Keeping the Faith

Today I’ve been thinking and reading a lot about Jennifer Goodman Linn, a woman who graduated high school with my younger brother, whose family I knew growing up in Livingston. Jennifer died a couple of days ago from a rare cancer that she lived with since 2004.

I'm sad beyond words about the loss of this young, vibrant, passionate person and the sorrow it has caused her family and friends. As a cancer "patient" undergoing treatment, I'm dejected to learn cancer has taken another life — and I have to admit, I'm thinking, please don't let it ever be me.

This week, I had my 11^th of 12 Taxol infusions to treat my breast cancer. Finally close to the end of the chemo tunnel, where I see the light at last, instead of feeling celebratory, I'm nervous.

My 11^th treatment did not go as planned. 

During the pre-treatment exam, I told my oncologist, Dr. M, the neuropathy I'd been experiencing for the past two weeks was worsening. Neuropathy can be a deal-breaking side effect of Taxol, and I knew with each additional treatment there was a possibility I could suffer permanent nerve damage.

After I explained my finger tips and toes felt like they had fallen asleep — and they weren't waking up, Dr. M said, "Sharon, we should probably skip today's treatment."

My mouth dropped open, and I may have growled — OK, I did growl … loudly. I regretted at once spilling my neuropathy symptoms. How could I miss a treatment and live with the anxiety that doing so could give any tiny cancer cells lurking in my body a chance to regroup?

"No way," I said.

Doctor M weighed the two evils: My fragile mental health v. the potential toxicity of another treatment, and agreed that I could have the treatment — at a lesser dose — with the understanding that if the neuropathy intensified before treatment 12, I wouldn't receive it.

I'd been looking forward to the glory of finishing chemo and envisioned my last treatment: A party in my infusion room, fist pumping, hugs and high fives with the nurses, saying thank you and goodbye. Now that the pins and needles and numbness have spread to my hands and feet and calves, I'm afraid I won't have chemo closure and am uncertain of what that means.

While moping about the likelihood of not living out my treatment 12 fantasy, I heard about Jennifer.

My heart ached. I read her story on her website YouFearless.com and studied photos and videos of her. She radiated life. My heart ached more, and it also fluttered a little.

Jennifer had hope. She lived without fear. She turned her travail into a better life for herself and others, and because of cancer, not in spite of it, her life became richer and more rewarding. 

She is who I aspire to be, who I've been working at becoming, who I can be. I have strength and courage and love and the power to make a difference in someone's life.  

I will allow myself to be doleful today — for Jennifer and for me — and then tomorrow I'll clear my head, be brave and move forward with fist pumping, hugs and high fives.