Oncological Sciences Center

Cancer isn’t a battle fought by one; it’s a family affair, which we found out in January of 2000.  My five brothers and sisters and I were grown with our own families when our parents were just starting to face the challenges of advanced age. 

Our mother had a cancerous growth in her larynx, which was removed with surgery that left her with a trachea tube for six weeks.  Our fears ran wild with possible scenarios where Mom wouldn’t be able to breathe and couldn’t call for help.  Mom met these challenges without flinching, with her steadfast will, the help of her husband of fifty-three years, and the six of us. 

What went undiagnosed in 2000, and a simple surgery wouldn’t fix, was our mother’s Alzheimer’s, which progressed slowly for the next four years, when it was finally clear to us that her dementia would require action from the six of us.

Our snowbird parents migrated north, back home to Lafayette, Indiana, where two of their six children still lived and would be able to care for them.  Instead of parents taking care of children, we were children taking care of parents.

There is nothing written where or when or how this magically happens, where care shifts from parent to child.  It’s a hope we all have, that when the time is right we’ll be cared for by those we brought into the world; those who love us as much as we love them. 

When our mother’s cancer returned in 2005, the six of us faced our first truly difficult decision: should we treat the cancer or let it take its course?  Due to the Alzheimer’s, which was now advanced, we decided not to treat, to let nature take its course.

In the last two years of our mother’s life, she and Dad were still our role models, still teaching us lessons in love and responsibility and respect, still loving each other no matter what life and dementia threw at them.  They trusted the six of us with their future, deferring the tough decisions to us, and abiding by the decisions we made. 

We lost our mother October 2007 and our father May 2009, yet the wonderful gifts they bestowed upon us children are very much a part of each of us.  As the 6 of us gathered together this past May, it is evident that strong bond between all of us. 

Cancer is a word that invokes instant fear of destruction and death, but the six of us are standing examples that cancer can leave gifts in its wake, those of love and grace and peace. 

Swank, Kristine, Lafayette

The Biopsy   
by Manju B. Howard

Waiting to enter
    stark white room
    crowded by machines.
    But first the questions,
    sign here, here and here.

Gray gown held together
    by one knot
    below my stomach.
    Bare of personal items
    from my waist up.

My breast tightly pressed
    against cold metal
    and a pane of glass,
    warned not to move
    even a slight twitch.
   
Pin prick to numb
    the precise target
    longer needle follows
    plunging deeply
    into my right breast.

Startled by the jolt
    a tear drips
    off my face.
    No soft tissue
    to catch it.
Three days later
    still waiting to hear.
    Do I have cancer?
    Why does the air feel heavy?   
    Will my boys remember me if  . . .

Ring. Ring. “Hello?”
    “This is your doctor’s office.
    The results are benign,
    but additional tests are needed.”

What does this mean?
    No black and white answer.
    A future filled with waiting,
    better then no future at all.

Howard, Manju, Lafayette

Miracles can happen. Not that I've seen one recently… but I heard an NPR Story Corps story on the radio one morning in April, 2009, about a little boy whose life was saved. It was told by the man who had been that little boy, the story of a time when he leaned out the window of his family's five-story home a little too far and lost his grip, a fall he never would have survived, except for the barber who had come home from work early that day and was at the door to the building just at that moment. In the right place, at precisely the right time. The barber quickly ripped off his jacket, reached out, and caught the boy (who was presumably only about 5.5 ft from the ground by then). He saved the little boy's life, and it became a miracle for both of them, this unfathomable chance of random events coming together.

That is the kind of miracle I can believe in: the wonder and amazement of the what-ifs, the literally fantastic luck of timing. When the tragic action (of a car, of a slip or fall, of a cell, of a clot), is caught by the reaction of someone with a jacket, who just happened to be there at the right time. Where there is simply an action and a reaction, and no claim of one or the other without its partner. This is the kind of miracle that isn't there for so many, all the people who wonder "Why me?" or "Why her?" So many opportunities for a different fate, missed by miles or by hairs, the extent is no comfort because the outcome is the same.

This is how I felt that morning in April: I had been walking, trying to run, down the street, toward that building. Watching my cousin fall inexorably and slowly for more than three years; it was like time was molasses. She was dying of adrenocortical carcinoma that hadn’t been discovered until she was in Stage IV. I didn't even have a jacket on, and it took so long to process what I was seeing, (and denial is so powerful), and I wasn't there at the window and I wasn't there to see her hand slip or to grab it. Nobody else was there either: the doctors guarding the windows of her life failed in their jobs to watch over and test the windows against this possibility (was it their hubris? ignorance? or the age-old problem of who is going to pay for it?). Why do some windows have so many guardians and others are barely noticed?

Some very, very good people tried in vain to reach out and catch her from other windows along the way down, like her parents running from floor to floor to floor. Smart people set up trials; like experimental super strong magnets to see if they could slow the fall or even stop time. But none of these things had worked. We needed either for the windows to be better guarded or for someone to have been there with a jacket at the very first fall of the very first cells going wrong and pumping out cortisol THAT WAS THERE IN HER BLOOD FOR ALL THE WORLD TO SEE IF ANYONE HAD JUST LOOKED.

There would have been the time to catch her, and change the course of history. So there we were but there was still room for hope. Hope that the fall could be slowed enough to give her time to look around and enjoy the feeling of flying, the beautiful sunshine outside, and all the people down there reaching out their ineffectual arms wishing they could catch her with the sheer force of their love. At the very least, hope that with the here and now, our unique position in history that we are on the cusp of something better. We have the opportunity; we are beginning to develop the understanding to create tools to be there, at the right place and the right time, when people need it and before it is too late. All we can do is work and hope for the miraculous: that we are there, with our jackets out, ready to catch people.

Parker, Laurie, St. Joseph

Here we go again… In 1994, my sister-in-law, Sandra Gant, was nearing retirement with her husband, Ron, and looking forward to “the Golden Age.” She hadn’t planned on a side-trip with breast cancer. She endured several chemo treatments and when November came, she told her doctor that she wanted to stop the chemo for awhile.

“It is near Thanksgiving and Christmas, I want to enjoy them. I will return in January.”

It was obvious the doctor didn’t really think she would continue, but she did show up. After treatments, she went to the hospital in Frankfort for shots to prevent nausea. Ironically, her daughter-in-law was the nurse who gave her the shots. Thankfully, she went into remission. Sandra became a widow in 2001. She continued working for a realtor and volunteered as a water therapist leader at Wesley Manor in Frankfort. Sandra enjoyed watching the “Survivor” show with her sons and granddaughters. Little did she know that she would once again struggle to become a survivor; she met and married Jack Hawkins in 2006 and moved to Lafayette.

In 2009, at age seventy-three, fighting for breath, she entered the hospital only to be told, “You have peritoneal cancer. It is not curable, but we can keep it reduced.” “Here we go again,” she told me as I sat with her at St. Elizabeth hospital. This time she began treatments at the Horizon Oncology Clinic in Lafayette. She got along just fine with the first chemo treatments, but developed neuropathy which is a side effect. The treatments were changed to Doxil, which had a long list of “do’s and don’ts.”

Fortunately, she is breezing along with the Doxil and has had no side effects! Sandra smiles a lot and is upbeat because she knows, “You have to have a good outlook. If you start thinking bad…it will go bad.

Gaylor, Sandra, Lafayette

My mother died of pancreatic cancer in December of 2001. She was one that never raised her voice and never wanted to hurt anyone. She was only 5'1" and we were all taller than her. She would always tell my brothers that when they were in trouble, she would throw them up next to the barn. We all would laugh with her.

She went through some tough tests to finally hear that she had pancreatic cancer, but not the bad kind. She always went through chemo with a willing heart. I was privileged to be with her every step of the way; until she had asked us to care for her. We accepted, honoring her and God's commandments.

My siblings were not always accepting of this fact, it was hard. My mother would go to my sister's house on the weekends as she thought it would give us a break. She didn't realize that she would be the one needing a break during the week to recover. When hospice stepped in to manage her care; it became a bit easier to have someone else tell the family what needed and how well we were caring for her. It is something that I have no regrets for; how my mother's last days here on earth were spent and we loved doing it all for her.

God guided us during those hard days and through seeing such a loved person not have the energy to do things. We are all commended that there will be no tears up in heaven, we can run and not grow weary, and we should walk and not faint. Thank you Lord.

Willison, Sheryl, Lafayette

During my high school years, I always wanted to become an astrophysicist or astronaut to study the origin of universe and planets. I was completely intrigued by Big Bang Theory and famous pioneers, such as Albert Einstein and Stephen Hawking. I was one of those curious people who are willing to answer a philosophical question, “Where are we from?”

However, as my grandmother struggled against late stage stomach cancer for two years and passed away during my high school senior year, this event turned my whole career of interest. She was the person who sacrificed the last ten years of her life to raise me while both of my parents went to work from 6 am to midnight every day. She was more than a grandmother to me, and I became highly interested in the cancer that took away such innocent, selfless human being from me.

As I entered Purdue University, I began to look for cancer research labs instead of astronomy or space laboratories. I am currently involved in brain and breast cancer labs and I plan to pursue a MD-PhD joint degree program in medical school, continuing my cancer research career.

Ma, Sung Jun, West Lafayette

Getting my yearly mammograms paid off big time for me in 2001. My husband and I sat in the doctor's office, nervously waiting for the doctor to join us.

A brief discussion led to the x-rays being slipped upon the light board. I saw it as the doctor began making circles around suspicious areas on my films. Next order of business was to review the biopsy report. Some words went by but I didn't know what they meant, but I did know what stage 4 diagnosis meant.

I found it difficult to breathe, my body felt shaky and I had no words or questions to ask. I only knew I had stage 4 breast cancer! Get a chemo-port, see a surgeon, find an oncologist, and get the medical team lined up that I would need. After the appointment ended, I began reading the material the doctor that had given me with his pictures drawn on the page.

I made two tearful phone calls to my mother & father and to my daughter. I wanted them on board immediately as my support team. My husband and I had a quiet drive home together, we hardly slept that night. There would have to be a discussion with my employer, several doctor’s appointments, insurance coverage certified, and decisions to be made.

The sadness was so overwhelming for many reasons. I found I couldn't concentrate at my job; I couldn't handle work on top of all the medical decisions going on in my life. As a result of needed tests, I had confirmed Stage 4 HER2 Metastatic breast cancer in my breast, few lymph nodes and my spine. My focus had to be on myself at this point.

Now I have lived with breast cancer for 9 years. Many chapters could be written about my experiences; 16 different treatment combinations, radiation, back surgery, traveling to IUMC weekly for two years, and spending three in-patient stays at hospital to get over complications. I have no idea what is ahead for me or what time frame, but for now I will wear a chemo-pack for continuous treatment going in for 5 days straight (with weekends off) and radiation daily too. My prayers are to see a cure for breast cancer and all cancers and in a hurry.

Stoops, Pam, Lafayette, IN

Working in healthcare, diseases and illness always happen to other people, especially cancer. In 2008 everything in life seemed good except I was extremely tired, always cold and short of breath. It was allergy season and work was busy so I thought it was a combination of stress and allergies. Low and behold some blood work pointed out very low hemoglobin. After two blood transfusions and a CT scan came the dreaded diagnosis: a malignant tumor of the colon.

