one september afternoon fifteen years ago, i placed a small white pill bottle where i sat at the dinner table. it needed to be taken with food — “after dinner seems to work best for most” the doctor had said, recommending that i keep it where i eat so i wouldn’t forget (how could i forget?).
after listing the many not-so-great things that could happen after i took it, i asked if i could wait a bit before starting the 30-day regimen — i needed a moment to think and prepare. a rash i could handle. hair loss, vomiting and tingling in my legs seemed like the kind of things one should have a moment to brace for. he gave me two weeks.
and so it began, my family’s relationship with the medication that would keep me alive. the next few nights, the bottle sat at the table, along with my family, as i piled soft food onto the tray of my one-year-old son’s high chair so he could smush it with chubby hands. the bottle, wrapped in a bright yellow warning label that screamed it was a cancer medication, was an unwelcome and foreboding dinner guest. for my kids though — my daughter was three — it was simply “mommy’s medicine” to help her blood which was sick. it was neither scary nor strange for them.
cancer remains the dark horse nipping at our heels
the following year, feb. 4 — world cancer day — held a different significance for me than it ever had before. it was a celebration of life and luck, for sure, but also a call to action to raise awareness of things like the need for better screening guidelines, earlier diagnoses, education so that people knew what signs to look for, more funding to support treatment research, access to clinical trials and affordable medication. i had seen all the shortcomings firsthand, but also reaped the benefits.
my story was the perfect example of how funding innovative therapies makes a difference.