Originally published on my original blog, November 2006. Brought back in support of my good friend Becky and her sweet dad, Bud, who has just been diagnosed with lung cancer that has already spread to his brain. He seemed perfectly healthy just two weeks ago. Bud’s family asked the doctor if there would have been anything they could have done had they found out earlier. “Maybe three months ago,” was the response, “but there were no symptoms. There was no way you could have known.” They had no warning.

One of my favorite scenes in one of my favorite movies, “Twister,” is when, in the midst of tornado aftermath, the protagonist, Jo, finally confronts her “issues” with tornadoes.

“You’ve never seen it miss this house, and miss that house, and come after you!” (Hint: it’s not about the house, it’s really all about her father).

I feel that way about Cancer. (Hint: it all started with my father, too).

Jo devoted her entire life to chasing and, essentially, fighting tornadoes.

In truth, I, myself, am much better at running away, getting distracted–avoiding real problems and issues. But in my other life–the imaginary one in which I, too, am a protagonist, and I spend my days being really, really good at something significant–I am a storm chaser. At least I like to think I would be.

I watched Cancer take my Dad before we even knew he had it. Before I ever got to say goodbye. And a woman who was at that time the same age I am now found herself wondering how in the world she was going to raise and support six kids–four of them boys–all by herself.

I watched it take this friend and that friend. Or that friend’s baby.

Tayson. His family had just moved into our neighborhood only months before. I remember meeting Alice and thinking what great friends we could be. I really, really liked her. I remember seeing her walking Tayson down the road in his stroller. She told me he wasn’t feeling too well. I noticed he had a bad bruise on his face. We talked about the usual things one discusses over childhood illness. Maybe he had an ear infection. Who was her pediatrician. I hoped he felt better soon.

Later that day another woman from the neighborhood me asked how everything was. “Fine,” I said. “You haven’t heard?” she asked. Turned out Tayson didn’t have an ear infection. He had leukemia. L-E-U-K-E-M-I-A. My world stopped still. And I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

They had hardly even moved in, didn’t really know a lot of people. And now they were practically living at Primary Children’s Hospital. I remember one night we drove up to Salt Lake to see them. I had the hardest time walking through the halls at PCMC. I still can hardly make myself walk through those halls (don’t get me wrong–PCMC is a wonderful place and we are so blessed to have it. I just can’t handle thinking about the anguish of those kids–their mothers, their fathers, their entire families–must go through with whatever it is that brings them there. I know miracles happen there. But I also know there is a great deal of pain). Somehow at the end of the visit, we ended up with tickets to the ball game. Alice and Barry were glad someone could use them. We had a great time; but somehow it seemed wrong to be having a good time while they were left behind to witness the constant suffering of their son.

I remember the day Tayson died. I tried to imagine my friend rocking her baby in her arms while the people in the mortuary were waiting for her to release him. How does one ever let go?

I remember the night of the viewing. I had to make myself go. I didn’t think I could go in. But I made myself go in. I was blessed to understand that the too-small body lying in the casket wasn’t Tayson anymore and that Tayson was OK now.

I remember serving in the kitchen on the day of Tayson’s funeral. Alice came in to say goodbye. She hugged me long and hard. I didn’t want to let her go. I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. But mothers with empty arms are alone.

Another Alice. When I was just starting out, I used to call her and seek her advice for a number of homemaking and cooking and baking issues. She helped me sew something for one of my kids once. She had the best laugh and was so much fun at girls’ camp. I will never forget the night at some Stake RS dinner when we sat together and she was telling us about her back pain and how frustrated she was that no one could seem to help her. She wasn’t complaining. She was explaining.

Within about a month she was dead from bone cancer.

She had two girls still home.

Who do they talk to about their hopes, their fears, their broken hearts? Who will help them with their hair and their dresses on their wedding days?

Meridith. You may have read about her. She was diagnosed with leukemia on Valentine’s Day. The gift of marrow from the bones of her twin sister saved her eventually, but did Cancer really spare her? No. The radiation used to beat it back broke her body and her mind. She suffers still. “I’ll just turn it over to God,” she says as she wears herself out serving her husband, her family and her every neighbor.

