Days That Live in Infamy

November 5, 2010

Scott Capozza, MS, PT

October 30, 1998 was probably a normal day for most people. It’s the day before Halloween, so maybe you were running around getting last minute decorations or modifications to your costume, or getting more candy for the trick or treaters. Maybe you were too young to remember that day; maybe you just don’t remember that day at all. After all, that was 12 years ago.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was the day I was diagnosed with cancer.

You never forget the day you are diagnosed with cancer. It’s kind of funny (in a twisted sort of way), but you can ask any cancer survivor their date of diagnosis, dates of surgery, date they finished chemo or radiation, and we all know them by heart. They are literally life changing dates.

When we are going through treatment, we count down the days until chemo or radiation is finished. Once we are given our clean bill of health (August 4, 1999; I told you we don’t forget these dates), we are then on a different ‘clock.‘ The countdown to the next blood draw, the next scan, the next follow-up appointment begins, and it is with a certain mixture of hope, fear, and the unknown which we then move into this grey area of survivorship. Some of us will live with apprehension, wondering what the next blood draw or scan will show. Has the cancer come back? The fear of not knowing can cause just as much stress as actually going through treatment.

Eventually, we stop marking time by appointments with our oncologists and start counting up by years. Make it to the first year since date of diagnosis. Make it two years. For some of us, five years is the ‘magic’ number. Statistically, the chance of a reoccurrence diminishes significantly once you make it to five years. We’re never truly out of the woods; once you have cancer, you are also at an increased risk of developing a second cancer, depending on your cancer type, as well as whether or not you had radiation and which chemotherapy drugs you were on.

At some point along the journey through survivorship, the voice in the back of your head that keeps you up at night becomes quieter and quieter; it may never go away, but it becomes quiet enough that you can carry on your day and get back to living.

For me, I remember thinking that once I got to 10 years, I would have a big party to celebrate. A bunch of my friends had big bashes for their 30th birthdays, but I waited and said I was going to throw a bash when I hit double digits for surviving. For me, there was something reassuring to make it 10 years without a reoccurrence. As the fall of 2008 came closer, my wife and I started planning a get-together at our new house. For some reason, though, she wouldn’t let me see the invitations.

Quick backstory here: a few years ago, Trek Bicycles started mass producing the Madone bike frame, which is the spitting image of the bike Lance Armstrong rides. It has an all carbon frame, great components (in other words, it’s a nice bike)...and has the price tag to back it up. For every birthday and Christmas, my wife Katy would ask me what I wanted. Our conversation would go something like this:

Katy: What do you want for your birthday?

Me: A Madone.

Katy: You’re not getting a Madone.

So anyway, we have the party to celebrate 10 years of survivorship. Both of our families were there, as well as a bunch of my friends, many of whom were by my side in one form or another when I was going through treatment. As Katy called the group together to give a short speech, I sensed something was up. She eventually led me outside, and there was a brand new Madone bike. It was sleek black, with blue and white streaks, and shiny new components. Katy had told everyone in the invitations that she wanted to get me the Madone to commemorate my 10 year anniversary, and many of them chipped in and helped pay for it.

For me, it was a day filled with so many emotions. I was so grateful to still be healthy. I was so appreciative that my friends, who were by my side at my worst moments, were there to laugh and celebrate. My wife (who I didn’t know when I was going through my treatments) had embraced who I am as a survivor and continues to support me in the many organizations and events I do for cancer survivorship. It was truly one of those ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ moments.

Getting the bike was pretty cool, too...