My Cancer Summer began with surgery two years ago, the day before the Memorial Day weekend. My 28th, and final, radiation treatment for Stage 1 cancer was the day after Labor Day. Chemo was administered at the start of radiation, and again near the final week.
That second dose of chemo concerned me, when I was told one of the two doses was being cut in half. There was the likelihood, based on what the initial dose did to my bone marrow, that another full dose could permanently damage my immune system. A full dose would mean being admitted to the hospital for a 3-month stay to see if my immune system could be restored!
Okay, so the dose had to be cut in half, but would it be enough to be effective at preventing a reoccurrence of the cancer? “We’re confident it should be,” I was told. No guarantee, but there wasn’t one to start with anyway.
That wasn’t my only concern. The second cardiologist I saw (an electro physiologist, to be precise) told me that not only couldn’t he perform the ablation for my persistent AFib until after I’d been cleared by the cancer doctors, he couldn’t even put me on a blood thinner yet. Which meant I was risking a blood clot forming that could result in a stroke, like the one my father suffered.
Not only that, the delay increased the likelihood that the AFib would become chronic and an ablation wouldn’t be successful. Whether or not I had suffered a stroke, my options would be to remain on a blood thinner for life and/or perhaps have an implant called a Watchman. The AFib was blamed squarely on all of the long-distance running I had done for many years. Pumping up Heartbreak Hill in the Boston Marathon had been a bad idea.
Here I am today, very thankfully cancer-free and also free of AFib. I have two more quarterly cancer checks before dropping to every six months. My final appointment with the cardiologist who referred me to the specialist who did the ablation is coming up.
This is where I want to explain the differences between my consultations with doctors and nurses. The cancer doctors, who I owe so much, have been uniformly upbeat and hopeful. The heart doctors were more cautious, given the unique conditions of my case; being asymptomatic, with a normal pulse and perfect blood pressure.
The nurses I saw during my cancer treatments were very honest with me. I needed to know that the pain during the final weeks of radiation, and the first weeks after the treatments ended, would be excruciating. “An 8, if you’re lucky.”
Yup. Oxycodone barely even touched it. I’d guess it kept the pain from going to 9 from 8. One of the nurses made it clear to me that full recovery from the radiation would take a very, very long time. At least a year, and probably much longer. Right again.
The nurse practitioners in cardiology presented me with a very different view of myself. I was reminded of a very memorable moment, back in my 50’s, when I was in physical therapy for my injured ankle. My therapist was a 20-something woman.
When my ankle was doing well enough for me to get on the treadmill and I kicked up the pace, she spontaneously uttered, “Wow, you’re really built!” Having been called “Fat Pratt” in junior high school, I almost lost my balance from laughing. The last time I’d heard that compliment was from my girlfriend Marion in college, who was very well built herself, more than thirty long years in the past.
The nurse practitioners have emphasized to me that, even if running had been the cause of my AFib, I was otherwise in “fantastically good shape.” Thanks to all of that running, my excellent physical condition was why I responded so well to the treatments for my serious medical challenges. So, on balance, it was better to have exercised so much, than not.
Right now, at age 70, I’m alive and fully recovered thanks to Boston doctors, and feeling absolutely great. I did some jogging yesterday, and honestly it felt no different than running Reach the Beach did in 2005. I’m going to give more jogging a try again today, while being careful about overdoing it and straining my weak ankle.
