Mike Verano is a licensed professional counselor, licensed marriage and family therapist and thymic cancer survivor with over 30 years experience in the mental health field.  Mike has had articles published in national and international magazines and is the author of 

The Zen of Cancer: A Mindful Journey From Illness to Wellness

. In addition, he maintains the blog, Confessions of a Pacifist in the War on Cancer. He and his wife, Kathy, live in Lanexa, Virginia.

Mike Verano

Mike Verano is a licensed professional counselor, licensed marriage and family therapist and thymic cancer survivor.

Fifteen years into cancer survivorship, I was still not ready for my response to learning that a colleague at work had recently received a cancer diagnosis. I’m certain that this was not the first time since my own diagnosis that someone I knew had been the recipient of this devastating news. During this period, friends and family members travelled the path, and yet somehow this was different.

Since hearing the news, I’ve routinely found myself thinking about what it will be like when my colleague sits in the chemo chair for the first time. I could literally feel the “scanxiety” as I imagined her waiting to get the results from her first PET scan. Questions would roll in like waves: What should I tell her worked for me? Did I even know myself what worked or what was just a distraction? Should I direct her to the “woo woo” side of my recovery that involved Reiki, meditation, yoga and the like? As if that was not enough, I found myself doing something I dared not do while I was going through treatment: I was online researching the type of cancer she has and its survivability.

My guess is that many cancer survivors have found themselves in a similar situation — having to support a new member of the cancer survivors’ club all the while struggling with memories tinged with a hint of survivor’s guilt.

As a working psychotherapist, along with my colleague in the field of wellness and resilience, I’ve tried to turn my insights into useful words of encouragement, knowing full well that feeling helpless is part of the cancer journey. I think this sense of wanting to help but often feeling at a loss to know what form that should take is what drives many survivors into the healthcare field or volunteering their time to support those going through treatment.

Cancer survivors have much to offer those who are just beginning to come to terms with the diagnosis. However, even years out from active treatment, it can be challenging to balance empathy, where one can understand an experience but have the emotional distance to offer help, and sympathy, where one feels the others’ pain too acutely, which makes being there for someone more difficult.

Within the complex uncertainty of the cancer experience lay the seeds of both hope and grief. Honoring grief while encouraging hope is where I’ve decided to land any time I may find my thoughts turning to my colleague’s future as a cancer survivor. Additionally, I will pay silent tribute to all those whose paths crossed mine on a journey that even 15 years on still feels like it was yesterday. 

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Articles

Cancer survivors often face complex emotions when supporting newly diagnosed individuals, balancing empathy and sympathy while grappling with survivor's guilt. The journey of cancer survivorship involves navigating personal memories and offering guidance, despite feeling helpless at times. Survivors may be drawn to healthcare or volunteer roles to support others. The duality of hope and grief is ever-present, and survivors strive to honor both while providing encouragement. Ultimately, the experience remains deeply personal, with past memories influencing present interactions and support for fellow survivors.

Fifteen years after my own cancer journey, I find myself balancing hope and grief as I support a colleague newly diagnosed with cancer.

Honoring the Memory of Surviving After Cancer

Ten years ago, as I was approaching my first follow-up scan, I asked a seasoned cancer survivor if the anxiety of going through these rituals ever got easier. Without hesitation, she smiled and said "no." The full impact of that statement hit me square in the solar plexus (a place very close to where my thymic cancer originated) as I prepared for a PET scan. Due to this being a follow-up to a follow-up scan, to see if the report of "a mild uptake in a non-enlarged lymph node," my 

In what was clearly both a mindless moment and Freudian slip, my original scan had to be scrapped when, heading back to the mobile scan unit, the tech asked me the standard, "have you had anything to eat in the last six hours?" question. Innocently, or so I thought, I responded that I had only had a breath mint on the way in in order not to blow my quarantined, non-brushed breath all over her. Her face immediately turned into, what I can only describe as the "oh shit!" look. She went on to educate me on all things PET and glucose related. The short of it was that I had to reschedule and go through the stress of the build up all over again.

Two weeks later, sans sweets of any kind, I headed back for what my mind was telling me was going to be my last scan - either because it would be negative and I would never put myself through this again, or cancer was back and my next appointment was going to be with the chemo chair.

I'm fairly certain I'm not the only cancer survivor who believes that they have developed the super-power of being able to read people's body language and thoughts. As I got up from what seemed like an unusually long time in the scanner (surely a sign that they had found something and had to make sure they got a clear picture) I noticed that the once friendly and welcoming faces seemed all business. In my altered state of consciousness, I was certain this meant they all saw something and could no longer make eye contact with me.

That weekend was, due to my own making, worse than my original diagnosis as I contemplated having to go through treatment, this time knowing full-well what that meant. When the message finally came Monday morning that the scan was negative and that my oncologist would see me for my regular appointment in 6 months, my first thought was, "no you won't because I'm not going through this again."

