What Cancer Taught Me About Perspective

For the past few years, I’ve known about something growing on my kidney. It was spotted during a CT scan for another issue. I had hoped it would just go away and leave me alone. Alas, it didn’t.

In April, a doctor at the Mayo Clinic labeled it Stage One cancer. She looked to be all of sixteen, and I’ll admit I wondered whether she was old enough to drive, let alone diagnose cancer—but sorry, that’s just the way I roll.

As it turns out, I’m not alone. More than half of kidney tumors these days are discovered by accident – spotted on scans ordered for something else entirely. Stage One kidney cancer, like mine, is now often caught early enough that surgery alone can be curative. Each year, about two million Americans hear those words—‘you have cancer.’ For many, it’s not caught early enough, and the road is far steeper than mine.

Anyway, my teenage doctor told me it would be fine to wait until fall (after golf season) to have it removed—a fact I later confirmed with two “older, wiser” physicians on the golf course. After all, some of the best advice usually comes between tee shots, right up there with, “I think it’ll only break about three inches.”

My cancer was considered minor, but the doctor said it was something better removed than watched. I never thought much about getting cancer —  it doesn’t run in my family much. We have plenty of other medical curiosities to worry about. And seeing those kids with cancer on the St. Jude’s commercials made mine seem almost too small to mention.

So last Tuesday was D-Day. I went under the knife at Mayo in Scottsdale, Arizona. They worked on pulling that sucker out for nearly five hours. When I finally woke up, the surgeons said they were sure they’d gotten it all—and, as a bonus, they didn’t have to take my kidney. The tumor’s out for biopsy now, but they’re confident it’s clean. No chemo. No radiation. I’ve got my fingers crossed and my lucky rabbit’s foot nearby… just in case.

Sadly, I’ve had friends, employees, and relatives who haven’t been as lucky. My wife has lost her mother, two brothers, and a sister-in-law to cancer. I used to worry more about her than myself. Still do.

Speaking of my wife, Dawn—there has never been a more loving, more selfless companion to walk beside me through this recovery. She could give lessons to nurses in bedside manner. There is nothing she wouldn’t do for me, and more often than not, she anticipates my needs before I even realize them myself. Her patience humbles me; her devotion steadies me. Through this trial, my love and gratitude for her have only deepened, rooted now in awe as much as affection.

They say if you live long enough, you’ll get cancer—maybe that’s God’s way of thinning the herd. Having dodged this bullet, I’ve gained a deeper respect for those who’ve faced it, thought they’d beaten it, and then had it come back somewhere else. I think I understand a little better now what goes through their minds. I know what went through mine the day before surgery.

Sitting here on this Friday afternoon, I’m still feeling a little punk. Lost some strength, an appetite, and worst of all, the ability to pass gas. Oh, the inhumanity! On the good side, naps are now to be enjoyed.

The survival rate for localized kidney cancer in America is around 93%. That’s good company to be in, though no one ever wants a membership card. There are nearly 19 million cancer survivors in the U.S. today. I guess I just joined the club, one I never asked to be part of, but one I’m grateful exists.

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger — but I’ll settle for still breathing and pathetically swinging a 3-wood.