Hi Reader,
Kath and I just returned from a long weekend in Washington, DC.
No, this wasn't research for a new thriller.
It was something more personal. And more important.
Last weekend, over five hundred stage IV lung cancer patients and their sidekicks (caregivers) gathered in one place.
Last year, if you'd asked me what that looked like, I'd have guessed grim.
I'd have been wrong.
For those who are new here, Kath was recently diagnosed with a rare form of lung cancer that primarily affects never-smokers.
The bad news is that it's terminal.
The good news—and it is very good news—is that ALK-positive lung cancer is highly treatable. Some patients are living many years with an excellent quality of life.
For the forty days between Kath's diagnosis and the news that she had the ALK mutation, she was as strong as I had ever seen her. She worried about me. About the kids. About everyone but herself.
What came afterward was harder in a different way—an emotional shedding, and the feeling that she needed to hurry up and cross things off her list before the inevitable came looking for her.
Scarcity is a lousy way to live.
That's the baggage we brought to DC.
And this was waiting for us in the lobby:
Laughter.
Joy.
Care.
And community.
Looking around, I couldn't tell who had cancer and who didn't. Truly.
That night, I watched Kath line dancing with her new best friends on the dance floor. She was beaming. And so was everyone else.
Don't confuse it with perfect health.
The master of ceremonies was under the knife two weeks earlier for brain surgery. The thoracic oncologist who had the crowd cracking up had his own cross to bear. Also a stage IV lung cancer patient recovering from recent surgery.
They showed up anyway.
At this summit, when someone asks, "How are you?" it isn't a throwaway question.
They look deeply into your eyes.
And they wait.
Back in April, I wrote that learning Kath had the ALK mutation felt like walking away from a plane crash.
It still does.
Except now I realize we're being pointed in another direction.
"Congratulations. Go play in the road."
We're living in traffic.
That's why it was so important to meet people who have been living with this disease for a decade or more.
When they were diagnosed they were completely alone. Rare cancer. Very bad historical outcomes. No community. No organization. No one to give them hope in their darkest hour.
So they defied the odds. And just went ahead and built the very thing that was missing when they needed it.
We spent a lot of our time thanking those who made this happen. They aren't all still around but there were plenty of folks to hug.
We also got something else from these cancer veterans. An insight into how to live with this diagnosis. Behind their smiles and bright eyes was something deeper.
An iron resolution.
I didn't hear fight chants about never giving in to cancer. No fist pumping. It was deeper.
Somewhere along the way they've learned how to be calm. To roll with the punches and live in the good moments. And not let anxiety rule the day.
We learned a lot from them.
Just as we've learned from so many of you who've written to us and shared your own hard-fought wisdom.
On the flight home, Kath and I held hands. She told me how much peace she felt. And how much less alone.
Nothing changed medically for Kath last weekend.
But there was a mental shift. For both of us.
Life felt a bit more abundant than before. Not so scarce. And that is the best gift we could have ever hoped for.
Happy Friday!
Andy
