Two months ago, my husband, David, went to the ER over a bad pain in his side, thinking it might be appendicitis. They insisted on tests, which involved hospitalization. Two days later, he received a diagnosis: stage IV lung cancer.
Needless to say, our take on life has been different since then—September 10. His treatment so far is simple: a daily pill. He feels well, is gaining back some of the weight the disease took from him. In some ways, nothing is different. Except: the death sentence.
And even that is unclear. "Median survivability" from this sort of lung cancer—adenocarcinoma with an EGFR mutation—is 2.5–3 years. We sure are hoping for the far side—way far side—of that median. But still: there's an expiration date of sorts now.
The hospitalist who broke the news also said that if they rounded up ten random people of David's age (at that point, a few days short of 71) and tested them, they'd find something concerning in every one.
We all have an expiration date. Most of us just don't know what it is.
We've been getting phone calls and visits lately, which mean so much. Emails of course. Cards that go on the mantel. Cheerful flowers. It's a sad reason to be embraced, but the embrace is cherished.
Today, some wilderness ranger friends organized a fresh-air happy hour. It was delightful to hang out for a couple of hours and share life.
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