Unforgettable: Cancer journey delivers chemo and friendships

By Paul D. Bowker
Posted 7/29/21

The last seven months were a blur, quite honestly, as they become for any cancer patient.

This is my story.

Days began with a bottle of water.

And then a pill.

Then more water.

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Unforgettable: Cancer journey delivers chemo and friendships

Posted

The last seven months were a blur, quite honestly, as they become for any cancer patient.

This is my story.

Days began with a bottle of water.

And then a pill.

Then more water.

And more pills.

Every 22 days, there was a chemotherapy treatment at the University of Iowa, sometimes with the infusion suite offering a grand view of Kinnick Stadium. The infusion of multiple chemo drugs would take hours. And, yes, more pills before the treatment ever began.

There were three in-patient stays in the hospital for methotrexate, a powerful chemo drug.

And an ongoing recovery from a blood clot.

There were two biopsies, two PET-scans and a CT scan to go along with the endless number of blood draws and Covid tests.

So when my oncologist informed me earlier this month that my lymphoma cancer was gone, that I was in remission, I was waiting for the balloons and the music and the fireworks display.

That is not reality.

But I can tell you, the doctors and nurses at the University of Iowa’s Holden Comprehensive Cancer Center are saving lives every day. There is little question about that and it is something I have told the nurses in the infusion center multiple times.

The truth is, after just three chemotherapy treatments, the doctor showed me that the cancer (and who knows where lymphoma comes from?) was nearly gone. It was a great thing for an oncologist to tell a patient when he was going on vacation the next day. And it was great news for the patient, who was forced into a chemo vacation seven months ago with some back pain that turned out to be so much more serious than back pain.

We did three more chemo treatments anyway, plus two methotrexate treatments.

It is better to be safe.

So when another PET-scan was done in July, followed by another visit with the oncologist, I felt like the Red Sox entering the ninth inning with a 10-run lead. I wanted to keep that 10-run victory. But mostly, I just wanted a victory.

I got it.

And suddenly, those long walks to high school baseball and softball fields in Wellman and Kalona and Riverside and points beyond didn’t seem so long anymore. Still exhausting, for sure, but more enjoyable.

Word spread.

And soon I felt the love in person at those ballfields and also on social media. It is difficult to express how much those conversations meant and how much they still mean. This, I realized, was my party.

I went to Lisbon twice for high school baseball tournament games.

I went to West Liberty for another.

I covered a doubleheader at Highland High School.

Weeks ago, that wasn’t possible.

Months ago, I couldn’t even get out of bed. It took extra effort from every muscle just to make it to a doctor’s appointment in December or early January. I didn’t have eggs for breakfast. I had morphine.

Until those moments, a cancer diagnosis meant the color of a cancer ribbon. There are high school teams that wear pink jerseys on breast cancer night and others that wear a special color in memory of a lost teammate or coach. I walked a lap once for a cancer benefit as a soccer referee.

But now it really means something.

I had lymphoma. It is treatable if you catch it in time.

I made friendships with people who have cancers much worse. My dad died of pancreatic cancer. I have a cousin who is a cancer survivor. Some of my Facebook and Twitter contacts are cancer survivors. When you enter the waiting room at the Holden Center, you quickly realize that all of these people have cancer and some will undergo chemotherapy or radiation for a year. Or longer. There is no party. There are no balloons.

That’s why every game, every cheer, every moment, is so special.

That’s what the party really is.

I get that now.

And I have to thank one of my hospital roommates for helping me figure that out. I mean, he was getting an infusion almost 24 hours and stayed in the hospital for nearly a month; mine lasted four hours and I was out in five days.

My daughter visited every day.

He didn’t have any visitors.

But we did have our daily walks along the hospital’s skywalks every day. They were truly inspiring moments. Thank you, Jerry.

The hospital nurses were terrific, even giving me a going-away card and pin after my final discharge. Thank you, Jordan.

The fatigue will go on for awhile; at least I’m not totally out of breath when I walk from the car to an athletic field now. The constipation is gone; oh, the painful constipation. Yikes. My hair is starting to grow back. My immune system is slogging its way toward recovery. The mask will remain in place.

All are victories.

Faith and science are powerful partners. No question.

 News columnist Paul Bowker can be reached at bowkerpaul1@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter: @bowkerpaul.