All those questions I have non stop in my head. Last night I found the perfect article that sums it up a little bit. I know with this storm it will pass because God has brought me through so much. I still need prayer dealing with certain things. November 8th I have a CT scan, and appreciate all prayers!
Here is the article I found:
James Curry says the psychological stress of being a cancer patient set in after his treatments stopped.
STORY HIGHLIGHTS
- James Curry was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma in 2011
- He undergoes a battery of tests each month to see whether the cancer has returned
- The process causes him mental anguish, he says
- But he acknowledges it's a small price to pay for staying alive
Editor's note: James Curry is a producer for CNN International.
(CNN) -- In January of 2011, at 25, I was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. I went through four months of chemotherapy and eight weeks of radiation.
As of this writing, one
and half years later, I'm happy to be in remission, but many people
think that is where the battle ends. For me, that's where the real fight
began.
After all of the
procedures were over and my hair finally grew back, the physical side of
being a cancer patient was behind me. There was some relief in knowing
that I'd no longer have to spend hours over the toilet vomiting
partially digested Jell-O because that was the only semi-solid food my
body would tolerate.
It was also refreshing to
know that my appearance was slowly morphing from a powdery white,
emaciated, bald, albino-looking bag of bones to a somewhat normal and
healthy 25-year-old guy. But shortly after the treatment stopped, the
psychological stress of being a cancer patient set in.
Every month, since my
last day of radiation, I go to my doctor for a battery of tests designed
to determine whether my cancer has come back and whether the treatment
caused any residual side effects. It's a seven-day process that causes
more mental anguish than any single person deserves.
The week begins with
blood tests and scans. Then, I go home and wait seven days for the
doctor to tell me whether I'm still in remission.
James Curry during his cancer treatment.
The period in between the
tests and the results is the worst. Every time my phone rings, my heart
sinks. I wonder if it's my oncologist calling to deliver bad news.
My mind spends a lot of
time analyzing the "what if" scenarios. What if it comes back? Will I go
through the treatment again? What if the chemotherapy and radiation
caused some other form of cancer or did it cause a genetic mutation
that's going to force me to be isolated from the human population and
live in a clean room forever? I try to run every possibility through my
head. That way, I'm be prepared for whatever news I'm given.
On the seventh day, I
drive myself back to the cancer center, check in and wait for about two
hours for my 15-minute appointment. (My doctor has a problem with
punctuality.)
James Curry in the hospital in February 2011.
In the waiting room, I sit with many
other cancer patients. Some wear surgical masks to protect them from
germs, while others are in wheelchairs. Their situations seem far worse
than mine was, so I don't complain.
After reading 16
magazines cover-to-cover, mostly about how to prevent cancer, and
several rounds of counting the floor tiles, the nurse calls my name. My
heart, once again, sinks because I know I'm about to learn my fate. I
try to play it cool and act calm, but after she takes my vital signs, my
cover is blown.
"Are you nervous, Mr. Curry? Don't be nervous," she says. That's easy for her to say.
She then peels the
Velcro cuff off my arm and walks me to the examination room where I wait
for the doctor. A few minutes later, he knocks on the door and then
enters the room. He's usually carrying an iPad and some papers.
"Good news, Mr. Curry," he says. "The tests show no evidence of disease."
A sense of relief comes over me and my sphincter muscles loosen.
Before I leave, the
doctor hands me the paper with the test results. I treat it like a
trophy or diploma. I never fold the document, and I save all of them.
Before leaving, I make
another appointment for next month, so I can then start the same process
all over again. They tell me I'll have to do this for the next five
years.
In between appointments,
any cough, ache or pain forces me to wonder whether it's cancer growing
in my body. As a cancer survivor, it's something I can't help but think
of.
As time goes on, I'm
getting better at managing the stress. The monthly exams are a small
price to pay for staying alive. Some aren't so lucky.
