Last Tuesday marked the halfway point in my first round of treatment for stage-four mouth and throat cancer, and the whirlwind of five days a week of radiation, along with five hours a week of a chemotherapy drip, appears to be making a dent in the leviathan’s armor.
A recent CT scan showed progress is being made, adding a little time to that original six month life-span estimation.
I cannot praise enough the staff at Augusta Oncology and the Radiation Department at Doctors Hospital. They are simply amazing people, treating every person who comes to them for help as if they were the only one going through the experience.
Seeing them on a near daily basis, I do detect a commonality among the staff, from the doctors, to the nurses and even the young techs just starting out. Under the warm smile, occasional joke and firm, but sensitive demeanor, is a note of melancholy, an uneasy awareness.
Like the patient, the staff has no idea what the end result is going to be. I think that minor backdraft of melancholy is the knowing that they are either offering their patient a path to continue to live and enjoy some modicum of a quality of life, or holding their hand with stoic grace as they walk with them the thinning path towards the final end, knowing that at some point, either way, they will have to release the hand they held when the finale comes.
It is a path those professionals walk every day, their reality every morning that they show up for work.
We all know what cancer is and what it does. There isn’t a family out there that has not in some way been affected by this disease. It’s the cousin Eddie of long-term houseguests, that boss that makes you cry in secret, a smelly stain on the carpet that won’t come out without tons of bleach and that monster we knew all along was hiding under the bed, all rolled into one constant, lingering presence.
A cancer diagnosis, no matter the stage or location, is perceived differently by everyone it affects. The only commonality that I can find among us, is that the diagnosis turns everything upside down for everyone within an arm’s length of it.
So, if there is nothing remotely unique about what I am going through, why am I documenting my struggle, expecting that you, the reader, might somehow think it worthwhile to read something that is depressing and sad, no matter the angle? In 100 years, who is going to care that some red-headed kid who grew up in Augusta, lived to be an adult, lived, loved, lost, learned and died?
We all do that.
In the grand scheme of things, my life is about as newsworthy as some lone rock flying through the vast vacuum of space. Nothing to see, or read about, really, unless a far-away telescope catches a glimpse of the bright, colorful supernova traveling behind it and it becomes a photo that captivates until it, too, finally fades.
It can also become a fond memory.
There are actually many reasons that made the decision for me to document this until the war is finally brought to a conclusion. First, I am blessed with access to an audience in our community and I know there are many of you out there dealing with a similar diagnosis; you know me for telling you the truth, and, as my friend Deke did for me, perhaps, I can give you a bit of an idea of what to expect and what not to be afraid of as you battle the Medusa.
If your nurse anesthetist plays Pink Floyd in the operating room, you are in good hands.
If your doctor warns you that opiates cause constipation, pay attention to the warning and buy stock in bisacodyl!
More and more people are getting cancer these days, and we darn sure ought to know why.
Our sedentary lifestyles of vegging in front of a screen, stuffing Funyuns and other processed foods into our fat faces while pulling on a Marlboro and washing that chili dog down with a Coors Light, is catching up to us as a society.
I am just as guilty as the next guy, but it should seem that there are obvious clues as to why we are beginning to get sicker and dying quicker than the people before us who consumed raw milk and never heard of penicillin.
The fact that millions of people tune into TikTok to watch a 350-pound “fat influencer” shoehorn herself into an airplane seat and complain that she needs a free seat to accommodate her girth, while getting paid to wear the latest Nike “athletic” sweatsuit designed to fit her like pink sausage casing, should be a clue.
Even those among us who try to live a healthy lifestyle must live in a world where carcinogens lurk in a bottle of natural spring water.
As more and more of us come down with what was once considered a geriatric condition, more and more of our loved ones are being called in as caretakers. That vow we take at the altar suddenly has a real meaning and constitutes a daily purpose and responsibility.
Cancer patients cannot drive due to the heavy medication needed to quell the pain and sometimes need help bathing, keeping track of medications, showing up to the myriad doctors appointments as well as the need for an intimate bond that offers the emotional support necessary for the cancer patient to keep trudging along during the inevitable bad days.
Thankfully, I have that support through my wife Jeannie and my extended family. She is one amazing woman, my Jeannie, who God blessed with a loving demeanor, an infectious laugh and bad eyesight.
Memories become cherished so much more so than they did when we make them at the stages in our lives when our mortality is not anywhere near the inner sphere of our consciousness.
Now that we are on the beachheads and moving inland in my battle, I would like to share some of the great memories of mine that buoy me when the seas get choppy.
In moments of pain and weakness, those instantaneous memories that are recorded deep down in hippocampus can resurface as the glue that keeps us holding it together emotionally when the feelings of futility creep in.
I remember getting my first real big job outside of Augusta when I was 23. After four months of working for Hotel Marketing International in a satellite office at the Partridge Inn, I got promoted to junior sales executive and was summoned to Albany, N.Y. for training. From there, I would travel the country, living and working in five star hotels and historic properties.
It was a dream job for me.
Suddenly, I was a grownup and I was free! I was also about a thousand miles too far away for Mama to bail me out, so the far-away job was an exquisitely frightening prospect at the same time.
Instead of flying, I decided to take the train to New York and enjoy the journey rather than deal with the hustle and bustle of air travel, which was a pain even before Sept. 11 occurred. I needed a ride to Atlanta, so I called my buddy Jason Lister, who we lost to cancer not too long ago, and he offered to give me a lift to Atlanta. But first, we had some shopping to do. Jason loved to shop!
“You’re an executive now, you have to look the part!” Jason said as he wheeled us up to the mall, where both of our credit cards took a drubbing. After one final cocktail near the station, and I was off barreling on a locomotive towards my future.
On the train I soaked up looking at just how huge our country is, the book I brought with me laid idle in my lap. Long stretches of farm land would give way to surprises seemingly around every corner.
Each town we passed changed slightly in look as the train went further North until the towns began to look like quant villages you would expect to see in Jolly Olde England.
Sometimes, the train would stop for a short layover, and there would be tables set up by old ladies selling assortments of fresh fruits from their gardens and kids even had lemonade stands right on the platforms.
As the train moved its way through New York City, I looked out the window in awe of this world and how vast it truly is. Skyscrapers in the Big Apple seem to warp the horizon and all of it is presided over by the green lady in the harbor holding a torch: the American symbol of total freedom.
When we did the layover in NYC, I remembered Jason’s sage advice and put my wallet in my front pocket to avoid pick-pockets.
Recalling that first train trip into wild abandon as a young adult is a particular fun one for me. Young adulthood can be, for some, middle-age on training wheels; but for me, it was an adventure.
Ever since that first trip, I have always favored taking the train over flying when I can.
Relishing memories like this one, I have found, does not lead to any sense of regret of what I could have done differently, it is quite the opposite. Those memories are useful when the pain comes, they add a coating of steel to us and give us the strength to want to fight and then go on to create more memories in the future.
If you are dealing with cancer or are a caretaker taking care of that loved one, say this with me: Never give up!
Never.
Scott Hudson is the Senior Investigative Reporter and Editorial Page Editor for The Augusta Press. Reach him at scott@theaugustapress.com
