The One Big Lesson I Learned From My Family’s Battles With Cancer
Oh, how I despise those forms at the doctor’s office! I know you do too. I just hate it how brutally they shove my face into the cruel truth of the fragility of our existence. Because, when I arrive to the section about the family history of cancer, this is what I have to put in: my maternal grandmother died of a rare placenta cancer; paternal grandmother died of breast cancer; father had bladder cancer; mother had colon cancer, and then died of lung cancer. Here is where I’m allowed to stop writing, but life still wouldn’t let me ignore its fragility, even when unwritten: my husband was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Twice.
The first diagnosis came only three months after our wedding, when Nic was 41 — a very rare age for testicular cancer. He was sent into surgery only a few days later. But it was the second diagnosis that really left us feeling vulnerable — because if it came back once, it’s hard to trust it wouldn’t come back again.
The doctors assured us if the cancer hasn’t returned within two years of the initial surgery, it would never return. During those two years, we went back to the cancer hospital every few months to be reminded of the battle we were fighting, and to see if we were still winning. During each of those check-ups, I was proud of how strong I was for my husband, sitting calmly through hours of tests and waiting for results surrounded with people brutally scarred from their own cancer battles. But with each “you’re clear”, my whole body would start trembling as if it wanted to eject the fear, which it did, in an unstoppable outburst of tears and sobs.
So the time came for the last check-up. Our son was only six months old, and we decided I should stay home with him — it has been two years since the surgery, we were done. We thought. But then one of those moments that scar you for life happened: I was standing in the kitchen, washing Kai’s bottles, when Nic called. “It’s back.”
When my maternal grandmother was diagnosed with placenta cancer, my grandfather, who was an internist, and madly in love with his beautiful young wife, did everything he could to save her life. I have a small painted wooden horse she brought my mom from her visit to Sweden to volunteer in a test for the newest treatments. She travelled around post-WWII Europe, trying everything she could to save her life. Nothing worked, and she passed away at the tender age of 32.
My paternal grandmother went into mastectomy and chemotherapy during the war in Croatia in early ’90s. It didn’t help.
When my father received his diagnosis, he was told he needed urgent surgery to have his bladder removed because, as we were explained, bladder cancer spreads quickly. My mom and I gently suggested he tried other paths before taking such a drastic measure. He liked that idea. He saw a homeopathic doctor, whom he felt a bit unsure about, so he never saw him again. And then he consulted our family friend, an oncologist who combines conventional and holistic medicine. Together with his doctors, he decided not to go into surgery but to do a series of conventional BCG treatments (inserting medication directly into bladder) at the hospital, accompanied with an extensive holistic treatment — from vitamin C infusions, oxygen treatment, to other non-conventional treatments. In a few months, the cancer was completely gone to never return. This was 15 years ago, and the oncologist at the hospital still claims he’s never seen something like this.
Two days after Nic got out of his surgery, my mom was diagnosed with colon cancer. When Nic recovered enough to take care of himself, I flew back home to accompany her through her battle. The cancerogenic polyps were removed, and then she saw the family oncologist who treated my father for an intensive oncological non-conventional treatment. It worked, and her colon stayed cancer-free.
After Nic’s “It’s back,” the whole family went into alarm mode. We all thought we knew what’s right. We wanted him to fly to Vienna and see our family oncologist who helped both my parents. We didn’t want him to solely rely on conventional medicine. But Nic went for a second, and then a third, opinion, and decided he trusted his oncologist and the process he suggested. The rest of us had to learn to back down and respect his decision. Nic knew clearly what he believed in and felt confident about which path to healing he wanted to take. The strength of his conviction forced me to sort out my own fears and skepticism, and to accept that Nic knew best. It was his fight.
And he did. He went through the extensive chemotherapy. For the whole family (including our 6 month old son) it was a journey through hell. I would drive Nic to the ER on the other side of town (because only they treated chemo patients) thinking I was losing him. I didn’t lose him, and he came out stronger than before. A few weeks ago, he went to his five-year check and was marked “clear”. No more check-ups. No more waiting for those phone calls. The stress is gone. But the fear remains.
Nine months after Nic’s chemo, my mom was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. To get her ready for the immune therapy, she received one treatment of chemo. She also received a very intensive non-conventional treatment from our family oncologist who tried to boost her system. We all decided to do all we could, in spite of knowing it was too late. We knew we only had a few months left. But we didn’t. She surprised everyone when she suddenly passed away only six weeks after her diagnosis. It was her way — always beautiful, always full of dignity and always knowing what’s best for her, she left with her head up. And all of her hair.
So this is what I’ve learned: The patient knows best. You know best. As with everything else in life, when it comes to cancer, there is no right and wrong. There is only you. Cancer is a spiritual journey, as much as a physical one. It’s a journey in which you have to learn to listen to yourself and trust yourself and your life.
I now implement what I’ve learned from Nic, my parents, and my grandmothers: When my body gives up, I follow my guts. I put my whole trust in my doctors when I feel it’s the right thing to do. And I don’t when I feel there are other ways for me to heal. I’ve learned to listen to my myself, and to step in and be there for myself — in whatever shape or form.
I’ve learned to own my healing. And let others own theirs.
Thank you for reading. To celebrate his 5-year “clear”, Nic started a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. If you’re interested in his side of the story, or would like to donate, please click here.
