Rebuilding After Cancer: How to Start Over
My memory of exactly when my life split into the ‘before’ and ‘after,’ is etched into my mind like a photograph. The physician’s words hovered in the air like a cloud of smoke, and I sat there thinking, “Isn’t that odd; the world is continuing to move and function normally outside of this room, yet, my world has come to an abrupt stop.” A cancer diagnosis does that – it creates a distinct line across your existence so sharp and clear-cut that you cannot deny its presence.
No one warned me about getting diagnosed with cancer; they did not provide a user manual, however, they provided pamphlets, along with plenty of unsolicited and well-intentioned suggestions from individuals who have never been down the road you are traveling. Friends offered scared, apologetic glances as they searched for the correct words to express their concern. However, most importantly, you received absolutely no guidance on how to reconstruct your life once the very foundation upon which your existence rested has broken apart.
For over thirty years, I have been a surgeon, therefore, I spent over thirty years on the opposite side of these types of conversations. I knew the medical terms associated with the illness, I understood the treatment options available, and I could articulate the survival rates in my sleep. These factors did not prepare me for what it truly feels like to be the patient. It appears that being knowledgeable regarding the scientific aspects of cancer does not diminish the level of terror you will experience when the cancer begins to grow within your own body.
The first few weeks following a diagnosis of cancer resemble being submerged in a sea of information. Oncologists, treatment regimens, second opinions, third opinions, surgical schedules, chemotherapy protocols, radiation therapy options – your calendar quickly fills up with appointments you would never want to attend, and your computer browser history rapidly becomes a graveyard of late night searches you wish you had never done. You quickly become familiar with a new vocabulary — staging, markers, margins, metastasis — and you would literally give anything to forget these terms.
Here is what I learned, however: starting anew after a cancer diagnosis does not imply waiting for the conclusion of treatment. Rather, you begin right now, in the midst of it all, regardless of whether you are frightened, angry, and/or completely lost.
I had to release my previously envisioned retirement. That was probably the most difficult aspect of this process. I had long-term visions of the future that bore little resemblance to my current reality. Cancer ravaged these previously created plans, and I had to mourn the loss of these plans before I could proceed. It is acceptable to be angry about losing those plans. It is acceptable to be irate about the injustice of this situation. I was. Sometimes I still am.
Next is the decision — and it is a decision, even if it does not appear to be a decision. You may allow cancer to dictate each minute of your existence, or you may seek methods to coexist with it. Not in spite of it. Not in denial of it. Beside it. This disease exists. Fear exists. Uncertainty exists. Yet, so too exist all the other things. Your loved ones still love you.
I began by taking small steps. Extremely small. Some days, beginning anew meant simply rising from bed. On other days, it meant writing a paragraph for my website related to what I was learning. And then, some days, it meant acknowledging I required assistance, and actually seeking it. The latter option was almost fatal. I was the surgeon, the problem solver, the one with answers. Being vulnerable was equivalent to failure.
That was failure. Survival.
I identified a sense of purpose in several areas I had not anticipated. I initiated the creation of content for patients experiencing similar journeys to my own, and I began to write candidly about the experience. I wrote not of the sanitized, “everything occurs for a reason,” form of content, but rather of the real, raw, sometimes frightening experience of it all. Individuals responded. They indicated it helped them. That provided me with something to awaken for on the days when awakening seemed impossible.
Your new existence may bear no resemblance to my own. That is precisely the objective. There is no ‘correct’ method to accomplish this. Some individuals attack treatment like it is a battle to win. Others approach treatment with a softer touch, emphasizing quality of life over the intensity of treatment. Some find solace in support groups. Others require isolation. Some develop spirituality. Others derive strength from science. All of these approaches are valid.
What matters is that you are truthful with yourself about what you need. Not what you believe you should need. Not what worked for another individual. What actually assists you in finding meaning in the hours you have.
Seven years into this journey, I can assure you that life after a cancer diagnosis is not the life I envisioned. It is smaller in certain respects — fewer grand adventures, additional cautionary measures, and an increased awareness of my limitations prior to my diagnosis. However, it is also richer, more meaningful, and more deliberate. I do not squander time on items that do not matter anymore. I speak the truth. I tell my loved ones I care for them. I have ceased attempting to deceive others as to whether I am fine when I am not.
Commencing a new existence after a cancer diagnosis means accepting that you are altered. The individual you were prior to your diagnosis? That person is no longer present. Not destroyed. Not diminished. Simply different. You are currently constructing something new, and you have the ability to determine what it will appear like.
On certain days, it appears to be courage. On other days, it appears to be merely surviving until bedtime. Both count. Both are relevant.
You did not request this new beginning. Neither did I. Nevertheless, we are here, living and breathing, and confronting a future we did not select. We can travel this route with fear. We can travel this route with anger. We can travel this route one day at a time, one hour at a time, one breath at a time.
We can travel this route.
Wishing you good health,
Dr. Ronald Bissell
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