My Cancer Triathlon

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cancer Book

BY: Susie Leonard Weller

I awoke from my first colonoscopy exam to hear the five words no one wants to hear.

"You have a cancerous tumor."

I was initially more distressed about the possibility of needing a colostomy than dealing with Stage III colorectal cancer.

My surgeon's goal was to alleviate the blockage in my colon before surgery and to ease the side effects of radiation and chemotherapy. She promised me "better living with a colostomy."

After my initial diagnosis, I'd been enjoying the blissful delusion that a quick surgery would take care of everything. I'd recover during Christmas break and return to teaching just after New Year's Day. Who would have thought that it would prove to be just a warm-up compared to what was coming?

I'd been propelled into the cancer triathlon: radiate, medicate, and operate.

I wasn't prepared for this endurance contest. I am grateful that my family, friends, and co-workers jumped in to help me get in shape for the race of my life.

But first, I needed a cover for my colostomy bag that would feel soft and not so sweaty. Since my version of sewing includes a stapler and duct tape, I was particularly grateful that my husband, Mark, had the skills to sew me a customized colostomy cover. He turned a well-worn flannel pillowcase into a soft bag, complete with Velcro fasteners. The diamond on my wedding ring may sparkle, but nothing compares to soft flannel next to my skin.

I was ready for the first milestone -- a tattoo on my backside. The radiation staff wanted a marker to focus their beam. I hoped I wasn't setting a precedent and told my children this was no reason for them to get one, too.

For six weeks I attended a new spa treatment center I called the "Cancer Clinique." Two attendants enthusiastically greeted me each morning and had me lie face down on a white linen sheet before giving me my unique treatment. After I'd exposed my delicate areas, they demurely draped me with a towel and the whirring began. A slight sense of warmth enveloped me and then it was time to go. I was getting a sunburn but without the benefits of a total tan. I've always enjoyed the sun, but I'm no longer appreciating the effects of radiation.

Simultaneously, I began training for my second event -- wearing a chemo pump for forty-two days and nights. Although it fit in a fanny pack and the infusion lines hid discreetly under my clothes, attached to the port in my chest, living with a pump 24/7 wasn't easy. Try sleeping with a three-and-a-half pound metal pack around your waist or showering while tethered to a three-foot line.


And the chemo drug itself was no picnic. It's abbreviated as 5-FU. (What can I say? The name says it all.) Perhaps the drug marketers should disclose what it really means: fatigued, flue-like, frail, frazzled, and fearful.

Like all athletes, I needed a break from training. My friend gave me a ticket to the U.S. Men's Ice Skating Championship in Spokane, WA. I was enjoying a night of superb skating when during the first intermission I heard a strange, beeping sound. My chemo pump was in alarm mode and the screen message kept blinking.

"High tension." Was that describing my blood pressure or the machine?

I called my home health care nurse.

"Get home immediately; there might be a clot."

Normally, the chemo pump has a reassuring click and whirring sound that goes off every hour. But at that point it sounded like a muffled ambulance siren going off every minute during the eighteen-mile drive back home. Thankfully, it was just a kink in the electrical line.

Earlier in the week, I'd purchased a "Chocolate Crisis Center Meltdown Bar."

Who knew it would come in so handy? I soothed myself munching on chocolate while watching the rest of the skating routines from my couch.

After completing the radiation and chemo components, I prepared for my third event -- the big surgery. I e-mailed everyone I knew to ask for prayers, especially the SOS prayer, also known as "Save Our Sphincter." Not only was my surgeon going to remove the cancerous tumor and do a hysterectomy, she was optimistic about re-attaching my colon. After living with a colostomy for six months, I was hopeful too.

My biggest job had been to run the race the best way I could. Now, it was time to let God handle the rest.

I'm grateful for a successful surgery and for a surgeon with small hands to maneuver in tight places. Most of all, I appreciate my support team. Triathletes get all the attention, but it's those behind the scenes who make their participation possible.

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