Thanksgiving Day is the day set aside to attend to the things we appreciate in our lives; however, normally for me it is just a day to get together with family and/or friends, to visit, and to share a special meal. This Thanksgiving meal was different, however, and made me really appreciate the time with family and friends.
We were joined at our table this year by a woman and her daughter and son-in-law who lost their husband/dad to malignant melanoma last April. When I was first diagnosed with mesothelioma in 2010, I reviewed the survival data and thought I had no more than a year to live. Subsequently, I believed that I probably had a rolling six-month life expectancy because the doctors would not give an estimate of how long I might live. Over the intervening two and a half years I have come to expect a longer life span and have begun to take it for granted; however, having these guests at our table made especially appreciative of the meal because their husband/father was unable to be with his family for the day, and he will never know his grandson who will be born next May.
Reflecting on these sad facts made me appreciate my doctors at Scott and White and the University of Colorado hospital—Doctors Smythe and Reznik who did a tremendous job of removing my original tumors, Dr. Gowan who got me started on chemotherapy, and Doctors Camidge and Weickhardt who have stayed on top of my case for the past year and a half in Denver. I also greatly appreciate the many highly professional, compassionate, upbeat, and kind nurses at both hospitals who have given me tremendous respect for these often undervalued caregivers. In fact, everyone I’ve met at these two hospitals deserves praise for their competence and professionalism.
Obviously, I am extremely thankful for he support of Jana, our daughters and their families, and my mother-in-law. But I’m perhaps most thankful for the fact that the girls have given us grandchildren. Here’s why. There is no real difference between the mind and the body, but it is a useful fiction to think as if there is. I believe the mental stress of my latter years in DoDDS and my retirement played a role in the development of my mesothelioma. It might have eventually developed, but I believe stress probably facilitated the transformation of those asbestos-tainted cells into mesothelioma.
Jana’s and my diagnoses and my subsequent treatment have certainly been stressful and might have hastened the further development of my disease, but the stresses may not be as great as one might expect. I have never viewed my disease as a tragedy, a great disappointment, yes, but not a tragedy. The reason is that by that point in my life I had accomplished what I saw as the major responsibilities of a husband and father—our daughters were grown and had a good education, they were married to outstanding young men, and Jana and I had sufficient financial resources to expect to live a reasonably comfortable life for many years. So while it is a tragedy when a child or young adult has an incurable cancer, it is not so stressful when ones life is in good order and nearing an end anyway.
So while our cancers have been stressful, the conditions of our lives have offset that stress at least so some degree and, I believe, contributed to a longer life span than I had expected. However, there is one other factor that I believe has contributed even more to my life span, and that is grandchildren. The stress-reducing peace and joy my grandchildren bring to my life must be therapeutic. They provide an enhanced motivation to live, so whatever good the doctors and nurses have done for my body, I believe Jamie and Madeline have done equally as much or more good for my health. At some time in the indeterminate future, I will slip away, but until that time, I believe my love for them and the joy I have in seeing them will work to prolong my life. For that I am extremely grateful and at the same time saddened that our guests’ husband/father did not get to know his future grandchildren and benefit from the support they unwittingly provide.
