On Five Years

Five years ago, I began my first post on this blog, “This afternoon I found myself at a hospital in Cleveland, getting a CT scan, and it occurred to me that I wanted to write about this experience.”

A few weeks ago, I found myself at a hospital in Columbus, getting a CT scan, sipping yet another bottle of iodine solution, hoping that I’d reached the momentous five-year milestone without a recurrence — and it occurred to me that I ought to write about the experience.

I’m a stats guy, so I know that while five years generally marks a significant change in probability (in the good direction; i.e., downward), it’s no guarantee. What it does offer, though, is permission to allow myself a sigh of relief. I generally don’t grant myself many of those, especially when it comes to my cancer journey.

The other day I was talking to Addie (now six; not yet two when I was diagnosed) about — yep, you guessed it — colonoscopies. Because I was diagnosed at 34, she’ll have to get her first at 24. She wasn’t thrilled about that, even after I explained that the essentials are harmless: Gatorade, a toilet, a camera, and a nap. She was also confused: “But Daddy, we’ve never tapped butts.” True. If only it were that simple (but also, thank goodness it isn’t). The impact on Addie, hopefully limited to precautionary screening, was a reminder that however exciting the five-year mark might be (and don’t get me wrong, I’m insanely grateful), it’s a new chapter but not the end of the story.

And that’s probably how it should be. I hope the remaining chapters are long and cancer-free, but going through something like this makes it hard to think about ever calling the journey complete. As Rainer Maria Rilke said, “You must let everything happen to you — beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.”

What’s striking about this phase is the sense of community that persists once you’re in the club. I’ve been connected with so many strangers, friends of friends of friends in some cases, with recent diagnoses that immediately make them, well, no longer strangers. Besides my wife’s Herculean support, what I remember most about my early days of cancer is the astonishing generosity of complete “strangers” who would invariably drop everything to chat with me about the nuances of my diagnosis; share their own stories or advice (“Your bag will dehydrate you, so drink a lot of DripDrop,” advised one kind young woman — and the Bennetts still hydrate with those magical packets to this day); and of course, impart appropriately weighted, compassionately delivered bits of optimism and realism.

So now that it’s my turn, I do my best to pay it forward. When an intro comes, it’s a drop-everything moment. What could possibly be a higher priority than supporting someone who’s where I was, like so many did so selflessly for me?

So yeah — no feeling is final. And if someday you find yourself on a dance floor somewhere, and you happen to tap butts with a colorectal cancer survivor, fret not. The only thing you might catch is a vibe. (A beat? A groove? Whatever the kids call it these days.)

Party on, and remember to check your butt.