DUALITIES
“A man's attitude... a man's attitude goes some ways to the way his life will be. Is that somethin' you might agree with?” - The Cowboy, MULHOLLAND DRIVE
It’s my fifth cancerversary. A fistful of cancer. Five years ago today I woke up at 7:15pm following an 11-hour whipple to find out I had neuroendocrine cancer. Half a decade of living with what most would consider one of their worst fears. Five years of pins, needles, and all the uneasiness that comes with living with cancer. What’s it all mean? And, why is five years an important milestone?
Humans are funny. We love measuring and commemorating time. I’m especially guilty of this; I love annual traditions, holidays, parties, and think they are an important part of making sense of your own life’s story. Cancer has only amplified these feelings. Five years is a big deal, and in the world of cancer, a significant mile marker. You may not know this (I know I didn’t before cancer) but the survivability of any one cancer is measured by a term called the 5-Year Survival Rate, which is a percentage of people who are still alive five years after their cancer diagnosis. For example, a five-year survival rate of 65% means that 65% of patients are still alive five years after their diagnosis or start of treatment. After learning I had stage 4 neuroendocrine tumors I, of course, immediately googled something to the tune “how long can you live with stage 4 neuroendocrine cancer?” The survivability of my cancer varies greatly depending on stage, size, grade, and location, but I remember having to scoop my jaw up off the floor upon Google telling me the 5-year survival rate for stage four neuroendocrine was 25%. 25%? Like, as in one-fourth? I marched into my oncologist’s office at my next appointment armed with this information and demanded some sort of an explanation before my oncologist told me to not believe everything I read on the internet (always has been, and always will be true), and that the world of NET treatments is rapidly evolving for the betterment of patients. Currently, according to the Mayo clinic, distant neuroendocrine tumors have a 5-year survival rate of about 57% (distant meaning the cancer has spread to other parts of the body; this is me.) Think about it this way, if I were to repeat this exact timeline 100 times, I would no longer be alive in 43 of them. It’s up to the 57 Me remaining to make this life worth living.
One of my favorite movies is Mulholland Drive by David Lynch. It’s a dreamlike, hallucinatory tale of a woman failing to realize her dreams of movie stardom who subsequently is pulled into the lurid Hollywood underbelly. A prevalent theme in Mulholland Drive is duality, or, the state of having two opposite or different parts, interpretations, or elements, often existing at the same time. Love/hate, good/evil, person/doppelganger are some of the dualities that exist in Mulholland Drive. We all have these conflicting ideologies that exist in our beings, and cancer has me constantly grappling with dualities such as vulnerable/guarded, hope/reality, positivity/negativity. There are moments when I want to shut it all down. Take Good Scan Cans and all my social channels and just blast them into the sun never to be heard from again. And then there are other moments when I want to bear the entire weight of the cancer world on my shoulders and stand on top of a mountain and yell, “I am Jake Dawson, and I am a badass fucking cancer patient.” These conflicting thoughts do not turn on and off, they are both always on, flowing parallel to each other at full volume like the faucets on a double bathroom sink.
I no longer know myself without cancer. It is an inseparable part of what makes me, me. This body is worn down; feels broken. This will be true whether I live another 5, 10, 15 or 20 years. Although I am not without my doubts, I am proud how I have chosen to fight my disease. After all, it is my disease, and realizing so encourages me to write and rewrite the rules of engagement as many times as necessary before I get to a place where I can declare victory, however small it may be. And, on today, my five year cancerversary, I’ll be toasting to all the little victories along the way that have me standing where I am now.
I have so many people in my corner, and I want to end my thoughts by mentioning you all by name. Oftentimes, I take the easy way out when giving thanks, and it usually sounds something like, “Thank you to everyone who has blah blah blah blah…” But not today. Today, I name names. Thank you to: my wife, Taylor, who is every bit as strong as I am, and probably even more so, my mom, Connie, who has traveled back and forth between Omaha and Florida countless times to help, my friend and surgeon Dr. Vargas, my oncologist Dr. Tenner, my pain doctor Dr. Are, my palliative care team lead by Dr. Schindler, my radiation oncologist Dr. Lin, my in-laws Penny and Eddie for being there for Wilder, my sisters, the Hineline family, the Wirick family, the Boonstra family, the Chedel family, the Bils family, Abby & Bruce, the Brooners, the Schlegelmilch’s, Carly and CeeCee for being the best dog sitters, Ilka & Shane, the Runyan/Rock/Henn fams, Joe Jackson, Liz & Asher, the Sanchez family, the entire MULA, Taco Co., and Maria’s staff and family, Emily for teaching me the importance of communal support way back in November 2021, every single nurse and lab tech I’ve ever interacted with, all those who have ever donated toward my family, Susie and the team at the Neuroendocrine Tumor Research Foundation, Dr. Quelle and the team at the University of Iowa, Bridgewater Farms, and finally, all the NET/NEC patients I have swapped stories with along the way, such as: Lori, Bill, Nancy, Anita, Steph, Brittany, Elaine, and Carrie.
Thank you.
Cheers,
Jake Dawson