A major surgery was followed by chemotherapy for 6 1/2 months every other week, three days during that week. What a terrible situation. Out of everything negative, there are always positives. My family and friends were a great support system. The healthcare givers during surgery and treatment took excellent care of me and offered hope. I learned that something positive could be found out of each day and keeping a positive attitude was part of the recovery. I also found that even on some of my worst days, I could always look around and see people much sicker than I was. Despite those bad days each day was to be treasured.

Cancer can be so devastating to not only the patient but to the families. For them, feeling helpless and not knowing what to do and not knowing what the future holds. At this time, one year out of treatment, I appear to be cancer free. I know based on my Stage and Grade of cancer it could always rear its ugly head again. But I still try to enjoy each day, spend time on the things that are important, keep faith that God will take care of us regardless of outcome and still keep thinking positive thoughts each day.

Dillard, Kathy, Lafayette

I will recount an episode about a happy, hapless teenager. I was in tenth grade, and summer vacation was about to start. I was in the school’s yard, playing badminton with my best friend. Now, close your eyes. Nothing comes to life if we do not feel these damned words. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. We are young, a volatile state of being. Our bodies have an excess of adrenaline that the school’s old walls have cracked with jealousy. Right now, everything is possible. Our horizons are clear as purified water. Our dreams are still safely wrapped. We laugh. We have bright eyes. We have started to use makeup, but it’s just an experiment. We seduce ourselves first, taming the new image. Our bodies sweat. We play badminton. We sweat some more. I cannot even believe what I am about to confess to my best friend, but I say it, maybe it will acquire a meaning: “You know, not to worry you or anything, but I just found out that mom has breast cancer.” No reaction. No word. Nothing. Or maybe worse, silence. We continue to play badminton. This is life unedited. No sound engineer is behind us to insert one of those frightening sounds, like a bomb just blasted, or a thief sneaks somewhere in the dark.

There is summer breeze, us, and plenty of light. I speak to myself, “If my friend did not have a reaction, if she did not sense a threat, then maybe cancer is okay.” I feel reassured. I am young, and death and youth are not compatible. A year and a half later, I kiss mother’s dead forehead. She lies in her coffin. She is at peace. My mind is at war, yet my body is against gravity, floating. I want to believe that I am still 16, playing badminton, laughing, and dreaming.

And then I am 15, I just came back from a party, heavily drunk, but happy. I smile largely at mom. She does not say a bad word. She caresses and tucks me into bed. And then I am 14, and mother is ecstatic, and announces that I will go to a trip to Paris with other lucky teen-agers. And then I am 13, and do not have a clue why girls must love romance literature, and why I have a crush on a soccer player until mom says, “It’s fine, you are who you are, so love what you feel you should love.” And then I am 12, and pretty chubby, and mother tells me that I will soon be an adult woman, with husband, routine, kids, and duties, breaking in too many pieces until I lose significant pounds. I will be skinny, and look with marvel at my chubby, care-free years. There is so much reassurance and love in her voice that I cannot but trust her. And then I am 10, and enjoy going to this painting club two times a week, and play with colors freely and uninhibited by rules and peer-pressure. At this phase, life continues to be a funny game. Upon returning home, mom is glowing: she thinks that her passion has been finally resurrected by my interest, and that I will do what she did not have time to do. And then I am 9, and do not have earrings, and ordered mother to take me somewhere to get my ears pierced because, “Mom, I am a girl, and need those earrings to look pretty.” And then I am 8, 7, 6, and oh, my God, I never knew that I could (un)fold in so different versions of myself. After a short while, I am again 16: back to my trauma. My body and mind are a magnified, beautified, unstoppable accordion. The melody varies, though: waltz, tango, and tons of blues.

This did not happen. Second after second, I open my mother’s bedroom and ask the cold walls: “Where did you hide her? Where is she? Bring her back. Right now!” I close the door. Sometimes I slam it. One day something marvelous happened… I started to remember her wounded right breast. It had a hole around the nipple, which smelled horrible. “There is a hole in mother’s body, who could sew it? Nobody? Really?!” Hard to believe, yet somehow that hole was about to free me. It was my regained access into Wonderland. Alice found a rabbit’s hole. I have discovered mine. I entered it after years of hesitation, but, when I finally decided to do so, mother was there. She was different, yet the same, like, maybe, in those hallucinations where things appear one instant to disappear in the next.

Mom smiles at me and I am in a protective shell of waves of light. They tickle me and, suddenly, pain changes into a shower of raindrops. Then she asks me casually: “Tell me about your life. What did I miss?” I cannot find one single word to answer her. She sees my pain. She holds my hands and whisper: “What about that tall boy you thought you were in love? Did you really fall in love? I think it was about that time when I could not belong to myself, when I was taken fully by my cancer. Tell me about him” What?! She asks me this when I have been married to a different guy and even given birth? That’s weird. “Mom, please be reasonable. I am married now.” “You are what?! Where is your wedding ring? Why do you still have the same childish face? No married woman is allowed that, that is against the matrimonial contract.” She laughs whole-heartedly.  “Are you sure you are married?” “Mom, look, don’t freak out… I will try to reassemble my life without you and make a smoother transition… I will tell you about that other guy. Yes, we fell in and out of love. And then, I married someone else, and he, too. We fell apart or maybe recognized ourselves as absolutely not able to form a harmonious unit.” “Did you cry when you spilt up?” “Hm, there were days when I cried and hoped to hold you… and then tears got mixed and I did not know if I was crying after him or after you… I am not sure if you can remember, but when you could not move any longer (a month before your death), you adored listening to Queen’s Show Must Go on. After you died, I could not distinguish among my tears.” “What do you mean?” “Well, there are days when I start crying because my foot hurts only to realize: no way, I am not going to lose my dignity and cry because of that trivial discomfort. Mom had a hole in her right breast! There are other days when I look into my son’s eyes (which I am positive are yours as silent inheritance gift) and wish you were here when he was born: to hold and kiss him; to hold and kiss me. My tears are all together, and you are (in) them. I have washed my face with your now translucent, fluid body… I have drown my longing for you in those tears. I am sorry, I did not mean to make you sad. You had a hole in your right breast. You suffered enough. Maybe, let’s not say a word a while.” “Then I will put my head on your heart. I love you, child! And by the way, you lost weight.” “I will always love you, mom.”

I woke up and found a tear zigzagging on my right cheek. That’s fine because that’s my secret passage out from Wonderland.

Catalina Florescu, Hoboken, NJ

My second roller coaster ride started early May, 2007. During my mammogram, the radiologist “saw something.” She couldn’t feel anything, but she could see it on the imaging results. (“It’s right there – I can see it, I just can’t feel it!”) Thus began my second whirlwind of surgery – another lumpectomy – and meetings with doctors. I had been through all this before, in 2004, and numbly couldn’t believe it was happening to me again.

When we received the diagnosis of breast cancer a second time, I remember the first words out of my husband’s mouth were “No! We’re not going through this again.” The doctor was as reassuring as he could be. Doctor: “The bad news is; its breast cancer. The good news is it’s a different kind of tumor, so it’s not a reoccurrence and we caught it early. The bad news is that it is a very aggressive kind of tumor. The good news is that there was no lymph node involvement, and there is a great new drug that we can use to treat it. The bad news is they’ve never given this drug without accompanying chemo, so we’re going to put you through the whole series of chemo and radiation again.”

Again!?! Why me? I’d been a model patient, following the doctor’s orders, listening to the nurses’ instructions, taking all my medications exactly as prescribed. I had been very fortunate, and muscled through all the treatments without serious side effects, and with good humor for the most part. I had shaved my head, bought a wig, and managed to continue working full-time with the support of my family, friends and co-workers.

Again?!? We sought a second opinion. My husband sent my pathology report to his sister, a physician in New York. She conferred with oncologists at Albert Einstein Hospital, and they concurred with my hometown oncologist. I stumbled back into the routine I had hoped never to experience again. I told the doctor “You realize you’re ruining my summer again!” He just smiled sadly and said “Yes, I know.”

I am a musician. I spend my fall and winter seasons playing viola with the local symphony. I had to miss half a season in 2004 because my port for chemo treatments was implanted on the left side of my chest, right where my viola rests. It was extremely uncomfortable to play. It was an incredibly triumphal moment when I could return at the end of the season to play, after my port had been removed. I also played percussion in the pit orchestra for the university’s theatre department. The only concession I made to my health was that I wore white tennis shoes with my all-black orchestra outfit so that my back didn’t ache at the end of the performances. I also ditched the wig and appeared with a very short, butch haircut. I auditioned for a show with the local community theatre group, and was cast in a lead role. It felt so good to be back on stage performing that I sent tickets to the clinic so my doctors and nurses could have a fun night out. (“You never told me you could sing!” said my doctor at a follow-up.)

But now, here I was being told “no” again! During the entire summer, for the last 30 years, I have played percussion with our community band. The drummers are a close-knit group. Our band rehearses once a week and plays a concert. The next week, it’s all new music, one rehearsal, one concert. We typically play 15 concerts during the summer. Here I was being told I could not do something again. I didn’t handle it well. My dear friend, who is the percussion section leader, told me “The first time you went through treatments, you basically said ‘Well, this is what we’ve got to do’ and you just did it. The second time, you were PISSED.”

I think she hit the nail on the head. I have never been the type of person who responded well to being told I can’t do something. It’s kind of a family joke that the best way to get me to do something is to tell me I can’t. However, I’ve learned that you can’t argue successfully with doctors (very often). I’d ask my surgeon “Can I play yet?” And he’d make gestures like he was playing a drum and ask me “do you play like this?” When I’d say “Yes,” he’d say “No.” And so it went, checkup after checkup until he finally released me to play. I’m now three years out from my second diagnosis, and it’s nerve-wracking, to say the least. I get nervous before each and every check-up (and there are a lot of them!) Since my first diagnosis, I have lost several friends to cancer – a flute player and an oboe player from the symphony, a drumming buddy who was a dear friend for over 30 years, the husband of a co-worker. Some of these friends were younger than me, and left behind young children. Some were older. The one question I still have not found an answer to is “Why?” I don’t wear a pink ribbon every day – I don’t need the reminder. I’ve got the scars and the fear of yet another roller coaster ride in my future to keep cancer in the forefront of my thoughts. I don’t expect the fear will ever go away – it’s the bogey man operating the controls of the roller coaster that is my life. Thank heavens I’ve got a husband who stands by me, no matter what, and friends and family who are worth their weight in gold, and compassionate medical professionals who are some of the finest people I have ever met in my life. That’s what keeps the bogey man under control!

Gelfand, Jo, Lafayette, IN

Adventure in Cancerland

May 1996; the first sound of the word "Cancer" in my diagnosis was like looking into a huge black hole. I felt myself being absorbed into it. Getting the news via a telephone call while alone made it more difficult in a way, yet easier because I made myself be strong; after all I had to make another call to my husband to tell him next!

Somehow we made it through the next several days of missing work and tests and more tests. Next, a trip to Mayo Clinic for confirmation of the diagnosis - non-Hodgkin lymphoma (NHL), Stage IV, more specifically incurable follicular predominately small cleaved B-cell lymphoma. A lot to comprehend, particularly when discovering I had this two years prior in 1994 when biopsy slides were misread locally the disease was then Stage I!!!!!

