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When Cancer Wins: A Surviving Spouse's Story Chapter 2 - From Bad to Worse Over the next few days, Jan’s pain had lessened considerably and was under control. On Friday, one week after her illness became apparent, we made the one hour trek to the hospital in Owen Sound for the CAT-scan and Ultrasound. The tests took a few hours but Jan felt well enough to do a bit of shopping before we returned home. It was the following Wednesday before the Markdale hospital called to say that the test results were back and that we needed to come in the next day to consult with Dr. Neil Lamont, a surgeon based in Owen Sound who also worked in the Markdale facility when required. We agreed to see him the following morning in the hospital‘s emergency department. When we arrived, we were shown to one of the ER rooms to wait for Dr. Lamont. When he came into the room, my heart sank. I could tell by his demeanor that the news wasn’t good, and I was right. I’m sure that delivering bad news is tough for a doctor, but his words were very clinical as he coldly described what the tests had revealed. My wife had pancreatic cancer, and the tumour was very large, as large as the pancreas itself. She also had two small spots in one lung. Then, in reference to the pancreas, he used a devastating word - inoperable. As we tried to comprehend what he had said, my wife asked, “What about radiation or chemotherapy?” He said that the cancer was too far advanced for radiation treatment and that chemotherapy was, indeed, the only option, and that he would contact the oncology department at Owen Sound so they could make arrangements. While we were there, my wife mentioned that two small lumps on her back, previously diagnosed as cysts by our family doctor, had begun to bother her. Dr. Lamont examined them and decided to take a biopsy from one of them. He did, and said we should know the results in about a week. I don’t think my wife and I spoke more than a dozen words on the drive home. The word “inoperable” echoed relentlessly through my mind. I can’t begin to imagine the true fear and horror that Jan must have felt. A week later we were dealt another blow when we learned that the lumps on her back were, in fact, cancerous tumours. Metastatic, or malignant, just like the tumour on her pancreas and the spots in her left lung. At about the same time, the oncology department in Owen Sound called and we were given an appointment to meet with Dr. Huma Qawi, the oncologist that would handle my wife’s case. A month had now passed since our nightmare had started. In many places things move much slower and we were glad that we had elected to go to Markdale and Owen Sound, rather than Orangeville and Mississauga. We were fortunate to have that choice due to our geographic location, and I remain convinced that my wife’s care was better for it. Meanwhile, Brad’s fourteenth birthday had come and gone, almost completely overshadowed by his mom’s illness. He was about to receive a lesson in life that would mature him beyond his years. From the beginning, my wife and I agreed to hide nothing from him and we never did. We met with Dr. Qawi, as scheduled, and found her to be quite personable and caring, although the news we received was less than optimistic. She explained that Jan actually had two different cancers - small cell and large cell, and both were metastatic. As a result, Jan’s chemotherapy would have to involve two different drugs, since no one drug could affect both. Having just turned fifty, Jan was the youngest patient she had ever encountered with pancreatic cancer. Dr. Qawi felt that my wife’s age and physical condition would support an aggressive strategy, something she felt was necessary given the advanced stage of the cancer. She also explained that she could not cure Jan, and the best hope was that the cancer might be controlled and minimized for a period of time. Without chemotherapy, she advised that Jan would probably die within three to nine months, an estimate that would later prove to be prophetic. If the chemo worked, Jan might live several times that long, possibly even for years. My wife never acknowledged the new word that had been thrown at us. Still reeling from the word “inoperable”, I had heard a much worse one that day - “incurable”. I now knew, for certain, that Jan was dying. The hope was to buy time, as much as possible. I went to work that night, and for most of my shift tears were streaming down my face.
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