I Miss These Days
I can still struggle to believe that I am still here, 37 years after my diagnosis of cancer, Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I remember those early days of survivorship, especially that first year, fearful and scared of my cancer coming back as quickly as I was declared in remission. Symptoms that I had prior to my diagnosis reappeared reigniting concerns of relapse during my first couple of years, reminding me of an imaginary clock, planted in my brain by my doctors, “5 years.” Five years was the magic number I was told if I reached I could consider myself “cancer free.” Thinking of anything longer was not even a thought. I never thought of anything other than living to five years, never about the years after. And here I am, 37 years after that diagnosis. November 1988 to November 2025, there it is, four decades. It seems like forever, and though my memory is not as sharp as it once was, the details of 1988 are still clear as day to me.
While the first third of my survivorship is pretty much unremarkable, as in, it just happened, one year after another, it is when I became a Dad, that I feel my survivorship actually meant something, mattered, made a difference. Out of my 37 years of survivorship, my daughters and the memories we have made, make up 21 of those years.
I have one photo album completed with memories of our first two decades together. Twenty-one years together is a very long time, especially from a cancer survivor point of view. I assure you, these twenty-one years have flown by. There are so many memories we have made with each other.
But there was no bigger impact on my life, than when I faced the fight of my life, a “widow maker” blockage with my heart that my survivorship took on a whole new meaning, and I could feel it, a completely different drive or motive, an increased will to live. It was no longer about just surviving, I wanted to live. I had so much that I wanted to experience with my daughters. And most importantly, I did not want my daughters to experience what so many of their friends had already experienced in their young lives, the loss of a parent.
I remember the looks on their faces when they were finally able to visit me in the hospital, as I was still hooked up to tubes and machines. My excitement and joy to see them after being separated from them for the first time in our lives, could not ease the fear in their eyes and confusion by what was going on. It was only when I finally went home, the path to recovery and a return to “daddy/daughter time” would begin again.
The length of time that I had survived cancer had become a “back burner” thought (back burner referencing where people put their pots on the stove to just sit while the rest of the meal cooks). My survivorship had taken a different direction, now faced with dealing with late developing side effects from the very treatments that treated my cancer. My care as a survivor would take a different direction, and would not only be more involved, but more active as my first heart surgery would not be the only issue I would face in the rest of my life. In fact, there would be many more.
There is an expression among many of us in the cancer community, “not letting cancer define us.” This basically means, not letting cancer, or in my case, the many late side effect health issues that I deal with, take away from what is most important to me, my daughters. I acknowledge that I need to take care of these issues, but I must also pay attention to the needs of my daughters, and the time, likely reduced and limited that I will have with them. And clearly, if I do not take care of my health, that time will be even less. There is a need for balance between the two.
But here we are now, both of my daughters, now adults, are set to make their own paths. And there is so much I want to witness of their futures. I know they want me to be there to see all the things they do.
There is so much life after cancer. It is just hard to see that far ahead, but before you know it, that future is behind you, and you find yourself wishing to have those times back.
Paul's Heart 