The I.V. machines framing me chanted like a pair of Tibetan monks. One held a quart of water and glucose, the other held a three-bag chemo cocktail designed to kill the cancer before it killed me, and it was a close race.

I lay on the hospital bed imagining my body spread out like a boney buffet. The body that once carried me from the far off frozen Northern lands, the sunny tropic scenes, and to first place in the martial arts arena had deserted me. My once acute senses tainted by the medication betrayed me. Not being able to focus my eyes to read or watch television, I could only listen and think. Think about what life taught me so far. The primary objective is to survive, the why would have to wait until later.

After I survived the dreadful news, I had to survive telling everyone else that I had cancer. Some of my friends and family took it harder than I did. The hardest part for me was admitting I had cancer. Previously I had watched my grandparents slowly die from cancer. Until now, I only knew one person who beat it and he was not doing that great. My surgeon suggested that I call everyone I knew, just in case. I was glad, this time that I had few people to call. I cried every time I said the "c" word, but it got easier.

Acceptance was a moot point. I had cancer whether I wanted to accept it or not. Now I had to survive everyone else accepting it. Maybe it was because of my young age, 33, or that I did not abuse my body with alcohol, tobacco, or some other substance. I was in good shape, an athletic 185 pounds. It had not kept me from getting cancer but it helped me to survive it and the treatment.

To survive you need food, water, and shelter. I was in the hospital so shelter was taken care of; the water was pumped into me at three quarts a day; if nothing else I would have clean kidneys and veins. That left food; there was plenty of that available, the problem was the football-sized tumor that sat on my stomach kept me from eating all that I wanted.

The chemotherapy made me nauseous and would not let me keep the food down. It was a mixed blessing; I could eat twice as much as I did before, only because I usually ended bringing up the first serving. My dining routine was like a corny exercise session, chew, chew, chew, swallow, swallow, swallow, puke, puke, and hold. Eventually I managed to finish my meals without the sheets looking like a Picasso painting. Being able to keep food down helped me to level off my weight loss, which ebbed to 140 pounds. Now I could work on getting some strength back.

My first training regimen consisted of sitting up in bed and brushing my teeth. That usually ruined me for the rest of the day. I gradually worked my way out of bed and to the sink to give myself a sponge bath. I advanced myself to a modified weight lifting program that consisted of a broom handle, less the fuzzy end. It may not sound like much but in my condition, it felt like an Olympian feat. The next step, literally, was to walk up and down the hall of the cancer ward under the support of my chanting monks, the I.V. poles.

It was on one of my mystical walks that I started to notice things. When I was not entertaining friends and family, I looked for some other patients to talk to. I had always thought that people sought to commiserate. However, cancer was a personal thing, and something that you were ashamed of. It could have been that they were embarrassed at losing their hair. Yes, I lost all of my hair, everywhere. I would wear a bandana and be a pirate or go out as Mr. Clean. I should mention that BC (Before Cancer) my hair draped over my shoulders and halfway down my back. Hair loss is no reason to be a hermit, but we are all different. Then I started to make the connection.

It was after I came home and my monk friends were relieved of their duties that the questions got more pointed. You survived cancer, what are you going to do next? Sure as hell not go to Disney. Some of my friends wanted to know if I was going to write a book. Maybe I should have gotten cancer sooner and beat the slew of "I survived" query letters to publishers.

The Question got me thinking about other people who had cancer. Everyone got cancer, the rich, the poor, pious and profane. People had their own way of dealing, or not dealing with it. (I spent one night listening to someone continuously cry, "Why me, why me!" Until they were sedated). Some did write books, some became spokespersons, and some shrugged it off and went on with their lives. Precious few used the cancer as an escape, to shed their mortal shell.

Unfortunately others did have a choice; they went into the arms of Carrion unwillingly. Each of these people had to find their own reason and way of dealing with this disease which turns your own body against itself. My advice to you is to find a reason now, not when you are lying in a bed stripped of everything but your consciousness. Find a reason to live and fight for it.

Rocketwriter