A Close Companion Throughout my Cancer Journey

It happened on the fifth day, after my first cisplatin chemotherapy treatment, in mid-September 2018.

My husband, Dan, had been my primary support person leading up to my final diagnosis with stage 3b lung cancer. Dan encouraged me as I approached testing procedures, often feeling terrified; he accompanied me to all my doctor appointments. Frequently, he took half a day or one day off from work to be there for me. My thoracic surgeon removed malignant tumors, one from each lung, in two separate surgeries; my husband called off for two or three days for each of the surgeries, in the summer of 2018.

By that time, Dan was in his 5th decade of his career as a high-quality structural engineer. My husband had traveled for his employer often, over the years. Not uncommonly, he worked a six-day week. Dan was quite comfortable in the office, maybe more so than ever when I suffered from life-threatening lung cancer. I completely understood the logic of his thinking but had had an incredibly challenging night and struggled with the concept of his going to work that morning. I was overwhelmed by the effect of the chemo. Having lain in the bed all night, sicker than I had ever felt in my life, I was afraid. Could I die of the side effects of the chemotherapy? I wondered. I periodically vomited and had diarrhea, I continually experienced nausea, had a fever and chills. Walking to the bathroom was as exhausting to me as running a marathon might have been had I been well. And I’m just a woman who likes to walk around my neighborhood. I didn’t have the pep to send a short text message.

I said, “Dan. Just until I complete chemo. PLEASE, ask Ken, (his boss) to allow you to work from home.”

“How about I just work for half day?” he responded.

“I’ve never felt this sick; I’m afraid I might die… not of cancer, but of the side effects of the chemo.”

Dan responded, “Let me just go in; if you’re still sick in a little while, I’ll come home.”

“Please Dan, I’m so sick.”

Dan took his breakfast into the TV room and ate it, then he sat down on the bed and said, “Goodbye, Sue, and paused. Please call me if you need me.”

I took my temperature for the third time that morning. My temperature had to be at least 101 degrees for an oncologist to make a special appointment to see me. I walked slowly to the stairs that led to the garage where Dan’s car was parked. My husband was at the door to the garage but hadn’t opened it yet. “Dan, I said, my temperature is 101; I need to go to the doctor. Will you take me?”

“I’ll stay home today and take you to the doctor.”

My appointment at the Oncology Office was at 1:00 p.m.; Dan drove us to the office. Fortunately, I was well prepared for the 35-minute ride south of State Route 8. I brought three throw-up bags like those in airplanes, in the pouch, on the back of the seat in front of the passenger. And packing those for the road proved to be a wise decision. The motion of the car resulted in my stomach issues intensifying. I vomited a lot and used two of the three bags.

Not surprisingly, I was quite weak and fatigued and thus struggled to get from the parking lot into the medical building. I was virtually unable to walk at all and leaned against Dan, who supported me in more ways than one.

We got on the elevator and rode to the third floor of the building. Dan helped me a few doors down the hall to the Oncology Suite. After sitting briefly in the waiting area, my name was called. After taking my vital signs, an aide took Dan and me to see the doctor. It was only a few minutes later that I was given my diagnosis. “You are dehydrated,” said the cancer doctor, “you need to drink more water.” He went on to tell me that all my symptoms were normal side effects of Cisplatin chemotherapy.

That day became a turning point for both Dan and me. Dan asked Ken’s permission to work from home throughout my chemo, then radiation therapy. And I listened carefully as the doctor said, “You’re fine. Your symptoms are normal.” In my mind, I said, “Sue, you’ve got this!” My mental and emotional health were turned upside down.

In a little over a year, I would be in remission; in another three and a half years, I would be officially cured.

This piece reflects the author’s personal experience and perspective. For medical advice, please consult your health care provider.

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