The Sacred and the Science

Cancer is a great coach.

Yet embarking on a cancer treatment journey is like being thrust into the most bizarre reality show you never auditioned for. Let's face it, nobody signs up for this gig voluntarily. But there I was, the unwitting star of a series titled "Survivor: The Real-Life Edition."

?First up, the medical evaluation - a delightful carousel of scans and biopsies. Picture getting x-ray vision like Superman, but instead of saving the world, you're just trying to save yourself. These tests were like my personal paparazzi, clicking and flashing to capture every angle of my insides. The goal? To determine the type and stage of my uninvited guest: cancer.

Then came the staging phase. Think of it as a reality check. This is where the doctors decide if your cancer is a quiet wallflower or the life of the party, spreading itself all over your body. It's about as fun as it sounds, which is to say, not at all.

Now, the multidisciplinary team. This is where a bunch of medical Avengers assemble. You've got oncologists, radiation oncologists, surgeons - all missing capes but armed with MDs. Their mission? To brainstorm the heck out of my treatment plan. Imagine a corporate strategy meeting, but instead of profits, we're discussing the best way to nuke my cancer cells.

Chemotherapy was next. It's like having a soccer hooligan?inside your body, roughing up the unruly cancer cells trying to crash your internal party. Sure, the yob?sometimes gets a bit overzealous and knocks out some good cells too, but collateral damage, am I right?

Radiation therapy is the sniper of the treatment plan. Precise, focused, and it doesn't mess around. Whether it's a sneak attack from the outside or a Trojan horse maneuver from within (hello, brachytherapy), its job is to take out the cancer cells one by one, like a pro.

Sometimes, we mixed it up with combined modality therapy. This is where chemo and radiation join forces, like a buddy-cop movie, but instead of chasing down bad guys, they're targeting rogue cells.

In the midst of this whirlwind tour through the medical underworld, there was one beacon of light that kept me grounded - my overriding belief in a God who was going to kick cancer’s butt for me. I firmly believed that the same Holy Trinity?who had already granted me over a decade of sobriety – a feat that could rival any David Blaine?act – would now be my guide through the labyrinth of cancer treatment. This wasn't just optimism; it was faith on steroids.

Now to some, relying on divine intervention as a health strategy might sound like planning a moon landing with a slingshot and some good intentions. But for me, it was the narrative I clung to, my spiritual anchor in the chaos. It was like having a celestial GPS while navigating a route peppered with medical jargon, side effects, and the ever-looming unknown. This belief didn't replace the science – it complemented it. It was the spiritual chemo that worked hand in hand with the medical one, targeting the existential dread cells that no drug could touch.

And let's not forget the supportive care. This is the backstage crew of the treatment show, dealing with all the less glamorous but oh-so-important stuff like nausea and pain management. It's like having a personal assistant for your cells, keeping everything running smoothly.

Amidst this challenging journey, the warmth, professionalism, and sheer humanity of my Brazilian medical team were nothing short of remarkable. From the doctors to the nurses, and even the receptionists, everyone radiated a level of care and compassion that felt almost familial. It was as if I had checked into the Four Seasons rather than a medical facility. Each doctor combined expertise with empathy, transforming complex medical jargon into comforting assurances. The nurses, with their unwavering patience and smiles, were like guardian angels in scrubs, always there with a soothing word or a helping hand. This exceptional team, with their big hearts and expert skills, turned a journey fraught with uncertainty into an experience marked by kindness, dignity, and an overwhelming sense of being deeply cared for.

Through all this, I learned that cancer treatment is less about heroic battles and more about enduring a marathon you never signed up for. It's a journey of resilience, peppered with a healthy dose of dark humor and the occasional existential crisis.

But hey, if through God's grace I can laugh in the face of cancer, I've already won half the battle.

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