Michael Absher, M.D. 6425 W. College Drive Seattle, WA 98126 Phone: 425-555-9100 Email: drmike@soundshore.

com Synopsis

SURVIVING CANCER:
A PHYSICIANS PERSONAL ODYSSEY by Michael Absher, M.D. As a critical care physician at Sound Shore Medical Center of Westchester (formerly New Rochelle Hospital), I have treated many terminally ill patients. All of us are fragile creatures, precariously perched on the edge with disaster waiting for the slightest mischance. Physicians are not immune. In October 1989, I was diagnosed with colon cancer and found myself facing major surgery and an uncertain future. I was terrified at the thought of surgery, but even more frightening was the possibility that the cancer had spread to other parts of my body. Even with chemotherapy, the survival rate for metastatic colon cancer was dismally low. I was in the prime of my life, with a wife and two young daughters. I did not want to die. I was also dealing with a difficult transition from physician to patient. As a critical care physician, I was accustomed to making life and death decisions about patients. Now I found myself on the other side of the desk, and it was hard to give up that decision-making control. After surgery, I learned that my worst fears had come true: The cancer had spread to my liver and lymph nodes. The surgery itself left me with an eighteen-inch incision held together by metal clips. All of my large intestine had been removed with the exception of a small piece which connected the small intestine to the rectum.

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For more than a week, I struggled with unexpected complications that left me near death. Worse than the physical pain, though, was the emotional despair. I knew that even if I recovered from the surgery and its complications, I would almost certainly die from cancer. Through all of this, my wife Deanne remained by my side, encouraging me and reminding me that each individual patient is separate from the statistics. This was something I had preached to my own patients, but now the admonition seemed to mock rather than encourage me. I thought about my own patients, and wondered if I had shown enough sympathy and understanding of their feelings. Two weeks after surgery, I was finally able to return to our home in Stamford, Connecticut. I was more comfortable in my own bed, but I still lay awake at night thinking about the cancer cells inside my body, multiplying, spreading out like poison toward other vital organs. I trembled with the urge to reach inside my body and rip them out. When I began chemotherapy, the oncologist made it clear that we were declaring war on the cancer. Just remember that Im the general! he told me with a grin. He said the program of treatment might have to last as long as six months. The chemotherapy left me with nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea side effects that are all-too-familiar to many cancer patients. Blood tests revealed that the cancer level in my body was falling, and CAT scans eventually showed that against all odds, the tumors on the liver were destroyed. But swollen lymph nodes in my neck and abdomen remained a concern. Chemotherapy continued long past the original six-month plan, and eventually stretched out to a total of three difficult years. The lymph node in my neck was surgically removed, and we found that nearly all of the cancer cells had been killed by the chemotherapy. Even after chemotherapy ended, though, the lymph node in my abdomen was still swollen. Chronic diarrhea was also a problem, and my gastroenterologist convinced me to have the last remaining piece of colon removed in order to make sure I didn't develop a new cancer. He recommended that I have an ileostomy, in which the end of the small intestine is brought up through an incision in

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the abdominal wall. Plastic bags are then fitted to collect waste material. The thought of going through another major surgery was terrifying, but I knew that I had no choice. During surgery, my doctor discovered that the lymph node in my abdomen was calcified, with no living cancer cells. My oncologist pronounced me in total remission. Eventually, I learned to live with the ileostomy and the Bag. My five-year cancer-free party had 530 guests. Family, friends, and even patients celebrated with me. After the last guest drove away, I stood with Deanne on the front porch of our house and looked up at the night sky. Behind the blanket of stars, I was sure I could see the face of God smiling down on me. The transition from physician to patient was long and difficult, but it has made me a better doctor. Now I spend more time listening to patients, treating their pain, and dealing with terminal illness with caring and compassion. I thank God for giving me the strength to endure a rigorous program of chemotherapy, for giving me another chance at life, and for giving me the wisdom to help others who are facing the difficult challenge of cancer.