Reflections on a Turbulent Year

It’s hard to believe that it’s already been a year since the “C” word came into my life. Sadly, the word in question wasn’t “cashback.”

Hearing the phrase “poorly differentiated squamous cell carcinoma” regarding my tonsil was a bit of a shock. It required some research to divine its meaning.

“Poorly differentiated” basically means “a lot of weird variations.” That pretty much describes my life, so I was cool with it.

Squamous cells, as it turns out, are located throughout the body. Nothing worrisome there.

The “carcinoma” part needed no research to deduce its meaning. Not exactly good news.

Yet, as my oncologist explained, it wasn’t the worst possible news. He told me that my specific cancer has an 85% cure rate. I’ll take those odds in Las Vegas any day.

More than six months before this unwelcome news arrived, I had decided to step back from my position with the Dairy Star newspaper last July. Instead of retiring, I simply began a new job, namely, enduring a summer-long course of cancer treatments.

The term “chemoradiation” became a new addition to my vocabulary. I at first thought the chemo portion was the worst part.

It’s never a good sign when your nurse has to put on a hazmat suit in order to administer your chemo drug. On the plus side, they also gave me quantities of steroids that would normally be associated with elephants. The steroids made me feel like Superman for a few days.

Then came the crash, by which I mean unremitting nausea. The mere thought of food almost made me ralph. Because of this, all of my caloric intake came in the form of a nutrient-dense liquid that flowed into my stomach via a tube that had been surgically implanted in my belly. Even so, I lost 11 pounds during one especially rough week. My doctors warned me that this was unsustainable, so my wife and I fed the tube earlier and more often.

I at first thought that the radiation portion was the easy part. After seven weeks of daily radiation sessions, I changed my mind.

My neck developed the Mother of All Sunburns. Swallowing became difficult, although I never lost the ability to get stuff down my gullet.          

My appetite gradually returned after my treatments ended. It was cause for celebration when my G-tube was finally removed. I showed the scar to our toddler grandson, saying, “Look! Grandpa has two bellybuttons.”

The little guy immediately scanned the other side of my abdomen and asked, “Do you have three?”

A few months after my treatments were completed, the doctors ran a blood test that searched for the DNA of my particular cancer. None was detected. It was the best possible outcome of a bad situation.                

I’m often asked how I’m faring nowadays. I feel much the same as before my diagnosis. My strength, appetite and endurance have returned, and my sense of taste is pretty good. I mean food-wise; my wife would tell you that my clothing choices are a strong argument against any improvements in my aesthetics.

What am I doing now that I’ve finally been able to slide into retirement? Anything I want. I’ve rediscovered the childhood joys of reading books and afternoon naps. We have acquired a new set of Jersey steers who are turning the grass in our cattle yard into beef. I’ll plant a big garden again and raise the things that we longed for last winter, only to be stymied by what to do with their surplus this summer.

It’s a bit cliché for a writer to mention that he or she is working on a novel, so I won’t say that I’m working on a novel. Let’s just call it “a humungous project that makes Sisyphus’s punishment look like a walk in the park.”              

The story is loosely based on events that took place in my family a century ago. Multiple tragedies were involved, so the tale won’t have a happy ending.

I’ve never tackled a project this big. It’s like assembling a room-sized jigsaw puzzle without the benefit of knowing what the puzzle looks like. But whenever I get some pieces to snap together, I’m rewarded with the pleasure of an “aha!” moment.

It’s been fun to construct an entire world from scratch. It’s a tiny taste of how the Creator must have felt at the dawn of time.

When will it be done? I don’t know; that depends on how often it rains. I’m a farm kid at heart, so spending time indoors when the weather is pleasant goes against my grain.

Besides, I need to carve out time in my busy schedule for all those naps.

Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.