Well, after consultations and much research on our part, the decision was made to follow the "watch and wait" recommendation since I was asymptomatic. Routine checks followed periodically with CT scans, verifying the disease was stable. But then....

November 2002; almost overnight it seemed that I developed an enlarged lymph node under my right arm that exploded to the size of a grapefruit! Painful and extremely worrisome and requiring immediate treatment, however, what to do? Discussion with my oncologist and yet another trip to the Mayo Clinic to discuss treatment options and recommendations; lucky me - a second surgical biopsy experience at Mayo Clinic! However, being at Mayo Clinic is like a bit of heaven. Such organization - a planner's dream!
 
My first chemo experience with COP went smoothly and the huge lump melted away as predicted by my oncologist. Of course, we continued with 5 more rounds and scans proved the NHL had faded away for now. Life continued back to the "watch and wait" routine. This is also called "watch and worry" for good cause. We did quarterly monitoring with doctor visits, semi-annual scans and the inevitable worry that accompanied each visit prior to hearing the reports, with hopes of a good checkup and fears it will not be so. All goes well until...

2006 and the Thyroid Trauma
Scans show lumps in my thyroid. More doctor visits, a very uncomfortable biopsy with proof that there is no cancer and an oncologist who doesn't believe the report. The lumps persist into another round of scans. I decide not to endure yet another biopsy - TAKE IT OUT, as something isn't right. All goes well with the surgery and I now take a pill daily to replace the missing 3/4 of my thyroid. Yet, an unintended consequence; little did I know I would also sacrifice my singing voice, another victim of the cancer experience.

July 2007 Hello again...chemo! The NHL has returned. This time I have the cocktail of COP + R. Rituxan, a monoclonal antibody, is the new (for me) extra ammunition to fight my NHL. We chose not to use it in my first chemo experience in 2002 but to hold it in reserve as I traveled down the road living with low-grade incurable NHL. So NOW is the time! Yet - oops - small problem here! I reacted to the Rituxan and had to slow the infusion. Every chemo session takes about seven hours! We pack a lunch, buy a paper, pick out a DVD and settle in for the day, once every three weeks.

2008-2009 The NHL retreats yet again and we continue on Rituxan as a maintenance drug, once a week for four weeks in a row every six months for four cycles over a two year period. All goes well, no NHL for a while. Back to quarterly monitoring and semi-annual scans. We now have a new tool, a combined PET/CT scan. Of course, with all my scans over these fourteen years, I now need no night light as I glow in the dark from all the radiation exposure - just kidding! But a constant worry - how many scans are too many? When will I also be facing leukemia along with NHL due to the radiation exposure??

May/Spring 2010 my first 6-month visit without Rituxan joining me!!!Yet, the big question is why stopping the maintenance treatments when the cancer will return most probably? E-mails to Mayo Clinic, discussions with my doctor, research; end result - back to "watch and wait/worry", Mayo recommends treatment for the next relapse using Zevalin or Bexxar, radioimmunotherapy. Does this mean I may REALLY be a shining star, literally, after that???

I am more than blessed with long survival living with cancer. Also it is more than a blessing to have a husband who is my best friend, supporter and caregiver. He chauffeurs me all over for tests, consultations, and doctor visits. He waits nervously with me for results of tests and without me as I've recovered from too many surgeries. He's my ROCK and the love of my life. While my singing voice is gone, my spirit sings with my good fortune. What? Good fortune? Living with cancer and an incurable kind??? Yes! I'm alive! I'm loved! I'm blessed! Isn't that GOOD FORTUNE?

Luenz, Pam, Lafayette, IN

The three most frightening words in my life to date, is when my doctor said, “You have cancer.”   For a year or so prior to that – I had been having a few issues with bowel movements, some pain and discomfort, etc.  At my age (54) I thought it was female-related…….it wasn’t.  After a failed colonoscopy (my colon was too blocked to complete the test), the doctor took a biopsy and the rest – as they say – is history.  I lost both my parents to cancer at the age of 69.  Right now – my 69th birthday didn’t seem like it would become reality.

Met with the surgeon.  Surgery was scheduled for July 20, 2009.  My husband, two grown children, their spouses, and others sat and waited for the surgery results.  Would I have a colostomy – either permanent or temporary.   Had the cancer spread?  If so – how far and to where? Questions seemed endless.

The surgery/resection was a complete success .  After recovering from surgery – treatments started.  I was in stage 3 of colo-rectal cancer.  The dread disease was found in 3 of the 12 removed nodes.  Not good – but, not as bad as it could have been.

The rest of my fall/winter was consumed by chemo therapy treatments, followed by radiation, followed by another round of chemo.

At least while treatments were going on – I felt at ease.  I was doing all I could to handle this illness.  Before the last treatment was over, I began feeling extremely anxious.  What if chemo didn’t work?  What if I have to go through this again?  Do I need to make my last wishes known sooner than I thought I would?  Will I get to see my grandson go to 1st grade – much less see him graduate?

It’s almost exactly a year since my surgery – and the PET scan after treatments was positive.   My oncologist (who is WONDERFUL!!!) is also positive that I’m in remission—at least for  now.  I have another PET scan scheduled for early August, 2010.  Hopefully, to confirm earlier scan.

Although no one knows what the future holds, I have renewed faith and have learned some patience.  I know the next several years includes lots of doctor appointments, tests, etc.  

But,  I have a future.  I realize I am so much luckier than others.  This was made all-too-clear when I went for treatments.  Even though I was weak,  had no energy, and my hair only slightly thinned – there were always people in the treatment room that were in pain or extremely sick.  I was still able to continue to work.  Only taking off the days of my infusion.

Without the support and love of family and friends, I would not have been able to keep my positive attitude.  I know I have been blessed beyond measure.

Cronkhite, Deb, Williamsport, IN

I was first diagnosed on October 22, 2004. I went to urgent care and on November 18 I got my diagnosis; Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma. On December 17, 2005 after 8 rounds of Chemotherapy and an Autologus Stem Cell Transplant I have made it to remission.

Since that time I have been disease free but the toll the treatments take on my body and my life are devastating and have had some serious long-term effects. With that said, I am blessed to be alive and I now have a better understanding of life and just how precious this life is. Get busy dying or get busy living; I chose the second option.

As a result of my disease I have lost a lot; however, I chose not to focus on the loss because I have gained so much more. When life is viewed with reality in mind, the doors open and the prison walls come down. As a result, I have written a book that has been published titled: The Cancer Survival Kit; The Power of Three; Volume I: The Truth. This book has been a Godsend because it is an outlet to overcome the tragedy associated with a diagnosis of a stage four cancer. Now, everyday becomes a new adventure in a world of endless possibilities. My message to others is to survive by any means necessary, praise God for each additional breath, and pray for others who are stuck in tragedy so that they may find the joy of life.

Lucas, Andre, Lafayette, IN

Claudia Kruggel is composed and confident as she speaks about her breast cancer. She holds it together when she relays the course of events that led to her husband’s diagnoses of chronic lymphocytic leukemia and later melanoma. But she looks away when she begins to talk about her son, Alex. She speaks more softly and slowly. She blinks away tears. Alex’s story isn’t one of survivorship. He died August 10, 2007, just weeks after being diagnosed with epemdymoma, a tumor on his spinal chord.

Alex was the Kruggel’s third son. He was 32 when he died and left behind a wife, Jennifer, his parents and three brothers: Fritz, Adam and John.

“When 50% of your family gets cancer, that’s really something,” says Claudia as she openly shares her family’s experiences with the disease.

Cancer first hit the Kruggel family in 1993. Claudia and her family had lived in West Lafayette for just three years, and she didn’t yet have a personal physician. But, after weeks of not feeling well, she found a doctor.

At the time, mammography guidelines indicated a baseline mammogram for women beginning at age 50. Claudia was just 46. “I went through some tests, including a mammogram,” she recalls. “A week later the doctor called me personally and said, ‘Let’s take another look.’ I just knew I had breast cancer.”

A second mammogram did indicate breast cancer, and Claudia had surgery, a lumpectomy.  A second surgery followed to remove all of her lymph nodes.

What happened next, Claudia relays, was a series of less than respectable medical care. She said she was given a small towel, not a hospital gown, to cover herself during radiation treatments. There was no private space in which to change out of her clothes. Physicians and medical staff were mostly aloof and resisted changes to elevate privacy and confidentiality practices.

Although frustrated, she finished treatment in mid August 1993 before changing her primary care physician to Indianapolis. She hasn’t had a reoccurrence of cancer.

Her experiences led her to learn more about the disease and to advocate for others through research and education. “I encourage women to discover their own strength,” says Claudia. “I found the strength to stand up for myself, but I don’t try to be the breast cancer police.”

Instead, she was inspired to become a trained advocate at the local, state and national level. She boarded a bus with other local advocates in May 1994 to attend a meeting of the newly formed National Breast Coalition in Washington, D.C.

“I learned that until the mid 1990s women had only been allowed to participate in scientific studies, not clinical research,” says Claudia. “Not even female mice were used. This was for every kind of research for all possible diseases, including uterine cancer research!”

The Breast Cancer Coalition presented a plan to educate women to become trained advocates. That got Claudia’s attention, and she was accepted into the second class in Minneapolis. “From dawn to dusk each day we studied the science and language of our disease,” she recalls. “But, it was so rewarding.”

Claudia continued attending national meetings, and she developed a circle of advocate friends. She visited the National Cancer Institute (NCI) in Bethesda, Md. and toured its pathology lab. She participated in peer review on both coasts and was a presenter on Circadian Rhythm at the NCI.

When not traveling, she worked tirelessly to increase awareness of breast cancer locally.  She co-founded an advocacy and educational support group. She became a trained instructor for breast self exam, something she wasn’t in the habit of doing herself prior to getting breast cancer. She began teaching high school girls about risk factors for breast and cervical cancers.

“For a couple of years I dragged around two large trees to local events. One was for survivors and one for remembering those who had died,” she says. “I tied pink ribbons with the names of those women written on them to the trees. I did this until the trunk on my car gave out! The trees were later donated to Habitat for Humanity.” For this bold effort, Claudia was given the Journal and Courier’s George Award for outstanding community service.

In 2005 cancer struck the Kruggels once again. Claudia’s husband, Art, was diagnosed with chronic lymphocytic leukemia, a cancer of the blood and bone marrow. This time the Kruggels began treatment right away in Indianapolis.

“He had a severe autoimmune reaction, but his immune system is now balanced. There is no cure for this type of cancer, but it is very slow growing,” says Claudia. In 2008 Art was diagnosed with melanoma, the most dangerous form of skin cancer. That cancer is in remission.

The Kruggel’s son, Alex, was an avid sportsman. He was the starting center on the Harrison High School football team that won a state championship. He loved to hike and bike. He earned a degree in civil engineering at Purdue and played rugby.

After working in Cape May, N.J. he returned to Purdue for his master’s degree in construction management. “Upon graduation, he took his dream job in California,” says Claudia. “It’s there where he met the love of his life, Jennifer. Soon after they were married his company transferred him to Hawaii.”

While moving into a new home, and just months after Jennifer lost their baby to a miscarriage, Alex began to have severe back pain that radiated down both legs.

“Because he was so athletic he thought he pulled a muscle or something,” says Claudia. “But the pain persisted.”

