Facing Cancer Worries

Lesson From Some Pronghorn

photo by Mary Strickroth

My two-year post-treatment follow-up appointment for aggressive prostate cancer looms. Today I’m nervous. Some days I’m worried or scared. When I shared my nervousness with a friend while on a recent walk-and-talk, he asked, “What do you do when you get nervous?” Good question.

The first thing I do is try to run away from or discount the feelings. “Oh, come on, life’s good. I don’t have time to worry about that.” Unfortunately, that’s not a lasting solution. So I turn to my toolbox.

The first tool I use is visiting my “paper therapist.” Like this morning. It’s quiet at the dining room table where I’m writing in my journal. I stop to take a sip of my first coffee of the day (no added sugar) and to check the view through our dining room windows. I see the bold black outline of Livingston Peak and its neighbors. They stand strong against a pre-dawn sky awash with streaks of light and dark gray. The view helps calm me as I write what’s in my heart and on my mind.

My heart murmurs that at the upcoming follow-up, I may find that my PSA number (prostate-specific antigen, a number whose increase can reveal the presence and activity of prostate cancer cells) will have increased significantly. If so, that could reveal the activity of aggressive prostate cancer cells that somehow survived forty-four radiation treatments and eighteen months of hormone therapy. Those bad little buggers could be busily reproducing and—worse yet—maybe feeling the desire to spread out. That would be life-threatening. That’s what scares me.

My mind counters: “Oh, come on, Rick, your treatment was successful by any measure. You’ve had three great follow-up appointments. You’re beating this. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Keep using diet, attitude, rest, exercise (DARE), and time in Nature to stay healthy and beat cancer. Relax.”

I wish I could. Some days, my heart wins this debate. Some days, my mind. Whichever claims the moment, the debate wracks my nerves.

Journaling like that helps, but sometimes, I need a second tool to stay sane. I head for the computer and open the file containing my transcription of the last follow-up appointment. (I record with permission and then transcribe each of my oncology appointments.) I sit and read what I discussed with the knowledgeable and encouraging Nurse Practitioner who handles my follow-up.

As I read the transcript, I research words or phrases I don’t understand. I take notes on what I want to ask her at the upcoming appointment. I review the results of the last bloodwork. I do all this to remind myself that everything looked good six months ago. That I’ve continued to use our DARE approach and time in Nature to make my body a hostile environment for cancer cells and a friendly environment for healthy cells. This approach worked before and continues to work, I repeat to myself.

When I tire of reacting to my demanding heart and mind, I head outside for time in Nature, my third tool. When I was in treatment, and we lived in Gardiner, next door to Yellowstone National Park and surrounded by mountains, Mary and I often hiked to the top of a ridge or a mountain and stopped to take in a mesmerizing view that transported me out of my worries and into the beauty around us.

Now, in Livingston, where the mountains meet the prairie, I head out the back gate as I did recently for that walk-and-talk with that inquisitive friend. We walked over and around low prairie hills. At the top of one hill, we stopped in our tracks when we spotted a herd of twenty pronghorn in the distance. With their large sense of personal space, they had already spotted us. We stood still and stared. So did they. Then, they galloped off to our right. But before they went out of sight, they turned around and galloped right back toward us. We watched in amazement as they passed close by and kept going to our left. Finally, they disappeared behind a low hill.

I was sorry we had accidentally disturbed their grazing, but I was also elated at my first sighting of a herd of pronghorn near our Livingston neighborhood.

While living next door to Yellowstone, I had lots of time to observe pronghorn. When I would step onto a hilltop or round a curve and violate their personal space, they would gallop away. That was normal pronghorn policy. But this was the first time I observed a herd reverse direction and head back toward the two-leggeds that had stumbled into their day and spooked them. I have no idea why they did that. Maybe that’s normal for pronghorn living near a small town.

Whatever their motivation, as I reflect on that pronghorn behavior, I realize that Nature was sending another lesson my way: I’ve been acting just like the pronghorn. When concerns about my cancer invade my day and spook me, I run away. Avoid. Deny. But then, as those pronghorn did, I circle back toward the very elements that scared me. I journal, walk-and-talk with friends, review medical records, research, and head into Nature. Those tools help me accept the nervousness, the worry, the fear. Then, like those pronghorn running behind the hill, I leave those troubling thoughts and feelings behind as I move on with my day.

Until next time, that is. And I have little doubt there will be a next time.

For more stories like this, check out the preview chapters of my new book, The Wilds of Cancer: A Life-Affirming Journey.

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