Sue. I don’t even know how to describe Sue. My favorite picture of her is one in which she is wearing sunglasses and holding some great big novel in her hands. I think she has a beach hat on, too, maybe. She was likely wearing a bathing suit and sitting lakeside or poolside somewhere or on a boat. Sue had a hard life. But she was frank and real. I liked that about her. She helped me refine my pie-baking skills and gave me the recipe for the best sour cherry pie ever. When life gives you sour cherries by all means make a dessert out of them.

Breast Cancer. I remember her stopping her car to talk to me as I walked down her street and she was returning from yet another round of chemo. She looked great, but she felt like hell. I will never forget how her co-workers at NuSkin worked her shifts for her so she could keep her medical insurance.

Sue finally found peace at the end. Her funeral–mere days before Christmas–remains one of the best I ever attended.

Adrienne. It always seemed to me as if Adrienne and her three beautiful girls had stepped right out of a Jane Austin novel and right into our little old neighborhood.

No one kept Christmas like Adrienne. She kept it the whole year through. Her house was decorated for it for months before and after. But it wasn’t mere decoration. She embodied the Spirit of Christmas. It was said of her at her funeral something to the effect that she and her equally amazing husband must’ve had input into the creation of the Garden of Eden for it to have truly been as lovely as it was. Adrienne made the world a more beautiful place.

Ovarian Cancer. I remember trying to help her during her last months. I never had any trouble finding women willing to come to clean her lovely home. The problem was more Adrienne wearing herself out trying to clean it before we came to clean.

I remember sitting by her bedside sometime during her last couple of weeks. I hugged her and held her hand. She was in so much pain. But so gracious and loving. My memory of this final moment is kind of blurry. I think it’s both too beautiful and too painful to recall in sharp focus.

I have never known–nor will I ever–anyone quite like her.

The list goes on: My Aunt Pat: She survived breast Cancer some 20 years ago, but another one eventually took her. She’d been widowed from my uncle since I was a baby. Now my cousins have no parents.

My Grandma Jacobs: Breast Cancer. My Aunt Darlene: Breast Cancer. My friend Laurie: Thyroid Cancer. Just to name a few. They are survivors. Cancer didn’t miss them entirely, but it didn’t take them away, either.

And now I just learned that Cancer has chosen to go after my neighbor through the back fence: Stage three testicular cancer.

A good man. A husband and father. With kids the age I remember being when it went after my dad.

I am trying to imagine being this family. Being the wife who must be sore afraid. Being the four kids who probably have no idea what this all really means for them. Being the provider of a family and wondering not only what lies ahead for you, but what will happen to your family? Feeling alone because although we may offer prayers and sympathy, no one really knows what it’s like to be them right now.

I want to help. But what can I do? What can I say?

There are no words for this.

I know.

update: Cory has finished chemo and has tested clear of cancer. We hope and pray his remission continues.

Just like at the end of the movie, sometimes the twister will pass by your house and leave you all still standing.

Present day update: Cory continues to be in remission and is doing great. Sometimes we cross paths at the gym in the wee hours of the morn and to see him, you’d never know what he’s been through. But since Cory, there was his neighbor across the street, our scare, our neighbor across the street, a man two streets south, another neighbor down the street from Cory, another neighbor down the street from us, and now Bud, who lives next door to Cory and kitty corner to us. The names and the organs and body parts may change, but the pain and anguish it brings does not. Nor does my rage against it. Especially when it goes after yet another one of the good guys. A husband, father, grandfather, uncle, neighbor and friend. The one person who remembers to ask me me every time he sees me how my missionary is doing.

It seems such a small gesture–like going up with my tiny fist and punching a steel-clad Goliath–but I hate it so bad I am wanting to walk the walk, not just talk the talk:

Anyone want to join me next weekend for a 5k next saturday? Proceeds will benefit Huntsman Cancer Foundation.

please pray earnestly for my kind and beautiful friend georgia

i thank you with all my heart

They got it all. The doctor will present the case to the board next week, but his recommendation is no chemo or radiation needed. We will continue to follow up with the doctor to monitor the healing and then for some time after to make sure there is no recurrence.

