On that trip to Bosnia and Herzegovina with the USO, I was driven through Kosovo. All of the homes and apartment buildings were just blasted to bits. And yet there was one big five-story apartment building on one corner, and the troops who were escorting me said, “That building is special. On one floor there is an elderly couple living there. They are the only ones living there.” They had survived, and they were still staying in their apartment, and no one dared bother them.
The will to survive is so strong in many people. You see it in tragedies all the time, whether it’s earthquakes, tornados, hurricanes, or floods. The people who live, the people who survive, we say, “My God, how did they get through that?” Well, there’s a will to survive, and there’s a lot of luck and a lot of God’s help that comes into play.
I don’t think the will to survive is a constant. I think there are moments—and there are certainly moments in my life—when that will to survive disappears and I’m ready to pack it in. Because I understand that death is part of life. And I’ve lived a long life. If I were in my twenties with years ahead of me, I might feel differently. But when you’re about to turn eighty it’s not like you’re missing out on a great many things. The will to survive is there, and then you get hit with shock waves—whether pain or unpredicted surges of depression or just debilitating moments of agony, weakness. I don’t have much stamina anymore. It’s not even a question of physical activity that tires me out. Just being awake is enough to exhaust me. Some days are better than others. I had a couple of good days, then yesterday didn’t go so well. Today is fair. Just pain and fatigue and, well, different kinds of agony. Each day brings a new set of challenges. One day the pain is on my right side at the back, the other day it’s in my stomach, the other day it’s down in my lower abdomen. It gets sharp, lasts fifteen minutes, and then goes away. It’s very capricious.
The chemo treatment is no fun either. It affects my mind as well as my body. I know no one in our circle of friends who keeps losing things as often as I do. I mean, I was at the dinner table the other night and I said, “Where’s Jeanie?” My wife was sitting right next to me. That’s not a good sign. Jean says it’s likely the drugs, but that’s the kind of story that people who have cancer will relate to—these little moments of delirium where you don’t know what the hell’s going on.
One of the things I’ve discovered throughout the process with pancreatic cancer and the chemo is that nothing seems to last. The great pain and all of the other things are short-lived. And thank God for that, because if they were constant, that’s when you’d fall into despair and you’d give up and you’d terminate your life or you allow your life to pass. And I’ve had letters from people about that. They’ve given up. They’re not doing the chemo. They’re just dealing with the pain.
For each person it is a different experience. I’ve gotten letters from people who say they’ve been going through treatment for ten years. They are survivors, and they’re committed to continuing. And I’ve also heard from people who’ve decided to stop treatment and just manage to do palliative care until they die. One man lasted only three days. It’s a personal choice, and that choice doesn’t make you more or less brave than someone else. Sometimes there’s a lot to be said for dying.
I don’t like to use the terms battling or fighting when talking about cancer. It suggests that there are only two outcomes: “winning” and “losing.” If you don’t get well, then you are a “loser.” If you have decided to stop treatment, you have “given up.” That’s nonsense.
I understand why we human beings choose to see cancer in these terms. It’s easier to comprehend and less scary if we see the experience as a boxing match and the disease as an opponent who might be subdued by sheer force of will and determination. However, cancer doesn’t get demoralized. It doesn’t require a pep talk from its trainer between rounds. It is a fight, that’s true. There are days when I feel like Mike Tyson just dropped to the canvas by a Buster Douglas uppercut. But it is by no means a fair fight. Not even close. It is simple biology. You get treatment and you get better. Or you don’t. And neither outcome is an indication of your strength as a person.
Yet I still believe in the will to live. I believe in positivity. I believe in optimism. I believe in hope, and I certainly believe in the power of prayer.