Cancer Experience

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It is my own philosophy that in everyone's lifetime, there is a certain event that takes place which paves the way for two different paths of either achievement or failure. It can strike at any given moment and has no sympathy for age or experience. My own experience was defined by a diagnosis of testicular cancer at the youthful age of thirteen, at a time when most my age were creating fond memories to be reminisced upon at a later point in life.

Ironically humorous, my sickness was initiated upon watching "The Tom Green Show." On this particular episode, the host himself had just gone into remission for testicular cancer and had demonstrated methods of self-checking one's own body for signs of disease. Still in the "mindset" as I like to call it, of a thirteen year-old whose most abundant concern was where I would be going that night, I initially paid little attention to the distraction on the television screen. Thinking about it now, the afternoon plays in my mind like the beginning of a movie the unknowing adolescent watching TV foreshadows the later, darker side of the plot in which sickness will overtake all. These were the last days of my true youth, the thirteen years which others can call eighteen, and the ones which would cry me to sleep later nights thinking about how it was before I had contracted my illness.

Within a time span of two or three weeks after witnessing the television program, I preceded to take the shower which would periodically replay in my mind for the remainder of my entire life. I stripped my clothes to the floor, making sure to let the water run a minute to warm up before I entered the enclosed glass tower. Strapping my towel to the sliding door, I stepped into the next year of my life just as I would any other previous day. I went through the motions shampoo, conditioner, and then the concluding stage of cleansing with a bar of soap. Stomach, arms, legs; it was all systematic until I felt "the bump". The irony of the bump is how passive and trivial something as minor as a slight inflammation seems in context. Yet, that slight bump sent a wave of chills up my spine colder than any winter breeze nature could muster. These were the chills that God creates, specifically for moments in life when you know your life is about to stray off the assumed path of normality.

Embarrassment would be my enemy in the days that followed. It took almost five days of checking, rechecking and researching on the internet before I conjured up the will to tell my mother I thought I needed to go see a doctor regarding a strange formation on my testicle. To this day, I pride myself in having the courage to inform my parents of something so otherwise personal. My parents' reactions were as I thought they would be extremely concerned, if not excessive as I had thought at the time. That very night my father scheduled an appointment with Dr. Carl Limbaugh, a name that would come up quite often over the course of the following year. That Thursday when I went for my checkup I was examined by Dr. Limbaugh, and was informed about a half hour later that I was indeed a probable candidate for testicular cancer. In the doctor's office I remember the tears streaming down my mother's cheek and my father sitting in the chair staring blankly at the carpet. I, however, never shed a tear; shocked to a point few ever attain, I simply sat and embodied my thoughts, as far away from the hell that I knew had just opened up before me as humanly possible.

After my condition was officially confirmed two weeks later by lab tests, the unique experience of "guinea pig treatment" had begun. It started with the pills green, yellow, red, pink - I could have crafted a medical mosaic more colorful than Michelangelo could have ever imagined. Dizziness, fatigue, vomiting and migraines became an everyday ritual, as expected and as commonplace to my schedule as television had been the year before. Breakfast, lunch and dinner no longer existed, as I was forced to plan meals around my medicines. I soon found that the fear of death is not at all what makes insomniacs out of cancer patients, but the sheer unrest of capsule after capsule and their effects.

That December, four days before Christmas, gave birth to the second phase of my treatment. The time had finally come to undergo surgery to attempt to remove the cancer from my body, a procedure for which Dr. Limbaugh was known for his successes. One particularly beneficial perk to the procedure was the cessation of pill consumption for three days prior to the 1st. Otherwise, preparation was minimal and soon enough the day had arrived. Anaesthesia was admitted, and the next conscious memory I have was waking up in the hospital bed late that night. My mother was sitting in the chair next to the bed while my father was down the hallway at the snack machine. The expression on her face when I opened my eyes had the most reassuring effect on me, with a gaze that seeped into my soul and whispered to the depths that it had all ended. I was happy, excited at the thought that at that moment my body could have very well been free of cancer and my return to a life of simplicity and normality eagerly near. I left the hospital the day after Christmas, with a newfound confidence I had not felt since the day before I had been diagnosed. Soon, I echoed in my mind, this nightmare, this total hell of an existence, would all disappear. The time was approaching where I could find myself out living once again.

The rate of success after surgery for testicular cancer patients is 5 %. Consequently, fate preferred the number 48 in my case. Eight weeks after surgery, my parents and I were informed the cancer had spread to my other testicle, and that it was unlikely I would ever be able to bare children of my own blood. In a state of devastation and uncomprehendable depression, I had returned to my nightmare, realizing I had never awoken at all; I had simply fell dormant to dreaming. I was now faced with a new dilemma, a decision that would either shape the rest of my life or spell out my death - chemotherapy or a second attempt at surgery, in which Dr. Limbaugh did not recommend the latter. After a week of consulting other physicians and discussing amongst our family, a date was scheduled to commence with round one chemotherapy.

Chemotherapy, by its very definition, is an experience impossible to describe in words. I was left with a body absent of hair from head to toe. I was once again forced to receive my education via a private tutor, struggling to even make it through my daily lessons. At the lowest point of treatment, I simply closed my textbook, wondering the meaning of a knowledge home to eyes that would not even see another summer. Summoning every last ounce of strength I possessed, I got through each day with the sheer hope that one day I could put everything and all behind me and start anew with my so-called life. After two and a half months of subjecting my body to harsh poisons and chemicals - two and a half months of pure human survival in the most unnatural of conditions - I, John Haley Gowdy, lived to call that day my own. On March the 16th, 1, it was all over with the six ironically simple words that I had been living to hear for the past six months of my existence. That heavenly day in the doctor's office that had before had been so closely associated with hell, Dr. Limbaugh announced, to my now weathered expectations, that I -

I, who had that very year been to the pits of hell and back again -

had been cured of cancer, and could now be officially medically considered in remission phase. In the back of my mind as well as off the tip of my tongue, I could manage only two words, as if I had been stranded in a desert for a year and had just now discovered water. "Thank God" I rasped. "Thank God, Thank God, Thank God."

The strength and will which defined my being for six long months ring true to my personality to this day. The experience of surviving cancer has changed my life to the point that I now do not even consider myself living prior to becoming ill. I even find myself pitying others who fail to realize the potential and beauty of a human life, as I have come to realize thrives. The simplest things that I had found so bothersome before - waking up for school on time; doing homework; even attending church on a weekly basis - have now become priorities in which I pride myself and even manage to find great pleasure. Living through cancer has opened up my eyes to recognize my own responsibility to take each day for what it truly is, the most godly of blessings. Life, as most unfortunately do not realize until much later years, is simply too short a time to waste not living. To not attempt my best on a daily basis is a waste of that day, one in which I very well may have found myself six feet under rather than seven feet ahead. As I despise what cancer had put me through, physically and emotionally, it serves me now as a bittersweet stimulus. It has undoubtedly changed my life for the better and has led me to hold the deepest respect for the most otherwise trivial of things. As only a survivor of such an illness could understand, I almost wish my experience on the world. For if it were to be granted, the world for find itself in a more jubilant existence, one in which simply the sun shining on its back is reason enough to sit back and put on a smile.

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