Tragedy's Gift: Surviving Cancer (4 page)

In a few days, I received a call informing me that I had gotten the part. That was exactly what I needed to put my illness and feelings of frailty behind me. I thought that this would be the beginning of a new and healthier me and that I would get this “performance bug” out of my system in enough time to go to college in the fall.

After days of rehearsals, I was struggling to keep up with the rest of the cast, but I was determined to make this work. The first Show was
South Pacific
, which required my character to have a military look. The director wanted me to cut my hair, which at that time was down the middle of my back. I told him that I didn’t want to because I was going to be a singer and short hair was not my image. He laughed and called me a, “nobody that doesn’t have an image.” I knew right then and there that I was in the professional arena. I cut my hair! The very next play was Oliver! I needed long hair for that role and ended up having to wear a wig. Who said showbiz was easy?

The effort to keep up the grueling show schedule proved difficult for me. We performed one show at night and rehearsed for the next show during the day. I was doing my best to hide my fatigue. The schedule was draining every ounce of energy I had. I was required to do a fight scene in
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
with
Days of Our Lives
soap opera star Peter Reckell. I was very excited to be working with a television star. Everything was going so well, I was doing what I loved to do, I was gaining recognition for my work and I was happy. However, during rehearsals I just couldn’t handle the physical strain and collapsed on stage! The director was very concerned for me, but his shows needed to go on. He had no choice but to let me go. Although he made sincere and genuine apologies, I was devastated. I felt alive on stage and letting go of this opportunity killed my spirit. I needed to find answers.

Kasey’s parents were so concerned about my failing health that they insisted that I see an acupuncturist that they had visited. During one of my treatments, as the acupuncturist started to put the tiny needle into my left leg, it shot across the room and hit the wall. He ordered me to see my doctors and explain his findings to them. Still I received no diagnosis or help. It was just business as usual for the medical industry.

By this time, the physical pain was unbearable. I would lay awake without sleeping for days on end. My mother would spend hours sitting by me trying to comfort my weak body. I couldn’t eat, sleep or think. I was consumed with sickness and pain. Every inch of my body and every corner of my mind were preoccupied with wondering what was wrong with me. I knew that an old sports injury could not cause this downhill spiral I was experiencing. Once again I went to the hospital seeking answers.

After another emergency room visit, I was given a prescription pain reliever to help me get some rest. We returned home in the middle of the night and my dad put me to bed.

The next morning Kasey came over to visit, and as she entered my room she found me there unable to breathe, hanging on to life by a thin thread. I was literally fighting for every lungful of air as though it would be my last. I was dying.

She screamed for my parents and the scene that ensued was one of the most terrifying memories of my life. I could hear the commotion, the yelling, the sirens getting louder as the paramedics drew closer to the house. I could feel the panic, but I was helpless. I saw neighbors gathering outside in the street as they wheeled me to the ambulance. I was given oxygen, and could hear the EMTs talking about my vital signs. This was the first time I ever saw fear in my father’s face. I could see in his expression that something was seriously wrong. I knew that my fear was the worst I had ever felt. I sensed the life that I was barely holding on to fighting to leave my body. My fear was immeasurable. They were bringing me back to the same hospital I had visited just hours before.

When I reached the emergency room it was chaos. My parents were in a state of horror. Kasey and her mom got there before I did. Kasey was sure that I had died in my bedroom. She was inconsolable.

Although I had been to this same emergency room many times, most recently just hours before, everything was different now. I was being admitted for blood tests, X-rays, and an MRI. Finally, while I was at death’s door, everything I was complaining about for three years was being taken seriously.

After being admitted, I was met by two doctors. They both had a startling fear on their faces. I knew that falling back on the sports injury diagnosis was no longer an option. I was not prepared for the discussions that came next.

That day I became an official adult. The doctors no longer wanted to explain things to my parents. My diagnosis was not going to be buffered by the smiles and hugs of my Mom and Dad. It was a straightforward discussion about a bone cancer called Ewing’s Sarcoma, tumors, leg amputation and signing papers. I was now being probed and stuck with Intra-venous needles and given unknown medications. There were no choices. My leg had a tumor. If I didn’t agree to have it amputated I would surely die. I couldn’t comprehend my situation. How could life get any worse? How could I escape this overwhelming panic that consumed me?

As the test results slowly trickled in, my diagnosis changed. I no longer just had cancer in my leg; they had also found a spot on one of my lungs. My oncologists looked directly into my eyes and told me that amputation was no longer an option. My odds of survival had dropped dramatically. My doctors’ hope and positive attitudes seemed to disappear. They feared that there wasn’t much they could do, but assured me that they would keep me comfortable in any event.

The cancer was too far along; there were no proven drugs to keep me alive. Once again as an adult, it was suggested that I spend my last few months of life at home with my family.

That day was chaotic. I remember people yelling in the hospital hallway. I could see my mother trying to hide her grief. My dad never left my side. This news was more than Kasey could bear. She was in shock. The faces of the people who entered my room spoke volumes. I felt horrible for them because there was nothing anyone could say. No words could make things better; no amount of tears could cry this monster away. I was living on borrowed time.

