Twelve Months (2 page)

I hadn't been feeling well for a while; a change in bowel habits, unexplained weight loss and terrible cramping in my lower abdomen. When I started to find blood in my stool, I knew I had to see the doctor. “You stupid man!” Bella scolded. I thought she was going to kill me for waiting so long.

Together, we visited one doctor's office after the next, while I was subjected to a battery of intrusive testing. Most diseases were immediately ruled out – at least all the livable ones.

While Bella sat by my side, Doctor Olivier conducted his line of questioning. “Family history of intestinal polyps?” he asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“History of an inflammatory bowel disease?”

“Nope.”

“Any possible genetic factors?”

I cringed. “Yeah, both my parents died from cancer.” I looked over at my wife. Her eyes were filled with worry.

After giving samples of every bodily fluid you can imagine and enduring the most God-awful probing, I was sent to the hospital's radiology department for a CT scan.

As I recall, it was the final days of a long, harsh winter. The wind banged on the window, while the last remnants of a blackened snow bank stood off in the distance. Though Bella was worried sick, she reluctantly agreed to let me return to Doctor Olivier's alone because Riley needed someone to watch the kids. “But please come straight home after you're done,” she requested.

As I sat half-naked on the exam table, I couldn't help but take note of the meaningless details that surrounded me; a water color painting hanging crooked on the wall, a glass container that needed to be refilled with tongue depressors, an extra chair that didn't belong, making the room feel cluttered.

The door opened and Doctor Olivier walked in, holding a yellow folder under his arm. It was my entire medical history. His face looked somber.

This can't be happening
, I thought.
I never smoked, rarely drank and I'm only in my fifties
.

Doctor Olivier was a white-haired gent with a moustache trimmed a half-inch off his top lip, betraying his military background. With a white coat to match, his stethoscope swung freely from his thick neck. He had large hands with perfectly manicured fingernails. It's strange the things you pick up when somebody's about to invade your private parts. “Don,” he began in his calm, no-nonsense approach, “I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but…you have colon cancer.” He opened the folder for more details.

I felt like he'd just punched me in the gut. “I what?” I asked, one octave higher than normal.

“The rectal bleeding, weight loss, abdominal pain and the fact that your stools have become longer and more narrow are all symptoms.”

“But it hasn't been going on all that long,” I argued. He only shook his head. Now I definitely felt like vomiting.

“Sometimes colon cancer fails to produce any symptoms until the cancer has grown very large and even metastasized, or spread to other parts of the body. This is why the identification and removal of polyps through regular screenings play such an important role in prevention.”

“Spread to other parts?” I asked.

The man's green eyes peered up from behind narrow reading glasses. I knew right then and there that I was in serious trouble. “The cancer's already spread to your liver,” he said.

A bolt of panic, generating from my core, shot out and filled every cell of my body. My extremities began to tingle and my breathing turned shallow. There was a sudden pain in my chest and I knew intuitively that this was felt for my wife.
What's Bella going to do?
I wondered, and a wave of dizziness nearly pushed me off the table. Then, I must have gone into some kind of shock or something. I kept eye contact, but for a while all I heard was a hum; the occasional phrase dancing in and out.

“…trace amounts of blood. Blah. Blah. Blah. …blockages preventing bowel movements. Blah. Blah. Blah. …consumption of red meat, obesity, smoking. Blah. Blah. …stage four. Blah. Blah.” There was a long pause. “Do you understand what I'm saying, Don?” he finally asked.

I don't know how long we stared at each other before I answered. “Yes, I heard you. I have cancer.”

“That's right. You have stage four colon cancer which has started to spread to other organs. At your age, I strongly recommend we pursue aggressive surgical treatment to remove the cancerous tissues. We'll also want to consider chemotherapy and radiation therapy.” From his tone, this wasn't so much a recommendation as it was an order.

Along with oxygen, my wits were returning to me. I understood the words he was saying, but they were still difficult to register. “But I've always been more of a quality guy…not so concerned with quantity,” I blurted.

He folded his arms, awaiting an explanation.

“What kind of life will I live…even if it's extended?” I asked.

“We won't know that until we begin, will we?”

“Maybe I should get a second opinion?”

“By all means, please do. It's important to…”

“I just don't want to cut myself short by living a few more months hooked to tubes,” I interrupted.

He nodded once. “I understand,” he said. After explaining a few more details I was too overwhelmed to comprehend, he left the room. There was clearly nothing more he could do for me.

Minutes later, I was dressed and walking down the icy sidewalk toward a frightening future that had just shrunk by decades. It was as if adrenaline forced me to move, one foot in front of the next. I felt numb, high on the fear of losing my life. And then I pictured Bella's face and stopped. I must have dry-heaved for a solid five minutes.

My pretty, light-haired wife met me at the front door, shivering. I looked into her hazel eyes and attempted a smile. Before I said a word, she already knew. “Oh, dear God…” she gasped and pulled me to her.

As we stepped inside, I told her, “Stage four colon cancer.”

“I thought it was…” she began. “But it can't be…” Her voice began cracking like warm water on ice.

Although we both suspected the same prognosis, there was no real way to prepare for it. We held each other for nearly a half hour and cried. Although I was already worried about having to leave her, I tried to console her. “We'll be fine,” I whispered.

For a moment, she pushed away and peered into my soul. “We'll be going for a second opinion,” she confirmed.

