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Fed's
Story: My Fight on Two Fronts
Before I was diagnosed, I had seen cancer from a different perspective.
In 2002, I began a foray into the study of cancer chemical biology, a
relatively new field that would employ the tools of chemical synthesis
to tinker with cancer cells and see “what makes them tick.” After
several years, I had morphed from being a synthetic organic chemist and
became a cancer biologist. The field seemed really interesting, and
there is potential in the chemical investigation of cancer survival
processes. After working in this field for several years now, I keep
wondering about life’s little fits of irony, since I knew something was
wrong while I was at work… studying cancer cells.
I woke up the day before Thanksgiving in 2006 to a weird pain. It felt
low on my back. I pegged it both to an old hockey injury (read: Mexican
kid tries to ice skate for the first time) and lugging an 18-month-old
kid to Bruins and Red Sox games. I took a couple of Advil and went
about my work day. Early in the afternoon, I was poring thorough some
data — I was the only one in lab at the time — when the pain returned.
I couldn’t figure out exactly where the pain was coming from until “the
light bulb lit up” and I figured it out. I ran to the bathroom, did an
immediate self exam, and BAM!!! ... righty had shrunk and was as hard
as a rock. I immediately rang my best man, who happened to be a chief
resident in urology at Sloan-Kettering in New York, to ask for help …
but he was stuck in surgery. I went home and called my GP. She called
back within minutes, I gave her my symptoms, and she immediately
ordered me to the ER. I go back to the medical area and check myself
in. I get an ultrasound, and as I’m carted off, I notice that everyone
around is staring at me. That’s when I fully realized that something
was wrong. The urology consult tells me that “there were 4 masses found
inside the right testicle, suggesting the presence of neoplasm.” (I
told him I worked at the DFCI next door so he didn’t sugar-coat it.)
The testicle had to come out. Further radiology (a CT and a chest
X-ray) showed no evidence of spread, and markers were absent. I had a
“right radical inguinal orchiectomy,” and several days later found that
I had stage I-A seminoma. Lucky for me, I could get treated right at
work (my doc’s clinic is in the building next to mine, six floors up
from my lab). While seminoma stage I patients have three options for
treatment (surveillance, adjuvant radiation or adjuvant chemotherapy),
my oncologist strongly recommended surveillance, since the chances of a
relapse are low (15-20%), and by following a strict schedule of
diagnostic exams, any relapses will be caught promptly and still be
cured by chemotherapy. From a physical standpoint, I know this is not
the way I’m going down. It makes sense to me. Besides, I have no
excuses to miss a follow-up. Every four months I drink my contrast, go
up to the clinic to get blood drawn, then go down to the basement for
the chest X-ray and the CT scan. A couple of days later, I see my doc.
Quite straightforward.
Since starting my surveillance regimen, I have made it past the
one-year mark of survivorship. Nonetheless, one must never
underestimate the enemy. At the onset of this trek, I figured that
knowing how cancer worked (to the extent of what I had learned in the
field until then) would help me coast through this. Here’s what
you usually don’t hear: getting dealt a bout with cancer will
undoubtedly change you mentally. There are bad and good things
associated with it. Sometimes you’ll feel anxious (especially close to
doctor appointments). There may be some meltdowns along the way. You
really feel vulnerable, and it can certainly make you angry. Worst of
all, you sometimes feel alone. Despite all of these raw emotions, I
have seen a lot of good come out of having had this fight. Work-wise, I
am more motivated. I fight this in the lab because it’s now personal,
and doing what I do makes me think I am contributing a bit towards
finding ways of annihilating this beast.
With life in the lab, you miss out on the personal aspect of the
disease. All I see in the lab are cells under the scope, but when you
factor in the human component, it makes you put faces to the fight you
wage while running assays.
Certainly one of the things I have come to realize in the last few
months is that I am not alone. Many are affected by this disease, from
patients and their families to the docs, nurses and caregivers. Knowing
that you are not alone gives you the strength and motivation to keep
the fight going. There are many who have contributed to this, and I am
grateful to be part of a community where we have each other’s backs and
thrive by knowing we are in good company.
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