Lung Cancer Guilt is Garbage | Mar 1 2024

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Garbage Cat

Now that my cat has knocked half of my desk contents onto the floor, I can begin. <sigh> I remind myself that “Pets can be a great source of emotional comfort for people undergoing treatment for cancer. In addition to the simple joy their presence brings, studies have shown that petting dogs and cats releases ‘feel good’ hormones in humans, such as serotonin, prolactin and oxytocin.” Perhaps enough to counter homicidal urges….

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Guilt? Guilt?!

There’s been quiet activity in Cancer Land, with a couple of everyday incidents sparking my startled response. I participate in two studies involving lung cancer survivors. One, Project PEER, is run by Lungevity, which describes itself as “transforming how people are diagnosed and live with lung cancer through research, education, and support.” With Project PEER, Lungevity hopes to “understand the lung cancer patient experience, irrespective of diagnosis (stage/histology), outside of the clinical trial setting.”

The other, The Lung Cancer Registry, is run by GO2. GO2 describes itself as “the ‘go-to’ for screening, treatment, and survivorship support, and finding the best care close to home.” Its Lung Cancer Registry collects data from survivors as part of their effort to “inspire research innovations and transform survival.”

One of the recent surveys asked whether we feel or have felt guilt since the last time we completed the survey. “Guilt?” I remember thinking. “Why would I feel guilt?”

As I puzzled over this question, someone in my cancer group shared she had developed multiple metastases in her brain. As in, dozens. The miracle medicine she’d been taking– the same one as I take– had obviously stopped working. She was scrambling to figure out her next steps– there’s not much other treatment out there that penetrates the blood-brain barrier.

She’s young, with a high school kid and another in college. I was taking out the garbage in the cold Pacific Northwest rain when I stopped mid-deposit. (Did I mention the cold rain?) Why was my lung cancer stable when hers wasn’t? Why her and not me? My brain flashed to the survey. This is guilt, I realized. The rain continued. I lowered the trash bin and stood under the sudden heat of dozens of complicated feelings.

It was nothing I’d done or thought or believed. It was not that I had some special gift to offer the world. It wasn’t a matter of deserving. It was, it is, pure and simple, the result of the lung cancer crap shoot. For whatever reason, this time, the dice rolled for me and against her.

You can know something in your mind and not in your heart. She’s on my mind and in my heart these days. And there’s nothing I can do except stand with her, pray for strength for her and her family, and hope that she gets more time. Me? No matter what my mind knows, no matter how grateful I feel for this life I have, I’m just observing the slow stain of guilt….

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Dr. Oncology Doesn’t Get it

A couple of weeks ago, my church sponsored a weekend with John Philip Newel, an internationally known scholar, former minister, and practitioner of Celtic spirituality. (Of course, the inevitable memory blip occurred, and you know what I ended up calling him from then on.) In the dearth of medical emergencies revolving around me, Dr. Oncology and I have been talking spirituality. I mentioned Newell’s book, Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul, and she offered Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom, by philosopher-poet and priest, John O’Donohue. I mentioned the Newel event and she was very interested. So, who should I see charging toward me at the reception after the opening talk?

Dressed stylishly– white wool coat, crimson scarf, matching lipstick– she offered a big hug. Standing close to her, I noticed, for the first time, older skin hidden under light foundation. And then, the force of her personality emerged. I was not attending the workshop the following day. She wondered why. “My cancer group meets,” I said. “It will meet again,” she said. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” When I explained that I was supporting the organizer/facilitator, she flicked her hand. “You can get someone to cover for you,” she said. “They’ll be there next month,” she observed. And how do you know that? I found myself thinking. I also found myself taking a step back, a little unnerved by her strength. I suddenly understood how she’d gotten through the academic and medical training she’d had. I noted that this new perception might add an interesting dynamic in the event my lung cancer became active again.

I made my excuses, but I was unnerved. Should I show up the next day? That thought lasted about 25 seconds. No. First of all, I wasn’t particularly interested. And second, my group is my tribe. They anchor me as I pursue my life outside of lung cancer. As I said to someone, “Well, she may treat lung cancer, but it’s clear she doesn’t have it.”

My quarterly scans are two weeks away. I’m very curious about the office visit that will follow.

Almost finally, after Dr. Radiology’s question about extending my next Brain MRI to a year instead of six months, I noticed an appointment for an MRI has appeared on my calendar about 6 months from now. I guess she heard me.

Finally, here’s the latest from Frosting School. It’s a buttercream transfer, where I trace a design onto parchment paper with icing and then flip it onto the top of the cake. This one makes me so happy.

Thanks for reading. Here’s hoping you’ll touch base with your people– your tribe– in the coming weeks. Perhaps with cake?

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