An MRI was done, which indicated a small problem with one of the discs in his back. He had an epidural to control pain, but it didn’t help. At a July 4th fireworks display at Pearl Harbor, Alex had a problem with bladder control. Jennifer immediately drove him the Emergency Room.

Another MRI indicated a tumor mass spanning across three vertebrae.

A biopsy was done on July 5th, and mom Claudia was there. Alex made it through this first surgery, but the second surgery to remove the tumor left Alex paralyzed from the chest down. After the third and fourth surgeries, he contracted a deadly infection. He was on a series of antibiotics, and because of the paralysis, he needed to be on blood thinning medication.

“He received the blood thinners late. Alex didn’t die of the cancer. He died of blood clots,” says Claudia. “Alex died the week he and Jennifer’s baby would have been born, two years and 11 days after they married.”

Claudia continues her advocacy work, but at a slower pace now. “Though my husband and son had different cancers, I choose to continue my focus on breast cancer,” she says “That’s where my passion and training are focused.”

Kruggel, Claudia, West Lafayette, IN

Alexander, Holly, Lafayette, IN

After months of misdiagnosis, the news came hard and fast. “Your mom has pancreatic cancer that has spread to her liver. I give her 3-6 months to live.” The wave of nausea came first followed by weak knees. I was 24 years old and newly married.  This was not the way life was supposed to go. 

After the initial shock of such devastating information, the family went to work to find out the best possible options for this disease that has a 3-5% survival rate. We settled on an experimental treatment. Mom responded well and had an 18% reduction in her pancreatic tumor but the spots in her liver began to grow. We had to change treatment. Unfortunately, the options that were left had not been very successful on other patients and all we could do was hope that it would be different for Mom.

So many things went through my mind during my mother’s 23 month battle with this dreaded disease. Why her? Why now? She was a devoted wife, mother, and grandma. She gave back to her community and was loved by many. She was a woman of great faith and was an example to others of courage and strength.  My husband and I had not started a family yet and I needed her around to answer all those questions that new mothers have. This was so unfair. She was such a good person.

 Then, thoughts went to being grateful. Grateful for the months we had with her that we didn’t expect to have, grateful to have ever been blessed to have such a wonderful mother, grateful to have been given the opportunity to say all that I needed to say before Mom died.

As I watched my mother fight with all she had, I stood in awe of her courage, faith and love for her family. She assured me that she was not afraid to die but that she just wasn’t ready to leave her family. She thanked me for doing all that I could for her and for being by her side through her fight. She promised me that I would be okay without her. What more could I have asked from her?

After Mom died, life had to go on although to this day, it is difficult. I have had three beautiful children that I believe Mom held before I did.  I know she is so proud.

And now that my kids have gotten a little older, I have had time to honor mother in a way that many do not get the opportunity to do. My friend, Robin Walsh, lost her father to pancreatic cancer fifteen years after my mother died. Her father and my mother received the same treatment telling us that little progress in research had been made. Therefore, in 2008, to honor my mother, Joyce Jordan, and Robin’s father, Robert Rieger, the Jordan-Rieger Fund for Pancreatic Cancer at the Purdue Center for Cancer Research was born.  Through outside donations and an annual dinner and live and silent auction in November every year, we have managed to raise close to $75,000 for pancreatic cancer research!   I pray that our efforts will help find a cure. 

I can think of no better way to honor my mother and her fight, than through the JR Fund.  And on that night in November as we give our time and money to cancer research, I am certain that my mother is watching with a smile on her beautiful face.

Pickett, Jennifer, Carmel, IN

Paula Davis is a fighter and has been one all her life. A personal trainer, therapist, credited SEAL trainer, it’s only natural that she responded to her cancer diagnosis with a fierce resolve. Her battle with breast cancer is ongoing and she has decided to devote herself to helping the cancer community.

She was diagnosed with stage 2-B breast cancer in 2005. When she first discovered the lump, she thought it might be a training injury but after it went away and come back larger, she did some personal research and saw a practitioner who confirmed it. “I was then thrust right into treatment due to the aggressive nature of my cancer.”

Her cancer is still in remission but dealing with it is an everyday issue. “There are days when I do feel it. It has become a way of life. It’s been this way since 2005 and I have another three years of treatment left, so you have to have mechanisms and tools to help you mentally overcome some of the obstacles and tiredness and the ups and down that come with chemo. It is what it is. That’s the bottom line, it’s not a cakewalk.”

Paula initially did not inform her family about her diagnosis. She wanted to be fully informed and aware of her disease before she shared it with husband and kids. Her husband found some medical documents on her desk and asked her about them. She decided it was time to talk, “He was upset, very upset. My maternal grandmother had died of breast cancer so for him, signals went off. We decided that he would be taken into the whole process and I introduced him to my two sets of doctors. We then had a family gathering and told everyone. My kids were inconsolable and my mom and aunt were very scared.”

Her family has adjusted since the cancer is now an everyday part of their lives. “My mother recently passed and before she left, I feel she was confident that I would be ok. My aunt is still very nervous and keeps watching over me. To my immediate family, it’s not so much a threat as it was in the beginning when my chances for survival were originally only eighteen to twenty percent. In a lot of ways that’s good, it’s not hanging on their minds and being a burden to them but it’s also hard because sometimes I want to say, ‘Hey! I’m still going through this journey here people! I need a little help!’ They are adapting well and becoming advocates in their own right.”

Paula has become a pillar of advocacy for cancer victims and survivors. She helped build a new wellness center for the Wellness Committee of Central Indiana, she cycled across California in a celebrity/cancer survivor bicycling event that raised over three million dollars, she contributed to the forward of a book on cancer, she was voted cancer survivor of the year in 2009 by the Wabash Valley hospital, she was the diversity volunteer of the year 2007-09 for the United Way of Central Indiana, she assisted in an IU breast cancer research project by collecting tissue samples. She believes in being on the front-lines of the battle, “working on a cure in our own way.”

Having cancer took her fighting instincts to a whole new level. “It was more spiritual in a lot of ways. I took the fight to the cancer and said, ‘If you want to take me, then bring it on buddy.’ I do feel that the social, physical, economic are too much and we all need to something to fight this. That means building a support network for survivors and giving them the help they need. Doing grass-roots work like Pink Celebration in Lexington, Kentucky; where we’re working on providing direct financial support for cancer survivors. It’s about education, advocacy, all of these things because it’s needed. There are over three million cancer survivors in the United States. We all know someone who has been affected by this horrible disease and we all have to contribute in a way. Whither it’s volunteering your time, financial support or contributions to research.” Paula helps out local cancer survivors at her business, the Fit 4 Ever Weight Loss & Exercise Studio and the Fit 4 Ever Permanent Cosmetics & Med Spa, where she offers many services.

Paula feels fortunate to work among the cancer community, especially among those who are terminal. “Your mortality smacks you in the face and it’s always in the back of your mind and you have to ask yourself this question. If today was my last day, how would I go about it? I feel every second and it makes me want to do more for them.”

She has this message for those living with cancer, “You are a winner, some of us may be winners and be able to survive the cancer and some of us will be winners and we go on to heaven and I believe in heaven. They cheer us on from there. No matter what, you are a winner, you are not a loser, you didn’t deserve the cancer, it’s not a curse, and it’s not anything but what it is and just because it happened to you, you are not the cancer, you are more than the cancer and it will make you a stronger person. Whatever you do, make the most of your time on Earth.”

Davis, Paula, Lafayette, IN

Other than my larger stomach, I didn’t have any other symptoms. I had a hysterectomy in May 2009, roughly 13 days after my wedding. Looking under the microscope, they determined that it was not ovarian cancer, but that it was coming from another source. So, I had a colonoscopy that July. The doctors couldn't even see my entire colon because a huge tumor was blocking the pathway of the scope. Two days later, I had a colon resection. The doctors removed about 18-21 inches of my diseased colon.

I saw my first oncologist shortly after healing from that surgery. The first words out of her mouth were, "Well, you know there is no cure for this cancer.” I promptly changed oncologists. My second and current oncologist has a much better demeanor and outlook on life.

I had a PET and CT scan done to see if there were anymore cancer cells lurking about. NONE, ZIP, ZERO, NADA! No cancer at all, but we erred on the side of safety, and I started six months of chemotherapy. I refused to have a port surgically implanted. Yes, it would have made chemotherapy a lot easier than getting my arms poked repeatedly. I had lost my first husband, Steve, to stage four stomach (gastric) cancer on June 30, 2007. Steve had a port. Steve died with that port still in him. I wanted to rip that port out of his cancer-ravaged, skin and bone body within seconds of his passing! I was not getting a port!

I did chemo every other Tuesday from August 2009 to February 2010. I took a break in November, I think, because it was getting to me emotionally. It was the same old routine. I would spend all day getting chemo, go home and then be sick for five to six days. I continued to work part-time at Panera Bread in the Tippecanoe Mall on my non-chemo weeks. They were kind enough to let me sit on a stool to work the cash register, as I became more fatigued and could not remain standing for an entire shift anymore.

I was one of the lucky ones; I didn't lose my hair. And, since I didn't have a port in, then "technically,” in my mind, I did not have cancer. I was “normal” just like everybody else. But the chemo finally caught up with me. I still have chemo-induced neuropathy (nerve death) in my hands and feet. The doctor said my nerves should regenerate, but it'll take at least a year. I used to be a very fast typist, but now I have to look at the keyboard to type, as I cannot feel the keys.

So here it is, July 1, 2010, and I am still "cancer free.” Now I know that there is a good chance that this cancer is going to come back and bite me in the a**, but until then, I'm going about my normal life. I've been a Christian my whole life. This cancer has brought me closer to God. I KNOW that God does still perform miracles, because I'm here writing this letter, instead of being one-urn-over, next to Steve's ashes in my oldest son's bedroom. People say, "Hey, if you're a Christian, why did your God let you get cancer?" My reply? “Cancer does not discriminate, and my God never ever left my side for one day during my illness.”  

I am convinced that God healed me, of course through the efforts of modern medical science, as well. Cancer is not necessarily a death sentence, even stage four. I still have a few bad days, but each day I am regaining my physical strength, and I will go on, with the help of God, and my new husband, Dale, and my two boys, Duncan and Connor.

Kingdollar, Michelle, West Lafayette, IN

I never thought I would hear the words “you have breast cancer” but at the age of 19. I heard that statement which would change my life forever. I was a sophomore at Purdue when I discovered a lump in my breast. I saw numerous physicians and all of them told me that I was “too young” to have breast cancer and diagnosed me with fibrocystic disease. But I always had a gut instinct that something was wrong.

I found my lump in July 2007 and finally had a biopsy in February 2008. During those 7 months the lump had changed in my breast and my nipple became inverted. Finally in January 2008 I insisted to my gynecologist that I wanted the lump removed, but in order to do so I would have to see a specialist because my insurance wouldn’t pay for it otherwise. Finally on February 1, 2008, I had a biopsy and a few days later on February 5, 2008 my world came to an abrupt stop when I heard the words “you have breast cancer.” After my diagnosis, I had a lumpectomy, 4 rounds or chemo, and 33 rounds of radiation.

