8. Reeling and Stewing

A PREVIEW CHAPTER of The Wilds of Cancer

Thankfully, Mary drove us home from the daunting meeting with the urologist. I was too preoccupied to drive. He had looked at my recent scan results and saw no sign that cancer had spread from my prostate. We could now choose radiation or surgery. Either could be curative, could save my life. But both would have numerous side effects that could bother me for an unknown length of time. When I asked him what would happen if I chose no treatment to avoid side effects, he said I could be dead within ten years. That hurt to hear. 

He concluded by saying he would not try to talk me out of the surgery he would perform or the radiation an oncologist would administer; the decision was up to me. But I wasn’t ready to decide anything. I felt overwhelmed and needed a few days to digest this information. I would have a radiation consult and more time to ponder.  

When we arrived home, I was a mess. I felt like I was at a critical point on a long backcountry hike. I had approached a planned stream crossing and found it raging and unfordable. I had to decide whether to bushwhack along the stream and hope to find a crossing, search for a different route that avoided the stream, or give up, turn back, and retrace miles of hiking. None of the options appealed; the stream’s life-threatening power made me feel small, vulnerable, and scared. 

Photo by Rick Lamplugh

All day long, the urologist’s descriptions of side effects kept popping into my head, generating scary images of how my life would change. As the day wore on and the images wore me out, I emitted long, loud sighs. Traipsing down the hall, staring out the window, sitting at the desk. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh. What path, what treatment, do I choose? How harmful will those side effects be? Should I just give up?

After dinner, Mary encouraged me to share what was in my heart and mind. But I didn’t want to talk. We watched a comedy on TV, and I chuckled occasionally. Mostly, I drifted in and out of troubling consult replays. 

When we went to bed, Mary snuggled against me, laid her head on my chest, and asked, “What are you thinking or feeling right now?”

I appreciated her loving persistence and pushed myself to open up. “I’m struggling to face the reality that I have cancer, that my life is going to be way different.” I sighed long and loud and blurted, “That consult was a hell of a shot of reality.”

She looked into my eyes. “You’re still processing. But remember what the doctor said. The treatment is curative. You’re going to live.”

When I slipped out of bed the next morning, the sun was still sleeping. I fixed a coffee and headed to the deck, ready to journal. The darkness comforted me, and I turned on our little fountain for its mellow murmur. I wore a headlamp with a red beam that lit the journal page but also allowed me to peer into the darkness and spot clouds and stars, silhouettes and shadows. 

As usual, I had no agenda when beginning a visit with my paper therapist. I started writing. Facts and feelings followed. I began with the doctor’s word: curative. I journaled about my hope that the doctor was correct, my fear that he wasn’t, and how my life would change one way or the other. 

By the time I finished, the sun was full on me. I closed my journal and headed inside. After breakfast, I moved to the computer to transcribe portions of the recording I had made with the urologist’s permission. Transcribing helped me hear things I had missed and generated questions to research. I listened and pondered and typed again and again. By lunchtime, all I wanted was to eat and let the fountain’s bubbling and the day's warmth lull me to sleep on a reclined lawn chair on the now-shaded deck. 

When I awoke, I returned to transcribing until I heard Mary arrive home from her appointments. She had promised to listen to the consult while driving, another benefit of recording. I found her, and we began discussing treatment options. I quickly realized that with the day’s journaling, transcribing, and discussing, I’d had enough cancer time. I explained this to Mary; she understood. 

We shifted to pleasant chatter about the plants growing in the backyard. We enjoyed the songs of birds hidden in the trees. We listened and watched an afternoon thunderstorm envelop 10,969-foot Electric Peak. As I felt the day’s challenges losing power, I realized that being in and paying attention to nature, whether in the backyard or on the trail, was medicine to me—felt curative. I didn’t yet understand how nature helped my body, mind, and heart. But I was thankful for the healing.

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For stories of moments Mary and I have shared in wild lands and with wildlife, check out my previous books. In the Temple of Wolves is the bestseller with more than 500 five-star reviews on Amazon. Deep into Yellowstone, the sequel, won the Gold Medal in the Independent Publisher Book Awards. The Wilds of Aging, the prequel and winner of the National Indie Excellence Award, takes you on a journey with me into wild lands and aging. Click on a title for a signed copy, or visit Amazon for unsigned paperback copies, ebooks, and audio CDs.

Disclaimer

I’m a writer, not a doctor. I’m very qualified to write stories about my journey. I’m not qualified to give—nor am I giving—medical advice. As these stories show, Mary and I came up with many approaches to deal with my cancer. We always ran our ideas by our medical team to see how the approaches fit medically. Everybody’s body is different. What worked for me may not work for someone else. If something in these stories generates an idea of an approach that you or someone you know might use, first consult with the medical team.