Most people, he says, think the battle is over when that blessed word "remission" first falls from our doctor's lips. But that's not so. It's something like a Cold War that only begins after the "hot war" ends:
"The general perception of cancer – especially in this rugged-individualist, pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps country – is that there are winners and losers. We prefer to see it like a football game: you either beat cancer and win the Superbowl; or you lose to cancer, and sayonara, shiny trophy/life! There is no in between. The reality of my situation is that I did everything in my power to beat cancer, and I did. But the cancer came back, and my life got blown apart at the seams all the same. And I think that’s okay, too. There are millions of people out there living with cancer, longing for stability, and functioning with the reality that this horrible disease may come back."
Many of us assemble posses during the active phase of our treatment. Good people present themselves - family and friends - to help us with chores, offer us rides, pray for us, offer encouragement. These are some very special people, whose positive effect on our struggle with the disease is incalculable. Yet, there comes a time - for those of us who do achieve remission - when most of them slip away, with a smile on their faces.
That's as it should be. There are others who need their help more. Yet, few realize that, for the patient, the struggle isn't over. It's only entered a new phase:
No one can say. It's been more than 7 years, now, since my treatment ended. The old conventional wisdom is that after 5 years of no recurrence, you're "cured." Yet, I've been told that particular "c-word" can never be applied to my situation - because indolent cancers, by definition, are very good at hiding. Sometimes, for long periods of time. Which means you never feel like you're completely out of the woods.
Thanks to Ethan, for describing it so well.