We’re still trying to process everything (we’re trying to get clarification, but if we understood the doctor correctly the tumor may not even have been a sarcoma), but now our immediate concern is that dentistry can successfully fit the prosthetic (I’m usually one to call a spade a spade, but if someone handed me a good euphemism for the word “prosthetic” right now I’d take it) and that the wound heals quickly and well enough that Shane is more comfortable and better able to eat.

I can’t tell you enough how blessed we’ve been by your constant love, support and prayers. We couldn’t do this without you.

Much love,

During the exit interview at the end of my mission I said to my mission president, “Everyone says how this is the best two years (in my case, 18 months) of your life. What no one ever tells you is how it is also the hardest.” He charged me to go forth and tell people how hard it is in order to help prepare them for the reality of just how difficult a mission can be.

Since then, I’ve considered it another mission of sorts to be honest about other realities of life.

If you’d rather not hear it right now, I understand. You’re excused from reading the rest of this post.

Because this is where I tell you that despite the constant efforts to maintain courage, optimism, hope and faith–even good humor–and despite the countless wonderful kindnesses and blessings we have received, the absolute truth is this: This is the hardest thing I have ever done.

And I am merely a witness.

In a few short weeks–in recent days, especially–words such as “worry,” “fear,” “loss,” “anguish,” “suffering,” and “grief” have become ingrained in my heart and mind with whole new meaning and significance.

And I am merely a witness.

Last night at work I found myself walking into another part of my office and searching out a co-worker I also consider a friend–even though we don’t really know each other that well–in order to give her a hug and tell her how sorry I am that I really had no idea how difficult and painful her own fight against cancer had been; how deep what some people blithely call “a brush with cancer” can run. Sometimes the “brush” stroke is really a knife stroke and it cuts deeply.

I lost my dad to cancer and I’ve held people who were dying of cancer in my arms and I still didn’t really know.

I extend that same hug and apology to all my friends and family who’ve been down this road.

Please do not worry about us. We are still hopeful and expectant of a positive and successful outcome. We are also understanding words like “survivor,” “strength,” “endure” and “faith,” “hope,” and “charity” more deeply every day. Shane is a survivor already. His strength, endurance, bravery and good humor continue to touch my heart. We are still being carried by the strength and faith of the many prayers on Shane’s behalf. And we are holding on to threads of hope and our own faith for all we are worth. We take courage from the many other survivors who have smiled at us encouragingly, looked us straight in the eye and assured us that all will be well.

But I’d be lying if I made it look easy; if I didn’t tell you the truth about how hard this is, the act of fighting this cancer.

(The new category labeling this post references a conference talk given by Quentin L. Cook, “Hope Ya Know, We Had a Hard Time,” October 2008.)

I come from a huge family on my dad’s side (11 kids x two more generations–you do the math). I am therefore blessed with a whole mess of wonderful cousins–many of us who’ve been touched by cancer. (We lost my dad to colon and stomach cancer in 1982; Aunt Pat survived breast cancer, but died a few years ago of another cancer; Aunt Darlene survived breast cancer; Cousin Wendy’s husband Jonathan survived bladder cancer; Aunt Anna Marie recently lost her battle with a brain tumor).

Let me introduce to you my amazing cousin Chris. He’s one of those people who doesn’t just dream or think or talk about doing good in the world–he gets out there a makes a difference. I’m honored to be able to help share his message and express my support for his efforts to stop cancer from hurting the people we love:

