Game Over

Tonight, along with five others who are also finishing treatment, I gave my graduation talk. This ritual concluded the wrap-up of my program that began a week ago with the discharge class.

Two days ago I had my final consultation with Dr. Bush and his resident, Dr. Do. As usual, this visit didn't take very long. I've had no side effects, and all has gone as designed, so aside from monitoring my progress the doctors had little to do on my case once they had set up my program of treatment. "We expect success," were Dr. Bush's parting words.

Then, this afternoon, I had my last treatment and said good-bye to the techs who staff the afternoon shift in Gantry 3—Brian, Nancy, and their assistants. After my treatment, they gave me a big black marker with which I wrote "D-O-N-E-!" on my pod. The insulation with my body imprint will be discarded, and the pipe that forms the pod's walls will be recycled. They also gave me the wax bollus that helps shape the proton beam and—lest I forget—a balloon apparatus. These items will be enshrined on my mantle at home.

Perhaps strangely, I don't have a sense of jubilation over the conclusion of my treatment. I think, in large part, my ambivalent feelings have to do with the fine care I've received. Never did I feel like someone's science project. Always, from receptionists to techs to doctors, everyone on the Loma Linda staff treated me like a person. They embodied the Loma Linda motto, To Make Man Whole. Then also, the end of treatment means leaving this beautiful part of the world with its temperate climate and returning to the south plains of Texas where, yesterday, they experienced 70 mph winds and this morning the thermometer registered in the 'teens.

It occurs to me that, had I undergone surgery, I would very likely still have had a period of several months out of circulation while I recuperated. But what a different experience that would have been! Instead of hiking, making friends, sharing stories, enjoying life, and productively carrying on my teaching, I would have encountered physical pain, incontinence, loss of sexual function, and quite possibly severe depression.

What lies ahead? In terms of my cancer, I can expect it will gradually disappear as a result of the radiation. I'll have my first follow-up appointment in 4 months and then at 6-month intervals far into the future. These sessions will consist of PSAs and digital rectal exams as well as dealing with any side effects that might show up. The expectation is that my PSA, over time, will drop to near zero and will stay there and that the side effects will have little impact on my quality of life.

In terms of the rest of my life? I honestly don't know. We hear that we will never be the same. However, I don't think the nature of any changes will appear until later. A week or so ago, I began to ask guys who were almost done how the experience has changed them. Few could pinpoint any significant changes. I'm guessing that now is too soon to know.

I expect that much will remain the same as I return to normal activities at Tech, at St. Johns, and within the Lubbock community. I hope I can find interesting places to continue hiking. I look forward to reuniting with Amy. Then there is the realization, as Lynn Martel reminds us weekly, that we will eventually die—not from prostate cancer, but die nevertheless. As Lynn also pointed out at tonight's support meeting, a brush with cancer heightens one's sense of mortality. The point is to greet each day as a new opportunity, as a gift—This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it .

Treatment count: 45 down. Done.