Does Cancer Make You a Better Person?

Fernando Morales is a cool kid. He's a now 18-year old kid who was diagnosed with Ewing Sarcoma in 2011.

We featured his story on the Dana-Farber blog  more than a year ago as part of pediatric cancer awareness month, and then this past August, he appeared in the NESN/WEEI JImmy Fund Radiothon.  In the clip, he says with full assuredness that cancer's "brought out the best in me" 

I first saw that clip as part of this video  (Fernando is at about 1:40)  back in September and that has stayed in my head.

Cancer brought out the best in me.

Can I say the same? 

For the last week or so I've been mentally writing a post that I was preparing to call: 10 Ways Cancer's Made Me a Better Person. As I wrestled with that list, the idea  migrated to Five Ways Cancer's Made Me a Better Person. That then  devolved to the current question: Has Cancer Made Me a Better Person?  

Has it?

While I've never heard anyone say they were glad they were diagnosed with cancer, I've heard patients express sentiments similar to Fernando's. The underlying theme is the oft-repeated cliche: Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger. People talk about how they are stronger, more grateful, more aware, more thankful, even calmer in spite of the anxiety that cancer can provoke. 

But a better person?  Hard to say. Cancer has made me better at my job; I came back to my role at Dana-Farber with a better understanding of what and how to talk about cancer. But at the same time, it's made me more intolerant of people I work with who don't give their full effort. Is that growing intolerance due to cancer, too,  or am I just getting older? 

When I was going through chemo, every fourth week, I was tired and irritable -- probably hard to convince my family that I was a better person for those six months. Still, there's something nagging at my conscience that makes me feel like I'm wiser, more aware, more grateful. Do I live every moment to the fullest? Nah. Do I still get irritated at petty things? Yep. Am I the best evolution of myself? Not yet.

But in the end, what cancer's made me do is think, and write --  which for me is often one and the same. I've realized a while ago that writing for me is often how I think best. It -- writing, not cancer -- is a journey for me into self-awareness, almost a meditative state. And cancer's taken me deeper and more often into that place of self-awareness because it's made me write more often.  Part of why I wrestle with the notion of whether cancer's made me a better person is that by making that claim, I would also need to cede to the notion that cancer has fundamentally changed me -- that I'm not the person that I was two and a half years ago. 

I don't know that I want to give cancer that much of a stake in me.  

As Fernando says in his clip, you are what you are. Cancer doesn't change that. It only amplifies it. Hopefully, the parts that it's amplified for me are the good ones.

Cancer: My Distant Relative

When I was first diagnosed, cancer was so intimately involved in my life it essentially moved into my house, shared a room, consumed our resources. It was a member of the immediate family, always present and always on my mind.

Over the two plus years since diagnosis, though, I've been able to create a little distance. Even when I was undergoing chemo, it felt like cancer had moved away a bit -- to perhaps the position of an extended family member who I might think of often, but only visit occasionally.

Then, after treatment ended, cancer became more a family relative, who I still think of often -- if not quite as often -- and only visit infrequently. Which brings me to where I am today: If cancer were part of my family, it would be a distant relative -- one I know exists but don't plan on visiting any time soon.

That's good progress

But eventually, I'd love for cancer to be that distant relative I didn't even know I had.

--MIchael

5 Things I Learned at the Lymphoma Conference

Friday evening. Sipping a glass of wine with Stacy in a conference ballroom in Brooklyn, NY. We've just met Scott and Joanne, Burt and Kathleen. We get to chatting and there's an instant connection as lo and behold, Scott and Burt are also follicular lymphoma patients/survivors. But I suppose that's a bit expected. After all, wer'e in Brooklyn for the Lymphoma Research Foundation's 18th National Educational Forum. Over the course of a 2.5 days, we heard presentations from some of the country's leading lymphoma doctors and researchers. It was a wealth of information and a lot to take in. But I'm glad to have gone, and grateful to LRF and the dozens of doctors who participated.

My running route on Saturday morning: Across the Brooklyn Bridge at sunrise

Here's what I learned

1. There's abundance of life after cancer. That's a quote from Kelly Payne who gave a short speech about her survivorship story. And it's not that I related to her story. Different disease. Different treatment. Different prognosis. But there's was a palpable sense of hope and optimism throughout the conference -- not just from the oncologists who seem to view this as a boon time in terms of lymphoma drugs being developed --  but also from the patients. At first blush, you'd think a room full of 500 patients and their families would be depressing -- people desperately searching for an answer to their cancer question, for a rope to grasp. But that wasn't the vibe at all. It was living proof of the progress being made, and of the resiliency of individuals. 

2. Cats can have vitamin c deficiency. And apparently, that can cause leukemia in felines. Or so said one participant. No, she wasn't a doctor. Yes, she wanted to know if she should take vitamin C supplements.

3. I'm in the right place. It's so important to have a good, trusting relationship with your oncologist. Different oncologists have different approaches. And what works for you may not work for me. But the combination of Dr. L (who happened to co-chair this national forum) and the support of Dana-Farber is right for me. The combination of research knowledge and lymphoma expertise, responsiveness and approachability, and compassion and kindness may be one of the reasons I look forward to my quarterly visits. It's comforting, too, to know that the resources of one of the world's leading cancer centers is behind her (and me).

4. Cure. Long-term remission. Quality of Life. It doesn't matter what you call it. The drugs being developed now - idelesalib, ibrutinib among others -- promise to usher in a new era in lymphoma care that was first promised with the introduction of rituximab in 1997. 

5. Lymphomaniacs only. When we sat down at a table at Friday evening's networking reception, Scott's first question was: "Are you lymphomaniacs?" Right then, we knew it'd be a good weekend.

-michael

Cancer and Superstition

I remember watching baseball games on tv as a kid and firmly believing that in order for the Mets to score runs, I needed to sit on the floor. This being the Mets of the late 70s (who were even more abysmal than the Mets of 2013), they needed quality hitters not  superstitious juju to score runs and win games. But that didn't stop me from following the ritual.

A rational mind, I know, would look at superstition and scoff. Show me the scientific proof that a broken mirror produces bad luck, or knocking on wood prevents a jinx from erasing your good fortune. It just doesn't make sense.

Still, here I am with good news about my recent visit with Dr. L and I'm hesitant to write about it. And I know I'm not alone. I know many other survivors who fear that talking about how well they're doing tempts fate too much, almost inviting bad news to follow the good.  

I was reading a story recently about a Parkinson's  patient who confided in his therapist that he was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. His therapist told him, "You have Parkinson's. The other shoe dropped a long time ago."

Five years or five months from now, I may have to write a post that talks about how my lymphoma has returned. But that post will happen regardless of what I write today. The more I think of it, the more it seems that avoiding the positive news, or couching the positive in conditionals and wood knocking is giving in to the natural anxiety that comes with a cancer diagnosis. It puts the emphasis on all that can go wrong, instead of what's gone right. 

It's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

So I'll share the good news. After CT scans, bloodwork and an appointment with Dr. L, I remain free and clear. In fact, we are not going to do another scan for a full year. And, on top of that, the Red Sox, my adopted team since the late 80s have clinched the AL East. The Mets, on the other hand, didn't have nearly enough juju this year.

--michael

Just for fun, here's the link to Stevie Wonder's great song, "Superstition"