I know what I'd do because I already did it, twice. Mixed cell Lymphoma, 1992, Radiotherapy; Hodgkin's Lymphoma, 1997, Chemotherapy. There was more after that, but that's a story for another day.
The diagnosis was terrifying, especially the second time. The terror literally takes over. You hear nothing, you see nothing, your mind runs at 200% plus velocity until it wears a deep trench in your consciousness.
You come out of it eventually, different. If you're smart, you devote your entire attention to your family and your caregivers, and for a crucial while, the caregivers take precedence. They must.
Forget sugar coatings. There are three ways to kill off Cancer. Cut it out, burn it out, poison it out. Anybody who tries to sell you something else is purveying snake oil.
Lymphoma is slow. It seems that they are dragging their feet about getting your show onto the road. They are not. They are sizing up the opponent in detail, and crafting their campaign to save your life.
When it starts, it's like, "Well that didn't seem like much...". Two weeks later, you are wondering when, not if, this shit is gonna kill you.
Remember that campaign I mentioned? Well, the basic tenet is they will take it as close to killing you as they can, without actually killing you; because anything less, and the Cancer wins. You go all Nancy Boy and throw in the towel, the Cancer wins. Somebody dozes during the execution of the campaign, the cancer wins.
Believe me, as bad as it seems, the Cancer is FAR worse. Then, when they tell you the treatment is done, you continue to feel worse. Like the cat, you will use up several lifetimes in the year or so you are in active treatment and evaluation.
Then, you start to actually recover. It's a slow, steep road, and/but it leads uphill. This is when the commitment you need to have makes all the real difference. Otherwise, the Cancer still wins, because you allow it to rob you of so much of your capacity to 'be normal'. If you stay with it, make bodybuilding (not Arnold, think about a wiry Pele) the key core sector of you existence, in the five years of so afterward that it takes to get your 'real normal' back; then Cancer finally gets that kick in its face. Consider how I felt when I got there, and the whole thing just started up all over again, five more years and all, and my only Daughter engaged to be married.
As we'd sit in our recliners, arranged in a circle, getting our chemo, we'd make the kinds of friends one normally only finds in foxholes. Only these friends tend to die in a lot more in number, slowly before our eyes, knowing the whole time what's going on.
Think about suicide? You betcha. I have personally stared down that unlit railroad tunnel that is a loaded 45acp, repeatedly. In the end, I decided that this was one scene I was not going to paint, literally on the ceiling, of my family's psyche. When I tell folks I won't have a handgun in my home, this is the real reason.
In return, I have danced at my Daughter's wedding (twice, actually), gotten to meet my three Grandchildren, and will witness my Eldest Granddaughter's graduation from High School in a month's time. In July, Celia and I are 44 years married.
Suicide?
Man, would that have been the most abysmally stupid thing I could have ever done. It's off the menu. period.
Was it easy? Of course not. Was it easier because of my experiences in Parris Island and RVN? You betcha, probably would have flaked out and stepped off the merry go round in mid ride. Character counts. So does absolutely refusing to allow such disappointments to convert me into an invalid.
People ask me how I could face this life. Actually, this question is meaningless to me; this is how my life has shaken out. I know no other; this is my 'normal'. Do I like it? I sure do now, although there were some times when I liked it less.
There are no beds of roses.
So if anybody tells you that you have The Crab, keep listening; they have more to say and it's literally the difference between your life and your death. The treatments have become less harsh in the past two decades, and the survival rates are FAR better now. If they give you a better than 30% chance of coming out of it alive, take that chance!!!
Unpleasant? To me the most unpleasant thing I have ever had to do is change a crappy diaper. Cancer isn't even second on my list. If I have to get into the ring for a third bout, I'm leaping, not crawling, into it.
If I lose, at least I gave The Crab a run for its latest meal.
...And look at how much exquisite joy I got to experience along the way.
Hell, If I had thrown in the towel either time, I would never have lived to post on this site. That's got to be worth something for somebody.
Greg