Living with and after cancer

One in two people will develop cancer at some point in their lives. And the consequences are usually overwhelming. In my practice, I regularly speak with men who have also had to deal with cancer at some point in their life. When it happened to me in 2024, I realized how little I actually knew about this disease. In this article, I share the impact it has had on my life and what has helped me to live with and after cancer.

January 2024. With some vague, persistent flu-like symptoms, I go to my doctor. He reassures me that it's nothing serious and prescribes antibiotics. The treatment works, but as soon as it's finished, the fever returns in full force. A blood test shows that my infection levels are too high. It points to lymphoma. And as I wait for the results of my shoulder biopsy, I fear whether I will make it to the end of the year. In the days that follow I feel extremely anxious. Not knowing what's inside my body, and what awaits me. It is not death I fear, but the suffering leading up to it.

The results come a week later. The doctor is hopeful. It's a non-aggressive form of lymphoma that has metastasized throughout my whole upper body. There's no time to let the results sink in. The chance of recovery is high, so I'll start my first round of chemo in a few days, unsure of what awaits me. On the first morning, I walk into the hospital feeling reasonably fit. But after just a few hours, the color drains from my face, and in the days following the treatment, my immune system is compromised. I develop sores in my mouth, feel nauseous, and my hair falls out. Not much later, my muscle strength decreases and I walk with a dragging leg.

I'm getting weaker every day. When the side effects become too severe, I ask to postpone chemo for a short time so my body can recover. I can barely walk anymore, the strength in my hands and feet is steadily decreasing, and I'm hospitalized with double pneumonia. At times like these, I wonder how much a person can bear. But giving up isn't an option; the support of the medical team, my family, and friends keeps me going.

Throughout the treatment, I'm taking all the help I can get. As a coach, I know how important it is to maintain hope and work on my recovery as quickly as possible. A dietitian is helping me maintain my fifteen kilo weight loss. A physiotherapist is helping me combat muscle loss. And I talk to a psychologist about the mental impact of the cancer.

When I look in the mirror, I see a cancer patient. I've lost all my hair, my face has thinned significantly, and my eyes are sunken. It feels as if this disease has also lost my masculinity. And that makes me deeply sad. What is left of me?

But after sixteen intensive treatments and a blood transfusion, the cancer is gone. The people around me are happy and relieved, but I don't feel it. Now follows a recovery process that will last months, during which I'm learning to trust my own body again. My strength is increasing by the day, and my body is slowly transforming back into the person I was before the diagnosis. But inside I feel empty and lost. I search for the meaning of life. Of course, I'm happy to still be here, but the self-evidence with which I lived my first forty years is gone.

Looking back on this whole process, it helped me a lot to be open from the beginning about what the cancer did to me. To talk to the people around me about my deepest fear and grief. About the uncertainty, the pain, and the despair I often felt. These conversations made me feel like I didn't have to bear all of this alone. I found support and strength during this difficult time. Unexpected, encouraging words from people I sometimes hadn't spoken to in years. Loving words about how people see me or what I meant to them. It made me realize how sad it is that we often wait to express this until someone has passed away. (So please don't wait to share your love or admiration for others.)

Now a year has passed and I am almost completely recovered. My ambition and zest for life have returned. The cancer is fading more and more into the background, creating space for other things. A colleague friend tells me about 'vibration time', a beautiful term coined by grief and trauma therapist Riet Fiddelaers-Jaspers. It's the period after a traumatic event, when you need time to process everything and heal. It explains why I needed time to integrate this experience and discover how it shaped me. My experience also helps me in the work I do. The men I work with also come with questions about grief and loss. Themes we often want to avoid because they evoke sadness or discomfort. And it's precisely because of my experience that I can stay present and thus create a safe haven, exploring together how to hold your ground when the ground beneath your feet is pulled away.

Based on my experience, I would like to conclude with some tips for you or someone around you who is confronted with cancer.

Do you have a question or something you'd like to share about this article?
Feel free to send me a message at contact@reneluisman.nl.