Facing Lung Cancer: My Journey from Diagnosis to Surgery

In 2018, when I first saw the doctor around in his fifties. He explained my condition by looking at a CT image attached to the wall.

“So, do I have cancer?”

“Yes, that’s right. It’s a very early stage.”

Six years earlier, a tiny nodule was found on my lung at a regular check-up. The doctor suggested I get a CT once a year and added that if it doesn’t change in size or get darker, there would be no problem. After several times of CT, I came to think, “I’m ok. This is just a trace of pneumonia from childhood.” And I skipped it.

“Do I have to have surgery?” I asked the doctor.

“Yes, you have to.”

“Are there any other options besides surgery? Medicine or something?”

“No, there isn’t.”

“Or… in time, will it ever fade away?

“It never goes away.” The doctor, wearing glasses, answered in a firm voice without hesitation.

“Doctor, almost how many centimeters would you cut? Could you cut it as small as possible?”

“Here it is, an example. It was done for the sake of the patient, but….” He showed me another CT image from his laptop.

“Look, this is two years later.”

I was frightened. The picture was all white, like a cloud. The cancer had spread throughout the lungs. I couldn’t ask him if the image was from his patient or just some reference material. He then explained two types of surgery. One was a simple thoracoscopic, and the other was a robot-assisted Da Vinci.

“Which is less burden to the body?”

“Da Vinci is.” 

“So, how much does it cost?”

“It costs three million yen. I’m sorry, but Japan's National Health Insurance hasn’t covered it yet.” (Under the Japanese Medical Insurance system, patients usually only pay 30% of expenses, and for those over seventy years old, it is 20%)

Despite that, the words “less burdened” lingered in my ears.

Luckily, the cost was all covered by private insurance for cancer. My husband and I chose the robot-assisted surgery, as that doctor was an expert in Japan. From then on, I counted and waited for that day, staring at the calendar on the wall. I've often imagined a scene where the cancer suddenly vanishes and the doctor is left wondering what happened.

Three months later, that day came. The doctor was going to perform four surgeries. I was the last. Suddenly, the door of my room opened, “Please don’t mind, it’s soon,” and disappeared in a flash. The man in a blue surgery gown was my doctor. The first operation took much longer; he cared about me so that I didn’t become too nervous. When the orange sun began to set, finally, two nurses came in to pick me up on a stretcher.

In the operating room, the air conditioner worked hard. I felt chilly, wrapped in a thin, nonwoven fabric. Doctors, nurses and patients were all in the air conditioning roar, which reminded me of flying in a jet. A young woman anesthesiologist with bangs following one side told me with a smile. “You’re getting warm soon.” Lying on the operating table, I tried to face up to see Da Vinci, but she had already set the table in the fixed position for surgery. “Should I have shown you that?” While listening to her voice, I was momentarily taken away to an unknown world.

Like I had been told, the day after surgery was tough. I was nauseated all day. If I ever get cancer again, I will choose a large room because I want someone to share the same pain with me. I, too, have a cancer mate to exchange greetings with, who got surgery under the same doctor. That is cool; some patients with breast cancer form groups to do the patchwork in a circle. In good times and bad, we need companions to associate with because that enables us to ease our hardships. Our lives become more irreplaceable if we accept and cherish the turbulences than if nothing happens. 

I still have navy pajamas with white marguerite. The day after surgery, I woke up in the ICU and changed into my pajamas. When a young nurse helped me change clothes and said, “Pretty!” Every time I see those pajamas, I can’t help but press them against my cheek like a pal who has passed through a burden together.

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