Setback

My current hand in the game of life. (Wikimedia Commons)

I’m not talking about the setback card game my dad fondly recalled as playing with other couples over fifty years ago and talked about all the time after he arrived here in Connecticut. And signs advertising setback groups to join which I now see posted when I drive through the neighboring small towns on my way somewhere else. No, this setback is the latest in what a monstrous universe apparently thinks I am still able to take more of and my somewhere else’s are typically doctor’s appointments.  

I was cheeky about it last year when I wrote, “When a woman spends some time inviting people into the (sometimes gory) details of her life through weekly essays published online, she feels a certain responsibility to keep those people updated on the various issues and events described therein. Whether they like it or not.” This, then, is one of those updates. Buckle up.

In summary, I had a bunch of tests in the last oh, six or seven months, that showed “something.” I think “something” is the worst medical terminology I’ve ever heard. Can’t we—in 2024—be more specific about the shapes, lumps and spots that are showing up in our bodies? I’ve already written about my lumpectomies—because I had two—and naturally further treatment was required. What I thought I’d be getting is not what was recommended, however, so I’ll be taking tamoxifen instead of radiation. Fine, I thought. I’ll do that.

Meanwhile, one of the other tests also showed “something” and my GYN recommended an oophorectomy—removal of the ovaries. It was one-day surgery, a short recovery time and I had already started joking that Willie Wonka was going to be my surgeon. In addition, I thought, no tamoxifen, since I wouldn’t need an anti-estrogen drug once my ovaries were gone. Right?

Nope.

Turns out that those babies weren’t producing much estrogen anyway so I’d still have to take the meds and, plot twist, there is a slight chance of uterine cancer with them. The oncologist recommended a hysterectomy, my GYN concurred, so my amusing oophorectomy has turned into full blown major surgical intervention requiring a hospital stay and about 6-8 weeks of recovery. (I told you to buckle up—which I guess I’ll be doing as well.)

At some point in writing about all this…stuff: Annie’s cancer, my cancer, her death, my grief, it occurred to me—why am I doing this? Who wants to read any of it? It’s all so depressing and sad. I’ve always said to myself, "If it helps just one other person..." but, honestly…does it?

My first role model: Dad in front of the library he helped get built in North Sarasota, FL.

Helping others has pretty much been my mantra for as long as I can remember. I was raised in a family that gave to others--in the form of agreeing to be scout leaders, serving at church, volunteering for libraries, homeless shelters and social issues committees. We invited kids from the orphanage to share our Easter Sundays, we hosted missionaries in our home and even stray animals weren't safe from our outreach--my mom found a turtle in the street one time and took it in to rehabilitate it, even though she wasn’t a huge animal lover.

Helping others was the goal Annie and I had when we wrote our articles together about her/our journey with cancer--we thought it might be helpful to others to be a part of our conversation.

Cancer on Trial

 But why help others? They didn't ask for it. Why is that my goal, my purpose? Who am I? Mother Theresa? Definitely not--why do I care what others take or don't take from my work? 

And what I keep coming back to is that—for whatever reason—when someone tells me that something I wrote made them feel better, it makes me feel better. A little spark opens up in my heart. My world is currently full of pain and challenges and grief and sorrow. I've learned that the Pollyanna outlook I've had--that I inherited—isn't true. It doesn’t matter if you try to be a “good person”—good things don’t always happen to such folk. Bad things happen to good people, too. We are all subject to the vagaries and traumas of life. 

So when even one person says, “what you wrote made a difference” I feel like that’s part of the good in life. I want to be part of the good in life, because if I am part of it, then maybe I can access it, too. Reaching across pain to share a feeling is a tiny connection. Connection keeps us going, even in the hard places. If my writing about our relentless challenges reaches just one other person, then I guess I’ll keep at it.

It’s not a setback, it’s a way forward.