Friends and Family,

I’m not a hater. There are very, very few things in this world that I hate. There are a lot of things that annoy me, some things that I strongly dislike…but not many that I hate. Cancer is one of those things that I hate. I HATE cancer. I hate how many people it takes from this world. I hate how many people it has taken from my life. I hate how it goes about taking those people. I hate what it puts people through who survive it. I hate what it puts people through who do not survive it. I hate what it put my mom through. I hate that it took a friend and mentor from my family and friends. I hate that it took my mom’s brother, my uncle. I hate that it took two of my mom’s sister in laws, my aunts. I hate what it is currently putting my cousin, his wife and their kids through. I hate what it is putting another cousin through. I hate that today it is causing so much pain and fear for a very close friend and co-worker whose mother was recently diagnosed and starts chemotherapy next week. I hate that it took another friend and co-workers mother. I hate that it is indiscriminate in who it afflicts, in fact the people in my life who have had it are some of the most caring, giving, and courageous people I have ever known. I hate what it’s putting Elden, his wife and their children through. I hate what it puts friends and family of people who have it through. I hate the pain it’s caused in so many of my family, friends and co workers lives. Many times I don’t mind crying all that much, but right now I hate that I’m crying, hard, because of cancer. I just hate it.

This hatred is what drives me to not only donate money, but actively campaign and fundraise for cancer research, treatment, and support of those with cancer and their loved ones. In the process I have been amazed and deeply touched at the outpouring of support when I announced my fundraising effort for the Livestrong Foundation. In the last 6 weeks those of us on Team Fat Cyclist have raised over $80,000!! I’ve also been deeply touched by all the words of encouragement, and mostly by all the emails and stories of the impact cancer has had on so many of your lives.

I want to thank everyone listed below who has donated, as well as those of you who donated anonymously. If you would still like to donate, just follow this link.

My sincere thanks to:

Amanda Polizine, Angela DeMoss in memory of Naomi Clinton, Anna Cox in honor of Clark Cox, Char in Memory of Anna Marie, Christell Farnsworth in memory of Ken an too many others, Dane Berry, David Wightman in honor of my wife Darlene and her successful battle with breast cancer, Debra Gibson in support of Chris’s mom, Devon Carver in support of Matt and Linda, Douglas Rex, Emily Harris in support of Jeannette Harris, Erin Wightman in honor of Mom and Ken!, Geoff Roes, Anonymous, Anonymous, Jennifer Wightman in honor of Mom!, Kate Krings in honor of Dino Scappetone and my Grandparents, Kim McKay, Liz Olson in memory of Marilyn B. Laraway, Lynne Werner in honor of Lauren Olsho and Megan Fisher Werner, Marion Shosted in honor of my friend Darlene and the other Sister of the Breast, Mary McClure, Anonymous, Nancy Oyloe in support of my brave son Esten Gose, Patrick Tewson, Dane and Jessica in honor of Jinny Weekes, Shiggy in memory of Valene Valdez, Sheri and Marile in memory of our mom, Teresa Rex in honor of Darlene Wightman, Thelxi Hauenstei in honor of Sisters of the Breast, Anonymous, Tim McKinney in support of Richard J. McKinney.

Together we are making a difference and I thank you all for that,

Chris Wightman

More about the Livestrong Challenge.

You can donate here–every dollar makes a difference.

Special thanks to Chris for his efforts and for his own donation in support of Shane; to all my extended family for their thoughts and prayers and encouragement; and to Chris’s mom, my Aunt Darlene, and Wendy and Jonathan for encouraging us to get a second opinion and consult with an oncologist before surgery. I know that decision impacted Shane’s surgery and treatment in significant ways for the better. We are forever grateful.

This is for Jana who asked for an “after picture” on my blog.

He looks good, doesn’t he? Come on over and he’ll show you the inside. The doctor told him “I pretty much left my footprint in there.” And you know Bill Cosby’s story about pulling your top lip over your head? Shane knows what that feels like now.

Because I’m kind of a bad news first kind of girl you get the not lovin’ part first:

Not lovin’:

Realizing they took out more than either of us expected (I know they had to–and we’re pretty sure we got what we asked for: that they would get it all–but nothing really prepares you for the reality of missing pieces).

Knowing Shane’s a good sport, but that he’s hurting and his nights are rough.

Not being able to do anything to relieve his pain or make him more comfortable.

Lovin’:

Claire and Jane.

How Jo’s soup and Lynda’s green curry is the first solid food that sounded and tasted good to him (at least for a few bites).

Carnation Instant Breakfast (thanks for the rec. friends).

