From Bad To Worse

I’m 25 years old and I have just been told by my doctor that I will probably not live to see age 30.

He gave me about two years.

Well, you can imagine all of the emotions that I was feeling at that moment.

I immediately started to tear up, especially thinking of all of the events that I will never get to see.

If I have children, I will not see them grow up, learn to drive a car, go to college or get married.

I would not be to sit in my rocker on my front porch next to my husband who’s rocking in his own chair. Heck, we won’t even have a 50^th wedding anniversary.

Evidently back at the first hospital where I was admitted, the doctors told my family and I since the cancer spread to the liver, the disease was incurable. But for the life of me, I can’t remember him telling me this. Maybe I was on too many medications, maybe I was still wrapping my mind around the cancer-idea, or maybe I just didn’t want to hear it.

After my aunt and I spoke with the doctor, we were moved to the oncology treatment center for my first regular chemotherapy visit. All the while, my eyes were red with tears and I was trying not to think of the life that I will never have.

As I sat down in a recliner surrounded by other cancer patients, I was avoiding making eye contact with others, not because I was embarrassed of my young age or that I was crying like a baby. I was trying not to focus on what was said earlier, which would have made me cry even more.

A woman sitting next to me quietly asked what type of cancer I had. My aunt had to answer for me: “Colorectal cancer.”

The woman had the same type, only in Stage III, whereas I’m in Stage IV. Another gentleman sitting across the aisle also had the same type.

The man tried to comfort us by telling how the doctors gave him a few days and this was a year ago.

I talked with these folks for more than an hour and our discussion made me feel a little bit better about my disease.

Basically, the doctors give an estimate, but there may be more or less time.

But despite this knowledge, it doesn’t make dealing with cancer any easier. I may not be able to see my little cousins graduate from high school and proceed to college.

But in the words of Monty Python in the film “The Life of Brian:” “Always look on the bright side of life.”

I’m able to prioritize what needs to be done before I go – set up a will, see if my fiancé and I want to get married and sell my condo.

I can also spend as much time now being the best niece, cousin, fiancé and friend that I can be.

Also after my chemotherapy and radiation, I can choose whether to travel around the United States or go to Greece and touch the Acropolis or the Parthenon.

While it is still hard to think of life ending by the age of 30, I want to take the time that I have to make the best of life. I will not just sit, mope and give up.

I will continue to take my treatment and pray to God that it will give me three years instead of two.

The benefits of knowing how much time you have: I don’t have to register to vote again and I probably won’t be alive to see gasoline at $10 per gallon.

A Shock Of My Life

“Jamie, I’m sorry,” the doctor silently said. “But you have cancer.”

My uncles, who were standing on both sides of my hospital gurney, immediately held my hand and just starred at me.

At once, our minds flashbacked when my grandmother and their mother died of cancer two years ago.

My uncles leaned over, held me and cried even more. For 10 minutes, we stayed this way, while the nurses in the laboratory let us deal with this shocking news.

Even looking at the pictures from the colonoscopy, it still didn’t sink in. It all felt very surreal.

Life was going great and then all of a sudden, this huge wrench just got thrown in front of my path.

My life was going on the right track – I just began a new reporting position, I graduated from college and my boyfriend and I were starting to look for a house for ourselves.

Alone in my hospital room, I realized that this was real, although I still didn’t, or couldn’t, grasp the entirety of the disease. My grandmother died of rectal cancer, but she was 70.

I’m 24 years old, so I should come out of this ordeal fine. By the end of the summer, I should be normal again and ready to dive into the swimming pool before autumn arrives.

However, due to complications with the initial surgery, my expected recovery will take a couple of extra months.

In an ongoing column series, I will share my experiences and struggles with rectal cancer. I will also explore different aspects of the disease and any progress from the medical field of either preventing or eradicating this cancer.

The Elk Grove Citizen will also have a special place in its online forum section for readers’ own survival stories. To submit a story, visit www.egcitizen.com.

So look in the next issue for my next column where the news goes from bad to slightly worse.

If you have any questions or suggestions for upcoming stories for this cancer series, contact Jamie Gonzales at gonzales.egcitizen@gmail.com.