Many 19-year-olds are looking forward to their future, going to class, having fun with friends. Meanwhile, I was going through chemo and radiation hoping to make it to class, hoping that I actually had a future. Most women when diagnosed wonder if they will live long enough to see their children graduate from college. I was worried if I’d live long enough to graduate. I worried that I would never get married or never have children. I wasn’t sure if my boyfriend at the time would want a girlfriend who had breast cancer. I don’t know many 20 year old guys who are ready to face that kind of journey so I told him that if he wanted to take some time to think about it and maybe take a break from the relationship, that I would understand but he proved me wrong by proposing to me shortly after I was diagnosed. And on July 10, 2010, in my light pink wedding gown and my guest wearing pink ribbons, I had a wonderful wedding that was worth living and fighting for!

Soon after my diagnosis, I participated in the Indianapolis Race for the Cure. Most people couldn’t believe that I actually had breast cancer. About 2 weeks before the Race for the Cure I had my first chemo treatment and my hair was beginning to fall out, but my friends and family stood beside me and cheered me on during the race. That moment, the moment when I saw all the other breast cancer survivors, I knew that breast cancer was going to change my life, but instead of it being a negative change, I decided I was going to make it a positive change. I wasn’t going to let breast cancer bring me down. I decided that my mission in life was to spread awareness and help educate people about young adults with breast cancer.

I became a volunteer with Komen Indy during my treatment because I realized that young women need to be aware of changes in their breasts and need to know that they must speak up for themselves and their health, and that they must be their own advocate. After I began working with the Komen staff, I started traveling around Indiana visiting college campuses including Indiana University, Franklin College, University of Indianapolis and, of course, Purdue reaching out to young people just like myself who have no idea they could be at risk for breast cancer. During that time, I was also one of Indianapolis Susan G. Komen’s 2009 honorary survivors which allowed me to travel to different breast cancer events as well. I’ve also been a speaker at awareness events of the YWCA of Greater Lafayette and work with the Young Survival Coalition on their Tour-De-Pink fund raising event. I was also on the Today Show and the Early Show in New York, sharing my story about breast cancer.

I am so honored to have this opportunity to speak to young women and men about breast cancer, and although I would never want to get breast cancer again, I would never change what happened to be because not only did it make myself a better person, but it brought my family and friends closer, and it allowed me to help a lot of people. I am now one semester shy from graduating, but I plan on using my experience to continue to help others, and to continue to fight against breast cancer.

Harlow, Adrienne, West Lafayette, IN

My Journey: I went for my routine mammogram in October of 2007. I could tell by the demeanor of the technician that there was reason for concern. A couple weeks later I was sent in for an ultra sound of my breast. A doctor came in at that time and said that there was a tumor and that I should have a fine needle aspiration. A few weeks after the ultra sound; I was sent for the fine needle aspiration. BREAST CANCER.

My surgery for (hopefully) a lumpectomy was scheduled for December 2007. I spent a few days feeling like I was not going to make it. Feeling like I was going to die of this cancer. My husband finally said to me that there was nothing that I could do but to go with the flow. I have CANCER. I just have to go with the flow. That sank in. I could not change that I have cancer; I just have to go with the flow. “God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things that I can, and the Wisdom to know the difference.”

Fortunately, I sort of knew what to expect on this journey dealing with cancer as my husband is a survivor of lymphoma. I even knew a fantastic Oncologist! Dr. Harb from Horizon Oncology Center; He had saved my husband’s life, maybe he could save mine. I had a lumpectomy in December 2007. The cancer had not spread; it was all contained. Dr. Harb told me that my cancer was Stage-1. I thought; "hmmm; that's not too bad". Well, then he said there is a Stage ZERO. That was scarier. Then Dr. Harb said that my cancer was the invasive kind; but, we can "treat it and treat it aggressively". He said that I would have chemotherapy and then radiation. He said that without chemo I had a 7 out of 10 chance of the cancer not returning. The chemo would raise the chance to 8.5 out of 10 chances to not return. I told him that I liked that plan the best!

Dr. Harb told me that I might want to have a port put in to infuse the chemotherapy; rather than use the veins in my hands for the infusion. The Port was implanted; it was removed May 2009! I sure hated that thing! It has been two plus years since I completed my four rounds of chemotherapy; I was never sick. I lost all of my hair; but I had a beautiful playful strawberry glaze wig. It has been 25 months since I completed the 34 consecutive days of radiation treatments. I went to Faith, Hope and Love with Dr. Gordon for the radiation. Talk about faith, hope and love in that place! Wonderful, wonderful team; I continued to work nearly full time through-out the entire treatments. My hair grew back within a year. I have since loaned out my wig to someone who needed it! It looks pretty spunky on her, too! I guess that everyone that travels this journey; has a story.

I want others to know that one of most important things to remember through all of this is that "it wasn't as bad as I thought that it might be". You do have to just: "pick yourself up, dust yourself off and go with the flow." There have been so many advancements. Choose a good team of doctors and listen to them. Have those routine checks. I still see an Oncologist every three months. I have a mammogram every six months. Whatever they tell me to do; I will do! Have faith. It will be alright. One last thing; during my treatments people would say; "Hey, I've heard that you are sick." Well, that bothered me. I knew that it was meant with love. But I always replied; "I'm not sick! I just have cancer." Please do not treat a person with cancer like it is the end; it is just part of their journey. It is most likely treatable. I am not sick; I just have cancer. “God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things that I can, and the Wisdom to know the difference.” “Make it a great day!”

Noe, Carolyn, Monticello, IN

Jim, my best friend since high school, was diagnosed with Hodgkin's disease at age 19. I didn't understand how serious it was at the time. He battled it with the available treatments in 1984 and won. I could not understand or appreciate his courage back then. Twenty years later, his doctor discovered a cancerous melanoma on his calf. Jim had already beat cancer once, so to him, this was no big deal.

Taking advantage of the available treatments in 2004, he knocked his skin cancer into remission. A few years later, the melanoma had returned, but this time had metastasized and spread into his tissues, his bones, and organs- including his brain. It was clear he was not going to win this time. His very new wife, Julie, and two-year-old son Eli were not prepared to lose him. Neither was I, nor were any of his friends. At age 42, cancer ended Jim's time on earth, but he never lost his courage- even until the very end when all he could do was hold my hand. His positive attitude through every battle, win or lose, helps me every day to live just a little more than I would otherwise. All of us who knew him have a truly great example to follow when it finally comes our time to go.

Vallier, Jeff, Lafayette, IN

Hearing the words, “You have breast cancer,” were devastating for me to hear. They are words and feelings I will never forget, even after 24 years. Cancer can present many stumbling blocks but can also offer many stepping stones to a renewed outlook on life.

Because of breast cancer, I have had many opportunities, experiences, and friendships that I would not have had otherwise. That is why I consider having had breast cancer as a gift. It has helped me create a passion for my life, providing others with breast health/breast cancer education and awareness information so they can learn about early detection and life. It is important for me to inform others so that they don’t have to go through what I went through.

Volunteerism has become a very important component of my life. A few years after my diagnosis and treatment, I began volunteering for the local Susan G. Komen for the Cure Affiliate. Leadership roles at the local level allowed me to develop and support strong, vital community breast health/breast cancer organizations. Through community meetings, health fairs and speaking engagements, I have disseminated education and awareness information into many cultures and communities. Today, at the local level, my primary focus is on the underserved and uninsured by serving as the Chair of the Komen Denver Multicultural Conference.

I volunteer for other local community organizations including the American Cancer Society, Day of Caring for Breast Cancer Awareness and the Colorado Cancer Coalition Breast Cancer Task Force. It has been a privilege to serve in leadership roles at the Komen National level. I have served as a member of the Board of Directors, participated on various task forces and have worked on numerous committees. Currently, my concentration is on breast cancer as a global issue.

Haddad, Becky, Aurora, CO

My name is Cathy Childers and I'm five months out from Stage Two Breast Cancer; Invasive Lobular Carcinoma and it is in remission. On October 30, 2009 I received the shock of my life and reeled from the diagnosis.

At the time of diagnosis, I was told if I had to have cancer, Invasive Lobular Carcinoma was the best to have because of being able to treat the cancer readily and cancer would be more responsive to treatment. At the time of my diagnosis I thought "there no way this is happening to me". I was not in denial of the diagnosis of cancer, just in shock.

The unknown was the biggest issue at the stage of the cancer journey I was at. One can listen to everyone and their opinions, but it didn't matter because I wanted to know what was going on in my life with the cancer journey about to begin. I was thinking to myself when the diagnosis of cancer was given to me, I have too much to do to be sick. I will deal with it and do all that is possible to cure the cancer in my life.

Cancer does run my in family; sister, dad and two aunts, one aunt and I are survivors. Dr. Summers of Unity Cancer Center and his staff are all saints to me and my family along with Dr. Demartino and her staff. Dr. Summers explained everything in detail to my three strong young men and me. I had decided after reading many articles that I would opt to have surgery and do what needed to be done to get the cancer out of my system all at once if at all possible. Surgery went well and no cancer in the lymph nodes and a mastectomy was preformed to remove the cancer.

After recovery from the surgery I was to have chemotherapy and no radiation. On December 9, 2010, the treatment of chemotherapy started! Once again the unknown was a constant reminder as to what to expect from chemotherapy. The oncology nurses were awesome and so compassionate to me. They explained what was going to be done during chemotherapy and what to expect after the treatment and getting the booster shot. Pretty much as predicted; it did happen but still I was always in question of what is coming next. A friend said to me one day, “it is too bad you have to get sick to get better.”

But it is a cancer journey of chemotherapy and radiation. During my second treatment my hair was beginning to fall out. I know that this particular journey of losing my hair was dreadful and I was angry. My wonderful, brave son and his wife came to shave my head on a Wednesday night. I did very well because I had resigned to myself that it is what it is and I can and will grow my hair back. My loving brother shaved his head in support of me as well as his son. I couldn't get over it. The love poured out from everywhere. My niece said she was wearing pink every day until I got better, and she is 17 years of age.

I have remained positive during this cancer journey and will continue to do so. During all of this, I have continued to work at Ben and Maxine Child Learning Center. I wore my wig to work and the children didn't know the difference and that was wonderful. In the middle of February I had my last treatment and what a relief. I was taking courses online during this time also but decided to postpone the classes for two sessions. But after a short recovery period, I have begun to take the classes and will graduate in the middle of November, 2010, with a Masters Degree in Health Administration. I want to thank all family, friends and others for your support, love and confidence that I would make it though my cancer journey. It still isn't over though by any means. Visiting the doctors for checkups will continue for some time. I will always have the question in my mind about "what is that pain or how come it hurts here?" I take one day at a time and give thanks to God every day for my recovery.

Childers, Cathy, Lafayette, IN

All my life I had three main goals to accomplish in life --- graduate from Purdue University, become a certified infant massage therapist, and get married. All three would be accomplished through much determination, weathering and overcoming many obstacles in my young life. Little did I know that at twenty-three my greatest obstacle would present itself---Cancer.

 It was my senior year at Purdue. I had to complete an internship for my major and worked at the local Head Start Agency. On this particular day, I bent over and picked up a child and had a sharp knife-like pain in my left side. It shocked me at first and I took some deep breaths to see if maybe I was getting a cold. When I took the deep breath I had pain in the upper side of my left chest. I let it go for a day but when I woke up in the middle of the night in a sweat and with the sharpest pain on my left side I decided to go to the doctor.

