No Donor Exchange (yet)

The rules are, wait one year after the transplant and then a request can be sent to the transplant donor to exchange names.  I filled out the form on November 9th, making the request and I received the answer just the other day.  It said that the clinic where the donor gave the transplant has a different policy.  They require a two year waiting period before names can be exchanged.

This was disappointing to say the least.  After waiting an entire year, I was anxious to learn something about my donor.  Since all of my blood and bone marrow came from him, it seems like we have a personal connection.  But now, I'll have to wait another year.  They did throw me a bone in another way though.  They said I can write an anonymous letter to the donor.  I'll be working on that next.

Beside the obvious "Thank you saving my life" kind of letter, I'll try to come up with something.  Any ideas?

Two Years

Yesterday was a significant day.  It was exactly two years after finding out that I had cancer.  The doctor told me to get my affairs in order, that I had between one to three years left.  Just one year was probable.

Remembering the visit to the doctor and the following two years brings back so many good and bad memories.  But two vivid thoughts dominate my dreams, both day and night.  One is that time flies.  I remember that doctor visit like it was yesterday.  It was devastating news that would change my life in so many ways.  There was tremendous pain and sickness, there was soul searching and in the weakest of times, I questioned the value of life itself.  But after two years, I know I'm a better person for having gone through it.

The other overwhelming memory is about a huge battle, a fight that had more peeks and valleys than I could count.  It was much more than a fight for survival.  It was a day to day vow to defeat the constant and ever changing aches and pains and sickness.  When my body begged to stay down, I would get up.  When my legs became weak, I would try to walk.  When I felt miserable and depressed, I would write a humorous blog.  

I viewed every ounce of pain and every sickness as the work of my greatest enemy, cancer.  Most problems were caused by reactions to drugs but all of the drugs taken were due to cancer.  I thought of cancer as an evil entity who wanted me to hurt, wanted me to be sick and eventually wanted me dead.  I felt a need to show the disease that it's my body and soul.  If it were to eventually win, it wouldn't be easy.  I would resist every step of the way.

Reacting to cancer in this way may not have extended my life, it may not have even contributed to my relatively current good health.  It certainly wasn't the bravest approach nor was it a sign of any perceived toughness.  Reacting with a purposeful resistance was simply my way to get through each day without feeling defeated.  For the past two years and even to this day, I can sleep at night knowing that I did whatever I could to beat my greatest enemy.  

Don't be afraid

"Please don't be afraid of me."  That's a message that I heard from fellow cancer patients when they would display obvious signs of treatment.  Usually, women with scarves or anyone who looks weak, frail and bald are marked as a cancer patient and treated with sympathy as people would pretend to not notice that they are sick.  I can't speak from personal experience.  I was bald from chemo for a few months but I was bloated rather than frail and the sight of a bald man usually isn't a sign of cancer.

The usual reaction to a stranger meeting a cancer patient is avoidance, then an ultra polite and uncomfortable correspondence.  There is nothing wrong with asking, "How are you feeling?" or asking bluntly, "Are you a cancer patient?  My Uncle went through cancer treatment and he's doing great now."  You may be surprised.  Many cancer patients enjoy talking about their sickness.  Many more appreciate the honesty it takes to admit that you noticed the obvious. 

Worried Man Blues

It was two years ago on December 16 when a doctor told me to get my affairs in order.  He said I had one to three years left to live with three years being unlikely.  Knowing or believing that I was dying and that death would be relatively soon may have been the greatest lesson of my life.  As it turns out, that doctor was wrong.  Since then, I've notice that some of us look for things to worry about.  Many of those worries are for things that never happen.

Even with a diagnosis of death by an experienced doctor, my worrying was for nothing.  He gave his prognosis with certainty and conviction, yet he was wrong.  I heard someone say that worrying is suffering twice.  If it's just suffering once, there wasn't anything to worry about.

For the past two years, I've been told about dozens of possible health risks, many of them extremely serious, some of them fatal.  I weigh the options and make a decision to take a drug or treatment but I no longer worry.  It just isn't worth it.