  He told me how sorry he was to hear about my health scare and that he was praying for me.  He said “I hope this little bit of money can help with your expenses,” and inside he tucked $200! I had tears pouring down my cheeks by the time I finished reading it.

My student, in his seventeen-year-old wisdom included this precious sentiment:

“God with you, Dr. Nick! We still have hope and Jesus. We are all pray for you. I know you and God already had a plan for you.  And this period is just a piece of sand on his desert. You can do it!”  

Out of the mouths of teenagers!  So yes, thank you Lord, I am thankful for the catheter and for my students and my friends and I am ever reminded of your unending love for me.