Since I was at school, I went to the Purdue Student Health Center. I described the location I was experiencing this terrible pain and was told I had bronchitis. I was shocked, as I had not been coughing, but took the doctor’s advice: inhaler, three Advil every other hour and went to sleep. The next day, I tried to go to work and just could not manage it, so I went back to the health center. They proceeded to take a chest x-ray and said it was all clear.

I remember sitting at the urgent care center and thinking that was one of the loneliest times of my life – at college without my family, friends or support system I desperately yearned for. Since I was going home that next week for a week-long training certificate in infant massage, the doctors suggested I see my family doctor. I visited my doctor on Monday for a physical exam and a follow up chest x-ray. While waiting for the results, I attended the training (eight hours) but continued to be nauseated and fatigued, but I was determined to persevere! This certificate was so important. Fast forward to (DAY), my doctor called with the results of my chest x-ray, they found a cyst on my kidney and I needed further tests.

A scan was ordered which revealed more than a cyst and I was instructed to see an urologist. All I could think about was, I have to finish my internship to graduate and I only had two weeks left. I asked the doctor if I could delay the appointment until after graduation. Unfortunately, the urgency in his answer told me I couldn’t go back to school. So the next day I had an appointment with the urologist. My mom came with me to the appointment, but she did not go into the room with me. I figured I was a twenty-three year old girl and I can handle going to a doctor by myself.

I remember handing the doctor the CD of my chest x-ray and my heart dropped and I began to feel really nervous. He was gone for what seemed like an eternity. When he finally returned he came in and shut the door and said those dreaded words, “You have cancer.” I was lost for words, how can I have cancer? He explained that it was renal cell carcinoma and I would have to have my left kidney removed immediately, so the surgery was scheduled. I stood there, numb and in complete shock. I did not believe him, I’m a 23 year old girl, how can I have cancer and why didn’t I bring my mom back to the room with me? How will I tell her?

I slowly walked to the waiting room, and as soon as I opened the door I wanted to turn around. I was scared to say I had cancer; I was scared to tell my mom I had cancer. I knew that she would fall apart, we would fall apart. Suddenly I felt like a child, I did not want to disappoint her and I felt guilty that my body had cancer in it and she had worked so hard to make me a healthy child. When we finally made eye contact, she knew something was wrong. . I will never forget how she broke down and fell to the ground, and then in seconds her fear turned to anger and said, “I need to talk to that Doctor!” I told her to not believe him that he didn’t know anything and we are getting a second opinion. We were both so scared.

We scheduled a second opinion at Loyola University Medical Center and this time my parents went in with me, I needed their strength to hear what I knew was the truth. When the doctor met with us after reviewing my scan, he confirmed that I did have renal cell carcinoma. My stomach dropped, I looked at my parents and I could see the pain in their eyes. I felt like I had let them down because I had not kept my body healthy, I am their only daughter and now I have cancer. My parents immediately asked the question, “what now?” and I sat there, not speaking. As my mind wondered, I thought back to the last three months, hindsight is 20/20, the nausea, vomiting, hair loss, weight loss and the night sweats. I felt guilty that I didn’t speak up when I was having other symptoms, but thought it was all stress related, cancer never crossed my mind.

The doctor suggested I have surgery as soon as possible to remove my entire left kidney. He was a little concerned that he would have to remove my urethra if the cancer had spread. If that was the case I had more of a chance of it spreading and would have to endure chemo. That scared me--- the chemo part scared me. I knew that I can do the surgery, I am tough, but I always thought that chemo would take all of my strength, and at that time I had very little. The nights and the darkness were the hardest; I slept with my mom holding her hand. We finally got a call that I could have surgery two days after Christmas. But in the mean time I still had to graduate from Purdue. I never thought that there would be something so big that would be more important than my college graduation.

I didn’t really have the strength to go but I knew it was something that I had wanted my whole life. So I took two pain pills and put on my cap and gown. It was very strange to see my friends at graduation knowing that I had cancer. I felt very distant and I felt that people were whispering about me. But the support of friends was great. When I walked across the stage and shook my professors’ hand I remember thinking, “I am not a Cancer patient, I am a Purdue graduate and I did it!” I was so thrilled that I got my degree all my hard work and dedication finally paid off. I was the fourth generation in my family to graduate from Purdue.

When I saw my parents I knew that they would be so proud and also a little sad because of the situation. I felt so honored to be able to hug my parents and tell them that, “I did it!” Then we went home and waited, we waited for Christmas and waited for surgery. I remember everyone kept telling me to be strong that I could beat this and I can do it! I don’t know why, but that annoyed me. I felt like saying, “duh, of course I am going to beat this, there is no other option.” I just wanted to know exactly how I would, and how I would feel during it.

Nothing could have prepared me for what would happen. The night before surgery all of my family and close friends were at my house. It was a huge party we were playing games, watching the Purdue game on TV, and laughing. It was great to have people there to distract me and to show their support. I however wanted to think about what was about to happen. I was about to lose a kidney to cancer. Cancer, what? I remember going into my room by myself while everyone was down stairs thinking, “What are they all laughing and so happy? Don’t they know what tomorrow is?”

I sat on my bed and prayed; I prayed that God would be with the surgeons and me tomorrow and give my body the strength to get through it. That no matter what happens it will be ok, and he will make the situation the best that it can be. I needed to “Let go, let God.” Finally, I went downstairs holding tightly to my boyfriend Emerson and my family.

Sitting in the room alone waiting for my anesthesia I prayed, I prayed for God to show me that things will be fine. To calm me down so that I can focus on what is happening. I felt at peace, I felt confident that we had chosen the best doctor and he would be able to get all the cancer. I woke up seven hours later to my family once again, standing by my side. They told me they got all the cancer and I was cancer Free. I was so excited, but still in a lot of pain and tired. Over the next few days in the hospital I did not want to be labeled as a cancer survivor or a cancer patient, I just wanted to go home and get back to my life.

I was fine now, or so I thought as I tried to get out of bed and walk down the hall. Those were the hardest steps that I have ever taken. I could not move my core, my middle; it felt like I was permanently bent over. I knew that if I started walking and moving that I might feel better so I did. Emerson slowly walked me up and down the hallways. I was determined, determined to get out of the hospital. I did not like being in there and I did not want people to feel sad for me that I was there. I wanted to get better, fast. I was sent home to rest for three months and let my body heal. I figure that would be easy since I couldn’t really move and I was still tired.

I remember when I got home and was feeling a little like my old self, I wondered, “How do I live my life now? How do I describe myself? --- Am I a 23-year-old cancer survivor? What do I do with that label? It took me a while to come to terms with all that I was feeling. It has taken almost a year to fully know and understand what has happened to me. I am a cancer survivor and I have only one kidney. God does work in strange ways as my mom said to me when I was an infant in the womb. He has shown me that I am stronger than I give myself credit. During the experience with cancer I had a lot to face; death, surgery and the chance of having chemo. I never thought that I was going to die from cancer or the surgery. I knew that I wouldn’t. I was going to fight it; I was determined to not let this get me down. Like my mom said when I was three, “You are a very determined little gal, particularly if it’s something you really want. You put your mind to it and you get it or cry if you don’t.” I have cried about the cancer but through the tears I see God and I see how he has worked this out for me to the best possible way that he could.

Many positives came out this experience. I know that I CAN do anything. I graduated from Purdue, I am certified in Infant Massage Therapy and I am now married to the man that helped carry me up and down the halls at the hospital. I know that I have an extremely supportive family and friends. I have grown in my relationship with God knowing He works in strange ways and it is always for the positive. This experience has molded me into the person I am today.

Scott, Laura, Littleton, CO

It began with a cough for about seven months; it was not constant but was irritating. I had allergy testing done to no avail. Finally, I was diagnosed in May 2010 with Stage 4 lung cancer. As a lifetime non-smoker, this was quite a shock, not only to me but to my family and friends also.

As I learned more about this disease, I was shocked about the statistics that show more and more women in their 40's are being diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer and no one has a reason why.

This disease is not curable but the hope is that I can have a comfortable, prolonged life through chemotherapy. My cancer had spread to my liver, lymph nodes, and bones. I immediately began chemo treatments and after 2 treatments all of the tumors had shrunk.

What a miracle, I was surprised it would work so quickly. I believe with a positive attitude, and by the grace of God, all things are possible. Every day is not a piece of cake but you learn to live a day at a time and be grateful for each day you have. I continue to work and try to live as much of a "normal" life as possible. I truly believe it is by the grace of God I am getting through this horrible disease that has haunted so many. It seems everywhere you look, people know someone affected by cancer. My hope is that there will be a cure soon and this disease will be stopped.

McBee, Kim, Darlington, IN

Dick’s Mantra ‘Life Is Good’, Regardless.
By: Conni Vianco, Dear Friend and Organizer of RFL Team, Dick’s Divas and Dudes

The bike next to mine on the back row of the cycling room stood silent. There was no hum from the flywheel, no jokes to exchange and no stories to share. I knew this ride and all future rides would be different since my dear friend succumbed to the cruelty of pancreatic cancer.

It was in a Newtone class where I first met Barb and Dick. They had just joined the gym and it was their first night. I wish I could recall how many years ago that was but that really doesn’t matter. What does matter is how this couple, Dick in particular, changed the lives of those he came to know and befriend.

Dick was Newtone’s one man self-appointed welcoming committee. I can’t recall a time when he wasn’t seated in the lobby before classes, Walmart greeting, telling jokes, sharing stories or educating you as to the nutritional value of a tootsie roll prior to exercising. He was a master of storytelling with a repertoire that would make any late night TV host envious. His ability to store and retrieve jokes, stories and people’s names will forever remain one of the world’s greatest mysteries.

Dick also held the Newtone record for procrastination in class preparedness and although we teased him about his tardiness, we knew in our hearts it was intentional. Dick was passionate about life and people. Friends were his family and strangers, well there were none. There must have been those who saw in Dick a father figure. Others found a much needed friend with the uncanny ability to listen patiently and offer advice only when asked.

I’m certain that Dick had no idea he was an inspiration. Knowing that Dick was saving a bike or expecting to see you in the classes was the only incentive necessary to renounce the lame excuses rehearsed and used as reasons for skipping the gym.

It was the fall of 2009, when Dick broke the news of his cancer to his Newtone ‘family’. Sitting at the same table in the lobby where so much laughter had been shared, now tears of disbelief were shared as eyes examined and searched one another waiting for the humorous punch line to this cruel joke. Unfortunately it was not a joke and therefore there was no icebreaker punch line to eliminate the lump that now resided in our throats. Time stood still in that surreal moment while Dick, in his usual manner, tried to ease our immediate anguish. He reminded us that ‘it ain’t over ‘til the fat lady sings’. He told us that he had accomplished most of his ‘bucket list’ desires early on with adventures that most can only dream of. His travels cultivated friendships too numerous to count like the heavenly stars.

With a life expectancy of 4-8 months, Dick began conventional treatments and continued coming to Newtone until medication and the treatments themselves weakened his body. That’s when the flywheel and the jokes became silent. That’s when someone remarked Dick had been the heart of Newtone.

A weakened body, perhaps, but not a weakened spirit. By phone, Dick continued to make us laugh. Even during his final days in the hospital, Dick entertained the staff with his quick witted one-liners causing some to lament over not having known him prior to the cancer.

