Playing The Waiting Game-The Game Of Cancer

Sitting and waiting, waiting on words I hoped I would never hear.  The waiting game is a game that is no fun to play. And it’s a hard game to win. With patience, peace and a whole lot of prayer, I know we will win and we will be okay. I pray so.

 

Waiting in an office for the doctor to come in. Waiting on words I never wanted to hear.

Waiting.

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Why do they make you wait so long?  Don’t they realize our hearts are in our throats? Our hearts are pounding. Don’t they realize our hearts are hurting?

 

Deep breath.

 

Now, we are making small talk.  I don’t know if he wants me to be quiet or talk?  Does he want me to get his mind off this waiting? This cruel quiet? Would he rather hear my senseless chatter? Or simply sit in the nervous quiet?

 

You can hear everything and nothing at the same time.  Waiting. Waiting on the doctor to tell us the news. We already know the worst part.  Now, we will learn the rest of the story.

 

This is not my story to tell. While we wait, I write in my notebook I carry with me always.  I never know when I might be inspired to write.  I am inspired now, but this is not what I would like to be writing about.  And this is not my story to tell.

Where is the doctor?  Does he know we are waiting?

 

When he enters the room, he will explain the fight my husband has in front of him.  He will tell him the complications and the side effects.  He will speak of odds.

 

I will be here, beside him, listening, and praying. I will be here for him through it all.  Will this be an easy fight?  Will this be a quick fight?  The important thing is that I will be beside him, fighting with him, being who he needs me to be, when he needs me to be.

 

It all starts now.  (Actually, it started over thirty years ago.)

Saying the words to myself hurts. Saying the words out loud makes me want to cry. Saying the words causes me to get down on my knees and pray.

 

My husband has cancer.

 

There it is.  The c-word.  I hate that word. I hate what it has done to the people I love.  I hate what it has done to the people I have lost.

 

My father had a massive tumor in his kidney when I was in high school.  I remember being scared but I was a selfish teenager. I had no idea the terror my mom went through.  She said these same words. I have no idea what fear my father went through and still probably lives through today. We were lucky.  He was lucky. They took his kidney and that hideous tumor and left my father strong and alive.  He will be 81, in April. Yes, we are lucky.

 

Being in this room, this silent room, waiting, causes me to tear up thinking of my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, waiting.  They waited in a room like this with my 15-year-old niece. I tear up thinking how horrible it must have been for them.  I prayed she would be okay.  Praying, but not being aware of the horror going on inside their heads as they waited.  As they said the words, “My daughter has cancer.”

 

Once again, we were lucky.  She turns 25, in February.

 

I have been lucky with close friends that have breast cancer. I have been lucky with my uncle and my sister’s husband. I pray often for a sweet girl we know with a brain tumor.  Her and her family have played the waiting game for over twenty years. I feel like every time I turn around, I am hearing of someone else I need to be praying for. Praying they battle and win.

 

Sadly, I have been unlucky a time or two.

 

I lost both of my grandmothers.  We lost a close friend.

 

This will be different. We will be lucky again.

 

I pray so.

 

In, October, my husband had a blood test for more life insurance. He got a phone call saying his PSA levels were elevated and he should go see his doctor.  He learned soon enough that most likely he had an infection. His doctor took another blood test and gave him an antibiotic. Mark was to return for another blood test before Thanksgiving.

 

Waiting.

 

When he returned to the doctor, he learned his levels were up.  Another blood test showed they were on the rise, still. He then was sent to a urologist.

 

More waiting.

 

More tests. Waiting. And finally, a biopsy. Waiting. And a dreadful call on December 26.

 

Cancer.

 

There it is–the c-word.  Possibly my least favorite word.

 

Now, waiting beside my husband, I am talking about random crap while we are waiting, and the door opens.

 

My heart stopped for a bit, while we listened.

 

Prostatic Adenocarcinoma.

 

We sat and listened.

 

He was given around eight possible treatments.  All but two were either ridiculous or horrific.  Actually, those two are horrific, also.

 

Here’s the thing. I always thought Prostate cancer was “the easy cancer”, if you can even call cancer easy.  Well, you can’t.  You should never say those words.  It is not easy.  There is no easy cancer.

 

While I am thankful there are options; there are no easy options.  No clear choice. They all will change my husband.  Hell, he is already changed.  He changed the moment he heard c-word and I have, too.

 

I write this today to tell you, to beg you, go tell your fathers, your brothers, your uncles to be tested.  Tell the men in your life to go get a simple blood test.

I write this today to tell you, to beg you, go tell your fathers, your brothers, your uncles to be tested. Tell the men in your life to go get a simple blood test. #prostatecancer #dedradaviswrites Click To Tweet

The truth is Prostate cancer is a slow-growing cancer. It takes eight to ten years to kill you. Many men are walking around with it now.  They no longer test for this c-word after the age of 70 because the simple fact is most men who get it after 70 will most likely die of something else first.

 

You should be tested after the age of 50.

 

My husband is 55.  And the man rarely goes to the doctor.  He has never been tested before the insurance application. (Is that funny that life insurance saved his life?)

 

He doesn’t know how long he has had this in his body or if it is contained. We are praying so.

“Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.” Psalm 46:10

Be still.

More facts…once it begins to metastasize, it goes to the lymph nodes and after that to the bones.

 

So, please tell someone you love (over the age of 50) to go get tested.

 

We are still playing the waiting game.  Tomorrow, we are headed to the surgeon to find out if, and when, we can cut this c-word out of my husband. He is ready to move forward. Tired of playing this waiting game. Ready to start his battle.

 

He will win.  He will fight, and I will stand beside him and be whatever he needs. I will be praying, and I ask for you to pray as well.

 

This story I am telling is not over.  This is his story, but I will tell it.  I will shout the good news when the wait is over, and the battle is won.  And it will be won!

 

I wish for you to spread the word and save a life.  I wish for you to pray for all those battling this horrendous c-word.  I wish for you to never know this pain. I wish I didn’t know it.  But because I do, I pray. I pray so.

 

love and blessings~dd

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