It was raining the first day of my husband’s chemotherapy. November had spread its gloom upon us, brown leaves scrunched under our feet as we made our way to the car. Rain pelted the windshield wipers that splattered drops as we drove silently to the Cancer Care Center.
I wondered what awaited us during his treatment. It would not be easy. I knew that from having other family members and friends fight that cruel disease. It had not really registered in my mind during those first few days of diagnoses, tests, and more tests. He seemed perfectly fine, as well as someone who had just experienced his second heart attack. I thought coronary disease was the battle we had to face, and now this, too.
I hadn’t slept well that first night. We had to get up early for his infusion in the morning. It soon turned into a pattern. He would sleep while I lay in bed awake or reading up on what his treatments would entail. As a night owl, that wasn’t new, but my cardiologist, who was aware of my husband’s condition, told me to take better care of myself.
Stage Four Lung Cancer: If he was fortunate, with treatment, he could live five years. Without it, Cabbar would be lucky to make six months. His father, a heavy smoker, had died from the disease. Cabbar’s mother had a heart condition. My husband definitely did not win at genetic roulette.
I watched him during those months before we knew for certain that he had the C-word disease. He was so happy, chairing an art show as a fundraiser for our local hospital. An optimist by nature, he didn’t think it would be cancer. But I had my doubts. I remembered the look on his pulmonologist’s face as he saw the results of the chest X-ray and CT scan. It wasn’t good, and he ordered others. An MRI was performed where his cancer cells lit up like a Christmas tree. He ordered a biopsy, but it was a tricky situation because he would have to go off his blood thinner. Luckily, the pulmonologist knew his cardiologist and consulted with her. He would remain on aspirin and stop taking Brilanta for a few days before the procedure. Then the hospital called and said that he must stop taking both but Cabbar insisted that was impossible. So they got a specialist to do the biopsy. I wondered why it was just done on one lung when both were possibly cancerous. His pulmonologist later explained to me that it was to lessen the chance of a heart attack.
I asked him if a biopsy was being performed to see if he had cancer or to know how to treat it. He said he had to be honest, the prognosis didn’t look promising. A tear rolled down my cheek. Cabbar grasped my hand and held it. The doctor knew that Cabbar also had prostate cancer which got the ball rolling back in April. He had skin cancer, too. In my foolishness, I said something like how he shouldn’t be hanging out in his office in our basement which had asbestos. He replied, “I think Cabbar should do whatever makes him happy.” That’s when the gravity of the situation dawned on me. Let him do what he wants. Don’t make life more difficult for him.
After he had his biopsy, while we were in the hospital, Cabbar said, “Maybe it will be good news.” I said nothing. He even signed up for jury duty which was not to be.
Cabbar asked him to recommend an oncologist. He said, “I trust you.” The doctor knew a woman who had studied with him in medical school. He said that she was the best and he would call her and refer him. I felt reassured that Cabbar would be in good hands.
He “raged against the dying of the light the day he got the news.” He took his anger out on a poor telemarketer who wanted to buy our house. “Can you give me a couple million? If not, don’t call!”
Our first trip to the Cancer Care Center surprised me. The staff from the receptionists to all of the nurses and doctors were so pleasant and helpful. The patients were kind and upbeat in the waiting room and also in the infusion room where they received their treatments. I noticed boxes of candies and other delicacies that patients had given the nursing staff.
Cancer does not discriminate. There were young and old, handsome men and beautiful women of all races. Some came alone. Others were accompanied by their spouses, adult children, and friends. Women and men wore knitted caps and hats on their heads to hide the sight of their lost hair. I marveled at their courage. How precious life is that they will fight for the blessing of another day. It is something that those of us who are healthy take for granted.
After Christmas, the place was jammed. The nurse told us people had taken a break from their infusions during the holidays so that they could enjoy them with their loved ones.
His oncologist spent a long time with us during that first appointment. She answered all of our questions and I liked her immediately. The doctor said that she could treat it, but that Stage Four Cancer in both lungs was incurable. Looking at me, she said that prostate cancer can metastasize into the lungs. That could be a possible explanation for why he had it. Cabbar told her he would be a good patient and forestall Dr. Death as long as possible. As usual, he was joking about some movie, trying to make light of the situation just as he had in the emergency room during his heart attacks.
Humor was his cover for dealing with the pain, the tragic-comic figure of the clown who makes light of the seriousness of it all. I wondered at it, not being so inclined myself. We were opposites in that respect, as in others.
After years of having cable TV, we gave it up to save money, and now Cabbar delights in watching YouTube videos. He especially likes to watch travel and cooking videos. Since his illness, he makes dinner most of the time. It gives him something to do. He stays at home except for doctors’ visits and trips to the grocery, always wearing a mask because chemo and immunotherapy lower one’s resistance to illness. Besides, Covid still lurks.
Prayer is the glue that holds me together. That, and reading the Bible, is seeing me through this, along with the prayers, concern, and help of so many family members and friends. I am always texting my brother, Greg, with the latest ups and downs of his chemo regimen and side effects, as well as my cousin, Janice. My best friend went through this with her husband whose cancer is in remission, so she knows the deal. My parish family knows and cares. Greg and my cousins in Pennsylvania pray for him. My next-door neighbor, Marlie, often sends over chicken dinner with all the Dominican trimmings and texts me to see how we are doing. With her husband, Joel, and their children, Zailee and Lukas, they pray for him. All of our neighbors have told us to reach out if we need anything. I feel blessed that so many care.
Trips to the diner for breakfast with my friends lift my spirits. It’s good to share and also catch up with family and friends, to share laughter over a Swiss cheese omelet, or lunch at an Italian pizzeria.
Each morning heralds one more day to be spent with Cabbar. And we learn to be grateful for such moments, as he courageously fights the battle, and chooses joy.
