The Patient Person for Feb. 17

• By LAURIE SMITH ANDERSON
• Advocate staff writer
• Published: Feb 17, 2006

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My gynecologist waited for me to open my eyes in the recovery room.

“Laurie, I’m sorry. It’s cancer.”

“No!” I wanted to scream as I laid in mute disbelief. It was supposed to be a benign cyst.

Her hand rested on my arm as she sat with me. She had already informed my family, patiently answering every question, accepting their shock and grief.

Hearing the chilling words, “it’s cancer,” has become one of the great fears in our society. Statistically, it’s undeniable that many who read this column will hear those words applied to themselves or loved ones.

Those who “do everything right” may reduce their risk but are not immune. Thoughtful choices, such as selecting a skilled and compassionate physician and getting regular checkups, can help ease the fears that accompany the words, “it’s cancer.”

Between them, my parents have been diagnosed with three cancers. I always suspected I had the genes to make me susceptible. Now, I realize that I also have the genes to survive cancer. My mom beat breast cancer 20 years ago; and, against the odds, my dad survived both prostate and esophageal cancer. They are an inspiration. But I wasn’t thinking about that when I got my diagnosis.

If I ever got cancer, I thought it would be breast cancer. Both my mom and her sister have fought it. I would probably get it later in life and catch it at an early stage, when it would be curable. I get my annual mammograms, believing that anyone who has a family history of cancer should be particularly diligent about following screening guidelines.

I wasn’t supposed to get colon cancer, especially not at the age of 51. Still, there I was — diagnosed with ovarian cancer that was later determined to be late-stage colon cancer that had spread to the ovary. My cancer is considered “treatable, but not curable,” according to my oncologist, who I chose for his knowledge, skill and optimism.

Avastin, a monoclonal antibody that targets cancer cells, had just been approved to treat colon cancer. My oncologist prescribed Avastin, along with three chemotherapy drugs, in a protocol treatment plan designed to improve my prognosis.

I don’t remember much about those first days recovering from surgery. In pain physically, I felt mostly numb, concerned more about the feelings of my husband, children and family members.

When my diagnosis changed from ovarian to colon cancer, I cried in my sister’s arms. Even though the prognosis was better, I was confused and completely overwhelmed. I realized that medicine is an inexact science and that a diagnosis can change, based on new information, and prognosis can change based on new treatments. Sometimes there just aren’t any certain answers. Most cancer patients I have interviewed go through a roller coaster of emotions as new test results and other information come in.

I shed more tears upon my return home. My husband and I had frank discussions about our fears, hopes and the future. Expressing feelings is a vital part of successfully coping with cancer. My grown children came home from Florida and Ohio to be with me. Their visits were both wonderful and hard because I wanted to tell them everything would be all right, but I couldn’t make that promise.