As our circle of friendship grew, we knew we had Dick to thank for that. Apart from family, there is no greater legacy than friends.

As Dick said of life, ‘it’s been a good ride.’ So it is my dearest friend, from all your traveling companions on life’s ride, thank you for the privilege of travel and friendship. Though the fork in the road has taken you elsewhere, you leave behind hearts forever changed. We love you Dick.

** Written in memory and honor of Richard ‘Dick’ Garrison who died 6 days (June 30th 2010) after his team, Dick’s Divas and Dudes participated in the Relay for Life. Dick did not know about the team until a couple of days before the event. It was hoped that he would be there to celebrate since Dick loved parties and friendly get-togethers. Unfortunately, Dick was far too ill to join us. He would have loved it.

Vianco, Conni, Lafayette, IN

A little over two years now I lost my dad to pancreatic cancer.  Now I try to use this experience to give back to others by Co-Founding the Jordan-Rieger Foundation for Pancreatic Cancer at Purdue University Center for Cancer Research. 

Almost three years ago my father, Robert Edward Rieger, died of pancreatic cancer.  After being misdiagnosed for several months for stomach pains doctors performed exploratory surgery and his pancreatic cancer diagnosis was determined.  Being a testicular cancer 30 year survivor and with the tumor being inoperable there were very few treatment options for him.

I desperately searched for different treatment centers and clinical trials.  There were very few available for pancreatic cancer and her father did not qualify for any of them.  So he started Gemzar, the only chemotherapy agent available. After starting chemotherapy immediately he responded well.  He gained weight and the tumor size and cancer markers decreased.  However, after 7 months his tumor had spread throughout the abdominal cavity and 3 months later he had succumbed to the disease.

“My family was devastated. My father died a little less than a month before my parent’s 43rd wedding anniversary and up to now my parents had never been separated.  He was only 66 years old and fought hard to survive this disease but it is a battle that few survive.”  During his fight, he often said that he just wanted to live long enough to dance with his oldest granddaughter at her wedding.  That granddaughter is my oldest daughter and who just turned 19.  These words will be with me forever.   My dad only wanted to be with his family.  They were very important to him.  “My parents did not have a lot of money but he always loved having the whole family gathered at birthdays and holidays.  He just wanted to spend more time with his family.”

“He fought a difficult battle. All of his grandchildren were very young and I wish they could have gotten the time to know him.  He was a funny and sweet man. 

My dad and I were very close.  He called every Sunday to say “Hello”.  I miss these conversations.  But believes this loss has made me a stronger person and has brought me closer to my mom and siblings.”

After my father’s passing, along with her friend, Jennifer Pickett, I started a cancer research fund at Purdue named the Jordan-Rieger Fund for Pancreatic Cancer. This fund has raised over $60,000 at Purdue University for Pancreatic Cancer Research.  We have raised this money by hosting a Live and Silent Auction Dinner for the last two years and will continue to do so for years to come.  This fund has now became a general endowment at Purdue and will continue to fuel the discovery of a cure for this horrific disease.  

“Every day I miss my father.  Starting the fund has been a challenging and exciting experience.  I could not think of a better gift for my dad than contributing to improve the lives of my family and my community.”

Walsh, Robin, Carmel, IN

Jane’s Legacy

Jane and I met at a 4-H meeting when we were in 6th grade.  She was the cutest girl in the room with blond hair, big blue eyes and an even bigger smile.  She was nice to everyone and everyone liked her in return.

A few years later we became college roommates with the, sometimes dubious, distinction of the roommates who always got along. 
After college she married her high school sweetheart, Joe, and I proudly stood up for her.

Jane and Joe moved away but we always stayed in touch including birthday phone calls, July for her and November for me.  On my birthday in 2005 her call came.  The discussion turned to health.  Jane said she was feeling her age and that feeling wasn’t good.  I couldn’t relate and felt bad for her.

While on vacation the following March I received an email from her saying that she had been diagnosed with liver cancer.  After spending a day in shock I replied and offered to be tested to see I could possibly be a match so I could help in some way.

When I retuned home the following week I got the news that the diagnosis had changed.  The cancer was in the pancreas and had spread to the liver.  Not a good situation.  Jane went to the best doctors, went through chemo with horrible side effects and kept on hoping for the best.

I asked her what I could do to help and she said pray and to tell others to pray for her as well.  I started contacting grade school, high school and college friends asking them to pray and to send card.  The cards came, day after day the cards came from people she hadn’t seen in years all sharing favorite memories and promised to pray.  They were read and reread.

Another childhood friend and I went for a visit in May.  Jane was still cute, blond, blue eyed and smiling but she was so thin and weak.  There was lots of remembering, laughing and sharing between her many naps.  Later her husband would say they were the best three days she’d had since the diagnosis.

I left fully believing I’d go back in two weeks for another visit.  Unfortunately, Jane’s health quickly declined and that visit wasn’t to be.  She died less than three months after that first email.

I promised Jane I’d do whatever I could to see that others could beat pancreatic cancer.  That opportunity came when I heard Purdue’s Dr. Phil Low speak about the research being done at the university and knew that I had to get involved with the Purdue Center for Cancer Research.  I now represent them on the President’s Council Leadership Board. 

So although Jane’s story did not have a happy ending, I am committed to seeing that the future will bring many stories that will. 

Schmidt, Marti, Naperville, IL

My story is about my mom. Twenty-five years ago (before I was born) my mom found a lump in her breast. She went to the doctor immediately and found out she had breast cancer. Twenty-five years ago it was common to automatically remove cancers instead of trying chemotherapy or radiation, so she had half of one of her breasts removed (leaving her with one B cup and one C cup).

Less than a year later, my mom found out she was pregnant for the first time (with my older sister). She was 38 years old. The pregnancy shocked her because she and my dad had been trying to have kids for years. Fifteen months later she had me at age 39.

The summer before I started my freshman year in college my mom starting getting a lot of headaches. She went to the doctor, and then had an MRI, which discovered a brain tumor above her right eye. I remember my mom telling me and my sister about it. I didn't know what to think, but I never saw her cry or ask 'why me?' once. She just found a neurosurgeon and set up an appointment to have it removed. She had the surgery the week before I moved into the dorm my freshman year. Surgery was successful, the tumor was removed, and it was determined to be benign.

 I think my mom is amazing because I never saw her cry or complain about her situation. She stayed strong and just dealt with whatever life gave her. My mom is now 62 and in better shape than ever. We are both training for the Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure in Chicago where we will walk 60 miles in three days to help raise money for breast cancer research.

Logsdon, Rebecca, West Lafayette, IN

Karen Guckien says cancer changed her life. “Once you have cancer, you change your outlook. Priorities change,” she says. “Family means more than anything else!” 

Karen was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2004. She was 62. She credits her family: Ron, her husband of 48 years; her daughters Darla, Debra, a registered nurse, and Cynthia; and her oncologist, Dr. Mohammad Khan for making the situation a little less scary.

Ron took Karen to all appointments and Debra’s medical knowledge was comforting. Dr. Khan, who has since left the Lafayette community, always spent enough time with Karen.

“I always appreciated Dr. Khan,” she says. “From the beginning and right through to my follow-up appointments, he was very caring.”

Karen’s cancer journey began when she was called back after having had a routine mammogram. After X-rays and an ultrasound, Karen found out on a Friday afternoon that she had breast cancer. She saw a surgeon on the following Tuesday, and on Thursday, she had a lumpectomy. She also had all of her lymph nodes removed. Six chemotherapy treatments, three weeks a part, and 48 radiation treatments followed.

“I worked my secretarial job in Delphi part time during chemo, and pretty much full time when I had radiation. The worst part was driving back and forth to Lafayette,” she says. She credits anti-nausea medication with feeling okay throughout the treatments.

“I never thought I would get cancer,” she reflects. “Our family has had enough.” Her mom, Catherine, died from chronic myelocytic leukemia in May 1988 after battling the disease for more than a year.  Just four months later, Karen’s sister, Judy, died from lung cancer. She was 49.

“You expect to lose parents,” says Karen. “But you don’t think about losing siblings.”

Her brother, Dick, 58, has been battling non-Hodgins Lymphoma for almost nine years. And cousins, other relatives and friends have also been affected by cancer. Some have died, and others are cancer survivors.

 “Having cancer gives you a real wake-up call,” she says. “It helps you be grateful for each day.”

Guckien, Karen, Camden, IN

I was born on January 19th, 1989 at St. John’s Hospital in Anderson, Indiana to my proud parents, Dean and Jan Johnson. The first few years of my life were lived as a normal baby, but my parents soon realized that I was constantly sick. It was much more than just the common ear infection or runny nose that an infant gets. I was constantly having headaches and nausea.

My parents took me to my family doctor who at the time said I was just fine and there was no need to worry. My mom, who is a nurse, knew something was wrong and got a second opinion from another family doctor which included an MRI of my brain. My parents were told that it was a serious problem and I needed to see a neurologist in Indianapolis as soon as possible. At the young age of 2 ½, I was diagnosed with brain cancer.

My parents immediately took me to Methodist Hospital and the IU Children’s Hospital in Indianapolis to consult with several specialists. This is when they met Dr. Michael Turner, who became my Neurosurgeon and performed my operation, and Dr. Debra Provisor who was my oncologist following the surgery. They had to make many difficult decisions concerning the surgery and follow-up treatments. I was so young there weren’t many options due to the early stages of brain development. The tumor was relatively large; it presented a poor prognosis, and significant risk regarding all of the treatment options.

 They decided on an operation to remove the tumor with surgery followed by Chemotherapy. Radiation was declined due to the high risk of permanent brain damage. This was a very risky operation on an infant due to the location of the tumor which was in the fourth ventricle close to the brain stem.

My parents decided that it would be a good idea for them to have family pictures taken which included me. They had to face the possibilities and wanted to have the family photographs in case the procedure was not successful. The operation was performed by Dr. Michael Turner in Indianapolis in July, 1991. I was given a 50 percent chance of survival from the operation. My family, friends, and church elders all gathered around to pray for me, my family, and all the caregivers, as this was going to be tough on all of us. They all had to say goodbye to me at 2 1/2 years old, leaving me in the Lord’s hands, not knowing if I would survive surgery. It was truly a miracle of God that I was able to survive and come away with no major side effects. I hear many stories from family and friends; they know I am truly blessed to be alive!

To celebrate my two year remission, my twin brother, my parents, and I went to Disney World on a vacation/cruise. One of the distinct memories I have from this trip is that my brother and I, who were like many other toddlers, were mischievous. My brother while waiting in line at the airport preparing to leave; pulled the fire alarm and shut down that wing of the airport. It was a great trip where we were all able to celebrate my successful battle with cancer. I went to Liberty Christian School in Anderson, Indiana for my pre-school, elementary, middle, and high school years. I was able to live a normal life with few signs of the battle with cancer.

I was able to letter four years for the Varsity soccer team, two year letterman on the Varsity golf team and three year letterman for the basketball team. I ran sound and played drums all four years for the worship team. I was able to live my life to full potential without letting my past battle of cancer get in the way! One of the highlights throughout my life was every summer being able to attend Little Red Door Camp at Bradford Woods in Martinsville, Indiana. This is a camp designed for children aged eight to eighteen with cancer or who are cancer survivors.