How quickly Lorien rushed out of the car, into the house and up the stairs the second she observed through the window that Shane was letting Angie have a peek (Lorien now has the official “before” and the “after” shots for posterity).

How Angie brought us brownies on a bright red U of U plate. You know, cuz now we’re big fans…

That Shane is trying to be patient with his recovery–knowing it’s only been a few days and that it will keep getting a little better every day.

I woke up at 3:45. Shane snored until 5:50. We left at 6:45 and checked in by quarter to eight.

Shane arriving at the Palace (not to be confused with the Palace in Provo where we used to attend Punk Night in the good old days).

Shane has been quite courageous during the entire ordeal, at least until the asked him to put his clothes in a U of U garment bag.

Doesn’t this come in BYU Blue?

As Shane changed into his open-backed gown I promised him, “I got your back.” I came away with his marbles, too.

In a diligent effort not to lose them, Shane carries these marbles in his pocket daily (even on weekends). I have now been charged with the care and keeping of the husband’s marbles until he has pockets again.

True to our entire experience with Huntsman, everyone we’ve met here has been especially personable, engaging, compassionate and attentive.

Shane considers a career change from third-grade teacher to school-lunch worker (mostly I thought this was a good excuse to take a picture of the anesthesiologist of whom Shane’s father said, “He looks like that guy in that movie.” ?).

What’s missing here is the vision of the beautiful blonde angel Michelle L. and her darling and very pink Miss Mary who were there to greet me as I left Shane to the devices of the anesthesiologists and walked out into the waiting room. (Did I mention she came bearing gifts of Godiva chocolate, a bookmark and some B&BW lotion? I told you she was an angel. And me, I’m just spoiled, but hopefully not rotten.)

This was my view from the seat where I waited. And where also I met a lovely man with a liver transplant who was waiting for his wife who has sarcoidosis and helped him get online, because neither one of us could stand to wait disconnected. And where I also prayed mightily (and broke my fast by feasting upon the goodness of Godiva). Which prayers were answered when the doctor arrived much sooner than expected and enthusiastically reported that everything went well.

Those of you who know Shane will understand what a good omen it was when pigeons came to land on the tree outside his room.

Finally, this is the view from the room wherein we have been embraced by family (Shane’s parents; my mother in person; my father in spirit; our three wonderful kids; my dear cousin Wendy who, with her husband and through gentle persuasion, helped changed the course of Shane’s treatment significantly for the good; proudly red-clad Uncle Doug and Aunt Earlene who hugged their strength into my bones before heading over to the BYU-Utah game) and nursed by angels Shari, Mackenzie, Charles and Anoma, (to name a few) and checked on by doctors and interns and residents.

In truth we have been treated so well here I now feel compelled to (as Doug promised, but Earlene–as much as she loves us–couldn’t quite bring herself to do for our beloved BYU Blue) let out a quiet cheer for the Utes tonight when they make a good play.

Update and Q&A: Shane looks good and is doing well. He slept most of the afternoon, but now is able to stay awake till the morphine hits. He’s in good spirits and good form as evidenced by his teasing of the nurses and the aides. He likes bringing a smile to their faces and I hope it makes their 12-15 hour shifts go by a little more quickly. I’m happy to be able to find small and simple things to do to bring him a little comfort and make sure all the bases are covered by the spread-too-thinly but amazingly wonderful nursing staff. If all continues to go well Shane will be discharged tomorrow morning. We will not have the results of the final path report until late next week because they have to decalcify the tissue before the biopsy can be completed and the doctor won’t tell us the results until we can meet face-to-face for the follow-up. But we are not worried. We’ve been assured that Shane will be healed and we know it will be so. There is great peace in that knowledge.

Great news: The chest CT scan came back clear!

No news: The doctors still don’t know what type of sarcoma Shane has. (This is no surprise to me; I am married to a man of mystery.) Apparently they need more tissue to make a definitive diagnosis.

Good news: The doctor seems very positive. So does the nurse. So positive she almost took back the information notebook she had prepared for me because she thinks they might not be seeing much of us after the surgery. I tried to take that positively instead of personally.

