Ron Cooper writes about the funny and serious sides of cancer. He is the author of “A Grateful Survivor” (Amazon) and blogs at RonCooperAuthor.com. Come along for the ride on his cancer journey!

Ron Cooper

When I was a kid, my sisters and I would frighten one another with the claim there was a boogeyman under our beds. At night, on the verge of sleep, I found myself peeking under the bed to see if that were true. My sisters admitted they did the same thing.

And that wasn’t the only nail-biter during our childhood. By turns, each of us would hide in the TV room closet. At just the right moment, we would jump out screaming like a banshee, throwing the other siblings into a panic.

So, I was no stranger to fear, and with the help of an active imagination, experienced doom around every shadowy corner. And so, it goes for children who go through their make-believe phase.

But real fear caught up with me one day in 2014 when I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Hearing that horrific word, I began to hyperventilate, feeling as if a dagger had been thrust into my heart. Surgery coupled with radiation and hormone therapy helped to calm me down and return me to something resembling normalcy.

In 2015, mere months after surgery, my PSA results surged, precipitating a second round of scans to determine if the cancer had spread. I was sure that now cancer had finally gotten the best of me, and the scan results would bear that out.

The second scariest moment of my cancer journey was about to take place.

I went to the hospital outpatient wing for a full body and bone scan. I lay down in a cramped position as the whirring machine slowly inched over me. I had to remain perfectly still, but inside I was a bundle of nerves.

The test had already run for about 25 minutes when the technologist came over the intercom and reassured me that I could relax soon, as the test would end in about five minutes. Shortly, though, she stuck her head into the small room, telling me the radiologist had asked for additional scanning. That caught me completely off guard and fear rose into my throat. Instantly, I felt doomed.

When the scan ended, I got dressed and headed out of the room but was surprised to find the technologist trailing behind me. As we walked down the hall, she placed her hand on my shoulder. I admitted that I was very nervous about this scan. Then she looked at me with a soft gaze and said gently, “Maybe this is a wake-up call.”

My mind raced, trying to determine what she meant without asking her directly. Could she possibly mean that there was no cause to worry because we had gotten out ahead of the cancer’s spread and that we would need to go into a watch-and-wait mode? Or maybe she was signaling that there was indeed some spread in my body, but not extensive?

I was mostly consumed with fear that the cancer had spread too fast too soon. I convinced myself that my life hung in the balance. But a tiny part of me held on to the slimmest hope that the scan would turn out OK. So, during the follow-up with my urologist a few days later, I was thrilled to hear him say, “The cancer has not spread, but it’s still in there and we will have to keep an active watch on it.”

Yes, cancer does get a strong hold on our emotions. It’s like the monster in the closet or the boogeyman under the bed. But hope, however small, can be a formidable ally during these times of jangled nerves. Keep hope alive!

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Fear overtook my mind as I received rounds of scans for prostate cancer when my PSA results surged.

The Second Scariest Moment of My Cancer Journey

Illness binds families closer together. I was asked to take my turn as her caregiver when she returned from her many stays in the hospital. I was a freelance writer at time and readily agreed to spend the night at her house during one summer in the late 1990s. I saw, up close and personal, the dreadful effects of this deadly disease.

Aunt Carolyn was in her 80s at the time. I thought how cruel cancer could be for someone who should be enjoying retirement, but instead was facing a life-threatening disease. It was just not fair!

Little did I know it then, but I would be diagnosed with prostate cancer approximately 15 years later and I would again think how unfair it was. Cancer had steamrolled its way into my life, wrecking my own plans for a blissful retirement, I thought.

My journey with aunt Carolyn lasted about three years. Three years of serving as her caregiver or visiting her in the hospital or rehabilitation center. Three years of witnessing first-hard how cancer wore her down.

Health concerns dominated her life. On top of the cancer, she had macular degeneration. Due to her serious problems with eyesight, she was no longer allowed to drive; I remember the day the neighbor parked her car in the garage for good. It’s never a pretty sight watching someone losing their independence when their car keys are taken away.

It’s also no pretty sight to witness a relative whom you love unable to feed herself at the nursing home where she was a resident for several weeks. On a visit during the lunch hour one day, I saw aunt Carolyn drooping over a substantial meal of roast beef, steamy mashed potatoes and a vegetable, along with the dessert and drink. She had not eaten a single bite. Cancer and other health problems now dominated her last days and I thought again, how unfair this all is!

Cancer and the physical weakness and complications that accompany it proved to be a deadly combination for my dear sweet aunt. Pneumonia set in once again, landing her back in the hospital. She passed away in a darkened room tethered to many humming and beeping machines.

When I delivered my eulogy at her funeral, I wanted to sound upbeat and paint a picture of the precious relative who did indeed enjoy a good quality of life despite her health woes.

I told the assembled family: “Sometimes you get to know someone the best when they are at their most vulnerable. I got to know a woman who, despite many physical setbacks, continued to live her life with grace, dignity and humor.

“We all admired her strong fight against ill health that left her weak, yet hopeful to spend more time with her cherished animals, Loretta the cat and Cricket the dog.”

But what I did not say, yet harbored in my heart, was that her final days were spent in pain and suffering. Cancer wreaked havoc on her life and ours and it was just not fair.

