How lymphoma changed my life for the better

Thanks to a spiritual kick in the ass from my surgeon

African mud cloth made into trupunto by author during radiation therapy, photo by author

My biopsy results were late.

Nothing horrific about a delay, yet I burst into tears.

Dr. Harrington took off his aviator glasses and looked me in the eye. “If you believe you are going to die, you’ll die. If you believe you are going to live, you’ll live.”

This was 1983 when I was newly-wed. Just ten days after my wedding, I had staging surgery for Hodgkin’s Disease, well before all the laser and laparoscopic procedures came along.

Since they needed to biopsy lymph nodes in all four quadrants — right and left side of my chest, right and left side of my abdomen, plus remove my spleen, biopsy my liver and bone marrow — they cut me wide open.

A proud scar runs from just below my breasts all the way to the top of my pubis bone with a cute little detour around my belly button. (You can see it for a small fee.)

I still had the staples in and bandages taped to my tummy while I sniffled. In the middle of the AIDS crisis, here I was with highly treatable lymph node cancer.

The one called non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma was considered far more dangerous at the time. As the doctor who first diagnosed me from an enlarged lymph node on my neck said, “If you’re going to have lymphoma, Hodgkin’s is the one to have.”

In spite of a decent prognosis, my fear spilled out when my surgeon told me the biopsy results weren’t in yet — results that would determine how aggressive a treatment I needed. And how extensive. Would I need the dreaded chemo? I was scared.

The good doctor went on to describe results he’d seen with people with AIDS. Upon hearing their diagnosis, the people who believed they were going to die got in bed, curled up into a ball, and in a short time, died. He saw it with his own eyes.

But, the people who believed they were going to live, people with the exact same diagnosis and prognosis, thrived. Some of them are my friends today. I know there are medications now, but this was before the cocktails of choice. They had to make it till these meds became available. And they did.

His story got my attention. Not the usual pep talk from a fashion-conscious surgeon in an Armani suit, telling time on a Rolex. But if making that decision was the key to healing, I could do it.

Right then and there, I knew I would be okay. I would do whatever treatment I needed to do, and I would stay positive and trust his wisdom.

It stood me good stead. It turned out I was only in Stage II. Yay! So I didn’t need chemo. All I needed was 26 radiation treatments above my waist.

So every day for five weeks, I took a short bus ride and walked a long block to the hospital. I was more overweight at the time than I am now. So when I met the cute young techs who were going to zap my bare naked chest, I took a deep breath and said, I can do this. I must. And be a good sport about it.

I was one of the younger ones in the waiting area. Seeing drawn looks on faces around me, I decided to bring some levity to the scene. So I disrobed and hopped on the table, joking with the guys as if I were an old hand at this.

If I could liven up their day, it might help me keep my spirits up while they radiated my chest in the shape of the letter “M.” That’s a line connecting my axial (arm pit) nodes with other lymph clusters they needed to treat while avoiding my throat area. I wore a lead block there to protect my thyroid.

They drew the letter on my chest with permanent ink marker so they could hit the right spots without having to re-calculate the measurements each visit.

I took it in stride. I would wear my letter “M” proud like my scar, knowing it was saving my life. It was a badge of honor, a conversation piece, and a reminder of how fucking lucky or blessed I was and am.

The radiation took half my hair — the back half, so it looked thinner but I didn’t go bald. Again, another blessing.

By about the second week, the radiation zapped my energy and stole my appetite. Not that I didn’t need to lose weight, but that is a common side effect. Here I was off of work, done with my treatment by 11 am, the whole day stretching ahead of me and I was pooped!

I took to lying on the sofa bed in the living room and found a project I could do in stops and starts so I’d have something to show for my down time.

We had an African mud cloth from Mali that I made into a trupunto, stitching around the figures of a man and a giraffe, stuffing them so they puffed out. We framed and hung it on the living room wall.

So I stitched and slept the days away, maybe watching a little MTV, eagerly awaiting Weird Al Yankovic singing “like a surgeon, cutting for the very first time.” Laughter’s healing. But this was before on demand video technology. At least in our house.

Providently, someone gave me the book, Getting Well Again by Dr. O. Carl Simonton, who taught visualization to cancer patients including lots of children.

Specifically, he had them visualize their treatment or medication as big ol’ Pac Men (a video game we played back in Neanderthal days) gobbling up teeny tiny much-weakened cancer cells, drawing it out in pictures. The book was full of children’s healing images, lots of which did look like Pac Man or Ms. Pac Man depending.

With Dr. Harrington’s admonishment echoing in my brain, I started visualizing in earnest. I may have even made some drawings, too. I don’t think I kept them, but I didn’t need to.

The “M” mark’s long since faded, but I still have my trusty scar to remind me of the power of my conscious mind to support my intentions including fighting disease and thriving.

A decade later I would discover metaphysics and join a metaphysical church prompted by my being in recovery from sex and love addiction. I would learn affirmative prayer and more visualization and visioning techniques. I would go on to help others do the same. But I didn’t have ten years to wait for a spiritual kick in the ass. I was sick.

While some folks like to say they owe it all to Jesus — who was quite the healer — I can say with pride, I owe it all to the good Doctor Harrington who took off his aviators to look me in the eye and speak truth into my harried heart.

Here’s how to do the thing you think you’re too old or scared to do.

Marilyn Flower writes fast fun reads with a touch of magical realism to strength the imagination of socially conscious folks. Clowning and improvisation strengthen her during these crazy times. She’s a regular columnist for the prison newsletter, Freedom Anywhere, and five of her short plays have been produced in San Francisco.