Stories of Hope

Tim Woodhull, California Diagnosed in Spring 2003 at age 54 Limited stage, small cell lung cancer "I learned to think short-term each day, tackling or enjoying each moment and not worrying about what tomorrow might bring."

His face creased with worry, a colleague asked how I dealt with the fear. “The fear of the cancer?” I said, hardly believing the diagnosis: the pinch I’d been feeling in my chest was an aggressive small cell lung cancer slowing my stride to a few steps at a time.

I guess I shrugged off the cancer that was gnawing at my life because my other diseases had prepared me for this threat, like rehearsals prepare an actor for a role. I’d lived with diabetes since I was 15, and with congestive heart failure since I was 48.

I’d given myself more than 37,000 shots of insulin, and poked my fingers thousands of times more to test my blood sugar levels. So, how bad could be another thousand-or-so intravenous feedings of chemotherapy?

And, having survived a major heart attack and living with a six-way heart bypass, could millions of volts of radiation aimed at my chest be any worse than the menu of medications I gulp every day?

I hadn’t let illness tether my life, and I wouldn’t let cancer leash me either. Having played sports, traveled, worked as a newspaper reporter with the pressures of daily deadlines for more than twenty years, I saw my life as a rainbow of opportunities and possibilities. My wife Marcy and I vowed to beat this threat to our life. Defeat, we decided, was not an option.

Marcy and Tim on their wedding day

It would be our roughest fight. There is no way to prepare for such a battle. Every cancer is different because every cancer patient is unique. We learned that people who survived cancer can share inspiration—maybe I can, too. But I’m not a physician, so I would advise patients to listen to their doctors.

Before I began treatment, I got my hair cropped short to avoid the shock of baldness. I’m glad I did. After my second round of treatment, I scratched my head one night and saw hairs tumble to the table. By morning I was bald and cold.

Having lost more than twenty-five pounds in less than three weeks, I hated the sight of myself. But Marcy never wavered. She smiled and touched my face, held and squeezed my hand, and never stopped saying how much she loved me.

Caregivers are essential to recovery. A spouse or a friend who lends an arm, holds a hand, or runs errands makes the difference. I wouldn’t have survived without Marcy. She was—and is—my angel.

Recovery from any cancer is not quick. I spoke with one friend about work. He smiled and said, “Your job right now is to get well.” He was right. Some days I could do little more than sleep because of my anemia, reminding me the cure is as powerful as the disease.

Through the treatment, we treated our doctors and nurses as friends. “Hello,” and “Thank you” goes a long way. We remembered them during the holidays with baskets of food and individual gifts and cards. After all, they are human beings trying to save our life. Besides, acknowledging others is a wonderful way to receive the gift of a smile in return.

I learned to think short-term each day, tackling or enjoying each moment and not worrying about what tomorrow might bring.

But, I permitted myself to think long-term. I allowed myself to just imagine. Next Fourth of July, I mused, I will be outdoors with my wife. We will be strolling down the block with our dogs, or relaxing in the sun, or relishing the shade. This time next year, I imagined, I’ll enjoy the summertime smells and sounds, of a backyard barbeque, of a radio blaring a baseball game, of neighbors picnicking, of children laughingly racing through sprinklers.

That, I silently promised myself, is where Marcy and I will be.

And, that is now where we are. My diagnosis of cancer was eighteen months ago. In less than a year, I underwent an intensive regimen of chemotherapy and radiation. I received six transfusions. And I had a by-pass operation in each leg.

I am in complete remission. By the end of 2004, the doctor says, the chemotherapy will be gone from my body. Meanwhile, Marcy and I have been to the county fair and a baseball game. We’ve resumed our walks with the dogs, and running errands together and taking day trips together.

And, there’s so much more we have yet to do.