I knew virtually nothing about cancer until I became a caregiver for my aunt Carolyn, who died of colorectal cancer in 2000.

Cancer Is Just Not Fair

I was busy with a full-time freelance career of ghostwriting memoirs and happily married to my sweetheart Tanya. Gary’s struggles with a relentless progressive disease were a sad fact of life, but I was emotionally distant from it.

It’s not that I didn’t care. I loved Gary, husband to my older sister Cindy and father to the sweetest nieces that any uncle could boast. I knew Cindy carried a huge burden caring for Gary, but she rarely mentioned it to me, accepting her responsibility with grace and quiet strength. The most I knew about Parkinson’s was through the lens of Michael J. Fox and his very public journey with this devastating disease.

But the day after I was diagnosed with prostate cancer, everything changed. I began to see, and in some way viscerally feel, the pain and suffering that Gary must be going through, much less what his immediate family felt as they supported him day in and day out.

As I went through prostate surgery, radiation and hormone therapy following my 2014 diagnosis, I looked at his serious illness from a completely different vantage point: Empathy.

I put myself in Gary’s shoes as far as humanly possible. Cancer had struck a deep emotional chord for not only me, but anyone else with a serious health issue, especially family.

Empathy: I took a keen interest in learning that Gary was in a boxing program for Parkinson’s patients in which they could stay active and build up their muscles. Fighting Parkinson’s took on a symbolic yet very real meaning for them and gave a chance to socialize while they were hitting their punching bags. The program is aptly named “Rock Steady Boxing.”

Empathy: I was happy to hear that Gary was going out on walks with Cindy, with their family dogs tagging along. Gary, a former sports editor, still loved watching his favorite teams on TV. I knew that his mind was still sharp as his body gradually began to weaken.

Empathy: I became quite worried and upset when nearly two years ago I learned that Gary was entering hospice and that the end was near. Fond memories rushed over me about Gary courting my sister, about his wicked sense of humor, even silly things like him beating me at ping-pong every time we played.

I have learned many lessons as I began to fully embrace empathy.

First, hearing the word “cancer” is truly mind-numbing, yet I still hold the capacity to care deeply for others, and that’s especially true when they’re going through a serious health crisis of their own.

Second, the world did not completely stop when I learned that I had cancer. Many other people hear bad news from their doctors every day of the year. They carry burdens much like I do. We are more alike than different.

Third, empathy makes me a more well-rounded person, and enriches me with love and compassion for others as I witness them on a path fighting a grievous illness. Our paths converge through empathy.

Gary is gone now, but precious memories remain, and, importantly, empathy is now fully part of my mindset, and has taken root in my heart.

The day before I was diagnosed with prostate cancer, I didn’t pay enough attention to my brother-in-law’s arduous journey with Parkinson’s disease. 

Empathy Allowed Me to Look Beyond My Cancer 

We cancer survivors are barraged with well-meaning advice from the moment we make our diagnosis public. We’re counseled to exercise, eat well and to stay connected with friends and family. “Don’t give up hope,” they say earnestly. “Hang in there!”

I definitely appreciate that chorus of advice-givers. But by far the best advice I have heard is to write. And, boy, did I follow through. Since my prostate cancer diagnosis in 2014, I have honed my writing about this life-shaping experience. It’sbeen quite a journey, page after page of feelings, insights and lessons learned. I pick up my pen nearly everyday with a new revelation in mind.

It helped that I was pre-disposed to write. With a 25-year newspaper reporting career in my rear-view mirror, I am a disciplined writer. Words and phrases are part of my DNA, and rarely does a day pass that I’m not jotting down some reflection or observation. I love writing. My muse is my best friend. Writing sustains me. It is my elixir.

So, you might wonder, why should you write? Why should you, either as survivor or caregiver, use your precious time putting pen to paper? And, by the way, you don’t need a professional background like my own to appreciate and benefit from writing, so nothing should hold you back.

I have three good reasons why writing is well worth the effort.

1. It’s cathartic. Traveling the cancer road is demanding and exhausting. The cancer playback machine is always on, reminding us of the day we heard the devastating word “cancer” and the fear and stress that accompanied our diagnosis. Writing provides us with a safety valve to let off some steam and is a great way to cope with a life-threatening illness.

2. It’s revealing. Writing opens us up to self-reflection where we can gain valuable insights into our journey with the “big C.” We can learn how to deal with our disease andidentifythe steps to take for a more fulfilling life. We can learn to squeeze all the joy out of every precious moment, while shining a healing light on the many challenges that we face.

3. It’s purposeful. When we are in cancer’s cross hairs, we may at times feel drained, listless, and unmotivated. This is perfectly normal. But writing will give us a fresh purpose. Whether you’re writing daily in a personal diary or going public in a blog post or article, you will be engaged in something fulfilling and meaningful. You may even decide to go the full route and write a memoir.

So, go ahead, throw your entire being into writing. Allow your creative impulses to guide, inform, and fulfill you. Write, write, write, then write some more. You won’t regret it!

Being told to write was the best advice I could have ever received. 

Ron Cooper

The Second Scariest Moment of My Cancer Journey

Cancer Is Just Not Fair

Empathy Allowed Me to Look Beyond My Cancer

3 Reasons Writing Enhances the Cancer Experience

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