My brother and I were able to build some quality friendships with others who had been through the same type of battles as I had. We were all able to go and feel normal and hang out with people that could relate to us. Many of us are still in contact and have forged lifelong friendships! The past two summers, I have worked as a Personal Markets Sales Intern for Liberty Mutual Insurance in Hingham, MA. I have also been a Youth Intern at South Weymouth Church of the Nazarene. I am now a senior at Purdue University, pursuing a Bachelors Degree in Selling and Sales Management, with a minor in Organizational Leadership and Supervision.

I am active on campus; working at Ford dining court, a past member of the Phoenix Club, and a current member of the Purdue Reamer club. I hold the Spirit and Publicity Chairman position while in the Reamer Club. I am pilot #16 of the Boilermaker X-tra Special. One of my goals as a senior is to become a pilot of the Boilermaker Special V, as we work to boost the spirit for athletics at Purdue University. I am a third generation Boilermaker. Both of my parents and my Granddad attended Purdue University. I am looking forward to the opportunity to graduate with a degree from Purdue in May of 2011.

Since 1991 I have been living my life without cancer. Next year that will be 20 years cancer free! Many people find that cancer can hinder their life and potential. I have used this to motivate me daily. I wake up every day knowing that the Lord kept me here on this earth for His purpose. He has helped me beat the odds in my life and overcome a great hurdle that remains to be a blessing every day. I have found motivation in my favorite Proverb which is Proverbs 21: 30-31 “There is no wisdom, no insight, no plan that can succeed against the Lord. The horse is made ready for the day of battle, but victory rests with the Lord.” I Praise Him for molding me into His horse, ready and willing for battle!!

Johnson, Daniel, Anderson, IN

I was diagnosed in 2006 with stage one diffuse large b-cell lymphoma.

Through an outpouring of help from dear friends, through the good times and bad, I conquered the beast and have been living my life to the fullest after my last chemo treatment. February 13th, 2007.

A date that I will happily celebrate every year! Through the power of support, strong will and positive thinking; you too will conquer the beast.

Yencho, Marie, Gaithersburg, MD

In the span of just a few years, my husband, Lucky, had three types of cancer. The first scare was with melanoma. He had a reddish bump on his forehead and an acclaimed doctor in Indianapolis cut the bump out, under local anesthesia, biopsied it and determined it was cancerous. We went back to the same doctor months later with a red bump on Lucky’s hand.

I was in the treatment room when the doctor this time burned the bump off, and became nauseous from the smell of burning skin. Lucky was unaware of the smell and the pain and hasn’t had any signs of melanoma since that episode. Cancer changes family dynamics. It takes priority over everything else and it means scheduling doctor’s appointments on our already-busy calendars.

Lucky’s second bout with cancer was with his prostate. Men are encouraged to have a PSA done every four years. A normal PSA is zero and Lucky’s was 12. A local doctor did a biopsy and surgery was recommended. We were referred to the IU Medical Center in Indianapolis, and specifically Dr. Koch (pronounced Cook). IU is a teaching hospital and Dr. Koch supervised as an intern used robotic hands called da Vinci to remove the prostate. Lucky had radiation once a week for eight weeks. At last report his PSA was .05 and Dr. Koch is very happy with that number.

I spent most of surgery day in the hospital waiting room and because Lucky was going to spend the night there, I dragged my purse, things-to-do-bag and his overnight bag with me on trips to the cafeteria and bathroom. It would be helpful if hospitals provided places for families to deposit patients’ luggage. Lucky is very good about seeing his doctors regularly and that includes a colonoscopy. His gastroenterologist saw six polyps and removed them. One was cancerous and the doctor marked the spot with ink. A surgeon was going to cut a diamond shape around the ink mark but he couldn’t see the ink so he stopped. A pet scan and a cat scan showed no signs of cancer and so we went to the IU Med Center again for Dr. LaBlanc to do an ultra sound.

She was highly recommended and Lucky was excited to meet her. When he was laying on the gurney, Dr. DeWitt went into the treatment room and told Lucky that Dr. LaBlanc had to leave the building and that he would do the ultrasound instead. Lucky was disappointed. “If I hadn’t been naked as a jay bird and all wired up, I would have gotten up and left,” he told me. We didn’t know that God was intervening. In recovery, Dr. DeWitt came in and said, “The good news is that we found the cancer. The bad news is that it is in two lymph nodes outside the colon.”

We talked to the top surgeon there and learned that any cancer in the lymph node is Stage 4. Surgery meant having a foot of colon cut out. Even then, this doctor couldn’t guarantee that he would be able to remove all of the cancer. If we chose surgery, Lucky would have had to live the rest of his life with an elimination bag strapped to his side. It was unthinkable. We are people of faith; we believe God is in control and we are only to trust Him. We went back to Dr. DeWitt for a second ultrasound; the result was the same. “I’m working on a new study, I could try it on you,” he told Lucky. “I shoot alcohol into those lymph nodes and the theory is that the alcohol kills the cancer.” Dr. DeWitt is one of a few doctors in the country who have pioneered this treatment. He had done the procedure in the stomach and gall bladder, but never in the colon. The alcohol killed the colon cancer and Lucky is cancer free, three times.

Neiburger, Lucky & Jan, Lafayette, IN

Half of the doctors say it is a losing battle. The other half says, "Why would you give up now?" His appetite for food has withered and died; morphine in the vein is his nutrition. The tracheotomy goes in tomorrow. Dialysis is going better than planned. Uncle Jeff, I want to apologize. If anyone came to ask you if you were the chief police officer of Munster Indiana, it was my fault. I lied to all the mean kids at school and told them that you would beat up their dads. Sorry about that.

Also, sorry about walking into the ICU last week and looking at you; slumped in the hospital chair that looks like it was dipped in baby vomit. I am sorry, I am selfish. It is just so hard to see you without will; when my head wants to remember you in Silver and Black on your Loud Motorcycle. I can't imagine this burden on The Girls and David. And what am I good for? Sitting in on your hallucinations? Uncle Jeff, Superhero Everything, Stuntman Father, and Son of Pedigree Sufferers...I am driving up tomorrow to see you again. I will try not to walk away, and even if my hat gets in the way or your arms are limp, I will hug you enough to leave an impression on my frame.

Landsman, Anna, Lafayette, IN

The Old Sailor Who Loved Cats

THE FOLLOWING IS A TRUE STORY OF MY LIFE WITH MY STEPFATHER AND HIS DIAGNOSIS WITH NON-HODGKIN’S LYMPHOMA

John has always been the loveable crusty old sailor type, if there is such a type. Although he never really talked much about his 20 odd years in the service, he did showed us kids pictures of the war boats he shot at when he was in Vietnam. He took some pretty neat shots of those boats. He had tons of photography books and equipment. I guess he was quite the amateur photographer. Most of all, John had pictures of his cat, Spud, who slept with him in his cabin. When he was out of the navy he kept taking pictures but this time, it was of his new cats.

We got to meet these cats when I was maybe 13 and my sister was 10. This was when my mom introduced us to him. He was a really large guy, 6’2” with a Yosemite Sam-type long gray moustache, and 350, nay, almost 400 lbs. As I craned my neck up to see this hulking mass, I thought, “This guy is going to be living with us? What does my mom see in him?” He handed me a stuffed toy cat as a present. I looked at it, looked at him and said “That’s Hideous,” placed it on the ground and left the room. A tasteful sailor-ism of John’s comes to mind: “If I had one of those, I’d have to have two of those, one to crap on and one to cover it up with.” I didn’t really want to think of John as the guy who was going to replace my dad.

My dad wasn’t dead; my parents were just divorced (and thank goodness they were!). John was just this guy who was interested in my mom. She would bring home bouquets of flowers he had given to her that day from work. I figured my dad never did anything like that for her. Maybe this guy will be alright after all, maybe. Through the rest of my years in middle school, John made our rickety tricycle of a family more complete and stable. In time, he became one with our family, and the stuffed cat named “Hideous” made its new home upon the top of his computer, next to our own. One day, I came home from school to see John sitting at the kitchen table with an IV pole. A line was running into his arm.

 “What is that!?” I exclaimed, “Oh, nothing.” I glanced down at the table to find a pamphlet on “Angina and You.” “What the f*$#@ is this!?” I threw my hands up in the air and a in a flustered fit stormed off to interrogate mom. Apparently when John was patching the roof on the shed, he went and had himself a little heart attack, and tried not to tell anyone. The IV was a drip of antibiotics for a concurrent infection that had gone septic, almost lethal. This was the first, and definitely not the last time John would try to hide important things from us. He prided himself on his ability stabilize our family. It wounded him more than the illness itself to tell us he was fallible.

He wanted the best for us, and in his mind, how could he possibly provide that if he was falling apart. Years went by. Eventually both my sister and I moved away, and found significant others. We became busy and would visit, maybe once a month at best. Each time we came by, we noticed changes. John got bariatric surgery, and came down to a healthy weight. Old cats passed away, but new ones came and multiplied. He retired from his job, and started his dream, a Maine Coon Cattery. Eventually, we noticed John was losing weight every time we came over. Oh, that’s just from the bariatric surgery, we thought. He noticed his leg was swelling. That’s probably just an infection from a cat scratch. Mom and John began making excuses for us to get together more frequently. Go out to breakfast on Sundays, come over and see this new movie he bought. Come help plant a tree. His leg is swelling more.

He comes over and gives me a hug one day as I’m helping plant a tree, very un John-like and says, “I love you kids.” What the hell is going on? I get a drunken phone call from Mom one evening. She slurs, “I just wanted to call and let you know. John…” [She pauses] I hear him yelling in the background. “Damn it Marilynn I don’t want you to tell them!” But she continues anyway, “…John has Cancer.” It was said just so matter-of-factly. No long dramatic pauses between the words. No melodramatic weeping. I recall, at that time, I was at Goodwill with my husband, helping him buy t-shirts. As if there was ever an ideal setting to receive that kind of news.

I hung up the phone with a look on my face that told my husband something was not right. We paid for the shirts in utter silence. My soul bursting at the seams, cathedral ceiling crumbling, my stone solid rock of everything I knew, shattered. It was one of the most difficult silences I have ever had to bear. We get into the car, and the pressure is released. It was diagnosed as non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, apparently the less lucky kind, but not the worst. They say that this was most likely caused from drinking desalinized water tainted with Agent Orange for years. Thanks, U.S. Navy. I try to help out in any way I can. I sanitized their house, cleaning out their massive Cattery-sized cat boxes from time to time, as he doesn’t have much of an immune system after chemo. I try to make it out to their house once every week or so, rather than once a month. All I can do is take it visit by visit. This past time, I was saddened to see John was losing the whiskers from his magnificent moustache, and had shaved his head. Apparently he was shedding more than the cats were. I plan to go back this Thursday. Pick some peaches from their tree, help make dinner, and enjoy what time we have left together. He’s got a shot at it going into remission for up to 17 years. I’m going to make it count.

Workman, Andria, Lafayette, IN

Growing up, my dad instilled in me the idea that I was capable and unique. He always believed in me and supported me. It made me feel pretty invincible. In October of 2002 we received the news that, among other sicknesses, my dad had lymphoma. He was strong but not strong enough. My dad succumbed to the ravaging of his body in March of 2003. I still miss him.

Altman, Mike, Colfax, Indiana