For those diagnosed with terminal cancer, after a period of months or years, one develops a sense of being side-lined from regular life. This feeling exists no matter how engaged one is in their regular life. As the cancer envelops the body, a person becomes unable to do the simple things they used to, or become unable to do them as well. As the aches and pains increase, as one’s body starts to succumb to the disease, the sense of inevitability of the cancer becomes a reality; as one feels a sense of being marginalized. 

Friends lives continue, their careers blossom or fail, they or their wives have babies, their children grow, their futures are bright and filled with hope and joy. I sit and watch, rejoicing in all of their successes, all the time harboring a certain amount of jealousy. 

I realize that the entire purpose of my treatment is to exact an extra month at a time. The whole purpose is to focus on the small gains, with each new drug pushing the envelope, thereby giving me additional time. 

I recently saw a new set of new doctors, a cardiologist and a pulmonologist, as well as a cardio- pulmonologist. The cardio pulmonologist happens to be the ‘best of the best’, brought in only when other doctors are left scratching their heads, unable to accurately diagnosis a set of symptoms. I do have every faith in the world in Dr. H., as she has narrowed down the potential symptoms. This week I have a series of three minimally invasive tests; after these tests, I  should hopefully know exactly what is causing my health to falter.  Unfortunately, neither of the two possibilities are encouraging. During the course of our first meeting, Dr. H matter-of-factly said that after the tests she would most likely add a new drug for me to take, bringing the total number of drugs I take each day to 10. I winced at the mention of an additional drug—fortunately, she missed the look of displeasure on my face.

 I am beginning to feel like an old car-- held together by drugs, rather than parts. I still hope that these drugs will work, giving little, or perhaps not enough thought to the cumulative, and possibly negative, effects of these drugs. Each new additional drug seems to bring a new set of maladies. 

 My new job is to manage my health-- something which, being in my 50s, I had not planned on doing for another 20 years or so. I often find myself spending 20+ hours a week either in a doctor’s office; in transit back and forth; waiting for a doctor; or in some way spending time with a doctor. 

When I was originally diagnosed with terminal cancer, I was sure that is what I would die from. Now, as my body falters, my greatest concern is that my organs may not respond as they should. My fear is that I will succumb to the side effects of the multiple drugs I am taking, or some form of organ failure.

 One close friend, in an attempt to console me, suggested that dying of organ failure might be preferable to end-stage cancer-- however true the comment, it failed to buoy my spirits.