Good news: We go back up tomorrow so they can fit Shane with a prosthesis (called an obturator, for all you medical types). Apparently this will allow them to do reconstruction as part of the surgery and will help hasten the recovery.

Great news: It also sounds as though they will be able to go in through Shane’s mouth instead of his face, which means he should be able to avoid visible scarring.

Yay!

Shane’s surgery (called a partial maxillectomy, for all you medical types) is scheduled for January 27.

I fielded some reader feedback today (K.C.) requesting more specific updates and you should have seen the heads turn at church today when Shane walked in because so many people still thought he’d had surgery Thursday. So here goes:

Monday: The sarcoma team at Huntsman meets to evaluate and discuss Shane’s case. They now have the slides of the original biopsy, the MRI, bloodwork and a good quality CT scan of Shane’s head, neck and chest.

Wednesday: We go again up to The Palace Huntsman to meet with Dr. Bentz and his entourage and receive their findings and recommendations.

At least at this point I am not quite as sick to my stomach as I was while waiting for the MRI. Although apparently in this case MRIs are not as effective as CT scans at indicating what’s there, so in a sense much is still as unknown now as it was before the MRI.

So no news yet, just more waiting. (I stink at the waiting.)

I’ve thought about starting a side blog on which to keep people updated on Shane, but that feels like too much work for me right now and this blog has always been just what it is–a reflection of what is going on in my head–so if there is too much cancer talk here right now that is only because now that the holidays are over that is what is occupying our time and our minds.

We are blessed to have relatives (essentially cousins who married doctors) in the medical field who have offered to advise us as needed. Their help has been invaluable. One in particular found himself fighting cancer at the young age of 35. It was at his urging that we decided yesterday to call Huntsman Cancer Institute now, instead of waiting until after the surgery as one of our surgeons had advised.

One of the difficult things about finding yourself looking for an oncologist is that everyone has a strong opinion about who you should go to and who you should avoid. For better or worse, people are passionate about their oncologists. But my cousin’s husband gave us contact information for the Sarcoma Services at Huntsman. I like the idea of a team approach–it’s so, well, House-like.

Unsure anyone would be in on the Friday after a holiday, I gave them a call.

Wow. The service is amazing. Despite the short notice, I was able to make an appointment for Wednesday–the day before Shane’s schedule surgery–with a Dr. Bentz.

Then, yesterday afternoon, we got another call from our oral surgeon. He was checking in to see how we were doing and to see if we had any questions. I have to say I love a doctor who will call you at home on a Friday afternoon and then spend all the time in the world with you. Every time I have spoken with Dr. Dobson he has taken care to answer every question and made an effort to empower us to feel comfortable in making sure we doing what’s best for Shane, even if that means rescheduling surgery.

After speaking with him I decided to call the patient coordinator at Sarcoma Services again (even though she told me she’d only be working until 3p.m. and it was already after 4) in order to check if we could get in to see Dr. Bentz a little sooner than one day prior to the surgery. If we do end up postponing surgery, I’d prefer to give the surgeons more time to fill their schedule with someone else who may be waiting for help (because I know the waiting is one of the hardest parts). She was able to squeeze us into Dr. Bentz’s schedule on Monday–that’s this Monday. That does give us a little more time to get more information and consider our options in order to make sure we are doing the right thing.

We’ve been advised that because sarcomas are rare, the treatment protocol may not be as well established as that for the treatment of, say, breast cancer. We’ve both felt that the focus up to this point has been on the surgery, mostly because we are seeing surgeons and that is what they do. But we need to see further down the road than that. We want to get a second opinion not from someone who just sees something like this occasionally in his or her broader practice, but rather from someone who essentially lives, eats, breathes and sleeps sarcoma. We want a more holistic approach.

Hopefully that’s what we’ll start to get come Monday.

Just so you know, yes we feel blessed to live within an hour of a well reputed Sarcoma Services center and yes we feel blessed to be able to get in on within one business day to see a specialist. Thank you again for the thoughts are prayers–they are working for us. We are inviting family and friends who may be fasting this Sunday and who are so inclined to please remember Shane and join us in praying for the best possible and most successful treatment–for healing and well being.