Since that day I have kick-started the internal debate over when is it the right time to stop with the oncology "stuff" an go back to living a life of blissful ignorance of not knowing what body parts are lighting up when radioactive sugar is introduced. Surely, ten years is enough! If, as some suggest, stress can cause cancer, then certainly the stress of 

 is only putting me at greater risk. However, isn't early detection the next best thing to prevention? And on and on it goes.

So was it my last scan? I almost want to put it to a vote - see what other survivors think - knowing in my heart (and sometimes in my head) that I hold the ultimate veto power.

Ten years ago, as I was approaching my first follow-up scan, I asked a seasoned cancer survivor if the anxiety of going through these rituals ever got easier. Without hesitation, she smiled and said "no."

The Last Scan?

 contributors have mentioned, these COVID-19 days are very reminiscent of cancer treatment. The concerns about depleted immune systems, the avoidance of all things possibly contaminated, the fears, both rational and irrational and the overriding question of whether life would ever return to normal. All flooded back as news about coronavirus spread.

I have purposely tried to keep in the front of my mind the lessons learned from survivorship— the understanding that fears grow the more we attend them, that not every twinge, ache and pain means the beast returned. I have returned to breathing techniques meant to calm an over-active amygdala and the distracting effects of concentrating on tasks at hand. However, in the back of my mind, the dark recesses where I placed the more troublesome aspects of cancer and its treatments, there rises the occasional whisper of doubt, "did I survive cancer only to succumb to what will surely become the new "C" word? Does my reduction in lung capacity due to surgery and radiation put me on the shortlist for who COVID-19 is stalking?"

However, cancer taught me that wrestling with these dark thoughts is useless. While living ill, as a patient, only makes wellness seem like a mirage. The antidote was and still is living with a purpose. Not a divine calling - although if you've heard that voice, God bless - but pointing oneself toward something meaningful beyond the small needs of the ego.

"Choose purpose, not panic," is how I heard it described recently.

In all my years of psycho-therapeutic practice, nothing has seemed so meaningful, useful and even necessary. The skeptic would point out that choosing not to panic is just not an option right now— panic happens. While it's true that panic is a byproduct of uncertainty, threats to self and others and dire forecasts, the good news is that the two are mutually exclusive. Purpose turns panic back to its original source as simply energy&mdash; with panic the energy lodges in the body and disturbs its equilibrium. Purpose directs the energy outward and when tied to a beneficent cause, the experience is that of being connected to a deeper source as worry for self becomes compassion for others.

Like a cancer diagnosis, the pandemic scare touches everyone in some way. Perhaps, those of us who entered survivorship through the cancer door can assist those who are currently seeking comfort, understanding and support as this current crisis unfolds. While the mechanics of cancer and COVID-19 are dissimilar, the human reaction remains the same. As does the call to alleviate suffering in ourselves and others.

Who better to point the way than those of us who have walked that road?

Purpose directs the energy outward, and when tied to a beneficent cause, the experience is that of being connected to a deeper source&mdash; worry for self becomes compassion for others.

Surviving With Purpose

Once cancer enters our lives, the aging process takes on a whole new meaning. While it's true that each passing year marks another triumph of survivorship, it's also true that the remnants of our cancer journeys can be felt deep in aging bones.

One often hears survivors of serious illnesses say that they would not let their illnesses define them. While the sentiment expressed can be emotionally uplifting, the reality is that our illnesses do define us in the same way that we are shaped by all of our experiences. The good news is that while our cancer diagnoses are handed to us, we have the ultimate hand in molding our new selves through our thoughts, attitudes and actions.

It would be unrealistic to suggest that one is ever completely free of the shadow of cancer — after all, shadows are the direct result of light. Likewise, it's unwise to ignore the impact that both the history and possible return of cancer has on our life's course. For those of us who have been impacted by such challenges, learning to live somewhere between the cold reality of illness and the warm glow of a life lived in spite of limitations is what's called for. We learn to push on through chronic pains, degenerative symptoms and the battle with side effects that last much longer than actual treatment protocols. Ideally, we learn that living well is a side-effect free antidote to becoming grumpy old men and women.

Taking cancer and aging head-on does not mean we do battle with them, since we understand this only puts us at war with ourselves. Nor do we surrender to a life half lived, feeling cheated by the salt in the wound of a life-altering illness happening during our "golden years." Ironically, as we begin to come to terms with the failings of the physical body, many of us become acutely aware of the energizing spirit which has been ever-present and, in many cases, the very force that pulled us through life's most challenging moments.

It would be unrealistic to suggest that one is ever completely free of the shadow of cancer – after all, shadows are the direct result of light.

Mike Verano

Honoring the Memory of Surviving After Cancer

The Last Scan?

Surviving With Purpose

On Cancer and Aging, Part 2

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