Over the weekend I found out my aunt’s cancer is back. It’s a blow I’ve been struggling with ever since. (And in part why I needed a restorative movie weekend to get my mind off Real Life.)
I really wish I could remember when she was first diagnosed. I want to say September 2008. I know it wasn’t terribly long after my mom passed, nor was it terribly long before I discovered mine.
My aunt (Alice Kotso is her name if you care to send love and light her way or keep her in your prayers) is a rare breed of woman. On her outside she’s as coiffed, polished as poised as they come. But inside she’s tough as nails. There’s not much that gets passed her, and not much she’s afraid of.
If anyone could beat cancer into remission, it was her. But she was always afraid her cancer treatments would affect her already existing health problems. She reluctantly agreed to chemo the first time around.
This past May they found another tumor. They operated and told her she needed chemo again. She refused. They suggested radiation at the very least. She refused again. She said she was putting it in God’s hands. She left for a three week trip to China with her husband, but instead of getting better she only got worse.
She had ovarian cancer to start with. She now has leukemia, which they suspect was caused by her initial cancer treatments. The very thing she feared most happened.
Now the cancer has now spread. They’re running tests to find out if it’s the ovarian or the leukemia that’s spread. They’ve basically said it’s definitely terminal, but there may be some kind of treatment to slow it down.
Except she doesn’t want to do it. It’s not that she wants to die exactly. As she tried to explain it, she’s 75, she’s lived both a very full and blessed life, and if it’s her time to go out she wants to go on her own terms. She already experienced the indignities and hardships chemo brings. She doesn’t want to put her body back through that. Nor does she want to be treated like a sick and dying person.
I respect that. Chemo sucked. The first two treatments weren’t too bad. The last four almost killed me. Or that’s what it felt like. Uncontrollable throwing up. Shitting myself. Having so little energy just trying to eat a couple of spoonfuls of soup used up so much energy I’d nap for three hours.
She had it even worse. She had to have a blood transfusion when her white cell count fell too low. And losing her hair was a devastating blow. She’s always been a beautiful woman who prides herself on her vanity. Suffering the indignity of her looks being totally robbed from her was much harder on her psyche than it was on someone like myself who’s never known what it’s like to have looks matter like she has.
Sunday I was pretty torn up about it. Mostly because she’s the only one who understood what I was going through. Even after I hit remission I confessed to her that I, too, feared the future. The day when I might not start feeling quite right again. Or worse, feeling just fine but on a check up visit being told “It’s back.”
She understood the anxiety that gradually starts escalating about a month or so before the next scheduled check up. She understood the mood swings and impatience with “healthy” people. (Meaning, non-cancerites.)
Better than anyone she understood me ranting about how we get this one shot at life, and, yes, you can go at any time. In a car accident, being in the wrong place at the wrong time and being done in by some wacko on a shooting spree. Or maybe just having a massive heart attack.
Those are terrible, sudden ways to go. But learning you have cancer is worse. I was so, so, so lucky to have a kind that could not only be treated, but potentially cured. I’m not fully cured though yet. I won’t reach that status for another 4 years –if I’m lucky.
Aunt Alice understood that. She was in the exact same boat. She’s now transferred to another one. One we’ve both been made painfully aware exists thanks to others sharing their cancer horror stories.
Like her good friends who lost their son after his brief battle with pancreatic cancer. He lived maybe four months after being diganosed.
Or our neighbor who just lost his brother. He’d gone to see the doctor because he was constipated. He thought he’d get an enema or something. Wrong. He, too, was diagnosed with cancer. A late stage one. He was immediately referred to hospice. Just two weeks later he succumbed.
There was also the lady at tennis. Her sister went in for fatigue. She’d been stressed, working hard. She expected the doctor to tell her she needed a break. Nope. End stage breast cancer. Three weeks later she was gone. She had just turned 37.
It can happen that fast. And when you’re confronted with that kind of death sentence, even if you get a bit of a stay like myself, it changes everything.
People often tell me having a baby changed how they viewed the world. That’s what cancer’s done for me. My aunt is just another example and reminder to myself that I’m living on borrowed time at this point. Maybe my stay will become a full fledged pardon and it won’t be cancer that takes me out.
I don’t know. All I do know is I can’t take anything for granted. Not my health, not those I love, not my passions, and most of all not my Authentic Self. My life has to honor that and be a tribute to all those who’d love to have their lives back and chance of fulfilling their heartfelt destinies restored.
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Tags: Death and dying
My thoughts and prayers are with your Aunt, Court. My brother-in-law died two years after being diagnosed with brain cancer. He had two operations a opt not to do it again. He was only 36 years old when he died. That was hard to watch and wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Take care and stay strong!
Julie, thank you so very much. Your comment is very appreciated. I am so, so, so sorry to hear about your brother-in-law. I think it’s tragic any time cancer takes anyone, regardless of age, but 36 is just too young. You certainly know what I’m talking about as I vent here! (But I’d rather no one could empathize with anyone about any of this.)
You both are in my thoughts.
Thank you very much, Jade. I know you’ve had your share of losses so you, too, can sadly empathize. I appreciate the love!
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