My grandson, who always helps me smileCancer. That was the word I heard from the respiratory doctor two weeks before the urologist asked, “May I speak straight?” When we gave permission, he bluntly declared, “You have kidney cancer.” A few minutes later after we’d agreed on laparoscopic surgery to remove the kidney, he continued—just as bluntly—“Good. You have so much belly fat, I’d have trouble cutting through it all if you chose open surgery!” (Yes, I laughed, but I shot daggers at him with my eyes. It was okay for him to be straight about my cancer, but definitely not about my fat, belly or otherwise.)
After the news, we prayed we’d be in the 10% of people who find out that, contrary to a doctor’s preliminary diagnosis by sight, the tumor isn’t cancerous. But I was in the other 90%.
The next step was the pathology. For the next two weeks, we prayed—along with family and loved ones around the world—that the pathology report would not show a “bad” cancer. (Is there such a thing as a good cancer?) But on April 22, the doctor announced the unwelcome news: although I was now cancer free, as far as he could tell, the cancer that had been removed was a cancer with high rates of metastasis. “I wish we’d caught it sooner,” Dr. Morita said with regret in his voice. There was no joking around in this visit, no talk of belly fat, just the facts. It was as if the wind had been knocked out of his sails.
But there was good news, too. My blood levels were nearly perfect, surprising the doctor greatly. Additionally, my energy level was the best it had been in months, the incision was nearly completely healed, and I was the picture of health, Dr. Morita commented—except that a highly metastic cancer had been taken from me.
My next step is a combination PET/CT scan that will be done here in Tokyo on May 8. Bernie and I will then travel to the States carrying those films, a CD-Rom of all the test results from everything that has been done so far, and even the microscope slides from the pathology, on loan from the hospital here. I am absolutely amazed at the cooperation we’ve received in helping us seek a second opinion (in English—everything so far has been in Japanese). Assuming there is no metastasis at this time, we will return to Japan and I will begin a lifetime monitoring/maintenance program. However, if there are signs that cancer has found a new home in my body, I’ll begin drug therapy in Indiana with the goal of transferring my regimen back to Japan as soon as possible. With that treatment completed, I will enter a maintenance program here.
Obviously, where we are today in thinking and planning is not where I wanted to be when I wrote the last blog. So what do you do when the news isn’t good? This question popped into my mind as I lay in bed two nights after G-3 first became part of a new vocabulary of medical words I never knew before. How grateful I am for the answer that came instantaneously in the form of the title of the thirteenth book of international stories I complied and edited just last year: Yet, I Will Rejoice.
The Old Testament prophet Habakkuk declared, “Though the fig tree does not bud and there are not grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior” (Habakkuk 3:17-18, emphasis added).
After the news, we prayed we’d be in the 10% of people who find out that, contrary to a doctor’s preliminary diagnosis by sight, the tumor isn’t cancerous. But I was in the other 90%.
The next step was the pathology. For the next two weeks, we prayed—along with family and loved ones around the world—that the pathology report would not show a “bad” cancer. (Is there such a thing as a good cancer?) But on April 22, the doctor announced the unwelcome news: although I was now cancer free, as far as he could tell, the cancer that had been removed was a cancer with high rates of metastasis. “I wish we’d caught it sooner,” Dr. Morita said with regret in his voice. There was no joking around in this visit, no talk of belly fat, just the facts. It was as if the wind had been knocked out of his sails.
But there was good news, too. My blood levels were nearly perfect, surprising the doctor greatly. Additionally, my energy level was the best it had been in months, the incision was nearly completely healed, and I was the picture of health, Dr. Morita commented—except that a highly metastic cancer had been taken from me.
My next step is a combination PET/CT scan that will be done here in Tokyo on May 8. Bernie and I will then travel to the States carrying those films, a CD-Rom of all the test results from everything that has been done so far, and even the microscope slides from the pathology, on loan from the hospital here. I am absolutely amazed at the cooperation we’ve received in helping us seek a second opinion (in English—everything so far has been in Japanese). Assuming there is no metastasis at this time, we will return to Japan and I will begin a lifetime monitoring/maintenance program. However, if there are signs that cancer has found a new home in my body, I’ll begin drug therapy in Indiana with the goal of transferring my regimen back to Japan as soon as possible. With that treatment completed, I will enter a maintenance program here.
Obviously, where we are today in thinking and planning is not where I wanted to be when I wrote the last blog. So what do you do when the news isn’t good? This question popped into my mind as I lay in bed two nights after G-3 first became part of a new vocabulary of medical words I never knew before. How grateful I am for the answer that came instantaneously in the form of the title of the thirteenth book of international stories I complied and edited just last year: Yet, I Will Rejoice.
The Old Testament prophet Habakkuk declared, “Though the fig tree does not bud and there are not grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior” (Habakkuk 3:17-18, emphasis added).
Contemplating Habakkuk’s words, I realize that life’s circumstances change daily. Sometimes this means that the news we receive isn’t what we’d hoped for—sometimes it is even downright bad. But bad news doesn’t change God. He is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Hebrews 13:8) and he has promised never to leave me or forsake me (Hebrews 13:5). Therefore, I will rejoice! Even when the news isn't good.