The next day, I don’t know exactly how or why, but when the oncologist returned to my room, he asked if I wanted to try an experimental treatment. He had a thick stack of papers with him for me to read over before I needed to make a decision. I immediately flipped to the back page, asked for his pen and signed the release. Why read about possible side effects or life endangering episodes? I had no reason not to try. At that moment I knew the true meaning of the adage, “Nothing to lose.”

Radiation and Chemotherapy

Here I was only a few weeks after being told that I had cancer in my leg and lungs and my doctor had me lying totally nude on a cold treatment table with ten to fifteen medical students staring at me. I didn’t know what was worse, the emotional devastation of the illness or the humility of the treatment. I had to endure getting tiny tattoos on my body where the radiation would be administered. They needed to make a body cast of my entire body so the radiation lined up exactly the same every time for the next three months. I was eighteen years old and extremely modest about my body. I was mortified that no one gave me the consideration to help me feel less embarrassed.

I was in an emotional upheaval from my diagnosis and the added mortification was unbearable. The preparation for the treatment and having male and female students seeing every part of me was worse than the radiation.

Because I was receiving chemo at the same time, I was transported daily by ambulance to the hospital for my daily dose of naked degradation.

There really aren’t a whole lot of words to describe chemotherapy. Just the mention of the treatment gives the average person a feeling of terror. Now imagine that terror magnified by one thousand times and that was what this 18-year-old boy lying in a hospital bed was feeling. Everything I had ever heard or seen on TV about chemo was a horror story - throwing up, going bald and lying in a bed weak and pale. I was in a state of panic. The previous two days were like a sad, disturbing movie and I couldn’t change the channel. There was nowhere for me to turn. The darkness couldn’t envelop me; the daylight didn’t change the truth. If I was stronger I would have tried to run and if I was weaker I would have tried to die, but I was caught in the middle, consumed by fear and disbelief.

The first few weeks of my treatment were very surreal. Most of it was very confusing; it kept me in a haze. I was grateful for that. The expressions on the faces of my friends and family who came to visit were something I could hardly bear. I was happy to see them, but we were left with so little to say. As far as we were concerned, this was probably the last time we would see each other this side of Heaven. What could they say to someone who was helpless and dying? What could I say to someone who was helpless and living? It was the vulnerability all the way around that left the deepest scars. Saying goodbye to friends who were headed of to college or pursuing other plans in their lives was very difficult. While saying goodbye to my friend Jason I can remember wondering if this was, “Goodbye, I’ll see you soon,” or was this, “Goodbye, see you in the after life.” These were some very trying conversations, particularly in my weak state.

My sister Mary rushed to California from her home in Arizona. My sister Lisa and her family were already with me because her six-year-old daughter was fighting cancer, too. My older brother Richard was on a mission for the church, so it took him a little while to get home. My other brother Greg came home from college and Larry and Ron, who lived close by, all made it to my bedside to love and support me.

I think the person I felt worst for was Genni, my baby sister. When my treatments began, the entire family suffered from my cancer. There were no more daily routines, family dinners, school programs or sporting events. Every day was about throwing up, high fevers, low immune systems and sadness. When Genni would go to school, she was bombarded with questions from my friends who were in her class. The questions were always about how I was holding up, not about how she was feeling or what she was going through. She took a back seat to Kasey, who received a lot of attention because she was my long-suffering girl friend.

That year, my parents and siblings forgot Genni’s birthday. It broke my heart when I found out she went through those things and she never complained one time. It gave me an unbreakable bond with her that we will share forever.

After a few months of my chemo, I could see the effects this lifestyle was having on Kasey. She was faithful to visit me. She always smiled while we were together, and she kept up a wonderful front. Inside I could tell she was as emotionally drained as the rest of us. I had to make a very tough decision about our future. We shared a special bond that I would never forget, but the unspoken truth was that she needed to stop coming to visit me and to start getting on with her life. She was still in high school, and had so many memories to make and fun things to experience. I didn’t want the memories of her senior year to consist of bedpans, IV drips and constant worry.

All of the lessons about doing the right thing that my parents had instilled in me when I was younger were being tested. I wanted to choose to keep her heart safe, even though it meant my own would break. It was horrible enough for one teenager to live through this nightmare. Why should two kids be dragged into adulthood before it was time?

Although Kasey outwardly fought me on my decision, I knew deep down she was feeling the same things I was. How could she continue to keep up the schedule and emotional turmoil of a boyfriend with cancer? Her schoolwork and social life had suffered. She looked tired, and although she never said it, it was time for her to start living again.

Our break up actually made us closer friends. I never really stopped loving her and she never made me feel guilty for the break up. From that point on when I talked to her I could ask what she was up to and how she was feeling. Our relationship took on a different tone and I was learning to live with it.

I was struggling with the question of whether or not another girl could ever be attracted to me or love me. I felt ugly and undesirable. I didn’t want someone to feel sorry for me or be with me for who I used to be. It was Lauren who spent hours and days at my bedside. She had lost her mother to this horrible disease and had a good understanding of where I was coming from.