LEARN MORE ABOUT JOHN BOWEN
If I say I have prostate cancer, please don't worry about me. In late December, my urologist said the tumor was small and unlikely to grow, and that I would likely die with it rather than of it.
The saga began last August, when I saw my doctor for my annual checkup, and she said, “Hmm, your PSA is higher than I would like. We should get you checked out.” Men of a certain age know what it means when a doctor says, “Your PSA is higher than I would like,” and she didn't need to say the word “cancer” for the worry to begin.
The biopsy took place in the fall, and I got the results of the biopsy just before Christmas. By now, I'm sufficiently experienced with these things to know that to open it, especially just before Christmas, and especially when they are testing for cancer, would not be a recipe for a merry Christmas. I waited—and tried not to think about it.
After Christmas, a couple of days before I saw the urologist, I did open it. The message said, “There is a 50 percent chance you have cancer.” You can imagine what that felt like. Nothing about how many tumours, their size, their growth, or their seriousness. How long do I have, doc? Deborah came with me to the urologist, and we held hands tightly. The urologist smiled, shrugged, and said, “Well, I'm not particularly worried. It's a small tumor, it's not growing, and you are more likely to die with it than of it.” Sighs of relief.
However, because it was cancer, he referred me to the local cancer clinic, which has a very fine reputation. He warned me, “They will recommend radiation,” and I realize in retrospect that he was saying, “I don't really think you need it.” And indeed, they did recommend it. The oncologist said, “I think we can get rid of this in five sessions over fifteen days.” That sounded quite reasonable, so I signed up. Then they did the preparatory examination, and said, “Whoops, we see you have had two hip replacements. That means we can’t use such an intense beam. It will have to be twenty treatments over four weeks.” That was a more intimidating proposition but, having started down this road, I felt I should continue.
Life in the cancer centre
For those twenty treatments, I was always seen by the same three nurses—Tracy, Maria, and Isabella—and they were marvelous. The treatments themselves were brief and painless. As I lay on the table, I saw that the fluorescent lights above my head were covered by a picture of a beautiful cherry blossom, and I could have sworn that it opened a little more each day I was there.
The first day I went, one woman, herself a patient, brought a bag of home-made biscuits to give to another patient and I realized that, in the course of their treatments, they had got to know each other and had become friends. Then there were some poignant situations. There was a middle-aged couple, she always on a hospital bed, looking very pale, he very assiduous, holding her hand until the last minute when she needed to go in for her treatment, and then jumping up to attend to her the second she came out again. There was an older lady, who appeared to have no English. While she was having her treatment one day, I spoke to her daughter, who explained. “My mother only speaks Croatian, and I speak only a little Croatian, so sometimes I have to go into the treatment room to reassure her and remind her that she mustn’t move.” The old lady was having radiation on her face.
I said that the treatment itself was painless, but radiation is notorious for its side effects. The first two weeks were fine, as is often the case. Then, we had a break over Easter, and let's just say, I never did really get beyond Good Friday to Resurrection. I couldn't leave the house for five days and was in a lot of pain, making frequent trips to the washroom. It was bad enough that I even decided to discontinue the treatment—but, when I spoke to the oncologist, he said, “If you stop now, anything that is left of the tumor will be more resistant to treatment in the future, so I recommend you keep going, and I'll give you a prescription for steroids to address the inflammation and pain.” This made sense and so, reluctantly, I returned for the final seven treatments. The steroids did indeed help considerably. To my surprise, I even found myself feeling unusually cheerful. When I told Tracy this, she just laughed and said, “That's what we call steroid euphoria.” Whatever it was, it was better than the opposite I had been experiencing. But then, of course, steroids too have their negative side effects, which I won’t bore you with. Those are just beginning to wear off now, as I write, some ten days after finishing the course of steroids.
All this reminds me of my mother's funeral in Wales, some twenty years ago. When I returned from Wales, I was scheduled to see my spiritual director, so I told him everything that had happened. He then said (in the way that spiritual directors do), “And where was God in all that?” And I retold the story, trying to identify the presence of the God who is not always obvious. So today, I find myself engaging in the same exercise: in that experience of cancer and radiation and steroids, where was God? The answers, as so often, are rather surprising.
The presence of God
The one that stands out particularly is the care of those nurses—Tracy, Maria, and Isabella. I'm pretty sure all the nurses at the cancer centre are as good, but because I saw those three twenty times, usually every day, they are special to me. I wrote each a thank you card at the end my treatment, because the three were quite different. But on each one, I made a point of saying, “You made an experience which could have been frightening, mechanical, and impersonal an experience of community, patience, compassion, and even humor (even if it was frequently about passing gas!).” Jesus reminds us that God's rain falls on the just and on the unjust. God also gives remarkable gifts of love to those who may or may not be Christians. And that was a beautiful thing. God’s world is a better place because of those three.
The second thing is also to do with love. I was very touched by that man who was so faithful with his partner day after day, and the daughter who took such good care of her mother. I was so impressed that one day I spoke to the man and told him his care for his partner was a beautiful example to the rest of us. He thanked me, with some embarrassment. I then noticed he had a gold cross around his neck. I said, “I have a feeling that cross is more than a symbol to you.” And he said, “Oh yes, I am praying all the day long.” And I said, “And my wife and I will pray for you and your partner as well.” Those who have spent much time in such places as cancer centres will, I think, not be surprised by this, but to me it was a revelation that such difficult places, places of suffering and even death, can draw out of people such deep resources of compassion and caring.
Finally, I am overwhelmingly grateful for the medical system in this country. Oh yes, I know about its failings. Don't we all? And yet, and yet, from that first intimation of concern from the doctor, through the biopsy, to the meeting with the urologist, and then with the oncologist, through to the briefing about radiation with Tracy, and finally the daily treatment. Every step along the way I felt cared for by competent professionals. And that too spoke to me of the work of God.
A gift of God
It may sound strange to say all this was a gift of God—but it was. I feel I spent four weeks in the fringes of the cancer world and got a taste of what it is like for so many people—most of whom are having a far harder time than I did. And I am grateful.
St Paul opens 2 Corinthians with an unusual and striking benediction:
Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all consolation, who consoles us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to console those who are in any affliction with the consolation with which we ourselves are consoled by God. (2 Cor:1.3-4)
That is my hope and prayer for myself—that as I found myself consoled by the love of God in surprising ways and through unexpected people in what might otherwise have been a very dark place, so I will be better equipped to come alongside others who are afflicted.
