Nat L.

Diagnosis: Ovarian cancer, Stage 3C, February 1991
Treatment: Surgery, chemotherapy (cisplatin, Cytoxan and Carboplatin)

Diagnosis: Recurrence, 1994
Treatment: Hexalen chemotherapy

Profession: School counselor

The first time I was diagnosed I had no symptoms. I went for my routine pap smear, feeling guilty that I was about six months late for the checkup. In the process, my doctor did a rectal examination and said she thought I had endometriosis. She wanted me to see Arlan Fuller at Massachusetts General Hospital. I said, "Oh, what is his specialty?" When she said, "He’s director of the Gynecologic Oncology Service," I knew that wasn’t good.

I often think if I had gone on time for my pap smear she might not have felt the problem because it would have been too early. Dr. Fuller remarked on what a fabulous gynecologist I had! He thought I had cancer so he sent me for all the tests. That was in late February and by March 8, I was in surgery.

Our daughter, Melissa, had just graduated from college and was living in Santa Fe, and our son, Jonathan, was a couple of years out of college and had just moved to Albuquerque. We told them not to come back east right then. I took the news pretty well. I am a school counselor and I’ve always had an interest in hospice work. I’d attended one of Bernie Siegel’s workshops so I’d done a lot of thinking about death and dying. I didn’t think I was going to die from this cancer right away, but I knew I could. I thought at least I had a chance of surviving.

Right after my initial diagnosis with Arlan Fuller, I wrote him a letter. He’d introduced himself as Arlan, not as Dr. Fuller, and he talked with both my husband, Buck, and me. We are very much a couple and we needed to be together; he honored that. So I felt comfortable with him. In my letter I told him I trusted him completely and would do medically whatever he said. I also said I have a strong belief in the power of the human spirit to heal, and I would go to work on that end of things.

I read everything Bernie Siegel had written and I ordered his tapes. Arlan Fuller never made me feel like I was being a fool who’d gone off the deep end. I told Dr. Fuller I wanted my kind of music in the operating room, music like Pachebel Canon. I said I wanted to talk with the anesthesiologist and when I did, I told that doctor I didn’t want any negative talk in the operating room, even if they opened me up and found cancer everywhere. I wanted him to say, "This gal is going to make it."

Later the anesthesiologist said he’d never seen anything like it. There was less than the usual blood during surgery. In the recovery room the nurses snapped on my Walkman and I listened to the Pachebel Canon and I believe I had subliminal healing. I got out of the hospital much sooner than they’d anticipated. I know it was excellent medical care and I believe it also was my good state of mind. And I went into all this in very good physical shape. I’ve always been in good health.

There is cancer in my family. My mother died of heart problems when I was 3, and her mother died young, of ovarian cancer, I think. This may put my daughter at risk. My father died of lung cancer. For me, chemotherapy was OK. I went back to work by April first. I was able to come and go at school, depending on my energy level. The school was wonderful. At the time, I was teaching seniors and they wanted to talk with me about cancer. Adults would say, "How are you doing, fine aren’t you?" But the kids would say, "How are you really doing?" My office at school was flooded with kids who wanted to talk about family members with cancer. The doctors thought I’d lose my hair, but it only thinned. I never had to wear a hat or wig. I had a lot of nausea but I got used to it. I’d be driving along and I’d have to pull over and be sick. My food taste changed entirely. I like red wine but I couldn’t stand the taste or smell of anything alcoholic during chemotherapy. Also, I couldn’t stand "mixed-up" food during chemo. It had to be clear food, not casseroles.

Finally, a friend of a friend who’s a doctor with cancer, told me about scopolamine patches to fight nausea. I asked the nurse for them and they worked beautifully for me. Chemo also made me bone tired. I remember being at people’s houses and Buck would look at me and say, "We need to go home." I had my last chemo in August and I said I really wanted to go to our cabin in the woods in Canada. Arlan Fuller didn’t think it was a good idea. But I said it is the most healing place for me so he said, "Then go." I didn’t realize how scared Buck was at the time; we are two
hours from a hospital, and have to cross the lake by canoe to get there. If I had it to do over, I would have brought a nurse.

Buck and I noticed people always asked how I was but not how he was. The world gathered around me to take care of me but not many people took the time to ask, "But Buck, how are you doing?" Today he can name the people who really asked that.

When I was first diagnosed, everybody who had any ideas gave them to me - books, ideas, pamphlets. I felt overwhelmed, and guilty if I did not try someone’s idea. In all the suggestions from well-meaning people and books, I favored things where I’d do something for myself rather than the things that might have been done to me. So I did meditation and I did not do acupuncture. I still do a sort of 20-minute meditation/relaxation most days. I had never taken naps in my life but I got to the point where I’d always lie down for 20 minutes.

I didn’t really change my diet. My mother was a nutritionist and my son has diabetes so I’ve always been aware of a good diet. I like the lifestyle we live so I didn’t want to change things unless I had to. But I really did change. In the spring of 1997 I read about a weight training program called "Strong Women Stay Young," which helps prevent osteoporosis. It appealed to me that I was actually contemplating the possibility of living to be an old woman for the first time in six years. I do the program and love it! It seems to me that I had gotten to a whole new place when I did that.

I’ve always wanted to try pottery, so I did. I built a studio even though I know the next blood test might be bad. I used to feel I have plenty of time. Now, I’m much more likely to do the things I want to do. People ask, "Did Buck retire because of your cancer?" Well, yes and no. We had it in our plans but now if we want to do something we try to do it now. As a friend said, cancer puts a Technicolor spin on life. I’ve wondered if my mother dying early had anything to do with my illness, but I’ve never blamed myself for my illness. We all live our lives the best way we know. Of course if I really feel I can be an agent of my healing, then the corollary is that something that happened to me or that I made happen made me susceptible to letting those cancer cells take over. But I don’t worry about what it is. My immune system may have been compromised at some time.

When my cancer recurred, Arlan Fuller said, "I’ve got a lot of tricks in my bag." I have to say I really don’t think I’ve been in denial about the possibility of dying from cancer. My mother died young. I’ve always known people can die young. That helped me through what could have been guilt. But at some level I didn’t really think I was going to die from this cancer, even when it recurred. After what I’ve been through there’s not much I’m afraid of. I think I faced the fear and got through it. I am more of a risk-taker now. I wouldn’t bungee jump but I’ll go on the lake when the water’s rough. I used to be afraid to be alone in the dark. Finally you realize you’re going to die some time so these things don’t matter so much. I used to be afraid of looking like a fool but that doesn’t matter any more. Our son says we are much more spontaneous now. We’re more willing to say it’s a gorgeous day, let’s go and play. Our kids go on vacations with us; we’ve always been a close family but I think they now realize they may never have a 90-year-old mother. Life is short, but as a book I recently read said, it’s also wide. We’ve been filling up the width of our lives