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A Killer Within

Small steps in the dark

Family and friends are invaluable as you fight cancer, but there are some moments that must be faced alone.

By BARRY BRADLEY
Published October 2, 2005

	Barry Bradley
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Editor's note: Two days after Christmas, St. Petersburg Times editor Barry Bradley was diagnosed with lung cancer. He had surgery to remove part of his left lung, followed by six months of chemotherapy. He was hopeful that the surgery and the chemo would be a cure. It wasn't. This is the fifth installment of his fight against a killer within.

One of the most maddening parts of cancer is the waiting. I've endured three cycles of chemotherapy. The first one didn't work. The second showed some promise and the third is yet to be determined.

If the third cycle has somehow shrunk the tumors - one of which is eating its way through my sternum - I could be a candidate for radiation, which could prolong my life to some unknown future date. If the tumors have grown, it would be too large for pinpoint radiation . . . therefore of questionable efficacy. At that point, the oncologists would have to make a life-and-death decision.

I've been injected with so much poison that my other organs are being threatened. The chemo itself could be fatal.

During this stage of the cancer and the chemo, I'm somewhat unsteady on my feet. I have to walk carefully and use hand rails. I bump into walls. I spill things. I once had the reflexes of a mongoose. Is it the chemo or is it the cancer? The doctors aren't sure.

Then there's the pain. It's always there.

My oncologist wants to do a brain MRI at the same time he does the CT/PET scan to see if the cancer has spread to my brain, one of the most frequent places small cell carcinoma is prone to metastasize. I can lose an arm or a leg, but the loss of my cognitive abilities would be more than I could stand. I've lost many things in my life, but the loss of my mind would be unacceptable.

At the end of my next scan we'll have some hard decisions to make.

Have the tumors shrunk enough to have radiation?

Have they grown or remained the same, is there still a chance for radiation?

If the tumors have spread elsewhere - the worst scenario - do we try more chemo even though it could kill me?

It's literally a day-by-day or week-by-week decision. If my red blood cell count gets too low, I might not be able to withstand any more chemo. It would be too toxic for my system.

There's also a possibility of a complete blood transfusion to boost my red blood cell count. But that's a decision for the future.

The big question is how far can they push the chemo without causing irreparable harm to my other organs?

The decision may be simply to quit treatment altogether.

But knowing me, I won't quit. As long as I have an ounce of energy, I'm going to use it. I'm still working between chemo treatments, though I have to limit my time to five or six hours a day at the office or writing at home before the fatigue makes it impossible to continue.

But I won't quit until I'm totally incapable of continuing. I will not simply lie down and die - until the inevitable comes.

I try to keep my courage up but occasionally it fails me. Sometimes I'm downright afraid, and I find myself in a black hole of depression. I'm blessed with an incredible support system, but this is a walk I must take alone.

I've been trying to put words to the kind of courage it takes to walk through this black hole of uncertainty. It is nearly impossible to describe. I've always been a risk-taker. I've stood eyeball-to-eyeball with thugs and hooligans from here to San Juan and never blinked or backed down. I've been to a rock climbing school in the Grand Tetons in Wyoming where I've stood on a piece of granite no bigger than an pencil eraser while searching for the next finger hold . . . all this hundreds of feet up a sheer cliff.

I've raced cars at Sebring International Raceway, and, yes, I've driven my Porsche at 160 mph on a straight road with both shoulders hemmed in by cattle and barbed wire. But I think all of this was a mixture of testosterone and stupidity.

The courage to fight cancer is of a different sort. It comes from some place deep inside that you didn't know existed.

You enter a room and the door behind you is closed and bolted. It is completely dark. This is the room where death lives.

You know you have to walk through this dark room alone. You sense the people who love you and are praying for you on the outside, but you can't hear them or see them. There are others in this room making the same solitary journey. I have a lot of faith but I feel there are those with more. Scared is only skin deep, but this kind of fear goes all the way to the bone.

You place one foot in front of the other, sometimes with courage, sometimes with trepidation. But the steps must be taken one at a time. Your only hope is for a light at the far end of the room that could signal hope. Hope for a remission or even the remotest chance of a cure.

But small cell carcinoma like mine does not give up. There are seeds throughout my body waiting to explode. It's like pouring a handful of Orville Redenbacher's popping corn into a warm frying pan, then waiting and trying to guess which kernel will pop first.

Until I find out the results of the scans, all I can do is wait . . . and hope. As soon as I know, you'll know. Until then, all I can do is screw up the most courage and faith I can find.

And wait.

My wife, Jean, has two grandchildren who live in Spring Hill who visit as frequently as possible. Jessica is 14. I've watched her blossom from a stick-thin little knock-kneed girl into a beautiful young woman.

Raymond, 10, is the precocious one, smart beyond his years. You never know what's going to come out of his mouth. I'm helping him learn chess and darned if he didn't come within two moves of beating me not long ago. The kids have a large extended family and they get nearly every toy ever made for Christmas. It's their favorite day of the year. Because he already has a couple of sets of grandparents, he can't really call me grandpa, so his nickname for me is Care-Bear.

I asked him years ago where he got that nickname and he explained that I cared for him and Bear was his shorthand for Barry. It made perfect sense to him and he's called me that ever since.

Jessica, on the other hand, calls me "the Great One." I can't imagine where she got that nickname.

I love them both as if they were my own.

On their most recent weekend visit, Raymond and Jesse, as she likes to be called, were coming back from bowling. During one of those rare quiet moments in the car, Raymond said to Jean:

"Grandma, I know Care-Bear is really sick and he has to go someplace, but I would give up all of my Christmas presents if he could be well again."

Jean called me on her cell to tell me what Raymond had said. I could hear the lump in her throat.

I have to seriously wonder what good thing I could have possibly done in my lifetime to warrant such an unselfish love from a 10-year-old boy who isn't even my birth child. I don't have the words.

- BARRY BRADLEY

[Last modified September 29, 2005, 11:16:04]