May 02, 2001 (U-WIRE) CHAMPAIGN, Ill. -- April 27, 1998 -- three years ago last Friday -- I was back in my hometown. I'd been having trouble with the vision in one of my eyes and decided to have my opthamologist check it out. I almost waited to go until summer break since -- like now -- finals were right around the corner, and I had a gazillion papers to write. But my mom, ever the worrier, insisted I have it looked at immediately, and I reluctantly agreed. After all, those who disobey Mother Cleeland usually end up with a horse head in their bed (kidding Ma).
After examining me, the doctor suggested I go in for a blood test. Pronto.
"Why?" I asked, a little taken back. The doctor said the blood vessels in my eyes didn't look quite right -- like my blood might be a little thin.
"It could be anemia," he said. "Or it could be something much worse."
Funny how those words just flew by me at the time. You'd think I would have followed it up with a "just how worse?" or a Gary Coleman-esque "Whatcha talkin' about, doc?" I just assumed it was no big deal. After all, I'd just turned 21 the previous January, was in the prime of my life, and other than feeling a little tired of late, my health seemed fine.
So the doctor handed me those goofy shades they give you after your eyes are dilated and I went on my merry way.
It was a few hours later when the phone call came. The results of the blood test were in. It was my mom who took the call.
"That was the doctor," she said after hanging up, her voice hurried. "He said the blood test indicates you have either leukemia or lymphoma. He wants you to go into the hospital immediately." Boom.
So how did I react to the news? Well let's just say I wasn't exactly thrilled. I basically was in a state of total shock. Imagine if you turned on the TV one afternoon and saw on CNN that a giant comet was on a direct course with Earth and nothing could be done -- humanity would be wiped out in 30 minutes. That's about how stunned I was.
I wish I could say that once the shock wore off I was a pillar of strength -- stoic, brave, confident. But, unfortunately I'm not John Wayne -- heck, I'm not even John Tesh. Feelings of despair and anger ran through me like electric currents. That first night I was in the hospital I didn't even know what exactly I was dealing with. I knew leukemia and lymphoma were both cancers, but I didn't know much else. How did I get it? What's the treatment? And of course the $64,000 question: What were my chances of being cured?
In the coming days, those questions began to be answered. I was diagnosed with chronic myelogenous leukemia. The treatment was a rigorous dose of chemotherapy and radiation, followed by a bone marrow transplant. The cure rate, if you're young and had a sibling who matched your bone marrow type, was over 75 percent. Weeks later we found out my sister's bone marrow was indeed a perfect match, meaning the outlook for a full recovery was great. The following February, I entered the hospital and had the transplant. It was a success and, well, here I am. After nine innings, the final score: Bill 1, Leukemia 0.
Of course, one single column cannot begin to describe the experience: the emotional roller coaster it was for my family, my five-week stay in the hospital for the transplant, the sadness of leaving my friends here at the University for a year and a half to get better. But despite all that, today, three years later, I can start to draw some conclusions about the whole thing. The main one comes from a statistic I read the other day: right now there are more than 8 million cancer survivors in the United States alone. Eight million.
You know, that got me to thinking: the real "survivors" in our society aren't those backstabbing yahoos on CBS who are trying to win a million bucks. No, they're walking around the streets of Champaign, around the streets of towns all over America. They are -- we are -- people you know, people you work with and even people you hate. We're everywhere. We've survived, not stupid challenges for an immunity idol, but cancer, abuse, rape and other major life-threatening problems. Some of us have coped well with it, others have not. But we've all survived and in the end, that's what counts. That's why it's important for those of us who have survived to tell our stories, not just for ourselves but also for the people who didn't win their battles and aren't able to tell theirs.
I guess you could say after going through what I did, I've become tougher than I once was. Not much scares me anymore. Well OK, snakes and bats still do.
