My next stop was the library, where I headed to the medical section and chose to confront my fears head-on, checking out four relevant books: the American Cancer Society's Complete Guide to Colorectal Cancer (which, based on my symptoms, I most likely had), Colon & Rectal Cancer: From Diagnosis to Treatment, Before and After Cancer Treatment, and Fighting Cancer with Knowledge and Hope. I started reading as soon as I got home from work, finding the information scary but the information-gathering process empowering. Facing my worst-case scenario fears, in this case, a colostomy and possibly the permanent loss of my health, was how I wanted to deal with my diagnosis. I could accept having cancer with a positive but realistic attitude while simultaneously fighting to regain my health.
The toughest part, even harder than receiving and gradually accepting the diagnosis and learning the potential challenges in the journey ahead, was waiting. Over a week passed between learning I had cancer on July 23 and meeting my oncologist for the first time on August 1. For a type-A planner like me, that was an eternity. I needed to know the next step.
To my immense relief, my oncologist, a young woman approximately my age, was a good match for me. She immediately informed me, upon entering the room, shaking my hand, and introducing herself, that she would not "sugarcoat" my diagnosis. "Good," I responded. "I don't want you to." As my heart pounded, she thoroughly went over my PET scan results and delivered the devastating details: stage three rectal cancer that had spread to my lymph nodes.
The tumor was too large to remove, so I would start with aggressive chemo every other week to shrink it to a more easily-extracted mass before surgery. My new doctor answered all of my questions and brought in a chemo nurse who handed me a packet of information about my upcoming treatment (FAQs and drug interaction warnings) and gave me a tour of the onsite infusion room, with comfortable recliners, TVs, snacks, and stacks of magazines, before I left.
None of it was easy to hear, see, or believe, but I felt like I was as prepared as I could be because of my copious reading. I was frightened, of course, but I couldn't wait, despite my fear, to start chemotherapy.
It was ironic to me when I thought of previous years of my life when I didn't really want to live. Now that my life was threatened, I wanted nothing more.