While a late-night hailstorm threatened to shatter the living room windows and Bella tossed and turned in bed, I fumbled on the Internet and conducted my own research:

I stopped reading.
I'm already nearing the final stage
, I thought, and for the first time I felt guilty about not taking better care of myself.

I was preparing for bed when I looked up from the sink and surveyed my face in the mirror. I still had most of my dark hair. My brown eyes were filled with life.
Dying
can't be what I'm in the process of,
I thought. Besides the pockmarked cheeks from a cruel case of pre-adolescent acne, I looked as healthy and unscathed as the day I was born. I washed down two pills with a gulp of water and shut off the light.

As I headed for bed, it suddenly dawned on me:
All the things I was planning to do when I finally had the time…I may not actually have the time to do!
I snickered at the thought of it.
Shoot, I was gonna go fishing and travel the country with Bella in a motor home, where we could rekindle our romance…which took a backseat to too many other things.

I lay down in bed, placed my hands behind my head and stared up at the ceiling – haunted by my unrealized aspirations. I was hoping to do some writing, maybe even for the newspaper, and beg the boys down at the local race track to let me go for a spin. I even thought about talking Bella into doing some horseback riding…

I turned to my side and watched Bella's eyelids struggle with another bad dream.
Now what?
I wondered.

It's funny how the mind works. Besides making Bella promise not to tell anyone until we were absolutely sure, I honestly cannot tell you what my feelings or thoughts were between doctor's visits. I remember going to work in the cold and coming home to watch Bella pray each night, but most of that time remains a complete blur to me. I vaguely recall the desperate phone calls and hours of research my frantic wife conducted, and her sudden outbursts of grief. I stayed out of it – all of it. I wasn't ready to consider death. It wasn't part of the comfortable routine I'd spent decades perfecting.

For whatever reason, I was surprised to find that Dr. Rice was a woman. She was too thin and pale, but she had kind eyes and a soft tone to her voice. “Colon cancer is one of the most common types of cancer,” she explained to Bella and me. “And treatment usually depends on the location, size, and spread of your cancer at the time of diagnosis. When colon cancer is detected at an early stage, surgical treatment is very effective. We also use chemotherapy or radiation with surgery to reduce the chance that the cancer will return.”

Seated by my side, Bella couldn't wait to ask. “And Don's…do you agree with the surgery, chemotherapy and radiation in his case?”

The doctor hesitated. It was slight, but she hesitated, and as plain as day, I could see that she was too kind for this aspect of her profession. Without a word, she confirmed our dreaded suspicions. “It was caught too late, Mr. and Mrs. DiMarco,” she explained. She looked at Bella and then back at me. “Your cancer is inoperable, and although radiation is an option, the diagnosis is still terminal.”

“How long?” Bella asked, her voice cracking.

“Twelve months…at best.”

“Now what?” I asked. It was a stupid question, but I still hoped for an answer.

“Go…and
really
live the time you have left.”

Like a puppet that had snapped its strings, Bella collapsed into a chair and began to sob. “Oh, dear God,” she cried.

“My father didn't raise a quitter,” I said, surprised at my last-ditch effort.

“That's admirable, but you can either spend your remaining time fighting or enjoying it,” Dr. Rice advised.

I felt devastated, but when I found her eyes again I also felt a brief moment of peace. It was unexplainable.

To the beat of Bella's heavy sobs, the doctor took out her prescription pad. “I'll give you all the medication you'll need to manage the pain.”

“Thank you.” I took the two scripts and helped my wife to her feet. It was time to go home and face Bella's unanswered prayers.

As the days threatened to turn into weeks, I moped around in a silent state of numbness. Life was a fog and I was traveling aimlessly with no light to guide me. I prayed harder and with more frequency:
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference –
but serenity and courage were nowhere in sight. Instead, as though I was competing in the emotional Tour de France, I cycled through denial, anger, depression and negotiating with God – again and again.

“Talk to me!” my wife pleaded, trying everything to include herself in my secret mourning. But I was too selfish to let her in. For whatever reason, I needed to sit with the misery for a while longer before sharing it – with anyone.

It didn't take long to run the full gamut of darkness – anger, sorrow, fear – and then run through each of them again.
WHY?
I screamed in my head.
WHY ME?
But there was no answer. Eventually, I was only left with the stinging realization that on many levels, it didn't matter that there were people who loved me and didn't want to lose me. In many respects, my dying was the perfectly natural thing to do. Still, I wasn't ready to surrender to it. For the time being, I preferred to stay within my shell and simmer in a bitter rage.

Bella, on the other hand, was more than happy to express herself each day. I never realized my gentle wife could be so angry and sad – all at the same time.

After canceling my next dentist appointment – I figured,
What's the use, right
? – I finally called for a family meeting with Riley and Michael. It was time we broke the terrible news. I didn't want anyone outside the immediate family to know, though. You see, I've always believed that positive thoughts and actions bring about positive results, with the same holding true for the opposite. So, with the negative hens in our extended family, I figured if they caught wind of my illness, I'd be dead in a matter of weeks. Besides, the fuss would be too annoying.

We were at the kitchen table for a few terrible moments before Bella began to explain exactly what Doctor Rice had said.

Before she was through, Riley screamed, “No, Daddy…NO!”

I honestly thought I was going to be strong for everyone until she did that. I looked up to find Bella sobbing and Michael looking away to wipe his eyes. I couldn't help it. I joined the family for a good, long, healthy cry. When I finally composed myself enough to speak, I said, “Okay guys, this is the last time I want to see anyone mourning for me while I'm still alive.”